Mr. Mercedes (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #1)(66)

Brady follows local crime news assiduously, and knows both Donald Davis’s name and his handsomely chiseled features. He knows the cops have been chasing Davis for the murder of his wife, and Brady has no doubt the man did it. Now the idiot has confessed, but not just to her murder. According to the newspaper story, Davis has also confessed to the rape-murders of five more women. In short, he’s claiming to be Turnpike Joe.

At first Brady is unable to connect this with the fat ex-cop’s hectoring message. Then it comes to him in a baleful burst of inspiration: while he’s in a breast-baring mood, Donnie Davis also means to confess to the City Center Massacre. May have done so already.

Brady whirls around like a dervish—once, twice, three times. His head is splitting. His pulse is thudding in his chest, his neck, his temples. He can even feel it in his gums and tongue.

Did Davis say something about a valet key? Is that what brought this on?

“There was no valet key,” Brady says . . . only how can he be sure of that? What if there was? And if there was . . . if they hang this on Donald Davis and snatch away Brady Hartsfield’s great triumph . . . after the risks he took . . .

He can no longer hold back. He sits down at his Number Three again and writes a message to kermitfrog19. Just a short one, but his hands are shaking so badly it takes him almost five minutes. He sends it as soon as he’s done, without bothering to read it over.


YOU ARE FULL OF SHIT YOU ASSHOLE. OK the key wasn’t in the ignition but it was no VALET KEY. It was a spare in the glove complartment and how I uynlocked the car IS FOR YOU TO FIGURE OUT FUCKFACE. Donald Davis did not do this crime. I repeat, DONALD DAVIUS DID NOT DO THIS CRIME. If you tell people he did I will kill you altho it wouldn’tr be killing much as washed up as you are.

Signed,

The REAL Mercedes Killer

PS: Your mother was a whore, she took it up the ass & licked cum out of gutters.

Brady shuts off his computer and goes upstairs, leaving his mother to snore on the couch instead of helping her to bed. He takes three aspirin, adds a fourth, and then lies in his own bed, wide-eyed and shaking, until the first streaks of dawn come up in the east. At last he drops off for two hours, sleep that is thin and dream-haunted and unrestful.





16


Hodges is making scrambled eggs when Janey comes into the kitchen on Saturday morning in her white robe, her hair wet from the shower. With it combed back from her face, she looks younger than ever. He thinks again, Forty-four?

“I looked for bacon, but didn’t see any. Of course it might still be there. My ex claims that the great majority of American men suffer from the disease of Refrigerator Blindness. I don’t know if there’s a help line for that.”

She points at his midsection.

“Okay,” he says. And then, because she seems to like it: “Yeah.”

“And by the way, how’s your cholesterol?”

He smiles and says, “Toast? It’s whole grain. As you probably know, since you bought it.”

“One slice. No butter, just a little jam. What are you going to do today?”

“Not sure yet.” Although he’s thinking he’d like to check in with Radney Peeples out in Sugar Heights if Radney’s on duty and being Vigilant. And he needs to talk to Jerome about computers. Endless vistas there.

“Have you checked the Blue Umbrella?”

“Wanted to make you breakfast first. And me.” It’s true. He woke up actually wanting to feed his body rather than trying to plug some empty hole in his head. “Also, I don’t know your password.”

“It’s Janey.”

“My advice? Change it. Actually it’s the advice of the kid who works for me.”

“Jerome, right?”

“That’s the one.”

He has scrambled half a dozen eggs and they eat them all, split right down the middle. It has crossed his mind to ask if she had any regrets about last night, but decides the way she’s going through her breakfast answers the question.

With the dishes in the sink, they go on her computer and sit silently for nearly four minutes, reading and re-reading the latest message from merckill.

“Holy cow,” she says at last. “You wanted to wind him up, and I’d say he’s fully wound. Do you see all the mistakes?” She points out complartment and uynlocked. “Is that part of his—what did you call it?—stylistic masking?”

“I don’t think so.” Hodges is looking at wouldn’tr and smiling. He can’t help smiling. The fish is feeling the hook, and it’s sunk deep. It hurts. It burns. “I think that’s the kind of typing you do when you’re mad as hell. The last thing he expected was that he’d have a credibility problem. It’s making him crazy.”

“Er,” she says.

“Huh?”

“Crazier. Send him another message, Bill. Poke him harder. He deserves it.”

“All right.” He thinks, then types.





17


When he’s dressed, she walks down the hall with him and treats him to a lingering kiss at the elevator.

“I still can’t believe last night happened,” he tells her.

“Oh, it did. And if you play your cards right, it might happen again.” She searches his face with those blue eyes of hers. “But no promises or long-term commitments, okay? We take it as it comes. A day at a time.”