End of Watch (Bill Hodges Trilogy #3)(99)
‘Mr Frobisher, this is Bill Hodges. You probably don’t remember me, but—’
‘Oh, I remember you, all right.’ Frobisher sounds wary. ‘What do you want? If it’s about Hartsfield—’
‘It’s about Frederica Linklatter. Do you have a current address for her?’
‘Freddi? Why would I have any address for her? I haven’t seen her since DE closed.’
‘Really? According to her Facebook page, you and she are friends.’
Frobisher laughs incredulously. ‘Who else has she got listed? Kim Jong-un? Charles Manson? Listen, Mr Hodges, that smartmouth bitch has no friends. The closest thing to one was Hartsfield, and I just got a news push on my phone saying he’s dead.’
Hodges has no idea what a news push is, and no desire to learn. He thanks Frobisher and hangs up. He’s guessing that none of Freddi Linklatter’s half dozen Facebook friends are real friends, that she just added them to keep from feeling like a total outcast. Holly might have done that same thing, once upon a time, but now she actually has friends. Lucky for her, and lucky for them. Which begs the question: how does he locate Freddi Linklatter?
The outfit he and Holly runs isn’t called Finders Keepers for nothing, but most of their specialized search engines are constructed to locate bad people with bad friends, long police records, and colorful want sheets. He can find her, in this computerized age few people are able to drop entirely off the grid, but he needs it to happen fast. Every time some kid turns on one of those free Zappits, it’s loading up pink fish, blue flashes, and – based on Jerome’s experience – a subliminal message suggesting that a visit to zeetheend would be in order.
You’re a detective. One with cancer, granted, but still a detective. So let go of the extraneous shit and detect.
It’s hard, though. The thought of all those kids – the ones Brady tried and failed to kill at the ’Round Here concert – keeps getting in the way. Jerome’s sister was one of them, and if not for Dereece Neville, Barbara might be dead now instead of just in a leg cast. Maybe hers was a test model. Maybe the Ellerton woman’s was, too. That makes a degree of sense. But now there are all those other Zappits, a flood of them, and they must have gone somewhere, goddammit.
That finally turns on a lightbulb.
‘Holly! I need a phone number!’
7
Todd Schneider is in, and affable. ‘I understand you folks are in for quite a storm, Mr Hodges.’
‘So they say.’
‘Having any luck tracking down those defective consoles?’
‘That’s actually why I’m calling. Do you happen to have the address that consignment of Zappit Commanders was sent to?’
‘Of course. Can I call you back with it?’
‘How about if I hang on? It’s rather urgent.’
‘An urgent consumer advocacy issue?’ Schneider sounds bemused. ‘That sounds almost un-American. Let me see what I can do.’
A click and Hodges is on hold, complete with soothing strings that fail to soothe. Holly and Jerome are both in the office now, crowding the desk. Hodges makes an effort not to put his hand to his side. The seconds stretch out and form a minute. Then two. Hodges thinks, Either he’s on another call and forgotten me, or he can’t find it.
The hold music disappears. ‘Mr Hodges? Still there?’
‘Still here.’
‘I have that address. It’s Gamez Unlimited – Gamez with a Z, if you remember – at 442 Maritime Drive. Care of Ms Frederica Linklatter. Does that help?’
‘It sure does. Thank you, Mr Schneider.’ He hangs up and looks at his two associates, one slender and winter-pale, the other bulked up from his house-building stint in Arizona. Along with his daughter Allie, now living on the other side of the country, they are the people he loves most at this end of his life.
He says, ‘Let’s take a ride, kids.’
8
Brady turns off SR-79 and onto Vale Road at Thurston’s Garage, where a number of local plow-for-pay boys are gassing their trucks, loading up with salted sand, or just standing around, drinking coffee and jabbering. It crosses Brady’s mind to pull in and see if he can get some studded snow tires on Library Al’s Malibu, but given the crowd the storm has brought to the garage, it would probably take all afternoon. He’s close to his destination now, and decides to go for it. If he gets snowed in once he’s there, who gives a shit? Not him. He’s been out to the camp twice already, mostly to scope the place out, but the second time he also laid in some supplies.
There’s a good three inches of snow on Vale Road, and the going is greasy. The Malibu slides several times, once almost all the way to the ditch. He’s sweating heavily, and Babineau’s arthritic fingers are throbbing from Brady’s deathgrip on the steering wheel.
At last he sees the tall red posts that are his final landmark. Brady pumps the brakes and makes the turn at walking pace. The last two miles are on an unnamed, one-lane camp road, but thanks to the overarching trees, the driving here is the easiest he’s had in the last hour. In some places the road is still bare. That won’t last once the main body of the storm arrives, which will happen around eight o’clock tonight, according to the radio.
He comes to a fork where wooden arrows nailed to a huge old-growth fir point in different directions. The one on the right reads BIG BOB’S BEAR CAMP. The one on the left reads HEADS AND SKINS. Ten feet or so above the arrows, already wearing a thin hood of snow, a security camera peers down.