by Stephen King
There's nothing else, and he's about decided that if there are DVDs, Andy's locked them in a safe somewhere. Yet Lady Luck is not quite done with Morris Bellamy. When he gets up, his shoulder bumps an overloaded shelf to the left of the desk. A bunch of old books go tumbling to the floor, and behind them is a slim stack of plastic DVD cases bound together with rubber bands.
"How do you do," Morris says softly. "How do you do."
He sits back down and goes through them rapidly, like a man shuffling cards. Andy has written a name on each in black Sharpie. Only the last one means anything to him, and it's the one he was looking for. "HAWKINS" is printed on the shiny surface.
He's had plenty of breaks this afternoon (possibly to make up for the horrible disappointment he suffered last night), but there's no point in pushing things. Morris takes the computer, the gun, the envelope with the money in it, and the HAWKINS disc to the front of the store. He tucks them into one of his totes, ignoring the people passing back and forth in front. If you look like you belong in a place, most people think you do. He exits with a confident step, and locks the door behind him. The CLOSED sign swings briefly, then settles. Morris pulls down the long visor of his Groundhogs cap and walks away.
He makes one more stop before returning to Bugshit Manor, at a computer cafe called Bytes 'N Bites. For twelve of Andy Halliday's dollars, he gets an overpriced cup of shitty coffee and twenty minutes in a carrel, at a computer equipped with a DVD player. It takes less than five minutes to be sure of what he has: his old pal talking to a boy who appears to be wearing fake glasses and his father's moustache. In the first clip, Saubers has a book that has to be Dispatches from Olympus and an envelope containing several sheets of paper that have to be the photocopies Andy mentioned. In the second clip, Saubers and Andy appear to be arguing. There's no sound in either of these black-and-white mini-movies, which is fine. The boy could be saying anything. In the second one, the argument one, he could even be saying The next time I come, I'll bring my hatchet, you fat fuck.
As he leaves Bytes 'N Bites, Morris is smiling. The man behind the counter smiles back and says, "I guess you had a good time."
"Yes," says the man who has spent well over two-thirds of his life in prison. "But your coffee sucks, nerdboy. I ought to pour it on your fucking head."
The smile dies on the counterman's face. A lot of the people who come in here are crackpots. With those folks, it's best to just keep quiet and hope they never come back.
7
Hodges told Holly he intended to spend at least part of his weekend crashed out in his La-Z-Boy watching baseball, and on Sunday afternoon he does watch the first three innings of the Indians game, but then a certain restlessness takes hold and he decides to pay a call. Not on an old pal, but certainly an old acquaintance. After each of these visits he tells himself Okay, that's the end, this is pointless. He means it, too. Then--four weeks later, or eight, maybe ten--he'll take the ride again. Something nags him into it. Besides, the Indians are already down to the Rangers by five, and it's only the third inning.
He zaps off the television, pulls on an old Police Athletic League tee-shirt (in his heavyset days he used to steer clear of tees, but now he likes the way they fall straight, with hardly any belly-swell above the waist of his pants), and locks up the house. Traffic is light on Sunday, and twenty minutes later he's sliding his Prius into a slot on the third deck of the visitors' parking garage, adjacent to the vast and ever metastasizing concrete sprawl of John M. Kiner Hospital. As he walks to the parking garage elevator, he sends up a prayer as he almost always does, thanking God that he's here as a visitor rather than as a paying customer. All too aware, even as he says this very proper thank-you, that most people become customers sooner or later, here or at one of the city's four other fine and not-so-fine sickbays. No one rides for free, and in the end, even the most seaworthy ship goes down, blub-blub-blub. The only way to balance that off, in Hodges's opinion, is to make the most of every day afloat.
But if that's true, what is he doing here?
The thought recalls to mind a snatch of poetry, heard or read long ago and lodged in his brain by virtue of its simple rhyme: Oh do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit.
