End of Watch (Bill Hodges Trilogy #3)(72)

So long, Brady, he thinks, it was good to know you.

This time when he pushes the laundry cart past the nurses’ station, the one who was playing solitaire is gone, probably to the bathroom. The other is asleep on her notes.





10


But it’s quarter to four now, and there’s so much more to do.

After changing back into Babineau’s clothes, Brady leaves the hospital the same way he entered and drives toward Sugar Heights. Because Z-Boy’s homemade silencer is kaput and an unmuffled gunshot is likely to be reported in the town’s ritziest neighborhood (where rent-a-cops from Vigilant Guard Service are never more than a block or two away), he stops at Valley Plaza, which is on the way. He checks the empty lot for cop cars, sees none, and drives around to the loading area of Discount Home Furnishings.

God, it’s so good to be out! Fucking wonderful!

Walking to the front of the Beemer, he breathes deeply of the cold winter air, wrapping the sleeve of Babineau’s expensive topcoat around the .32’s short barrel as he goes. It won’t be as good as Z-Boy’s silencer, and he knows it’s a risk, but not a big one. Just the one shot. He looks up first, wanting to see the stars, but clouds have blanked out the sky. Oh, well, there will be other nights. Many of them. Possibly thousands. He is not limited to Babineau’s body, after all.

He aims and fires. A small round hole appears in the Beemer’s windshield. Now comes another risk, driving the last mile to Sugar Heights with a bullet hole in the glass just above the steering wheel, but this is the time of night when the suburban streets are at their emptiest and the cops also doze, especially in the better neighborhoods.

Twice headlights approach him and he holds his breath, but both times they pass by without slowing. January air comes in through the bullet hole, making a thin wheezing sound. He makes it back to Babineau’s McMansion without incident. No need to tap the code this time; he just hits the gate opener clipped to the visor. When he reaches the top of the drive, he veers onto the snow-covered lawn, bounces over a hard crust of plowed snow, clips a bush, and stops.

Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.

Only problem is, he neglected to bring a knife. He could get one in the house, he has another piece of business in there, but he doesn’t want to make two trips. He has miles to go before he sleeps, and he’s anxious to start rolling them. He opens the center console and paws through it. Surely a dandy like Babineau will keep spare grooming implements, even a fingernail clipper will do … but there’s nothing. He tries the glove compartment, and in the folder containing the Beemer’s documents (leather, of course) he finds an Allstate insurance card laminated in plastic. It will serve. They are, after all, the Good Hands people.

Brady pushes back the sleeve of Babineau’s cashmere overcoat and the shirt beneath, then drags a corner of the laminated card over his forearm. It produces nothing but a thin red line. He goes again, bearing down much harder, lips pulled back in a grimace. This time the skin splits and blood flows. He gets out of the car holding his arm up, then leans back in. He tips a spatter of droplets first onto the seat and then onto the bottom arc of the steering wheel. There’s not much, but it won’t take much. Not when combined with the bullet hole in the windshield.

He bounds up the porch steps, each springy leap a small orgasm. Cora is lying beneath the hall coathooks, just as dead as ever. Library Al is still asleep on the couch. Brady shakes him, and when he only gets a few muffled grunts, he grabs Al with both hands and rolls him onto the floor. Al’s eyes creak open.

‘Huh? Wha?’

The stare is dazed but not completely blank. There’s probably no Al Brooks left inside that plundered head, but there’s still a bit of the alter ego Brady has created. Enough.

‘Hey there, Z-Boy,’ Brady says, squatting down.

‘Hey,’ Z-Boy croaks, struggling to sit up. ‘Hey there, Dr Z. I’m watching that house, just like you told me. The woman – the one who can still walk – she uses that Zappit all the time. I watch her from the g’rage across the street.’

‘You don’t have to do that anymore.’

‘No? Say, where are we?’

‘My house,’ Brady says. ‘You killed my wife.’

Z-Boy stares at the white-haired man in the overcoat, his mouth hung open. His breath is awful, but Brady doesn’t draw away. Slowly, Z-Boy’s face begins to crumple. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. ‘Kill? … did not!’

‘Yes.’

‘No! Never would!’

‘You did, though. But only because I told you to.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t remember.’

Brady takes him by the shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You were hypnotized.’

Z-Boy’s face brightens. ‘By Fishin’ Hole!’

‘Yes, by Fishin’ Hole. And while you were, I told you to kill Mrs Babineau.’

Z-Boy looks at him with doubt and woe. ‘If I did, it wasn’t my fault. I was hypnotized and can’t even remember.’

‘Take this.’

Brady hands Z-Boy the gun. Z-Boy holds it up, frowning as if at some exotic artifact.

‘Put it in your pocket, and give me your car keys.’

Z-Boy stuffs the .32 absently into his pants pocket and Brady winces, expecting the gun to go off and put a bullet in the poor sap’s leg. At last Z-Boy holds out his keyring. Brady pockets it, stands up, and crosses the living room.