End of Watch: A Novel (The Bill Hodges Trilogy Book 3)

by Stephen King

  Babineau says nothing. This is a nightmare, and soon he will wake up.

  “Do it, or tomorrow the housekeeper will find you lying dead next to your wife, unfortunate victims of a home invasion. I would rather finish my business as Dr. Z—your body is ten years younger than Brooks’s, and not in bad shape—but I’ll do what I have to. Besides, leaving you to face Kermit Hodges would be mean of me. He’s a nasty man, Felix. You have no idea.”

  Babineau looks at the elderly fellow in the mended parka and sees Hartsfield looking out of Library Al’s watery blue eyes. Babineau’s lips are trembling and wet with spittle. His eyes are rimmed with tears. Brady thinks that with his white hair standing up around his head as it is now, the Babster looks like Albert Einstein in that photo where the famous physicist is sticking his tongue out.

  “How did I get into this?” he moans.

  “The way everybody gets into everything,” Brady says gently. “One step at a time.”

  “Why did you have to go after the girl?” Babineau bursts out.

  “It was a mistake,” Brady says. Easier to admit that than the whole truth: he couldn’t wait. He wanted the nigger lawnboy’s sister to go before anyone else blotted out her importance. “Now stop fucking around and look at the fishies. You know you want to.”

  And he does. That’s the worst part. In spite of everything Babineau now knows, he does.

  He looks at the fish.

  He listens to the tune.

  After awhile he goes into the bedroom to dress and get money out of the safe. He makes one more stop before leaving. The bathroom medicine cabinet is well stocked, on both her side and his.

  He takes Babineau’s BMW, leaving the old Malibu where it is for the time being. He also leaves Library Al, who has gone to sleep on the sofa.

  2

  Around the time Cora Babineau is opening her front door for the last time, Hodges is sitting down in the living room of the Scott family’s home on Allgood Place, just one block over from Teaberry Lane, where the Robinsons live. He swallowed a couple of painkillers before getting out of the car, and isn’t feeling bad, all things considered.

  Dinah Scott is on the sofa, flanked by her parents. She looks quite a bit older than fifteen tonight, because she’s recently back from a rehearsal at North Side High School, where the Drama Club will soon be putting on The Fantasticks. She has the role of Luisa, Angie Scott has told Hodges, a real plum. (This causes Dinah to roll her eyes.) Hodges is across from them in a La-Z-Boy very much like the one in his own living room. From the deep divot in the seat, he deduces it is Carl Scott’s normal evening roost.

  On the coffee table in front of the sofa is a bright green Zappit. Dinah brought it down from her room right away, which allows Hodges to further deduce that it wasn’t buried under sports gear in her closet, or left under the bed with the dust bunnies. It wasn’t sitting forgotten in her locker at school. No, it was where she could lay her hands on it at once. Which means she’s been using it, old-school or not.

  “I’m here at the request of Barbara Robinson,” he tells them. “She was struck by a truck today—”

  “Omigod,” Dinah says, a hand going to her mouth.

  “She’s okay,” Hodges says. “Broken leg is all. They’re keeping her overnight for observation, but she’ll be home tomorrow and probably back in school next week. You can sign her cast, if kids still do that.”

  Angie puts an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “What does that have to do with Dinah’s game?”

  “Well, Barbara had one, and it gave her a shock.” Based on what Holly told Hodges while he was driving over here, that’s no lie. “She was crossing a street at the time, lost her bearings for a minute, and bammo. A boy pushed her clear, or it would have been much worse.”

  “Jesus,” Carl says.

  Hodges leans forward, looking at Dinah. “I don’t know how many of these gadgets are defective, but it’s clear from what happened to Barb, and a couple of other incidents we know of, that at least some of them are.”

  “Let this be a lesson to you,” Carl says to his daughter. “The next time someone tells you a thing’s free, be on your guard.”

  This prompts another eye-roll of the perfect teenage variety.

