Finders Keepers (30 page)

“He plays games?” Hodges is astounded.

“Oh God no. His motor control is shot. But if I turn on one of the demos, like Barbie Fashion Walk or Fishin' Hole, he stares at it for hours. The demos do the same thing over and over, but does he know that?”

“I'm guessing not.”

“Good guess. I think he likes the noises, too—the beeps and boops and goinks. I come back two hours later, the reader's layin
on his bed or windowsill, screen dark, battery flat as a pancake. But what the hell, that don't hurt em, three hours on the charger and they're ready to go again.
He
don't recharge, though. Probably a good thing.” Al wrinkles his nose, as at a bad smell.

Maybe, maybe not, Hodges thinks. As long as he's not better, he's here, in a nice hospital room. Not much of a view, but there's air-conditioning, color TV, and every now and then a bright pink Zappit to stare at. If he was compos mentis—able to assist in his own defense, as the law has it—he'd have to stand trial for a dozen offenses, including nine counts of murder. Ten, if the DA decided to add in the asshole's mother, who died of poisoning. Then it would be Waynesville State Prison for the rest of his life.

No air-conditioning there.

“Take it easy, Al. You look tired.”

“Nah, I'm fine, Detective Hutchinson. Enjoy your visit.”

Al rolls on, and Hodges looks after him, brow furrowed. Hutchinson? Where the hell did
that
come from? Hodges has been coming here for years now, and Al knows his name perfectly well. Or did. Jesus, he hopes the guy isn't suffering from early-onset dementia.

For the first four months or so, there were two guards on the door of 217. Then one. Now there are none, because guarding Brady is a waste of time and money. There's not much danger of escape when the perp can't even make it to the bathroom by himself. Each year there's talk of transferring him to a cheaper institution upstate, and each year the prosecutor reminds all and sundry that this gentleman, brain-damaged or not, is technically still awaiting trial. It's easy to keep him here because the clinic foots a large portion of the bills. The neurological team—especially Dr. Felix Babineau, the Head of Department—finds Brady Hartsfield an extremely interesting case.

This afternoon he sits by the window, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. His hair is long and needs cutting, but it's been washed and shines golden in the sunlight. Hair some girl would love to run her fingers through, Hodges thinks. If she didn't know what a monster he was.

“Hello, Brady.”

Hartsfield doesn't stir. He's looking out the window, yes, but is he seeing the brick wall of the parking garage, which is his only view? Does he know it's Hodges in the room with him? Does he know
anybody
is in the room with him? These are questions to which a whole team of neuro guys would like answers. So would Hodges, who sits on the end of the bed, thinking
Was
a monster? Or still is?

“Long time no see, as the landlocked sailor said to the chorus girl.”

Hartsfield makes no reply.

“I know, that's an oldie. I got hundreds, ask my daughter. How are you feeling?”

Hartsfield makes no reply. His hands are in his lap, the long white fingers loosely clasped.

In April of 2009, Brady Hartsfield stole a Mercedes-Benz belonging to Holly's aunt, and deliberately drove at high speed into a crowd of job-seekers at City Center. He killed eight and seriously injured twelve, including Thomas Saubers, father of Peter and Tina. He got away with it, too. Hartsfield's mistake was to write Hodges, by then retired, a taunting letter.

The following year, Brady killed Holly's cousin, a woman with whom Hodges had been falling in love. Fittingly, it was Holly herself who stopped Brady Hartsfield's clock, almost literally bashing his brains out with Hodges's own Happy Slapper before Hartsfield could detonate a bomb that would have killed thousands of kids at a pop concert.

The first blow from the Slapper had fractured Hartsfield's skull, but it was the second one that did what was considered to be irreparable damage. He was admitted to the Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic in a deep coma from which he was unlikely to ever emerge. So said Dr. Babineau. But on a dark and stormy night in November of 2011, Hartsfield opened his eyes and spoke to the nurse changing his IV bag. (When considering that moment, Hodges always imagines Dr. Frankenstein screaming, “It's alive! It's alive!”) Hartsfield said he had a headache, and asked for his mother. When Dr. Babineau was fetched, and asked his patient to follow his finger to check his extraocular movements, Hartsfield was able to do so.

