by Stephen King
Is it possible--
But here his thoughts break off, because a car has pulled up behind him, so close it's almost touching his Toyota's bumper. There are no jackpot lights on the roof, but it's a late-model Crown Vic, powder blue. The man getting out from behind the wheel is burly and crewcut, his sportcoat no doubt covering a gun in a shoulder holster. If this were a city detective, Hodges knows, the gun would be a Glock .40, just like the one in his safe at home. But he's not a city detective. Hodges still knows them all.
He rolls down his window.
"Afternoon, sir," Crewcut says. "May I ask what you're doing here? Because you've been parked quite awhile."
Hodges glances at his watch and sees this is true. It's almost four-thirty. Given the rush-hour traffic downtown, he'll be lucky to get home in time to watch Scott Pelley on CBS Evening News. He used to watch NBC until he decided Brian Williams was a good-natured goof who's too fond of YouTube videos. Not the sort of newscaster he wants when it seems like the whole world is falling apa--
"Sir? Sincerely hoping for an answer here." Crewcut bends down. The side of his sportcoat gapes open. Not a Glock but a Ruger. Sort of a cowboy gun, in Hodges's opinion.
"And I," Hodges says, "am sincerely hoping you have the authority to ask."
His interlocutor's brow creases. "Beg pardon?"
"I think you're private security," Hodges says patiently, "but I want to see some ID. Then, you know what? I want to see your carry-concealed permit for the cannon you've got inside your coat. And it better be in your wallet and not in the glove compartment of your car, or you're in violation of section nineteen of the city firearms code, which, briefly stated, is this: 'If you carry concealed, you must also carry your permit to carry concealed.' So let's see your paperwork."
Crewcut's frown deepens. "Are you a cop?"
"Retired," Hodges says, "but that doesn't mean I've forgotten either my rights or your responsibilities. Let me see your ID and your carry permit, please. You don't have to hand them over--"
"You're damn right I don't."
"--but I want to see them. Then we can discuss my presence here on Lilac Drive."
Crewcut thinks it over, but only for a few seconds. Then he takes out his wallet and flips it open. In this city--as in most, Hodges thinks--security personnel treat retired cops as they would those on active duty, because retired cops have plenty of friends who are on active duty, and who can make life difficult if given a reason to do so. The guy turns out to be Radney Peeples, and his company card identifies him as an employee of Vigilant Guard Service. He also shows Hodges a permit to carry concealed, which is good until June of 2012.
"Radney, not Rodney," Hodges says. "Like Radney Foster, the country singer."
Foster's face breaks into a grin. "That's right."
"Mr. Peeples, my name is Bill Hodges, I ended my tour as a Detective First Class, and my last big case was the Mercedes Killer. I'm guessing that'll give you a pretty good idea of what I'm doing here."
"Mrs. Trelawney," Foster says, and steps back respectfully as Hodges opens his car door, gets out, and stretches. "Little trip down Memory Lane, Detective?"
"I'm just a mister these days." Hodges offers his hand. Peeples shakes it. "Otherwise, you're correct. I retired from the cops at about the same time Mrs. Trelawney retired from life in general."
"That was sad," Peeples said. "Do you know that kids egged her gate? Not just at Halloween, either. Three or four times. We caught one bunch, the others . . ." He shook his head. "Plus toilet paper."
"Yeah, they love that," Hodges says.
"And one night someone tagged the lefthand gatepost. We got it taken care of before she saw it, and I'm glad. You know what it said?"
Hodges shakes his head.
Peeples lowers his voice. "KILLER CUNT is what it said, in big drippy capital letters. Which was absolutely not fair. She goofed up, that's all. Is there any of us who haven't at one time or another?"
"Not me, that's for sure," Hodges says.
"Right. Bible says let him who is without sin cast the first stone."
That'll be the day, Hodges thinks, and asks (with honest curiosity), "Did you like her?"
Peeples's eyes shift up and to the left, an involuntary movement Hodges has seen in a great many interrogation rooms over the years. It means Peeples is either going to duck the question or outright lie.
It turns out to be a duck.