  “The thing I’m curious about,” Hodges says, “is how you came by yours in the first place. It’s kind of a mystery, because the Zappit company didn’t sell many. They were bought out by another company when it flopped, and that company went bankrupt in April two years ago. You’d think the Zappit consoles would have been held for resale, to help pay the bills—”

  “Or destroyed,” Carl says. “That’s what they do with unsold paperbacks, you know.”

  “I’m actually aware of that,” Hodges says. “So tell me, Dinah, how did you get it?”

  “I went on the website,” she says. “I’m not in trouble, am I? I mean, I didn’t know, but Daddy always says ignorance of the law is no excuse.”

  “You’re in zero trouble,” Hodges assures her. “What website was this?”

  “It was called badconcert.com. I looked for it on my phone when Mom called me at rehearsal and said you were coming over, but it’s gone. I guess they gave away all the ones they had.”

  “Or found out the things were dangerous, and folded their tents without warning anyone,” Angie Scott says, looking grim.

  “How bad could the shock be, though?” Carl asks. “I opened up the back when Dee brought it down from her room. There’s nothing in there but four rechargeable double As.”

  “I don’t know about that stuff,” Hodges says. His stomach is starting to hurt again in spite of the dope. Not that his stomach is actually the problem; it’s an adjacent organ only six inches long. He took a moment after his meeting with Norma Wilmer to check the survival rate of patients with pancreatic cancer. Only six percent of them manage to live five years. Not what you’d call cheery news. “So far I haven’t even managed to re-­program my iPhone’s text message alert so it doesn’t scare innocent bystanders.”

  “I can do that for you,” Dinah says. “Easy-peasy. I have Crazy Frog on mine.”

  “Tell me about the website first.”

  “There was a tweet, okay? Someone at school told me about it. It got picked up on lots of social media sites. Facebook … Pinterest … Google Plus … you know the ones I’m talking about.”

  Hodges doesn’t, but nods.

  “I can’t remember the tweet exactly, but pretty close. Because they can only be a hundred and forty characters long. You know that, right?”

  “Sure,” Hodges says, although he barely grasps what a tweet is. His left hand is trying to sneak its way to the pain in his side. He makes it stay put.

  “This one said something like …” Dinah closes her eyes. It’s rather theatrical, but of course she just did come from a Drama Club rehearsal. “‘Bad news, some nut got the ’Round Here concert canceled. Want some good news? Maybe even a free gift? Go to badconcert.com.’” She opens her eyes. “That’s probably not exact, but you get the idea.”

  “I do, yeah.” He jots the website name in his notebook. “So you went there …”

  “Sure. Lots of kids went there. It was kind of funny, too. There was a Vine of ’Round Here singing their big song from a few years ago, ‘Kisses on the Midway,’ it was called, and after about twenty seconds there’s an explosion sound and this quacky voice saying, ‘Oh damn, show canceled.’”

  “I don’t think that’s so funny,” Angie says. “You all could have been killed.”

  “There must have been more to it than that,” Hodges says.

  “Sure. It said that there were like two thousand kids there, a lot of them at their first concert, and they got screwed out of the experience of a lifetime. Although, um, screwed wasn’t the word they used.”

  “I think we can fill in that blank, dear one,” Carl says.

  “And then it said that ’Round Here’s corporate sponsor had received a whole bunch of Zappit game consoles, and they wan
ted to give them away. To, you know, kind of make up for the concert.”

  “Even though that was almost six years ago?” Angie looks incredulous.

  “Yeah. Kind of weird, when you think of it.”

  “But you didn’t,” Carl said. “Think of it.”

  Dinah shrugs, looking petulant. “I did, but it seemed okay.”

  “Famous last words,” her father says.

  “So you just … what?” Hodges asks. “Emailed in your name and address and got that”—he points to the Zappit—“in the mail?”

  “There was a little more to it than that,” Dinah says. “You had to, like, be able to prove you were actually there. So I went to see Barb’s mom. You know, Tanya.”

  “Why?”

  “For the pictures. I think I have mine somewhere, but I couldn’t find them.”

  “Her room,” Angie says, and this time she’s the one with the eye-roll.

  Hodges’s side has picked up a slow, steady throb. “What pictures, Dinah?”

