Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(123)
Jerome taps it and says, “You know what that reminds me of a little? Demi Moore and what’s-his-name, Ashton Kutcher.”
“Demi Moore has black hair,” Holly says matter-of-factly. “Except in G.I. Jane, where she hardly had any at all, because she was learning to be a SEAL. I saw that movie three times, once in the theater, once on videotape, and once on my iTunes. Very enjoyable. Mrs. Hartsfield is blond-headed.” She considers, then adds: “Was.”
Hodges slides the photo out of the pocket for a better look, then turns it over. Carefully printed on the back is Mom and Her Honeyboy, Sand Point Beach, Aug 2007. He flicks the picture against the side of his palm a time or two, almost puts it back, then slides it across to Holly, photo-side down.
“Try that.”
She frowns at him. “Try what?”
“Honeyboy.”
Holly types it in, hits RETURN . . . and utters a very un-Hollylike scream of joy. Because they’re in. Just like that.
There’s nothing of note on the desktop—an address book, a folder marked FAVORITE RECIPES and another marked SAVED EMAILS; a folder of online receipts (she seemed to have paid most of her bills that way); and an album of photos (most of Brady at various ages). There are a lot of TV shows in her iTunes, but only one album of music: Alvin and the Chipmunks Celebrate Christmas.
“Christ,” Jerome says. “I don’t want to say she deserved to die, but . . .”
Holly gives him a forbidding look. “Not funny, Jerome. Do not go there.”
He holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”
Hodges scrolls rapidly through the saved emails and sees nothing of interest. Most appear to be from Mrs. Hartsfield’s old high school buddies, who refer to her as Debs.
“There’s nothing here about Brady,” he says, and glances at the clock. “We should go.”
“Not so fast,” Holly says, and opens the finder. She types BRADY. There are several results (many in the recipe file, some tagged as Brady Favorites), but nothing of note.
“Try HONEYBOY,” Jerome suggests.
She does and gets one result—a document buried deep in the hard drive. Holly clicks it. Here are Brady’s clothing sizes, also a list of all the Christmas and birthday presents she’s bought him for the last ten years, presumably so she won’t repeat herself. She’s noted his Social Security number. There’s a scanned copy of his car registration, his car insurance card, and his birth certificate. She’s listed his co-workers at both Discount Electronix and Loeb’s Ice Cream Factory. Next to the name Shirley Orton is a notation that would have made Brady laugh hysterically: Wonder is she his gf?
“What’s up with this crap?” Jerome asks. “He’s a grown man, for God’s sake.”
Holly smiles darkly. “What I said. She knew he wasn’t right.”
At the very bottom of the HONEYBOY file, there’s a folder marked BASEMENT.
“That’s it,” Holly says. “Gotta be. Open it, open it, open it!”
Jerome clicks BASEMENT. The document inside is less than a dozen words long.
Control = lights
Chaos?? Darkness??
Why don’t they work for me????
They stare at the screen for some time without speaking. At last Hodges says, “I don’t get it. Jerome?”
Jerome shakes his head.
Holly, seemingly hypnotized by this message from the dead woman, speaks a single word, almost too low to hear: “Maybe . . .” She hesitates, chewing her lips, and says it again. “Maybe.”
25
Brady arrives at the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex just before six P.M. Although the show isn’t scheduled to start for over an hour, the vast parking lot is already three-quarters full. Long lines have formed outside the doors that open on to the lobby, and they’re getting longer all the time. Little girls are screeching at the top of their lungs. Probably that means they’re happy, but to Brady they sound like ghosts in a deserted mansion. It’s impossible to look at the growing crowd and not recall that April morning at City Center. Brady thinks, If I had a Humvee instead of this Jap shitbox, I could drive into them at forty miles an hour, kill fifty or more that way, then hit the switch and blow the rest into the stratosphere.
But he doesn’t have a Humvee, and for a moment he’s not even sure what to do next—he can’t be seen while he makes his final preparations. Then, at the far end of the lot, he sees a tractor-trailer box. The cab is gone and it’s up on jacks. On the side is a Ferris wheel and a sign reading ’ROUND HERE SUPPORT TEAM. It’s one of the trucks he saw in the loading area during his reconnaissance. Later, after the show, the cab would be reconnected and driven around back for the load-out, but now it looks deserted.
He pulls in on the far side of the box, which is at least fifty feet long and hides the Subaru completely from the bustling parking lot. He takes his fake glasses from the glove compartment and puts them on. He gets out and does a quick walk-around to assure himself the trailer box is as deserted as it looks. When he’s satisfied on that score, he returns to the Subaru and works the wheelchair out of the back. It’s not easy. The Honda would have been better, but he doesn’t trust its unmaintained engine. He places the ASS PARKING cushion on the wheelchair’s seat, and connects the wire protruding from the center of the A in PARKING to the wires hanging from the side pockets, where there are more blocks of plastic explosive. Another wire, connected to a block of plastic in the rear pocket, dangles from a hole he has punched in the seatback.