"Well," he says, "she treated us right at Christmas. She sometimes mixed up the names, but she knew who we all were, and we each got forty dollars and a bottle of whiskey. Good whiskey. Do you think we got that from her husband?" He snorts. "Ten bucks tucked inside a Hallmark card was what we got when that skinflint was still in the saddle."
"Who exactly does Vigilant work for?"
"It's called the Sugar Heights Association. You know, one of those neighborhood things. They fight over the zoning regulations when they don't like em and make sure everyone in the neighborhood keeps to a certain . . . uh, standard, I guess you'd say. There are lots of rules. Like you can put up white lights at Christmas but not colored ones. And they can't blink."
Hodges rolls his eyes. Peeples grins. They have gone from potential antagonists to colleagues--almost, anyway--and why? Because Hodges happened to recognize the guy's slightly off-center first name. You could call that luck, but there's always something that will get you on the same side as the person you want to question, something, and part of Hodges's success on the cops came from being able to recognize it, at least in most cases. It's a talent Pete Huntley never had, and Hodges is delighted to find his remains in good working order.
"I think she had a sister," he says. "Mrs. Trelawney, I mean. Never met her, though, and can't remember the name."
"Janelle Patterson," Peeples says promptly.
"You have met her, I take it."
"Yes indeed. She's good people. Bears a resemblance to Mrs. Trelawney, but younger and better-looking." His hands describe an hourglass shape in the air. "More filled out. Do you happen to know if there's been any progress on the Mercedes thing, Mr. Hodges?"
This isn't a question Hodges would ordinarily answer, but if you want to get information, you have to give information. And what he has is safe enough, because it isn't information at all. He uses the phrase Pete Huntley used at lunch a few hours ago. "Dead in the water."
Peeples nods as if this is no more than he expected. "Crime of impulse. No ties to any of the vics, no motive, just a goddam thrill-killing. Best chance of getting him is if he tries to do it again, don't you think?"
Mr. Mercedes says he won't, Hodges thinks, but this is information he absolutely doesn't want to give out, so he agrees. Collegial agreement is always good.
"Mrs. T. left a big estate," Hodges says, "and I'm not just talking about the house. I wonder if the sister inherited."
"Oh yeah," Peeples says. He pauses, then says something Hodges himself will say to someone else in the not too distant future. "Can I trust your discretion?"
"Yes." When asked such a question, the simple answer is best. No qualifiers.
"The Patterson woman was living in Los Angeles when her sister . . . you know. The pills."
Hodges nods.
"Married, but no children. Not a happy marriage. When she found out she had inherited megabucks and a Sugar Heights estate, she divorced the husband like a shot and came east." Peeples jerks a thumb at the gate, the wide drive, and the big house. "Lived there for a couple of months while the will was going through probate. Got close with Mrs. Wilcox, down at 640. Mrs. Wilcox likes to talk, and sees me as a friend."
This might mean anything from coffee-buddies to afternoon sex.
"Miz Patterson took over visiting the mother, who lived in a condo building downtown. You know about the mother?"
"Elizabeth Wharton," Hodges says. "Wonder if she's still alive."
"I'm pretty sure she is."
"Because she had terrible scoliosis." Hodges takes a little hunched-over
walk to demonstrate. If you want to get, you have to give.
"Is that so? Too bad. Anyway, Helen--Mrs. Wilcox--says that Miz Patterson visited as regular as clockwork, just like Mrs. Trelawney did. Until a month ago, that is. Then things must have got worse, because I believe the old lady's now in a nursing home in Warsaw County. Miz Patterson moved into the condo herself. And that's where she is now. I still see her every now and then, though. Last time was a week ago, when the real estate guy showed the house."
Hodges decides he's gotten everything he can reasonably expect from Radney Peeples. "Thanks for the update. I'm going to roll. Sorry we kind of got off on the wrong foot."
"Not at all," Peeples says, giving Hodges's offered hand two brisk pumps. "You handled it like a pro. Just remember, I never said anything. Janelle Patterson may be living downtown, but she's still part of the Association, and that makes her a client."
"You never said a word," Hodges says, getting back into his car. He hopes that Helen Wilcox's husband won't catch his wife and this beefcake in the sack together, if that is indeed going on; it would probably be the end of Vigilant Guard Service's arrangement with the residents of Sugar Heights. Peeples himself would immediately be terminated for cause. About that there is no doubt at all.