8
It's easy to get lost in any big city hospital, but Hodges has made this trip plenty of times, and these days he's more apt to give directions than ask for them. The garage elevator takes him down to a covered walkway; the walkway takes him to a lobby the size of a train terminal; the Corridor A elevator takes him up to the third floor; a skyway takes him across Kiner Boulevard to his final destination, where the walls are painted a soothing pink and the atmosphere is hushed. The sign above the reception desk reads:
WELCOME TO LAKES REGION TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLINIC
NO CELL PHONES OR TELECOMMUNICATIONS DEVICES ALLOWED
HELP US MAINTAIN A QUIET ENVIRONMENT
WE APPRECIATE YOUR COOPERATION
Hodges goes to the desk, where his visitor's badge is already waiting. The head nurse knows him; after four years, they are almost old friends.
"How's your family, Becky?"
She says they are fine.
"Son's broken arm mending?"
She says it is. The cast is off and he'll be out of the sling in another week, two at most.
"That's fine. Is my boy in his room or physical therapy?"
She says he's in his room.
Hodges ambles down the hall toward Room 217, where a certain patient resides at state expense. Before Hodges gets there, he meets the orderly the nurses call Library Al. He's in his sixties, and--as usual--he's pushing a trolley cart packed with paperbacks and newspapers. These days there's a new addition to his little arsenal of diversions: a small plastic tub filled with handheld e-readers.
"Hey, Al," Hodges says. "How you doin?"
Although Al is ordinarily garrulous, this afternoon he seems half asleep, and there are purple circles under his eyes. Somebody had a hard night, Hodges thinks with amusement. He knows the symptoms, having had a few hard ones himself. He thinks of snapping his fingers in front of Al's eyes, sort of like a stage hypnotist, then decides that would be mean. Let the man suffer the tail end of his hangover in peace. If it's this bad in the afternoon, Hodges hates to think of what it must have been like this morning.
But Al comes to and smiles before Hodges can pass by. "Hey there, Detective! Haven't seen your face in the place for awhile."
"It's just plain old mister these days, Al. You feeling okay?"
"Sure. Just thinking about . . ." Al shrugs. "Jeez, I dunno what I was thinking about." He laughs. "Getting old is no job for sissies."
"You're not old," Hodges says. "Somebody forgot to give you the news--sixty's the new forty."
Al snorts. "Ain't that a crock of you-know-what."
Hodges couldn't agree more. He points to the cart. "Don't suppose my boy ever asks for a book, does he?"
Al gives another snort. "Hartsfield? He couldn't read a Berenstain Bears book these days." He taps his forehead gravely. "Nothing left but oatmeal up top. Although sometimes he does hold out his hand for one of these." He picks up a Zappit e-reader. It's a bright girly pink. "These jobbies have games on em."
"He plays games?" Hodges is astounded.
"Oh God no. His motor control is shot. But if I turn on one of the demos, like Barbie Fashion Walk or Fishin' Hole, he stares at it for hours. The demos do the same thing over and over, but does he know that?"
"I'm guessing not."
"Good guess. I think he likes the noises, too--the beeps and boops and goinks. I come back two hours later, the reader's layin on his bed or windowsill, screen dark, battery flat as a pancake. But what the hell, that don't hurt em, three hours on the charger and they're ready to go again. He don't recharge, though. Probably a good thing." Al wrinkles his nose, as at a bad smell.
Maybe, maybe not, Hodges thinks. As long as he's not better, he's here, in a nice hospital room. Not much of a view, but there's air-co
nditioning, color TV, and every now and then a bright pink Zappit to stare at. If he was compos mentis--able to assist in his own defense, as the law has it--he'd have to stand trial for a dozen offenses, including nine counts of murder. Ten, if the DA decided to add in the asshole's mother, who died of poisoning. Then it would be Waynesville State Prison for the rest of his life.
No air-conditioning there.
"Take it easy, Al. You look tired."
"Nah, I'm fine, Detective Hutchinson. Enjoy your visit."
Al rolls on, and Hodges looks after him, brow furrowed. Hutchinson? Where the hell did that come from? Hodges has been coming here for years now, and Al knows his name perfectly well. Or did. Jesus, he hopes the guy isn't suffering from early-onset dementia.
