End of Watch (Bill Hodges Trilogy #3)(113)

27


‘You were in there a long time,’ Holly says. ‘I hope you gave them a very good story.’

‘Subpoena.’ Hodges doesn’t need to say more; they’ve used the subpoena story more than once. Everyone likes to help, as long as they’re not the ones being served. ‘Who called?’ Thinking it must have been Jerome, to see how they’re doing.

‘Izzy Jaynes. They’ve had two more suicide calls, one attempted and one successful. The attempted was a girl who jumped out of a second-story window. She landed on a snowbank and just broke some bones. The other was a boy who hung himself in his closet. Left a note on his pillow. Just one word, Beth, and a broken heart.’

The Expedition’s wheels spin a little when Hodges drops it into gear and rolls back onto the state road. He has to drive with his low beams on. The brights turn the falling snow into a sparkling white wall.

We have to do this ourselves,’ she says. ‘If it’s Brady, no one will ever believe it. He’ll pretend to be Babineau and spin some story about how he was scared and ran away.’

‘And never called the police himself after Library Al shot his wife?’ Hodges says. ‘I’m not sure that would hold.’

‘Maybe not, but what if he can jump to someone else? If he could jump to Babineau, he could jump to someone else. We have to do this ourselves, even if it means we end up getting arrested for murder. Do you think that could happen, Bill? Do you do you do you?’

‘We’ll worry about it later.’

‘I’m not sure I could shoot a person. Not even Brady Hartsfield, if he looks like someone else.’

He repeats, ‘We’ll worry about it later.’

‘Fine. Where did you get that hat?’

‘Swapped it for my fedora.’

‘The puffball on top is silly, but it looks warm.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘No. But Bill?’

‘Jesus, Holly, what?’

‘You look awful.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

‘Be sarcastic. Fine. How far is it to where we’re going?’

‘The general consensus back there was three and a half miles on this road. Then a camp road.’

Silence for five minutes as they creep through the blowing snow. And the main body of the storm is still coming, Hodges reminds himself.

‘Bill?’

‘What now?’

‘You have no boots, and I’m all out of Nicorette.’

‘Spark up one of those joints, why don’t you? But keep an eye out for a couple of red posts on the left while you do it. They should be coming up soon.’

Holly doesn’t light a joint, just sits forward, looking to the left. When the Expedition skids again, the rear end flirting first left and then right, she doesn’t appear to notice. A minute later she points. ‘Is that them?’

It is. The passing plows have buried all but the last eighteen inches or so, but that bright red is impossible to miss or mistake. Hodges feathers the brakes, brings the Expedition to a stop, then turns it so it’s facing the snowbank. He tells Holly what he sometimes used to tell his daughter, when he took her on the Wild Cups at Lakewood Amusement Park: ‘Hold onto your false teeth.’

Holly – always the literalist – says, ‘I don’t have any,’ but she does put a bracing hand on the dashboard.

Hodges steps down gently on the gas and rolls at the snowbank. The thud he expected doesn’t come; Thurston was right about the snow not yet having a chance to pack and harden. It explodes away to either side and up onto the windshield, momentarily blinding him. He shoves the wipers into overdrive, and when the glass clears, the Expedition is pointing down a one-lane camp road rapidly filling with snow. Every now and then more flumps down from the overhanging branches. He sees no tracks from a previous car, but that means nothing. By now they’d be gone.

He kills the headlights and advances at a creep. The band of white between the trees is just visible enough to serve as a guide track. The road seems endless – sloping, switching back, then sloping again – but eventually they come to the place where it splits left and right. Hodges doesn’t have to get out and check the arrows. Ahead on the left, through the snow and the trees, he can see a faint glimmer of light. That’s Heads and Skins, and someone is home. He crimps the wheel and begins rolling slowly down the right-hand fork.

Neither of them looks up and sees the video camera, but it sees them.





28


By the time Hodges and Holly burst through the snowbank left by the plow, Brady is sitting in front of the TV, fully dressed in Babineau’s winter coat and boots. He’s left off the gloves, he wants his hands bare in case he has to use the Scar, but there’s a black balaclava lying across one thigh. When the time comes, he’ll don it to cover Babineau’s face and silver hair. His eyes never leave the television as he nervously stirs the pens and pencils sticking out of the ceramic skull. A sharp lookout is absolutely necessary. When Hodges comes, he’ll kill his headlights.

Will he have the nigger lawnboy with him? Brady wonders. Wouldn’t that be sweet! Two for the price of—

And there he is.

He was afraid the Det-Ret’s vehicle might get by him in the thickening snow, but that was a needless worry. The snow is white; the SUV is a solid black rectangle sliding through it. Brady leans forward, squinting, but can’t tell if there’s only one person in the cabin, or two, or half a fucking dozen. He’s got the Scar, and with it he could wipe out an entire squad if he had to, but that would spoil the fun. He’d like Hodges alive.