Probably she just trots out to his car with fresh-baked cookies, Hodges thinks as he drives away. You've been watching too much Nazi couples therapy on afternoon TV.
Not that Radney Peeples's love-life matters to him. What matters to Hodges as he heads back to his much humbler home on the West Side is that Janelle Patterson inherited her sister's estate, Janelle Patterson is living right here in town (at least for the time being), and Janelle Patterson must have done something with the late Olivia Trelawney's possessions. That would include her personal papers, and her personal papers might contain a letter--possibly more than one--from the freako who has reached out to Hodges. If such correspondence exists, he would like to see it.
Of course this is police business and K. William Hodges is no longer a policeman. By pursuing it he is skating well beyond the bounds of what is legal and he knows it--for one thing, he is withholding evidence--but he has no intention of stopping just yet. The cocky arrogance of the freako's letter has pissed him off. But, he admits, it's pissed him off in a good way. It's given him a sense of purpose, and after the last few months, that seems like a pretty terrific thing.
If I do happen to make a little progress, I'll turn the whole thing over to Pete.
He's not looking in the rearview mirror as this thought crosses his mind, but if he had been, he would have seen his eyes flick momentarily up and to the left.
4
Hodges parks his Toyota in the sheltering overhang to the left of his house that serves as his garage, and pauses to admire his freshly cut lawn before going to the door. There he finds a note sticking out of the mail slot. His first thought is Mr. Mercedes, but such a thing would be bold even for that guy.
It's from Jerome. His neat printing contrasts wildly with the bullshit jive of the message.
Dear Massa Hodges,
I has mowed yo grass and put de mower back in yo cah-pote. I hopes you didn't run over it, suh! If you has any mo chos for dis heah black boy, hit me on mah honker. I be happy to talk to you if I is not on de job wit one of my hos. As you know dey needs a lot of work and sometimes some tunin up on em, as dey can be uppity, especially dem high yallers! I is always heah fo you, suh!
Jerome
Hodges shakes his head wearily but can't help smiling. His hired kid gets straight As in advanced math, he can replace fallen gutters, he fixes Hodges's email when it goes blooey (as it frequently does, mostly due to his own mismanagement), he can do basic plumbing, he can speak French pretty well, and if you ask what he's reading, he's apt to bore you for half an hour with the blood symbolism of D. H. Lawrence. He doesn't want to be white, but being a gifted black male in an upper-middle-class family has presented him with what he calls "identity challenges." He says this in a joking way, but Hodges does not believe he's joking. Not really.
Jerome's college professor dad and CPA mom--both humor-challenged, in Hodges's opinion--would no doubt be aghast at this communication. They might even feel their son in need of psychological counseling. But they won't find out from Hodges.
"Jerome, Jerome, Jerome," he says, letting himself in. Jerome and his chos fo hos. Jerome who can't decide, at least not yet, on which Ivy League college he wants to attend; that any of the big boys will accept him is a foregone conclusion. He's the only person in the neighborhood whom Hodges thinks of as a friend, and really, the only one he needs. Hodges believes friendship is overrated, and in this way, if in no other, he is like Brady Hartsfield.
He has made it in time for most of the evening news, but decides against it. There is only so much Gulf oil-spill and Tea Party politics he can take. He turns on his computer instead, launches Firefox, and plugs Under Debbie's Blue Umbrella into the search field. There are only six results, a very small catch in the vast fishy sea of the Internet, and only one that matches the phrase exactly. Hodges clicks on it and a picture appears.
Under a sky filled with threatening clouds is a country hillside. Animated rain--a simple repeating loop, he judges--is pouring down in silvery streams. But the two people seated beneath a large blue umbrella, a young man and a young woman, are safe and dry. They are not kissing, but their heads are close together. They appear to be in deep conversation.
Below the picture, there's a brief description of the Blue Umbrella's raison d'etre.
Unlike sites such as Facebook and LinkedIn, Under Debbie's Blue Umbrella is a chat site where old friends can meet and new friends can get to know one another in TOTAL GUARENTEED ANONYMITY. No pictures, no porn, no 140-character Tweets, just GOOD OLD-FASHIONED CONVERSATION.