Over the thirty months since then, Brady Hartsfield has spoken on many occasions (although never to Hodges). Mostly he asks for his mother. When he's told she is dead, he sometimes nods as if he understands . . . but then a day or a week later, he'll repeat the request. He is able to follow simple instructions in the PT center, and can sort of walk again, although it's actually more of an orderly-assisted shamble. On good days he's able to feed himself, but cannot dress himself. He is classed as a semicatatonic. Mostly he sits in his room, either looking out the window at the parking garage, or at a picture of flowers on the wall of his room.

But there have been certain peculiar occurrences around Brady Hartsfield over the last year or so, and as a result he has become something of a legend in the Brain Injury Clinic. There are rumors and speculations. Dr. Babineau scoffs at these, and refuses to talk about them . . . but some of the orderlies and other nurses will, and a certain retired police detective has proved to be an avid listener over the years.

Hodges leans forward, hands dangling between his knees, and smiles at Hartsfield.

“Are you faking, Brady?”

Brady makes no reply.

“Why bother? You're going to be locked up for the rest of your life, one way or the other.”

Brady makes no reply, but one hand rises slowly from his lap. He almost pokes himself in the eye, then gets what he was aiming for and brushes a lock of hair from his forehead.

“Want to ask about your mother?”

Brady makes no reply.

“She's dead. Rotting in her coffin. You fed her a bunch of gopher poison. She must have died hard. Did she die hard? Were you there? Did you watch?”

No reply.

“Are you in there, Brady? Knock, knock. Hello?”

No reply.

“I think you are. I hope you are. Hey, tell you something. I used to be a big drinker. And do you know what I remember best about those days?”

Nothing.

“The hangovers. Struggling to get out of bed with my head pounding like a hammer on an anvil. Pissing the morning quart and wondering what I did the night before. Sometimes not even knowing how I got home. Checking my car for dents. It was like being lost inside my own fucking mind, looking for the door so I could get out of there and not finding it until maybe noon, when things would finally start going back to normal.”

This makes him think briefly of Library Al.

“I hope that's where you are right now, Brady. Wandering around inside your half-busted brain and looking for a way out. Only for you there isn't one. For you the hangover just goes on and on. Is that how it is? Man, I hope so.”

His hands hurt. He looks down at them and sees his fingernails digging into his palms. He lets up and watches the white crescents there fill in red. He refreshes his smile. “Just sayin, buddy. Just sayin. You want to say anything back?”

Hartsfield says nothing back.

Hodges stands up. “That's all right. You sit right there by the window and try to find that way out. The one that isn't there. While you do that, I'll go outside and breathe some fresh air. It's a beautiful day.”

On the table between the chair and the bed is a photograph Hodges first saw in the house on Elm Street where Hartsfield lived with his mother. This is a smaller version, in a plain silver frame. It shows Brady and his mom on a beach somewhere, arms around each other, cheeks pressed together, looking more like boyfriend and girlfriend than mother and son. As Hodges turns to go, the picture falls over with a toneless
clack
sound.

He looks at it, looks at Hartsfield, then looks back at the facedown picture.

“Brady?”

No answer. There never is. Not to him, anyway.

“Brady, did you do that?”

Nothing. Brady is staring down at his lap, where his fingers are once more loosely entwined.

“Some of the nurses say . . .” Hodges doesn't finish the thought. He sets the picture back up on its little stand. “If you did it, do it again.”

Nothing from Hartsfield, and nothing from the picture. Mother and son in happier days. Deborah Ann Hartsfield and her honeyboy.

“All right, Brady. Seeya later, alligator. Leaving the scene, jellybean.”

He does so, closing the door behind him. As he does, Brady Hartsfield looks up briefly. And smiles.

On the table, the picture falls over again.

Clack.

