by Stephen King
She hopes that when the time comes, Barb will be as lucky.
31
"Oh my happy clapping Jesus," Holly says, and hits her forehead with the heel of her hand. She's finished with Brady's Number One--nothing much there--and has moved on to Number Two.
Jerome looks up from Number Five, which seems to have been exclusively dedicated to video games, most of the Grand Theft Auto and Call of Duty sort. "What?"
"It's just that every now and then I run across someone even more screwed in the head than me," she says. "It cheers me up. That's terrible, I know it is, but I can't help it."
Hodges gets up from the stairs with a grunt and comes over to look. The screen is filled with small photos. They appear to be harmless cheesecake, not much different from the kind he and his friends used to moon over in Adam and Spicy Leg Art back in the late fifties. Holly enlarges three of them and arranges them in a row. Here is Deborah Hartsfield wearing a filmy robe. And Deborah Hartsfield wearing babydoll pajamas. And Deborah Hartsfield in a frilly pink bra-and-panty set.
"My God, it's his mother," Jerome says. His face is a study in revulsion, amazement, and fascination. "And it looks like she posed."
It looks that way to Hodges, too.
"Yup," Holly says. "Paging Dr. Freud. Why do you keep rubbing your shoulder, Mr. Hodges?"
"Pulled a muscle," he says. But he's starting to wonder about that.
Jerome glances at the desktop screen of Number Three, starts to check out the photos of Brady Hartsfield's mother again, then does a double-take. "Whoa," he says. "Look at this, Bill."
Sitting in the lower lefthand corner of Number Three's desktop is a Blue Umbrella icon.
"Open it," Hodges says.
He does, but the file is empty. There's nothing unsent, and as they now know, all old correspondence on Debbie's Blue Umbrella goes straight to data heaven.
Jerome sits down at Number Three. "This must be his go-to glowbox, Hols. Almost got to be."
She joins him. "I think the other ones are mostly for show--so he can pretend he's on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise or something."
Hodges points to a file marked 2009. "Let's look at that one."
A mouse-click discloses a subfile titled CITY CENTER. Jerome opens it and they stare at a long list of stories about what happened there in April of 2009.
"The asshole's press clippings," Hodges says.
"Go through everything on this one," Holly tells Jerome. "Start with the hard drive."
Jerome opens it. "Oh man, look at this shit." He points to a file titled EXPLOSIVES.
"Open it!" Holly says, shaking his shoulder. "Open it, open it, open it!"
Jerome does, and reveals another loaded subfile. Drawers within drawers, Hodges thinks. A computer's really nothing but a Victorian rolltop desk, complete with secret compartments.
Holly says, "Hey guys, look at this." She points. "He downloaded the whole Anarchist Cookbook from BitTorrent. That's illegal!"
"Duh," Jerome says, and she punches him in the arm.
The pain in Hodges's shoulder is worse. He walks back to the stairs and sits heavily. Jerome and Holly, huddled over Number Three, don't notice him go. He puts his hands on his thighs (My overweight thighs, he thinks, my badly overweight thighs) and begins taking long slow breaths. The only thing that can make this evening worse would be having a heart attack in a house he's illegally entered with a minor and a woman who is at least a mile from right in the head. A house where a bullshit-crazy killer's pinup girl is lying dead upstairs.
Please God, no heart attack. Please.
He takes more long breaths. He stifles a belch and the pain begins to ease.
With his head lowered, he finds himself looking between the stairs. Something glints there in the light of the overhead fluorescents. Hodges drops to his knees and crawls underneath to see what it is. It turns out to be a stainless steel ball bearing, bigger than the ones in the Happy Slapper, heavy in his palm. He looks at the distorted reflection of his face in its curved side, and an idea starts to grow. Only it doesn't exactly grow; it surfaces, like the bloated body of something drowned.
Farther beneath the stairs is a green garbage bag. Hodges crawls to it with the ball bearing clutched in one hand, feeling the cobwebs that dangle from the undersides of the steps caress his receding hair and growing forehead. Jerome and Holly are chattering excitedly, but he pays no attention.
He grabs the garbage bag with his free hand and begins to back out from beneath the stairs. A drop of sweat runs into his left eye, stinging, and he blinks it away. He sits down on the steps again.
