Mr. Mercedes (29 page)

He uses the switch instead and goes down, first shutting the door—and the beastly sounds coming from the living room—behind him.

He doesn't even try to voice-ac his bank of computers, just turns on his Number Three with the button behind the monitor. The countdown to Total Erasure appears and he stops it by typing in his password. But he doesn't seek out poison antidotes; it's far too late for that, and now that he's sitting here in his safe place, he allows himself to know it.

He also knows how this happened. She was good yesterday, staying sober long enough to make a nice supper for them, so she rewarded herself today. Got schnockered, then decided she'd better eat a little something to soak up the booze before her honeyboy got home. Didn't find anything in the pantry or the refrigerator that tickled her fancy. Oh but say, what about the mini-fridge in the garage? Soft drinks wouldn't interest her, but perhaps there were snacks. Only what she found was even better, a Baggie filled with nice fresh hamburger.

It makes Brady think of an old saying—whatever
can
go wrong,
will
go wrong. Is that the Peter Principle? He goes online to find out. After some investigation he discovers it's not the Peter Principle but Murphy's Law. Named after a man named Edward Murphy. The guy made aircraft parts. Who knew?

He surfs a few other sites—actually quite a few—and plays a few hands of solitaire. When there's a particularly loud thump from upstairs, he decides to listen to a few tunes on his iPod. Something cheery. The Staple Singers, maybe.

And as “Respect Yourself” plays in the middle of his head, he goes on Debbie's Blue Umbrella to see if there's a message from the fat ex-cop.

29

When he can put it off no longer, Brady creeps upstairs. Twilight has come. The smell of seared hamburger is almost gone, but the smell of puke is still strong. He goes into the living room. His mother is on the floor next to the coffee table, which is now overturned. Her eyes glare up at the ceiling. Her lips are pulled back in a great big grin. Her hands are claws. She's dead.

Brady thinks, Why did you have to go out in the garage when you got hungry? Oh Mom, Mommy, what in God's name possessed you?

Whatever
can
go wrong
will
go wrong, he thinks, and then, looking at the mess she's made, he wonders if they have any carpet cleaner.

This is Hodges's fault. It all leads back to him.

He'll deal with the old Det-Ret, and soon. Right now, though, he has a more pressing problem. He sits down to consider it, taking the chair he uses on the occasions when he watches TV with her. He realizes she'll never watch another reality show. It's sad . . . but it does have its funny side. He imagines Jeff Probst sending flowers with a card reading
From all your
Survivor
pals
, and he just has to chuckle.

What is he to do with her? The neighbors won't miss her because she never ever had anything to do with them, called them stuck-up. She has no friends, either, not even of the barfly type, because she did all her drinking at home. Once, in a rare moment of self-appraisal, she told him she didn't go out to the bars because they were full of drunks just like her.

“That's why you didn't taste that shit and stop, isn't it?” he asks the corpse. “You were too fucking loaded.”

He wishes they had a freezer case. If they did, he'd cram her body into it. He saw that in a movie once. He doesn't dare put her in the garage; that seems a little too public, somehow. He supposes he could wrap her in a rug and take her down to the basement, she'd certainly fit under the stairs, but how would he get any work done, knowing she was there? Knowing that, even inside a roll of rug, her eyes were glaring?

Besides, the basement's
his
place. His control room.

In the end he realizes there's only one thing to do. He grabs her under the arms and drags her toward the stairs. By the time he gets her there, her pajama pants have slid down, revealing what she sometimes calls (
called
, he reminds himself) her winky. Once, when he was in bed with her and she was giving him relief for a particularly bad headache, he tried to touch her winky and she slapped his hand away. Hard. Don't you
ever
, she had said. That's where you
came
from.

Brady pulls her up the stairs, a riser at a time. The pajama pants work down to her ankles and puddle there. He remembers how she did a sit-down march on the couch in her last extremity. How awful. But, like the thing about Jeff Probst sending flowers, it had its funny side, although it wasn't the kind of joke you could explain to people. It was kind of Zen.

Down the hall. Into her bedroom. He straightens up, wincing at the pain in his lower back. God, she's so
heavy
. It's as if death has stuffed her with some dense mystery meat.

Never mind. Get it done.

