by Stephen King
Dereece Neville is sitting on the sofa. In his chino pants and white button-up shirt, he looks neat and squared away. His goatee and gold neck chain are the only real dashes of style. His school jacket is folded over one arm of the sofa. He stands when Hodges and Higgins come in, and offers a long-fingered hand that looks designed expressly for working with a basketball. The pad of the palm has been painted with orange antiseptic.
Hodges shakes with him carefully, mindful of the scrapes, and introduces himself. “You’re in absolutely no trouble here, Mr. Neville. In fact, Barbara Robinson sent me to say thanks and make sure you were okay. She and her family are longtime friends of mine.”
“Is she okay?”
“Broken leg,” Hodges says, pulling over a chair. His hand creeps to his side and presses there. “It could have been a lot worse. I’m betting she’ll be back on the soccer field next year. Sit down, sit down.”
When the Neville boy sits, his knees seem to come almost up to his jawline. “It was my fault, in a way. I shouldn’t have been goofing with her, but she was just so pretty and all. Still … I ain’t blind.” He pauses, corrects himself. “Not blind. What was she on? Do you know?”
Hodges frowns. The idea that Barbara might have been high hasn’t crossed his mind, although it should have; she’s a teenager, after all, and those years are the Age of Experimentation. But he has dinner with the Robinsons three or four times a month, and he’s never seen anything in her that registered as drug use. Maybe he’s just too close. Or too old.
“What makes you think she was on something?”
“Just her being down here, for one thing. Those were Chapel Ridge duds she was wearing. I know, because we play em twice every year. Blow em out, too. And she was like in a daze. Standing there on the curb near Mamma Stars, that fortune-telling place, looking like she was gonna walk right out into traffic.” He shrugs. “So I chatted her up, teased her about jaywalking. She got mad, went all Kitty Pryde on my ass. I thought that was cute, so then …” He looks at Higgins, then back at Hodges. “This is the fault part, and I’m being straight with you about it, okay?”
“Okay,” Hodges says.
“Well, look—I grabbed her game. Just for a joke, you know. Held it up over my head. I never meant to keep it. So then she kicked me—good hard kick for a girl—and grabbed it back. She sure didn’t look stoned then.”
“How did she look, Dereece?” The switch to the boy’s first name is automatic.
“Oh, man, mad! But also scared. Like she just figured out where she was, on a street where girls like her—ones in private school uniforms—don’t go, especially by themselves. MLK Ave? Come on, I mean bitch, please.” He leans forward, long-fingered hands clasped between his knees, face earnest. “She didn’t know I was just playing, you see what I mean? She was like in a panic, get me?”
“I do,” Hodges says, and although he sounds engaged (at least he hopes so), he’s on autopilot for the moment, stuck on what Neville has just said: I grabbed her game. Part of him thinks it can’t be connected to Ellerton and Stover. Most of him thinks it must be, it’s a perfect fit. “That must have made you feel bad.”
Neville raises his scratched palms toward the ceiling in a philosophical gesture that says What can you do? “It’s this place, man. It’s the Low. She stopped being on cloud nine and realized where she was, is all. Me, I’m getting out as soon as I can. While I can. Gonna play Div I, keep my grades up so I can get a good job afterward if I ain’t—aren’t—good enough to go pro. Then I’m getting my family out. It’s just me and my mom and my two brothers. My mom’s the only reason I’ve got as far as I have. She ain’t never let none of us play in the dirt.” He replays what he just said and laughs. “She heard me say ain’t never, she be in my face.”
Hodges thinks, Kid’s too good to be true. Except he is. Hodges is sure of it, and doesn’t like to think what might have happened to Jerome’s kid sister if Dereece Neville had been in school today.
Higgins says, “You were wrong to be teasing that girl, but I have to say you made it right. Will you think about what almost happened if you get an urge to do something like that again?”
“Yes, sir, I sure will.”
Higgins holds a hand up. Rather than slap it, Neville taps it gently, with a slightly sarcastic smile. He’s a good kid, but this is still Lowtown, and Higgins is still po-po.
Higgins stands. “Are we good to go, Detective Hodges?”
Hodges nods his appreciation at the use of his old title, but he isn’t quite finished. “Almost. What kind of game was it, Dereece?”
“Old-school.” No hesitation. “Like a Game Boy, but my little brother had one of those—Mom got it in a rumble sale, or whatever they call those things—and the one the girl had wasn’t the same. It was bright yellow, I know that. Not the kind of color you’d expect a girl to like. Not the ones I know, at least.”
“Did you happen to see the screen?”
“Just a glance. It was a bunch of fish swimming around.”
“Thanks, Dereece. How sure are you that she was high? On a scale of one to ten, ten being absolutely positive.”
“Well, say five. I would’ve said ten when I walked up to her, because she acted like she was going to walk right out into the street, and there was a bigass truck coming, a lot bigger than the panel job that come along behind and whumped her. I was thinking not coke or meth or molly, more something mellow, like ecstasy or pot.”
“But when you started goofing with her? When you took her game?”
Dereece Neville rolls his eyes. “Man, she woke up fast.”