"Open his email," Holly says.
"God, you're bossy," Jerome says.
"Open it, open it, open it!"
Right you are, Hodges thinks, and opens the garbage bag. There are snippets of wire inside, and what appears to be a busted circuit board. They are lying on top of a khaki-colored garment that looks like a shirt. He brushes the bits of wire aside, pulls the garment out, holds it up. Not a shirt but a hiker's vest, the kind with lots of pockets. The lining has been slashed in half a dozen places. He reaches into one of these cuts, feels around, and pulls out two more ball bearings. It's not a hiker's vest, at least not anymore. It's been customized.
Now it's a suicide vest.
Or was. Brady unloaded it for some reason. Because his plans changed to the Careers Day thing on Saturday? That has to be it. The explosives are probably in his car, unless he's stolen another one already. He--
"No!" Jerome cries. Then he screams it. "No! No, no, OH GOD NO!"
"Please don't let it be," Holly whimpers. "Don't let it be that."
Hodges drops the vest and hurries across to the bank of computers to see what they're looking at. It's an email from a site called FanTastic, thanking Mr. Brady Hartsfield for his order.
You may download your printable ticket at once. No bags or backpacks will be allowed at this event. Thank you for ordering from FanTastic, where all the best seats to all the biggest shows are only a click away.
Below this: 'ROUND HERE MINGO AUDITORIUM MIDWEST CULTURE AND ARTS COMPLEX JUNE 3, 2010 7 PM.
Hodges closes his eyes. It's the fucking concert after all. We made an understandable mistake . . . but not a forgivable one. Please God, don't let him get inside. Please God, let Romper-Stomper's guys catch him at the door.
But even that could be a nightmare, because Larry Windom is under the impression that he's looking for a child molester, not a mad bomber. If he spots Brady and tries to collar him with his usual heavy-handed lack of grace--
"It's quarter of seven," Holly says, pointing to the digital readout on Brady's Number Three. "He might still be waiting in line, but he's probably inside already."
Hodges knows she's right. With that many kids going, seating will have started no later than six-thirty.
"Jerome," he says.
The boy doesn't reply. He's staring at the ticket receipt on the computer screen, and when Hodges puts his hand on Jerome's shoulder, it's like touching a stone.
"Jerome."
Slowly, Jerome turns around. His eyes are huge. "We been so stupid," he whispers.
"Call your moms." Hodges's voice remains calm, and it's not even that much of an effort, because he's in deep shock. He keeps seeing the ball bearing. And the slashed vest. "Do it now. Tell her to grab Barbara and the other kids she brought and beat feet out of there."
Jerome pulls his phone from the clip on his belt and speed-dials his mother. Holly stares at him with her arms crossed tightly over her breasts and her chewed lips pulled down in a grimace.
Jerome waits, mutters a curse, then says: "You have to get out of there, Mom. Just take the girls and go. Don't call me back and ask questions, just go. Don't run. But get out!"
He ends the call and tells them what they already know. "Voicemail. It rang plenty of times, so she's not talking on it and it's not shut off. I don't get it."
"What about your sister?" Hodges says. "She must have a phone."
Jerome is hitting speed-dial again before he can finish. He listens for what seems to Hodges like an age, although he knows it can only be ten or fifteen seconds. Then he says, "Barb! Why in hell aren't you picking up? You and Mom and the other girls have to get out of there!" He ends the call. "I don't get this. She always carries it, that thing is practically grafted to her, and she should at least feel it vibra--"
Holly says, "Oh shit and piss." But that's not enough for her. "Oh, fuck!"
They turn to her.
"How big is the concert place? How many people can fit inside?"
Hodges tries to retrieve what he knows about the Mingo Auditorium. "Seats four thousand. I don't know if they allow standees or not, I can't remember that part of the fire code."
"And for this show, almost all of them are girls," she says. "Girls with cell phones practically grafted to them. Most of them gabbing away while they wait for the show to start. Or texting." Her eyes are huge with dismay. "It's the circuits. They're overloaded. You have to keep trying, Jerome. You have to keep trying until you get through."
He nods numbly, but he's looking at Hodges. "You should call your friend. The one in the security department."