For the first four months or so, there were two guards on the door of 217. Then one. Now there are none, because guarding Brady is a waste of time and money. There's not much danger of escape when the perp can't even make it to the bathroom by himself. Each year there's talk of transferring him to a cheaper institution upstate, and each year the prosecutor reminds all and sundry that this gentleman, brain-damaged or not, is technically still awaiting trial. It's easy to keep him here because the clinic foots a large portion of the bills. The neurological team--especially Dr. Felix Babineau, the Head of Department--finds Brady Hartsfield an extremely interesting case.
This afternoon he sits by the window, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. His hair is long and needs cutting, but it's been washed and shines golden in the sunlight. Hair some girl would love to run her fingers through, Hodges thinks. If she didn't know what a monster he was.
"Hello, Brady."
Hartsfield doesn't stir. He's looking out the window, yes, but is he seeing the brick wall of the parking garage, which is his only view? Does he know it's Hodges in the room with him? Does he know anybody is in the room with him? These are questions to which a whole team of neuro guys would like answers. So would Hodges, who sits on the end of the bed, thinking Was a monster? Or still is?
"Long time no see, as the landlocked sailor said to the chorus girl."
Hartsfield makes no reply.
"I know, that's an oldie. I got hundreds, ask my daughter. How are you feeling?"
Hartsfield makes no reply. His hands are in his lap, the long white fingers loosely clasped.
In April of 2009, Brady Hartsfield stole a Mercedes-Benz belonging to Holly's aunt, and deliberately drove at high speed into a crowd of job-seekers at City Center. He killed eight and seriously injured twelve, including Thomas Saubers, father of Peter and Tina. He got away with it, too. Hartsfield's mistake was to write Hodges, by then retired, a taunting letter.
The following year, Brady killed Holly's cousin, a woman with whom Hodges had been falling in love. Fittingly, it was Holly herself who stopped Brady Hartsfield's clock, almost literally bashing his brains out with Hodges's own Happy Slapper before Hartsfield could detonate a bomb that would have killed thousands of kids at a pop concert.
The first blow from the Slapper had fractured Hartsfield's skull, but it was the second one that did what was considered to be irreparable damage. He was admitted to the Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic in a deep coma from which he was unlikely to ever emerge. So said Dr. Babineau. But on a dark and stormy night in November of 2011, Hartsfield opened his eyes and spoke to the nurse changing his IV bag. (When considering that moment, Hodges always imagines Dr. Frankenstein screaming, "It's alive! It's alive!") Hartsfield said he had a headache, and asked for his mother. When Dr. Babineau was fetched, and asked his patient to follow his finger to check his extraocular movements, Hartsfield was able to do so.
Over the thirty months since then, Brady Hartsfield has spoken on many occasions (although never to Hodges). Mostly he asks for his mother. When he's told she is dead, he sometimes nods as if he understands . . . but then a day or a week later, he'll repeat the request. He is able to follow simple instructions in the PT center, and can sort of walk again, although it's actually more of an orderly-assisted shamble. On good days he's able to feed himself, but cannot dress himself. He is classed as a semicatatonic. Mostly he sits in his room, either looking out the window at the parking garage, or at a picture of flowers on the wall of his room.
But there have been certain peculiar occurrences around Brady Hartsfield over the last year or so, and as a result he has become something of a legend in the Brain Injury Clinic. There are rumors and speculations. Dr. Babineau scoffs at these, and refuses to talk about them . . . but some of the orderlies and other nurses will, and a certain retired police detective has proved to be an avid listener over the years.
Hodges leans forward, hands dangling between his knees, and smiles at Hartsfield.
"Are you faking, Brady?"
Brady makes no reply.
"Why bother? You're going to be locked up for the rest of your life, one way or the other."
Brady makes no reply, but one hand rises slowly from his lap. He almost pokes himself in the eye, then gets what he was aiming for and brushes a lock of hair from his forehead.
"Want to ask about your mother?"
Brady makes no reply.
"She's dead. Rotting in her coffin. You fed her a bunch of gopher poison. She must have died hard. Did she die hard? Were you there? Did you watch?"
No reply.
"Are you in there, Brady? Knock, knock. Hello?"
No reply.
"I think you are. I hope you are. Hey, tell you something. I used to be a big drinker. And do you know what I remember best about those days?"
Nothing.