  “Okay, it was Tanya—she doesn’t mind if we call her that—who took us to the concert, see? There was Barb, me, Hilda Carver, and Betsy.”

  “Betsy would be … ?”

  “Betsy DeWitt,” Angie says. “The deal was, the moms drew straws to see who would take the girls. Tanya lost. She took Ginny Carver’s van, because it was the biggest.”

  Hodges nods his understanding.

  “So anyway, when we got there,” Dinah says, “Tanya took pictures of us. We had to have pictures. Sounds stupid, I guess, but we were just little kids. I’m into Mendoza Line and ­Raveonettes now, but back then ’Round Here was a really big deal to us. Especially Cam, the lead singer. Tanya used our phones. Or maybe she used her own, I can’t exactly remember. But she made sure we all had copies, only I couldn’t find mine.”

  “You had to send a picture to the website as proof of attendance.”

  “Right, by email. I was afraid the pics would only show us standing in front of Mrs. Carver’s van and that wouldn’t be enough, but there were two that showed the Mingo Auditorium in the background, with all the people lined up. I thought even that might not be good enough, because it didn’t show the sign with the band’s name on it, but it was, and I got the Zappit in the mail just a week later. It came in a big padded envelope.”

  “Was there a return address?”

  “Uh-huh. I can’t remember the box number, but the name was Sunrise Solutions. I guess they were the tour sponsors.”

  It’s possible that they were, Hodges thinks, the company wouldn’t have been bankrupt back then, but he doubts it. “Was it mailed from here in the city?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was,” Angie says. “I picked the envelope up off the floor and tossed it in the trash. I’m the French maid around here, you know.” She shoots her daughter a look.

  “Soh-ree,” Dinah says.

  In his notebook, Hodges writes Sunrise Solutions based NYC, but pkg mailed from here.

  “When did all this go down, Dinah?”

  “I heard about the tweet and went to the website last year. I can’t remember exactly, but I know it was before the Thanksgiving break. And like I said, it came lickety-split. I was really surprised.”

  “So you’ve had it for two months, give or take.”

  “Yes.”

  “And no shocks?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Have you ever had any experiences where you were playing with it—let’s say with the Fishin’ Hole game—and you kind of lost track of your surroundings?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Scott look alarmed at this, but Dinah gives him an indulgent smile. “You mean like being hypnotized? Eenie-meenie, chili-beanie?”

  “I don’t know what I mean, exactly, but okay, say that.”

  “Nope,” Dinah says cheerily. “Besides, Fishin’ Hole is really dumb. It’s for little kids. You use the joystick thingie beside the keypad to operate Fisherman Joe’s net, see? And you get points for the fish you catch. But it’s too easy. Only reason I check back on that one is to see if the pink fish are showing numbers yet.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Yes. The letter that came with the game explained about them. I tacked it on my bulletin board, because I’d really like to win that moped. Want to see it?”

  “I sure would.”

  When she bounces upstairs to get it, Hodges asks if he can use the bathroom. Once in there, he unbuttons his shirt and looks at his throbbing left side. It seems a little swollen and feels a little hot to the touch, but he supposes both of those things could be his imagination. He flushes the toilet and takes two more of the white pills. Okay? he asks his throbbing side. Can you just shut up awhile and let me finish here?

  Dinah has scrubbed off most of her stage makeup, and now it’s easy for Hodges to imagine her and the other three girls at nine or ten, going to their first concert and as excited as Mexican jumping beans in a microwave. She hands him the letter that came with the game.

  At the top of the sheet is a rising sun, with the words SUNRISE SOLUTIONS bent over it in an arc, pretty much what you’d expect, only it doesn’t look like any corporate logo Hodges has ever seen. It’s strangely amateurish, as if the original was drawn by hand. It’s a form letter with the girl’s name plugged in to give it a more personal feel. Not that anybody’s apt to be fooled by that in this day and age, Hodges thinks, when even mass mailings from insurance companies and ambulance chasing lawyers come personalized.

  Dear Dinah Scott!