"Yeah, but not from here. In the car." Hodges looks at his watch again. Ten of seven. "We're going to the MAC."
Holly clenches a fist on either side of her face. "Yes," she says, and Hodges finds himself remembering what she said earlier: They can't find him. We can.
In spite of his desire to confront Hartsfield--to wrap his hands around Hartsfield's neck and see the bastard's eyes bulge as his breath stops--Hodges hopes she's wrong about that. Because if it's up to them, it may already be too late.
32
This time it's Jerome behind the wheel and Hodges in back. Olivia Trelawney's Mercedes gathers itself slowly, but once the twelve-cylinder engine gets cranking, it goes like a rocket . . . and with the lives of his mother and sister on the line, Jerome drives it like one, weaving from lane to lane and ignoring the protesting honks of the cars around him. Hodges estimates they can be at the MAC in twenty minutes. If the kid doesn't pile them up, that is.
"Call the security man!" Holly says from the passenger seat. "Call him, call him, call him!"
As Hodges takes his Nokia out of his jacket pocket, he instructs Jerome to take the City Bypass.
"Don't backseat-drive me," Jerome says. "Just make the call. And hurry."
But when he tries to access his phone's memory, the fucking Nokia gives a single weak tweet and then dies. When was the last time he charged it? Hodges can't remember. He can't remember the number of the security office, either. He should have written it down in his notebook instead of depending on the phone.
Goddam technology, he thinks . . . but whose fault is it, really?
"Holly. Dial 555-1900 and then give me your phone. Mine's dead." Nineteen hundred is the department. He can get Windom's number from Marlo again.
"Okay, what's the area code here? My phone's on--"
She breaks off as Jerome swerves around a panel truck and drives straight at an SUV in the other lane, flashing his lights and yelling, "Get out of the way!" The SUV swerves and Jerome skates the Mercedes past with a coat of paint to spare.
"--on Cincinnati," Holly finishes. She sounds as cool as a Popsicle.
Hodges, thinking he could use some of the drugs she's on, recites the area code. She dials and hands her phone to him over the seat.
"Police Department, how may I direct your call?"
"I need to talk to Marlo Everett in Records, and right away."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I saw Ms. Everett leave half an hour ago."
"Have you got her cell number?"
"Sir, I'm not allowed to give that information ou--"
He has no inclination to engage in a time-consuming argument that will surely prove fruitless, and clicks off just as Jerome swings onto the City Bypass, doing sixty. "What's the holdup, Bill? Why aren't you--"
"Shut up and drive, Jerome," Holly says. "Mr. Hodges is doing the best he can."
The truth is, she really doesn't want me to reach anyone, Hodges thinks. Because it's supposed to be us and only us. A crazy idea comes to him, that Holly is using some weird psychic vibe to make sure it stays them and only them. And it might. Based on the way Jerome's driving, they'll be at the MAC before Hodges is able to get hold of anyone in authority.
A cold part of his mind is thinking that might be best. Because no matter who Hodges reaches, Larry Windom is the man in charge at the Mingo, and Hodges doesn't trust him. Romper-Stomper was always a bludgeoner, a go-right-at-em kind of guy, and Hodges doubts he has changed.
Still, he has to try.
He hands Holly's phone back to her and says, "I can't figure this fucking thing out. Call Directory Assistance and--"
"Try my sister again first," Jerome says, and raps off the number.
Holly dials Barbara's phone, her thumb moving so fast it's a blur. Listens. "Voicemail."
Jerome curses and drives faster. Hodges can only hope there's an angel riding on his shoulder.
"Barbara!" Holly hollers. No mumbling now. "You and whoever's with you get your asses out of there right away! ASAP! Pronto!" She clicks off. "Now what? Directory Assistance, you said?"
"Yeah. Get the MAC Security Department number, dial it, and give the phone back to me. Jerome, take Exit 4A."
"3B's the MAC."
"It is if you're going in front. We're going to the back."
"Bill, if my mom and sis get hurt--"
"They won't. Take 4A." Holly's discussion with Directory Assistance has lasted too long. "Holly, what's the holdup?"
"No direct line into their Security Department." She dials a new number, listens, and hands him the phone. "You have to go through the main number."