"The hangovers. Struggling to get out of bed with my head pounding like a hammer on an anvil. Pissing the morning quart and wondering what I did the night before. Sometimes not even knowing how I got home. Checking my car for dents. It was like being lost inside my own fucking mind, looking for the door so I could get out of there and not finding it until maybe noon, when things would finally start going back to normal."
This makes him think briefly of Library Al.
"I hope that's where you are right now, Brady. Wandering around inside your half-busted brain and looking for a way out. Only for you there isn't one. For you the hangover just goes on and on. Is that how it is? Man, I hope so."
His hands hurt. He looks down at them and sees his fingernails digging into his palms. He lets up and watches the white crescents there fill in red. He refreshes his smile. "Just sayin, buddy. Just sayin. You want to say anything back?"
Hartsfield says nothing back.
Hodges stands up. "That's all right. You sit right there by the window and try to find that way out. The one that isn't there. While you do that, I'll go outside and breathe some fresh air. It's a beautiful day."
On the table between the chair and the bed is a photograph Hodges first saw in the house on Elm Street where Hartsfield lived with his mother. This is a smaller version, in a plain silver frame. It shows Brady and his mom on a beach somewhere, arms around each other, cheeks pressed together, looking more like boyfriend and girlfriend than mother and son. As Hodges turns to go, the picture falls over with a toneless clack sound.
He looks at it, looks at Hartsfield, then looks back at the facedown picture.
"Brady?"
No answer. There never is. Not to him, anyway.
"Brady, did you do that?"
Nothing. Brady is staring down at his lap, where his fingers are once more loosely entwined.
"Some of the nurses say . . ." Hodges doesn't finish the thought. He sets the picture back up on its little stand. "If you did it, do it again."
Nothing from Hartsfield, and nothing from the picture. Mother and son in happier days. Deborah Ann Hartsfield and her honeyboy.
"All right, Brady. Seeya later, alligator. Leaving the scene, jellybean."
He does so, closing the door behind him. As he does, Brady Hartsfield looks up briefly. And smiles.
On the table, the picture falls over again.
Clack.
&nbs
p; 9
Ellen Bran (known as Bran Stoker by students who have taken the Northfield High English Department's Fantasy and Horror class) is standing by the door of a schoolbus parked in the River Bend Resort reception area. Her cell phone is in her hand. It's four PM on Sunday afternoon, and she is about to call 911 to report a missing student. That's when Peter Saubers comes around the restaurant side of the building, running so fast that his hair flies back from his forehead.
Ellen is unfailingly correct with her students, always staying on the teacher side of the line and never trying to buddy up, but on this one occasion she casts propriety aside and enfolds Pete in a hug so strong and frantic that it nearly stops his breath. From the bus, where the other NHS class officers and officers-to-be are waiting, there comes a sarcastic smatter of applause.
Ellen lets up on the hug, grabs his shoulders, and does another thing she's never done to a student before: gives him a good shaking. "Where were you? You missed all three morning seminars, you missed lunch, I was on the verge of calling the police!"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Bran. I was sick to my stomach. I thought the fresh air would help me."
Ms. Bran--chaperone and adviser on this weekend trip because she teaches American Politics as well as American History--decides she believes him. Not just because Pete is one of her best students and has never caused her trouble before, but because the boy looks sick.
"Well . . . you should have informed me," she says. "I thought you'd taken it into your head to hitchhike back to town, or something. If anything had happened to you, I'd be blamed. Don't you realize you kids are my responsibility when we're on a class trip?"
"I lost track of the time. I was vomiting, and I didn't want to do it inside. It must have been something I ate. Or one of those twenty-four-hour bugs."
It wasn't anything he ate and he doesn't have a bug, but the vomiting part is true enough. It's nerves. Unadulterated fright, to be more exact. He's terrified about facing Andrew Halliday tomorrow. It could go right, he knows there's a chance for it to go right, but it will be like threading a moving needle. If it goes wrong, he'll be in trouble with his parents and in trouble with the police. College scholarships, need-based or otherwise? Forget them. He might even go to jail. So he has spent the day wandering the paths that crisscross the thirty acres of resort property, going over the coming confrontation again and again. What he will say; what Halliday will say; what he will say in return. And yes, he lost track of time.