Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(133)

“How could he get in?” Jerome asks, and thumps the steering wheel. “How?” Hodges can hear the terror in the boy’s voice. All because of him. Everything because of him.

“I have no idea. They had his photo.”

Ahead is a wide concrete ramp leading down to the loading area. Half a dozen roadies are sitting on amp crates and smoking, their work over for the time being. There’s an open door leading to the rear of the auditorium, and through it Hodges can hear music coalescing around the bass progression. There’s another sound, as well: thousands of happily screaming girls, all of them sitting on ground zero.

How Hartsfield got in no longer matters unless it helps to find him, and just how in God’s name are they supposed to do that in a dark auditorium filled with thousands of people?

As Jerome parks at the bottom of the ramp, Holly says: “De Niro gave himself a Mohawk. That could be it.”

“What are you talking about?” Hodges asks as he heaves himself out of the back seat. A man in khaki Carhartts has come into the open door to meet them.

“In Taxi Driver, Robert De Niro played a crazy guy named Travis Bickle,” Holly explains as the three of them hurry toward the custodian. “When he decided to assassinate the politician, he shaved his head so he could get close without being recognized. Except for the middle, that is, which is called a Mohawk. Brady Hartsfield probably didn’t do that, it’d make him look too weird.”

Hodges remembers the leftover hair in the bathroom sink. It was not the bright (and probably tinted) color of the dead woman’s hair. Holly may be nuts, but he thinks she’s right about this; Hartsfield has gone skinhead. Yet Hodges doesn’t see how even that could have been enough, because—

The head custodian steps to meet them. “What’s it about?”

Hodges takes out his ID and flashes it briefly, his thumb once more strategically placed. “Detective Bill Hodges. What’s your name, sir?”

“Jamie Gallison.” His eyes flick to Jerome and Holly.

“I’m his partner,” Holly says.

“I’m his trainee,” Jerome says.

The roadies are watching. Some have hurriedly snuffed smokes that may contain something a bit stronger than tobacco. Through the open door, Hodges can see work-lights illuminating a storage area loaded with props and swatches of canvas scenery.

“Mr. Gallison, we’ve got a serious problem,” Hodges says. “I need you to get Larry Windom down here, right away.”

“Don’t do that, Bill.” Even in his growing distress, he realizes it’s the first time Holly has called him by his first name.

He ignores her. “Sir, I need you to call him on your cell.”

Gallison shakes his head. “The security guys don’t carry cell phones when they’re on duty, because every time we have one of these big shows—big kid shows, I mean, it’s different with adults—the circuits jam up. The security guys carry—”

Holly is twitching Hodges’s arm. “Don’t do it. You’ll spook him and he’ll set it off. I know he will.”

“She could be right,” Jerome says, and then (perhaps recalling his trainee status) adds, “Sir.”

Gallison is looking at them with alarm. “Spook who? Set off what?”

Hodges remains fixed on the custodian. “They carry what? Walkies? Radios?”

“Radios, yuh. They have . . .” He pulls his earlobe. “You know, things that look like hearie-aids. Like the FBI and Secret Service wear. What’s going on here? Tell me it’s not a bomb.” And, not liking what he sees on Hodges’s pale and sweating face: “Christ, is it?”

Hodges walks past him into the cavernous storage area. Beyond the attic-like profusion of props, flats, and music stands, there’s a carpentry shop and a costume shop. The music is louder than ever, and he’s started to have trouble breathing. The pain is creeping down his left arm, and his chest feels too heavy, but his head is clear.

Brady has either gone bald or mowed it short and dyed what’s left. He may have added makeup to darken his skin, or colored contacts, or glasses. But even with all that, he’d still be a single man at a concert filled with young girls. After the heads-up he gave Windom, Hartsfield still would have attracted notice and suspicion. And there’s the explosive. Holly and Jerome know about that, but Hodges knows more. There were also steel ball bearings, probably a shitload. Even if he wasn’t collared at the door, how could Hartsfield have gotten all that inside? Is the security here really that bad?

Gallison grabs his left arm, and when he shakes it, Hodges feels the pain all the way up to his temples. “I’ll go myself. Grab the first security guy I see and have him radio for Windom to come down here and talk to you.”

“No,” Hodges says. “You will not do that, sir.”

Holly Gibney is the only one of them seeing clearly. Mr. Mercedes is in. He’s got a bomb, and it’s only by the grace of God that he hasn’t triggered it already. It’s too late for the police and too late for MAC Security. It’s also too late for him.

But.

Hodges sits down on an empty crate. “Jerome. Holly. Get with me.”

They do. Jerome is white-eyed, barely holding back panic. Holly is pale but outwardly calm.

“Going bald wouldn’t have been enough. He had to make himself look harmless. I might know how he did that, and if I’m right, I know his location.”