He presses Holly's iPhone to his ear hard enough to hurt. It rings. And rings. And rings some more.
As they pass Exits 2A and 2B, Hodges can see the MAC. It's lit up like a jukebox, the parking lot a sea of cars. His call is finally answered, but before he can say a word, a fembot begins to lecture him. She does it slowly and carefully, as if addressing a person who speaks English as a second language, and not well.
"Hello, and thank you for calling the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex, where we make life better and all things are possible."
Hodges listens with Holly's phone mashed against his ear and sweat rolling down his cheeks and neck. It's six past seven. The bastard won't do it until the show starts, he tells himself (he's actually praying), and rock acts always start late.
"Remember," the fembot says sweetly, "we depend on you for support, and season's passes to the City Symphony and this fall's Playhouse Series are available now. Not only will you save fifty percent--"
"What's happening?" Jerome shouts as they pass 3A and 3B. The next sign reads EXIT 4A SPICER BOULEVARD 1/2 MILE. Jerome has tossed Holly his own phone and Holly is trying first Tanya, then Barbara again, with no result.
"I'm listening to a fucking recorded ad," Hodges says. He's rubbing the hollow of his shoulder again. That ache is like an infected tooth. "Go left at the bottom of the ramp. You'll want a right turn I think about a block up. Maybe two. By the McDonald's, anyway." Although the Mercedes is now doing eighty, the sound of the engine has yet to rise above a sleepy purr.
"If we hear an explosion, I'm going to lose my mind," Jerome says matter-of-factly.
"Just drive," Holly says. An unlit Winston jitters between her teeth. "If you don't wreck us, we'll be fine." She's gone back to Tanya's number. "We're going to get him. We're going to get him get him get him."
Jerome snatches a glance at her. "Holly, you're nuts."
"Just drive," she repeats.
"You can also use your MAC card to obtain a ten percent discount at selected fine restaurants and local retail businesses," the fembot informs Hodges.
Then, at long last, she gets down to business.
"There is no one in the main office to take your call
now. If you know the number of the extension you wish to reach, you may dial it at any time. If not, please listen carefully, because our menu options have changed. To call the Avery Johns Drama Office, dial one-oh. To call the Belinda Dean Box Office, dial one-one. To reach City Symphony--"
Oh dear Jesus, Hodges thinks, it's the fucking Sears catalogue. And in alphabetical order.
The Mercedes dips and swerves as Jerome takes the 4A exit and shoots down the curved ramp. The light is red at the bottom. "Holly. How is it your way?"
She checks with the phone still at her ear. "You're okay if you hurry. If you want to get us all killed, take your time."
Jerome buries the accelerator. Olivia's Mercedes shoots across four lanes of traffic listing hard to port, the tires squalling. There's a thud as they bounce across the concrete divider. Horns blare a discordant flourish. From the corner of his eye, Hodges sees a panel truck climb the curb to avoid them.
"To reach Craft Service and Set Design, dial--"
Hodges punches the roof of the Mercedes. "What happened to HUMAN FUCKING BEINGS?"
Just as the Golden Arches of McDonald's appear ahead on the right, the fembot tells Hodges he can reach the MAC's Security Department by dialing three-two.
He does so. The phone rings four times, then is picked up. What he hears makes him wonder if he is losing his mind.
"Hello, and thank you for calling the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex," the fembot says cordially. "Where we make life better and all things are possible."
33
"Why isn't the show starting, Mrs. Robinson?" Dinah Scott asks. "It's already ten past seven."
Tanya thinks of telling them about the Stevie Wonder concert she went to when she was in high school, the one that was scheduled to start at eight and finally got underway at nine-thirty, but decides it might be counterproductive.
Hilda's frowning at her phone. "I still can't get Gail," she complains. "All the darn circuits are b--"
The lights begin to dim before she can finish. This provokes wild cheering and waves of applause.
"Oh God, Mommy, I'm so excited!" Barbara whispers, and Tanya is touched to see tears welling in her daughter's eyes. A guy in a BAM-100 Good Guys tee-shirt struts out. A spotlight tracks him to center stage.
"Hey, you guys!" he shouts. "Howya doin out there?"