9

Ellen Bran (known as Bran Stoker by students who have taken the Northfield High English Department's Fantasy and Horror class) is standing by the door of a schoolbus parked in the River Bend Resort reception area. Her cell phone is in her hand. It's four PM on Sunday afternoon, and she is about to call 911 to report a missing student. That's when Peter Saubers comes around the restaurant side of the building, running so fast that his hair flies back from his forehead.

Ellen is unfailingly correct with her students, always staying on the teacher side of the line and never trying to buddy up, but on this one occasion she casts propriety aside and enfolds Pete in a hug so strong and frantic that it nearly stops his breath. From the bus, where the other NHS class officers and officers-to-be are waiting, there comes a sarcastic smatter of applause.

Ellen lets up on the hug, grabs his shoulders, and does another thing she's never done to a student before: gives him a good shaking. “Where
were
you? You missed all three morning seminars, you missed lunch, I was on the verge of calling the
police
!”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Bran. I was sick to my stomach. I thought the fresh air would help me.”

Ms. Bran—chaperone and adviser on this weekend trip because she teaches American Politics as well as American History—decides she believes him. Not just because Pete is one of her best
students and has never caused her trouble before, but because the boy
looks
sick.

“Well . . . you should have informed me,” she says. “I thought you'd taken it into your head to hitchhike back to town, or something. If anything had happened to you, I'd be blamed. Don't you realize you kids are my responsibility when we're on a class trip?”

“I lost track of the time. I was vomiting, and I didn't want to do it inside. It must have been something I ate. Or one of those twenty-four-hour bugs.”

It wasn't anything he ate and he doesn't have a bug, but the vomiting part is true enough. It's nerves. Unadulterated fright, to be more exact. He's terrified about facing Andrew Halliday tomorrow. It could go right, he knows there's a chance for it to go right, but it will be like threading a moving needle. If it goes wrong, he'll be in trouble with his parents and in trouble with the police. College scholarships, need-based or otherwise? Forget them. He might even go to jail. So he has spent the day wandering the paths that crisscross the thirty acres of resort property, going over the coming confrontation again and again. What he will say; what Halliday will say; what he will say in return. And yes, he lost track of time.

Pete wishes he had never seen that fucking trunk.

He thinks, But I was only trying to do the right thing. Goddammit, that's all I was trying to do!

Ellen sees the tears standing in the boy's eyes, and notices for the first time—perhaps because he's shaved off that silly singles-bar moustache—how thin his face has become. Really just half a step from gaunt. She drops her cell back into her purse and comes out with a packet of tissues. “Wipe your face,” she says.

A voice from the bus calls out, “Hey Saubers! D'ja get any?”

“Shut up, Jeremy,” Ellen says without turning. Then, to Pete:
“I should give you a week's detention for this little stunt, but I'm going to cut you some slack.”

Indeed she is, because a week's detention would necessitate an oral report to NHS Assistant Principal Waters, who is also School Disciplinarian. Waters would inquire into her own actions, and want to know why she had not sounded the alarm earlier, especially if she were forced to admit that she hadn't actually seen Pete Saubers since dinner in the restaurant the night before. He had been out of her sight and supervision for nearly a full day, and that was far too long for a school-mandated trip.

“Thank you, Ms. Bran.”

“Do you think you're done throwing up?”

“Yes. There's nothing left.”

“Then get on the bus and let's go home.”

There's more sarcastic applause as Pete comes up the steps and makes his way down the aisle. He tries to smile, as if everything is okay. All he wants is to get back to Sycamore Street and hide in his room, waiting for tomorrow so he can get this nightmare over with.

10

When Hodges gets home from the hospital, a good-looking young man in a Harvard tee-shirt is sitting on his stoop, reading a thick paperback with a bunch of fighting Greeks or Romans on the cover. Sitting beside him is an Irish setter wearing the sort of happy-go-lucky grin that seems to be the default expression of dogs raised in friendly homes. Both man and dog rise when Hodges pulls into the little lean-to that serves as his garage.

The young man meets him halfway across the lawn, one fisted hand held out. Hodges bumps knuckles with him, thus acknowl
edging Jerome's blackness, then shakes his hand, thereby acknowledging his own WASPiness.