by Stephen King
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 naive 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?"
"If you let me reach inside that shirt you're wearing, I'll do anything you want."
"In that case, let me help you with the buttons."
4
Not many miles from where Kermit William Hodges and Janelle Patterson are lying together in the house on Harper Road, Brady Hartsfield is sitting in his control room. Tonight he's at his worktable instead of his bank of computers. And doing nothing.
Nearby, lying amid the litter of small tools, bits of wire, and computer components, is the Monday paper, still rolled up inside its thin plastic condom. He brought it in when he got back from Discount Electronix, but only from force of habit. He has no interest in the news. He has other things to think about. How he's going to get the cop. How he's going to get into the 'Round Here concert at the MAC wearing his carefully constructed suicide vest. If he really intends to do it, that is. Right now it all seems like an awful lot of work. A long row to hoe. A high mountain to climb. A . . . a . . .
But he can't think of any other similes. Or are those metaphors?
Maybe, he thinks drearily, I just ought to kill myself now and be done with it. Get rid of these awful thoughts. These snapshots from hell.
Snapshots like the one of his mother, for instance, convulsing on the sofa after eating the poisoned meat meant for the Robinson family's dog. Mom with her eyes bugging out and her pajama shirt covered with puke--how would that picture look in the old family album?
He needs to think, but there's a hurricane going on in his head, a big bad Category Five Katrina, and everything is flying.
His old Boy Scout sleeping bag is spread out on the basement floor, on top of an air mattress he scrounged from the garage. The air mattress has a slow leak. Brady supposes he ought to replace it if he means to continue sleeping down here for whatever short stretch of life remains to him. And where else can he sleep? He can't bring himself to use his bed on the second floor, not with his mother lying dead in her own bed just down the hall, maybe already rotting her way into the sheets. He's turned on her air conditioner and cranked it up to HI COOL, but he's under no illusions about how well that will work. Or for how long. Nor is sleeping on the living room couch an option. He cleaned it as well as he could, and turned the cushions, but it still smells of her vomit.
No, it has to be down here, in his special place. His control room. Of course the basement has its own unpleasant history; it's where his little brother died. Only died is a bit of a euphemism, and it's a bit late for those.
Brady thinks about how he used Frankie's name when he posted to Olivia Trelawney under Debbie's Blue Umbrella. It was as if Frankie was alive again for a little while. Only when the Trelawney bitch died, Frankie died with her.
Died again.
"I never liked you anyway," he says, looking toward the foot of the stairs. It is a strangely childish voice, high and treble, but Brady doesn't notice. "And I had to." He pauses. "We had to."
He thinks of his mother, and how beautiful she was in those days.
Those old days.
5
Deborah Ann Hartsfield was one of those rare ex-cheerleaders who, even after bearing children, managed to hang on to the body that had danced and pranced its way along the sidelines under the Friday-night lights: tall, full-figured, honey-haired. During the early years of her marriage, she took no more than a glass of wine with dinner. Why drink to excess when life was good sober? She had her husband, she had her house on the North Side of the city--not exactly a palace, but what starter-home was?--and she had
her two boys.
At the time his mother became a widow, Brady was eight and Frankie was three. Frankie was a plain child, and a bit on the slow side. Brady, on the other hand, had good looks and quick wits. Also, what a charmer! She doted on him, and Brady felt the same about her. They spent long Saturday afternoons cuddled together on the couch under a blanket, watching old movies and drinking hot chocolate while Norm puttered in the garage and Frankie crawled around on the carpet, playing with blocks or a little fire truck that he liked so well he had given it a name: Sammy.
Norm Hartsfield was a lineman for Central States Power. He made a good salary pole-climbing, but had his sights trained on bigger things. Perhaps it was those things he was eyeing instead of watching what he was doing that day beside Route 51, or maybe he just lost his balance a little and reached the wrong way in an effort to steady himself. No matter what the reason, the result was lethal. His partner was just reporting that they'd found the outage and repair was almost complete when he heard a crackling sound. That was twenty thousand volts of coal-fired CSP electricity pouring into Norm Hartsfield's body. The partner looked up just in time to see Norm tumble out of the cherry-picker basket and plunge forty feet to the ground with his left hand melted and the sleeve of his uniform shirt on fire.
Addicted to credit cards, like most middle Americans as the end of the century approached, the Hartsfields had savings of less than two thousand dollars. That was pretty thin, but there was a good insurance policy, and CSP kicked in an additional seventy thousand, trading it for Deborah Ann's signature on a paper absolving the company of all blame in the matter of Norman Hartsfield's death. To Deborah Ann, that seemed like a huge bucketful of cash. She paid off the mortgage on the house and bought a new car. Never did it occur to her that some buckets fill but once.
She had been working as a hairdresser when she met Norm, and went back to that trade after his death. Six months or so into her widowhood, she began seeing a man she had met one day at the bank--only a junior executive, she told Brady, but he had what she called prospects. She brought him home. He ruffled Brady's hair and called him champ. He ruffled Frankie's hair and called him little champ. Brady didn't like him (he had big teeth, like a vampire in a scary movie), but he didn't show his dislike. He had already learned to wear a happy face and keep his feelings to himself.