He yanks up her pants, making her decent again—as decent as a corpse in vomit-soaked pj's can be—and lifts her onto her bed, groaning as fresh pain settles into his back. When he straightens up this time, he can feel his spine crackling. He thinks about taking off her nightclothes and replacing them with something clean—one of the XL tee-shirts she sometimes wears to bed, maybe—but that would mean more lifting and manipulation of what is now just pounds of silent flesh hanging from bone coathangers. What if he threw his back out?

He could at least take off her top, that caught most of the mess, but then he'd have to look at her boobs. Those she did let him touch, but only once in awhile. My handsome boy, she'd say on these occasions. Running her fingers through his hair or massaging his neck where the headaches settled, crouched and snarling. My handsome honeyboy.

In the end he just pulls the bedspread up, covering her entirely. Especially those staring, glaring eyes.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says, looking down at the white shape. “Not your fault.”

No. It's the fat ex-cop's fault. Brady bought the Gopher-Go to poison the dog, true, but only as a way of getting to Hodges and messing with his head. Now it's Brady's head that's a mess. Not to mention the living room. He's got a lot of work to do down there, but he has something else to do first.

30

He's got control of himself again and this time his voice commands work. He doesn't waste time, just sits down in front of his Number Three and logs on to Debbie's Blue Umbrella. His message to Hodges is brief and to the point.

I'm going to kill you.

You won't see me coming.

CALL FOR THE DEAD

1

On Monday, two days after Elizabeth Wharton's death, Hodges is once more seated in DeMasio's Italian Ristorante. The last time he was here, it was for lunch with his old partner. This time it's dinner. His companions are Jerome Robinson and Janelle Patterson.

Janey compliments him on his suit, which already fits better even though he's only lost a few pounds (and the Glock he's wearing on his hip hardly shows at all). It's the new hat Jerome likes, a brown fedora Janey bought Hodges on impulse that very day, and presented to him with some ceremony. Because he's a private detective now, she said, and every private dick should have a fedora he can pull down to one eyebrow.

Jerome tries it on and gives it that exact tilt. “What do you think? Do I look like Bogie?”

“I hate to disappoint you,” Hodges says, “but Bogie was Caucasian.”

“So Caucasian he practically shimmered,” Janey adds.

“Forgot that.” Jerome tosses the hat back to Hodges, who places it under his chair, reminding himself not to forget it when he leaves. Or step on it.

He's pleased when his two dinner guests take to each other at once. Jerome—an old head on top of a young body, Hodges often thinks—does the right thing as soon as the ice-breaking foolishness of the hat is finished, taking one of Janey's hands in both of his and telling her he's sorry for her loss.

“Both of them,” he says. “I know you lost your sister, too. If I lost mine, I'd be the saddest guy on earth. Barb's a pain, but I love her to death.”

She thanks him with a smile. Because Jerome's still too young for a legal glass of wine, they all order iced tea. Janey asks him about his college plans, and when Jerome mentions the possibility of Harvard, she rolls her eyes and says, “A
Hah
-vad man. Oh my
Gawd
.”

“Massa Hodges goan have to find hisself a new lawnboy!” Jerome exclaims, and Janey laughs so hard she has to spit a bite of shrimp into her napkin. It makes her blush, but Hodges is glad to hear that laugh. Her carefully applied makeup can't completely hide the pallor of her cheeks, or the dark circles under her eyes.

When he asks her how Aunt Charlotte, Uncle Henry, and Holly the Mumbler are enjoying the big house in Sugar Heights, Janey grabs the sides of her head as if afflicted with a monster headache.

“Aunt Charlotte called six times today. I'm not exaggerating.
Six
. The first time was to tell me that Holly woke up in the middle of the night, didn't know where she was, and had a panic attack. Auntie C said she was on the verge of calling an ambulance when Uncle Henry finally got her settled down by talking to her about NASCAR. She's crazy about stock car racing. Never misses it on TV, I understand. Jeff Gordon is her idol.” Janey shrugs. “Go figure.”

“How old is this Holly?” Jerome asks.

“About my age, but she suffers from a certain amount of . . . emotional retardation, I guess you'd say.”

Jerome considers this silently, then says: “She probably needs to reconsider Kyle Busch.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

Janey says Aunt Charlotte has also called to marvel over the monthly electrical bill, which must be huge; to confide that the neighbors seem very standoffish; to announce there is an
awfully
large number of pictures and all that modern art is not to her taste; to point out (although it sounds like another announcement) that if Olivia thought all those lamps were carnival glass, she had almost certainly been taken to the cleaners. The last call, received just before Janey left for the restaurant, had been the most aggravating. Uncle Henry wanted Janey to know, her aunt said, that he had looked into the matter and it still wasn't too late to change her mind about the cremation. She said the idea made her brother very upset—he called it “a Viking funeral”—and Holly wouldn't even discuss it, because it gave her the horrors.