“Okay,” Hodges says. “All set. And thank you.”
Higgins adds his thanks, then he and Hodges start toward the door.
“Detective Hodges?” Neville is on his feet again, and Hodges practically has to crane his neck to look at him. “You think if I wrote down my number, you could give it to her?”
Hodges thinks it over, then takes his pen from his breast pocket and hands it to the tall boy who probably saved Barbara Robinson’s life.
19
Holly drives them back to Lower Marlborough Street. He tells her about his conversation with Dereece Neville on the way.
“In a movie, they’d fall in love,” Holly says when he finishes. She sounds wistful.
“Life is not a movie, Hol … Holly.” He stops himself from saying Hollyberry at the last second. This is not a day for levity.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I go to them.”
“I don’t suppose you know if Zappit consoles came in yellow, do you?”
As is often the case, Holly has the facts at her fingertips. “They came in ten different colors, and yes, yellow was one of them.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking? That there’s a connection between what happened to Barbara and what happened to those women on Hilltop Court?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking. I wish we could sit down with Jerome the way we did when Pete Saubers got into trouble. Just sit down and talk it all out.”
“If Jerome gets here tonight, and if Barbara’s really okay, maybe we can do that tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s your second day,” she says as she pulls to the curb outside the parking lot they use. “The second of three.”
“Holly—”
“No!” she says fiercely. “Don’t even start! You promised!” She shoves the gearshift into park and turns to face him. “You believe Hartsfield has been faking, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah. Maybe not from the first time he opened his eyes and asked for his dear old mommy, but I think he’s come a long way back since then. Maybe all the way. He’s faking the semi-catatonic thing to keep from going to trial. Although you’d think Babineau would know. They must have tests, brain scans and things—”
“Never mind that. If he can think, and if he were to find out that you delayed treatment and died because of him, how do you think he’d feel?”
Hodges makes no answer, so
Holly answers for him.
“He’d be happy happy happy! He’d be fracking delighted!”
“Okay,” Hodges says. “I hear you. The rest of today and two more. But forget about my situation for a minute. If he can somehow reach out beyond that hospital room … that’s scary.”
“I know. And nobody would believe us. That’s scary, too. But nothing scares me as much as the thought of you dying.”
He wants to hug her for that, but she’s currently wearing one of her many hug-repelling expressions, so he looks at his watch instead. “I have an appointment, and I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”
“I’m going to the hospital. Even if they won’t let me see Barbara, Tanya will be there, and she’d probably like to see a friendly face.”
“Good idea. But before you go, I’d like you to take a shot at tracking down the Sunrise Solutions bankruptcy trustee.”
“His name is Todd Schneider. He’s part of a law firm six names long. Their offices are in New York. I found him while you were talking to Mr. Neville.”
“You did that on your iPad?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a genius, Holly.”
“No, it’s just computer research. You were the smart one, to think of it in the first place. I’ll call him, if you want.” Her face shows how much she dreads the prospect.
“You don’t have to do that. Just call his office and see if you can make an appointment for me to talk to him. As early tomorrow as possible.”
She smiles. “All right.” Then her smile fades. She points to his midsection. “Does it hurt?”
“Only a little.” For now that’s true. “The heart attack was worse.” That is true, too, but may not be for long. “If you get in to see Barbara, say hi for me.”
“I will.”
Holly watches him cross to his car, noting the way his left hand goes to his side after he turns up his collar. Seeing that makes her want to cry. Or maybe howl with outrage. Life can be very unfair. She’s known that ever since high school, when she was the butt of everyone’s joke, but it still surprises her. It shouldn’t, but it does.
20
Hodges drives back across town, fiddling with the radio, looking for some good hard rock and roll. He finds The Knack on BAM-100, singing “My Sharona,” and cranks the volume. When the song ends, the deejay comes on, talking about a big storm moving east out of the Rockies.
Hodges pays no attention. He’s thinking about Brady, and about the first time he saw one of those Zappit game consoles. Library Al handed them out. What was Al’s last name? He can’t remember. If he ever knew it at all, that is.
When he arrives at the watering hole with the amusing name, he finds Norma Wilmer seated at a table in back, far from the madding crowd of businessmen at the bar, who are bellowing and backslapping as they jockey for drinks. Norma has ditched her nurse’s uniform in favor of a dark green pantsuit and low heels. There’s already a drink in front of her.
“I was supposed to buy that,” Hodges says, sitting down across from her.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m running a tab, which you will pay.”
“Indeed I will.”
“Babineau couldn’t get me fired or even transferred if someone saw me talking to you here and reported back to him, but he could make my life difficult. Of course, I could make his a bit difficult, too.”
“Really?”
“Really. I think he’s been experimenting on your old friend Brady Hartsfield. Feeding him pills that contain God knows what. Giving him shots, as well. Vitamins, he says.”
Hodges stares at her in surprise. “How long has this been going on?”
“Years. It’s one of the reasons Becky Helmington transferred. She didn’t want to be the whitecap on ground zero if Babineau gave him the wrong vitamin and killed him.”
The waitress comes. Hodges orders a Coke with a cherry in it.
Norma snorts. “A Coke? Really? Put on your big boy pants, why don’t you?”
