Mr. Mercedes (Unnamed Trilogy #1)(140)

He drifts. He thinks of all those young voices, singing along with the band. They got home. They’re okay. He holds that thought until sleep takes him under.

THE PROCLAMATION

THE OFFICE OF THE MAYOR

WHEREAS, Holly Rachel Gibney and Jerome Peter Robinson uncovered a plot to commit an act of Terrorism at the Mingo Auditorium adjacent to the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex; and

WHEREAS, in realizing that to inform MAC Security Personnel might cause said Terrorist to set off an explosive device of great power, said explosive device accompanied by several pounds of metal shrapnel, they raced to the Mingo Auditorium; and

WHEREAS, they did confront said Terrorist themselves, at great personal risk; and

WHEREAS, they did subdue said Terrorist and prevent great loss of life and injury; and

WHEREAS, they have done this City a great and heroic service,

NOW THEREFORE, I, Richard M. Tewky, Mayor, do hereby award Holly Rachel Gibney and Jerome Peter Robinson the Medal of Service, this city’s highest honor, and proclaim that all City Services shall be rendered to them without charge for a period of ten (10) years; and

NOW THEREFORE, recognizing that some Acts are beyond repayment, we thank them with all our hearts.

In testimony thereof,

I set my signature and

The City Seal.

Richard M. Tewky

Mayor

BLUE MERCEDES

1

On a warm and sunny day in late October of 2010, a Mercedes sedan pulls into the nearly empty lot at McGinnis Park, where Brady Hartsfield not so long ago sold ice cream to Little Leaguers. It snuggles up to a tidy little Prius. The Mercedes, once gray, has now been painted baby blue, and a second round of bodywork has removed a long scrape from the driver’s side, inflicted when Jerome drove into the loading area behind the Mingo Auditorium before the gate was fully opened.

Holly’s behind the wheel today. She looks ten years younger. Her long hair—formerly graying and untidy—is now a glossy black cap, courtesy of a visit to a Class A beauty salon, recommended to her by Tanya Robinson. She waves to the owner of the Prius, who’s sitting at a table in the picnic area not far from the Little League fields.

Jerome gets out of the Mercedes, opens the trunk, and hauls out a picnic basket. “Jesus Christ, Holly,” he says. “What have you got in here? Thanksgiving dinner?”

“I wanted to make sure there was plenty for everybody.”

“You know he’s on a strict diet, right?”

“You’re not,” she says. “You’re a growing boy. Also, there’s a bottle of champagne, so don’t drop it.”

From her pocket, Holly takes a box of Nicorette and pops a piece into her mouth.

“How’s that going?” Jerome asks as they walk down the slope.

“I’m getting there,” she says. “The hypnosis helps more than the gum.”

“What if the guy tells you you’re a chicken and gets you to run around his office, clucking?”

“First of all, my therapist is a she. Second of all, she wouldn’t do that.”

“How would you know?” Jerome asks. “You’d be, like, hypnotized.”

“You’re an idiot, Jerome. Only an idiot would want to take the bus down here with all this food.”

“Thanks to the proclamation, we ride free. I like free.”

Hodges, still wearing the suit he put on that morning (although the tie is now in his pocket), comes to meet them, moving slowly. He can’t feel the pacemaker ticking away in his chest—he’s been told they’re very small now—but he senses it in there, doing its work. Sometimes he imagines it, and in his mind’s eye it always looks like a smaller version of Hartsfield’s gadget. Only his is supposed to stop an explosion instead of causing one.

“Kids,” he says. Holly is no kid, but she’s almost two decades younger than he is, and to Hodges that almost makes her one. He reaches for the picnic basket, but Jerome holds it away from him.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “I’ll carry it. Your heart.”

“My heart’s fine,” Hodges says, and according to his last checkup this is true, but he still can’t quite believe it. He has an idea that anyone who’s suffered a coronary feels the same way.

“And you look good,” Jerome says.

“Yes,” Holly agrees. “Thank God you got some new clothes. You looked like a scarecrow the last time I saw you. How much weight have you lost?”

“Thirty-five pounds,” Hodges says, and the thought that follows, I wish Janey could see me now, sends a pang through his electronically regulated heart.

“Enough with the Weight Watchers,” Jerome says. “Hols brought champagne. I want to know if we have a reason to drink it. How did it go this morning?”

“The DA isn’t going to prosecute anything. All charges dropped. Billy Hodges is good to go.”

Holly throws herself into his arms and gives him a hug. Hodges hugs her back and kisses her cheek. With her short hair and her face fully revealed—for the first time since her childhood, although he doesn’t know this—he can see her resemblance to Janey. This hurts and feels fine at the same time.

Jerome feels moved to call on Tyrone Feelgood Delight. “Massa Hodges, you free at last! Free at last! Great God A’mighty, you is free at last!”