“Their Thursday departure is confirmed,” Janey says, “and I'm already counting the minutes.” She squeezes Hodges's hand, and says, “There's one bit of good news, though. Auntie C says that Holly was
very
taken with you.”

Hodges smiles. “Must be my resemblance to Jeff Gordon.”

Janey and Jerome order dessert. Hodges, feeling virtuous, does not. Then, over coffee, he gets down to business. He has brought two folders with him, and hands one to each of his dinner companions.

“All my notes. I've organized them as well as I can. I want you to have them in case anything happens to me.”

Janey looks alarmed. “What else has he said to you on that site?”

“Nothing at all,” Hodges says. The lie comes out smoothly and convincingly. “It's just a precaution.”

“You sure of that?” Jerome asks.

“Absolutely. There's nothing definitive in the notes, but that doesn't mean we haven't made progress. I see a path of investigation that might—I repeat
might
—take us to this guy. In the meantime, it's important that you both remain very aware of what's going on around you at all times.”

“BOLO our asses off,” Janey says.

“Right.” He turns to Jerome. “And what, specifically, are you going to be on the lookout for?”

The reply is quick and sure. “Repeat vehicles, especially those driven by males on the younger side, say between the ages of twenty-five and forty. Although I think forty's pretty old. Which makes you practically ancient, Bill.”

“Nobody loves a smartass,” Hodges says. “Experience will teach you that in time, young man.”

Elaine, the hostess, drifts over to ask how everything was. They tell her everything was fine, and Hodges asks for more coffee all around.

“Right away,” she says. “You're looking much better than the last time you were here, Mr. Hodges. If you don't mind me saying so.”

Hodges doesn't mind. He
feels
better than the last time he was here. Lighter than the loss of seven or eight pounds can account for.

When Elaine's gone and the waiter has poured more coffee, Janey leans over the table with her eyes fixed on his. “What path? Tell us.”

He finds himself thinking of Donald Davis, who has confessed to killing not only his wife but five other women at rest stops along the highways of the Midwest. Soon the handsome Mr. Davis will be in State, where he will no doubt spend the rest of his life.

Hodges has seen it all before.

He's not so naïve as to believe that every homicide is solved, but more often than not, murder
does
out. Something (a certain wifely body in a certain abandoned gravel pit, for instance) comes to light. It's as if there's a fumble-fingered but powerful universal force at work, always trying to put wrong things right. The detectives assigned to a murder case read reports, interview witnesses, work the phones, study forensic evidence . . . and wait for that force to do its job. When it does (
if
it does), a path appears. It often leads straight to the doer, the sort of person Mr. Mercedes refers to in his letters as a
perk
.

Hodges asks his dinner companions, “What if Olivia Trelawney actually
did
hear ghosts?”

2

In the parking lot, standing next to the used but serviceable Jeep Wrangler his parents gave him as a seventeenth birthday present, Jerome tells Janey how good it was to meet her, and kisses her cheek. She looks surprised but pleased.

Jerome turns to Hodges. “You all set, Bill? Need anything tomorrow?”

“Just for you to look into that stuff we talked about so you'll be ready when we check out Olivia's computer.”

“I'm all over it.”

“Good. And don't forget to give my best to your dad and mom.”

Jerome grins. “Tell you what, I'll pass your best on to Dad. As for Mom . . .” Tyrone Feelgood Delight makes a brief cameo appearance. “I be steppin round
dat
lady fo' de nex' week or so.”

Hodges raises his eyebrows. “Are you in dutch with your mother? That doesn't sound like you.”

“Nah, she's just grouchy. And I can relate.” Jerome snickers.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, man. There's a concert at the MAC Thursday night. This dopey boy band called 'Round Here. Barb and her friend Hilda and a couple of their other friends are insane to see them, although they're as vanilla pudding as can be.”

“How old's your sister?” Janey asks.

“Nine. Going on ten.”

“Vanilla pudding's what girls that age like. Take it from a former eleven-year-old who was crazy about the Bay City Rollers.” Jerome looks puzzled, and she laughs. “If you knew who they were, I'd lose all respect for you.”