“When it comes to booze, I spilled more than you’ll ever drink, honeypie,” Hodges says. “What the hell is Babineau up to?”
She shrugs. “No idea. But he wouldn’t be the first doc to experiment on someone the world doesn’t give shit one about. Ever hear of the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment? The US government used four hundred black men like lab rats. It went on for forty years, and so far as I know, not a single one of them ran a car into a bunch of defenseless people.” She gives Hodges a crooked smile. “Investigate Babineau. Get him in trouble. I dare you.”
“It’s Hartsfield I’m interested in, but based on what you’re saying, I wouldn’t be surprised if Babineau turned out to be collateral damage.”
“Then hooray for collateral damage.” It comes out clatteral dammish, and Hodges deduces she’s not on her first drink. He is, after all, a trained investigator.
When the waitress brings his Coke, Norma drains her glass and holds it up. “I’ll have another, and since the gentleman’s paying, you might as well make it a double.” The waitress takes her glass and leaves. Norma turns her attention back to Hodges. “You said you have questions. Go ahead and ask while I can still answer. My mouth is a trifle numb, and will soon be number.”
“Who is on Brady Hartsfield’s visitors list?”
Norma frowns at him. “Visitors list? Are you kidding? Who told you he had a visitors list?”
“The late Ruth Scapelli. This was just after she replaced Becky as head nurse. I offered her fifty bucks for any rumors she heard about him—which was the going rate with Becky—and she acted like I’d just pissed on her shoes. Then she said, ‘You’re not even on his visitors list.’”
“Huh.”
“Then, just today, Babineau said—”
“Some bullshit about the DA’s office. I heard it, Bill, I was there.”
The waitress sets Norma’s new drink in front of her, and Hodges knows he’d better finish up fast, before Norma starts to bend his ear about everything from being underappreciated at work to her sad and loveless love life. When nurses drink, they have a tendency to go all in. They’re like cops that way.
“You’ve been working the Bucket for as long as I’ve been coming there—”
“A lot longer. Twelve years.” Yearsh. She raises her glass in a toast and swallows half of her drink. “And now I have been promoted to head nurse, at least temporarily. Twice the responsibility at the same old salary, no doubt.”
“Seen anybody from the DA’s office lately?”
“Nope. There was a whole briefcase brigade at first, along with pet doctors just itching to declare the son of a bitch competent, but they went away discouraged once they saw him drooling and trying to pick up a spoon. Came back a few times just to double-check, fewer briefcase boys every time, but nothing lately. ’S’far’s they’re concerned, he’s a total gork. Badda-boop, badda-bang, over and out.”
“So they don’t care.” And why would they? Except for the occasional retrospective on slow news days, interest in Brady Hartsfield has died down. There’s always fresh roadkill to pick over.
“You know they don’t.” A lock of hair has fallen in her eyes. She blows it back. “Did anyone try to stop you, all the times you were in to visit him?”
No, Hodges thinks, but it’s been a year and a half since I dropped by. “If there is a visitors list—”
“It’d be Babineau’s, not the DA’s. When it comes to the Mercedes Killer, DA is like honeybadger, Bill. He don’t give a shit.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Could you check and see if there is such a list? Now that you’ve been promoted to head nurse?”
She considers, then says, “It wouldn’t be on the computer, that would be too easy to check, but Scapelli kept a couple of file folders in a locked drawer at the duty desk. She was a great one for keeping track of who’s naughty and who’s nice. If I found something, would it be worth twenty to you?”
“Fifty, if you could call
me tomorrow.” Hodges isn’t sure she’ll even remember this conversation tomorrow. “Time is of the essence.”
“If such a list exists, it’s probably just power-tripping bullshit, you know. Babineau likes to keep Hartsfield to his little old self.”
“But you’ll check?”
“Yeah, why not? I know where she hides the key to her locked drawer. Shit, most of the nurses on the floor know. Hard to get used to the idea old Nurse Ratched’s dead.”
Hodges nods.
“He can move things, you know. Without touching them.” Norma’s not looking at him; she’s making rings on the table with the bottom of her glass. It looks like she’s trying to replicate the Olympic logo.
“Hartsfield?”
“Who are we talking about? Yeah. He does it to freak out the nurses.” She raises her head. “I’m drunk, so I’ll tell you something I’d never say sober. I wish Babineau would kill him. Just give him a hot shot of something really toxic and boot him out the door. Because he scares me.” She pauses, then adds, “He scares all of us.”
21
Holly reaches Todd Schneider’s personal assistant just as he’s getting ready to shut up shop and leave for the day. The PA says Mr. Schneider should be available between eight thirty and nine tomorrow. After that he has meetings all day.
Holly hangs up, washes her face in the tiny lavatory, reapplies deodorant, locks the office, and gets rolling toward Kiner Memorial just in time to catch the worst of the evening rush hour. It’s six o’clock and full dark by the time she arrives. The woman at the information desk checks her computer and tells her that Barbara Robinson is in Room 528 of Wing B.
“Is that Intensive Care?” Holly asks.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” Holly says, and sets sail, sensible low heels clacking.