Below this is a button marked GET STARTED NOW! Hodges mouses his cursor onto it, then hesitates. About six months ago, Jerome had to delete his email address and give him a new one, because everyone in Hodges's address book had gotten a message saying he was stranded in New York, someone had stolen his wallet with all his credit cards inside, and he needed money to get home. Would the email recipient please send fifty dollars--more if he or she could afford it--to a Mail Boxes Etc. in Tribeca. "I'll pay you back as soon as I get this mess straightened out," the message concluded.
Hodges was deeply embarrassed because the begging request had gone out to his ex, his brother in Toledo, and better than four dozen cops he'd worked with over the years. Also his daughter. He had expected his phone--both landline and cell--to ring like crazy for the next forty-eight hours or so, but very few people called, and only Alison seemed actually concerned. This didn't surprise him. Allie, a Gloomy Gus by nature, has been expecting her father to lose his shit ever since he turned fifty-five.
Hodges had called on Jerome for help, and Jerome explained he had been a victim of phishing.
"Mostly the people who phish your address just want to sell Viagra or knockoff jewelry, but I've seen this kind before, too. It happened to my Environmental Studies teacher, and he ended up paying people back almost a thousand bucks. Of course, that was in the old days, before people wised up--"
"Old days meaning exactly when, Jerome?"
Jerome had shrugged. "Two, three years ago. It's a new world out there, Mr. Hodges. Just be grateful the phisherman didn't hit you with a virus that ate all your files and apps."
"I wouldn't lose much," Hodges had said. "Mostly I just surf the Web. Although I would miss the computer solitaire. It plays 'Happy Days Are Here Again' when I win."
Jerome had given him his patented I'm-too-polite-to-call-you-dumb look. "What about your tax returns? I helped you do em online last year. You want someone to see what you paid Uncle Sugar? Besides me, I mean?"
Hodges admitted he didn't.
In that strange (and somehow endearing) pedagogical voice the intelligent young always seem to employ when endeavoring to educate the clueless old, Jerome said, "Your comput
er isn't just a new kind of TV set. Get that out of your mind. Every time you turn it on, you're opening a window into your life. If someone wants to look, that is."
All this goes through his head as he looks at the blue umbrella and the endlessly falling rain. Other stuff goes through it, too, stuff from his cop-mind, which had been asleep but is now wide awake.
Maybe Mr. Mercedes wants to talk. On the other hand, maybe what he really wants is to look through that window Jerome was talking about.
Instead of clicking on GET STARTED NOW!, Hodges exits the site, grabs his phone, and punches one of the few numbers he has on speed-dial. Jerome's mother answers, and after some brief and pleasant chitchat, she hands off to young Mr. Chos Fo Hos himself.
Speaking in the most horrible Ebonics dialect he can manage, Hodges says: "Yo, my homie, you keepin dem bitches in line? Dey earnin? You representin?"
"Oh, hi, Mr. Hodges. Yes, everything's fine."
"You don't likes me talkin dis way on yo honkah, brah?"
"Uh . . ."
Jerome is honestly flummoxed, and Hodges takes pity on him. "The lawn looks terrific."
"Oh. Good. Thanks. Can I do anything else for you?"
"Maybe so. I was wondering if you could come by after school tomorrow. It's a computer thing."
"Sure. What's the problem this time?"
"I'd rather not discuss it on the phone," Hodges says, "but you might find it interesting. Four o'clock okay?"
"That works."
"Good. Do me a favor and leave Tyrone Feelgood Deelite at home."
"Okay, Mr. Hodges, will do."
"When are you going to lighten up and call me Bill? Mr. Hodges makes me feel like your American History teacher."
"Maybe when I'm out of high school," Jerome says, very seriously.
"Just as long as you know you can make the jump any time you want."
Jerome laughs. The kid has got a great, full laugh. Hearing it always cheers Hodges up.
He sits at the computer desk in his little cubbyhole of an office, drumming his fingers, thinking. It occurs to him that he hardly ever uses this room during the evening. If he wakes at two A.M. and can't get back to sleep, yes. He'll come in and play solitaire for an hour or so before returning to bed. But he's usually in his La-Z-Boy between seven and midnight, watching old movies on AMC or TCM and stuffing his face with fats and sugars.