“Anyway, none of them have ever been to a live show, right? I mean, other than
Barney
or
Sesame Street on Ice
or something. So they pestered and pestered—they even pestered
me
—and finally the moms got together and decided that since it was an early show, the girls could go even if it was a school night, as long as one of
them
did the chaperone thing. They literally drew straws, and my mom lost.”

He shakes his head. His face is solemn but his eyes are sparkling. “My mom at the MAC with three or four thousand screaming girls between the ages of eight and fourteen. Do I have to explain any more about why I'm keeping out of her way?”

“I bet she has a great time,” Janey says. “She probably screamed for Marvin Gaye or Al Green not so long ago.”

Jerome hops into his Wrangler, gives them a final wave, and pulls out onto Lowbriar. That leaves Hodges and Janey standing beside Hodges's car, in an almost-summer night. A quarter moon has risen above the underpass that separates the more affluent part of the city from Lowtown.

“He's a good guy,” Janey says. “You're lucky to have him.”

“Yeah,” Hodges says. “I am.”

She takes the fedora off his head and puts it on her own, giving it a small but provocative tilt. “What's next, Detective? Your place?”

“Do you mean what I hope you mean?”

“I don't want to sleep alone.” She stands on tiptoe to return his hat. “If I must surrender my body to make sure that doesn't happen, I suppose I must.”

Hodges pushes the button that unlocks his car and says, “Never let it be said I failed to take advantage of a lady in distress.”

“You are no gentleman, sir,” she says, then adds, “Thank God. Let's go.”

3

It's better this time because they know each other a little. Anxiety has been replaced by eagerness. When the lovemaking is done, she slips into one of his shirts (it's so big her breasts disappear completely and the tails hang down to the backs of her knees) and explores his small house. He trails her a bit anxiously.

She renders her verdict after they've returned to the bedroom. “Not bad for a bachelor pad. No dirty dishes in the sink, no hair in the bathtub, no porn videos on top of the TV. I even spied a green vegetable or two in the crisper, which earns you bonus points.”

She's filched two cans of beer from the fridge and touches hers to his.

“I never expected to be here with another woman,” Hodges says. “Except maybe for my daughter. We talk on the phone and email, but Allie hasn't actually visited in a couple of years.”

“Did she take your ex's side in the divorce?”

“I suppose she did.” Hodges has never thought about it in exactly those terms. “If so, she was probably right to.”

“You might be too hard on yourself.”

Hodges sips his beer. It tastes pretty good. As he sips again, a thought occurs to him.

“Does Aunt Charlotte have this number, Janey?”

“No way. That's not the reason I wanted to come here instead of going back to the condo, but I'd be a liar if I said it never crossed my mind.” She looks at him gravely. “Will you come to the memorial service on Wednesday? Say you will. Please. I need a friend.”

“Of course. I'll be at the viewing on Tuesday as well.”

She looks surprised, but happily so. “That seems above and beyond.”

Not to Hodges, it doesn't. He's in full investigative mode now, and attending the funeral of someone involved in a murder case—even peripherally—is standard police procedure. He doesn't really believe Mr. Mercedes will turn up at either the viewing or the service on Wednesday, but it's not out of the question. Hodges hasn't seen today's paper, but some alert reporter might well have linked Mrs. Wharton and Olivia Trelawney, the daughter who committed suicide after her car was used as a murder weapon. Such a connection is hardly news, but you could say the same about Lindsay Lohan's adventures with drugs and alcohol. Hodges thinks there might at least have been a sidebar.

“I want to be there,” he says. “What's the deal with the ashes?”

“The mortician called them the
cremains
,” she says, and wrinkles her nose the way she does when she mocks his
yeah
. “Is that gross or what? It sounds like something you'd pour in your coffee. On the upside, I'm pretty sure I won't have to fight Aunt Charlotte or Uncle Henry for them.”

“No, you won't have to do that. Is there going to be a reception?”

Janey sighs. “Auntie C insists. So the service at ten, followed by a luncheon at the house in Sugar Heights. While we're eating catered sandwiches and telling our favorite Elizabeth Wharton stories, the funeral home people will take care of the cremation. I'll decide what to do with the ashes after the three of them leave on Thursday. They'll never even have to look at the urn.”

“That's a good idea.”

“Thanks, but I dread the luncheon. Not Mrs. Greene and the rest of Mom's few old friends, but
them
. If Aunt Charlotte freaks, Holly's apt to have a meltdown. You'll come to lunch, too, won't you?”