  Congratulations! We hope you will enjoy your ­Zappit game console, which comes pre-loaded with 65 fun and challenging games. It is also WiFi equipped so you can visit your favorite Internet sites and download books as a member of the Sunrise Readers Circle! You are receiving this FREE GIFT to make up for the concert you missed, but of course we hope you will tell all your friends about your wonderful Zappit experience. And there’s more! Keep checking the Fishin’ Hole demo screen, and keep tapping those pink fish, because someday—you won’t know when until it happens!—you will tap them and they will turn into numbers! If the fish you tap add up to one of the numbers below, you will win a GREAT PRIZE! But the numbers will only be visible for a short time, so KEEP CHECKING! Add to the fun by staying in touch with others in “The Zappit Club” by going to zeetheend.com, where you can also claim your prize if you are one of the lucky ones! Thanks from all of us at Sunrise Solutions, and the whole Zappit team!

  There was an unreadable signature, hardly more than a scribble. Below that:

  Lucky numbers for Dinah Scott:

  1034=$25 gift certificate at Deb

  1781=$40 gift card at Atom Arcade

  1946=$50 gift certificate at Carmike Cinemas

  7459=Wave 50cc moped-scooter (Grand Prize)

  “You actually believed this bullshit?” Carl Scott asks.

  Although the question is delivered with a smile, Dinah tears up. “All right, I’m stupid, so shoot me.”

  Carl hugs her, kisses her temple. “Know what? I would have swallowed it at your age, too.”

  “Have you been checking the pink fish, Dinah?” Hodges asks.

  “Yes, once or twice a day. That’s actually harder than the game, because the pink ones are fast. You have to concentrate.”

  Of course you do, Hodges thinks. He likes this less and less. “But no numbers, huh?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Can I take that?” he asks, pointing to the Zappit. He thinks about telling her he’ll give it back later, but doesn’t. He doubts if he will. “And the letter?”

  “On one condition,” she says.

  Hodges, pain now subsiding, is able to smile. “Name it, kiddo.”

  “Keep checking the pink fish, and if one of my numbers comes up, I get the prize.”

  “It’s a deal,” Hodges says, thinking, Someone wants to give you a prize, Dinah, but I doubt very much if it’s a moped or a cinema gift certificate. He takes the Zappit and the le
tter, and stands up. “I want to thank you all very much for your time.”

  “Welcome,” Carl says. “And when you figure out just what the hell this is all about, will you tell us?”

  “You got it,” Hodges says. “One more question, Dinah, and if I sound stupid, remember that I’m pushing seventy.”

  She smiles. “At school, Mr. Morton says the only stupid question—”

  “Is the one you don’t ask, yeah. I’ve always felt that way myself, so here it comes. Everybody at North Side High knows about this, right? The free consoles, the number fish, and the prizes?”

  “Not just our school, all the other ones, too. Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Yik Yak … that’s how they work.”

  “And if you were at the concert and you could prove it, you were eligible to get one of these.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about Betsy DeWitt? Did she get one?”

  Dinah frowns. “No, and that’s kind of funny, because she still had her pictures from that night, and she sent one to the website. But she didn’t do it as soon as I did, she’s an awful procrastinator, so maybe they were all out. If you snooze, you lose type of thing.”

  Hodges thanks the Scotts again for their time, wishes Dinah good luck with the play, and goes back down the walk to his car. When he slides behind the wheel, it’s cold enough inside to see his breath. The pain surfaces again: four hard pulses. He waits them out, teeth clamped, trying to tell himself these new, sharper pains are psychosomatic, because he now knows what’s wrong with him, but the idea won’t quite wash. Two more days suddenly seems like a long time to wait for treatment, but he will wait. Has to, because an awful idea is rising in his mind. Pete Huntley wouldn’t believe it, and Izzy Jaynes would probably think he needed a quick ambulance ride to the nearest funny farm. Hodges doesn’t quite believe it himself, but the pieces are coming together, and although the picture that’s being revealed is a crazy one, it also has a certain nasty logic.

  He starts his Prius and points it toward home, where he will call Holly and ask her to try and find out if Sunrise Solutions ever sponsored a ’Round Here tour. After that he will watch TV. When he can no longer pretend that what’s on interests him, he’ll go to bed and lie awake and wait for morning.