22
They stand behind Jerome, Hodges looking over his left shoulder and Holly over his right. On the screen of Hodges’s computer is a press release.
SYNERGY CORP., CITIBANK, 3 RESTAURANT CHAINS TO PUT ON MIDWEST’S BIGGEST SUMMER CAREERS DAY AT EMBASSY SUITES
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE. Career businesspeople and military veterans are encouraged to attend the biggest Careers Day of the year on Saturday, June 5th, 2010. This recession-busting event will be held at the downtown Embassy Suites, 1 Synergy Square. Prior registration is encouraged but not necessary. You will discover hundreds of exciting and high-paying jobs at the Citibank website, at your local McDonald’s, Burger King, and Chicken Coop, or at www.synergy.com. Jobs available include customer service, retail, security, plumbing, electrical, accounting, financial analysts, telemarketing, cashiers. You will find trained and helpful Job Guides and useful seminars in all conference rooms. There is no charge. Doors open at 8 AM. Bring your resume and dress for success. Remember that prior registration will speed the process and improve your chances of finding that job you’ve been looking for.
TOGETHER WE WILL BEAT THIS RECESSION!
“What do you think?” Jerome asks.
“I think you nailed it.” An enormous wave of relief sweeps through Hodges. Not the concert tonight, or a crowded downtown dance club, or the Groundhogs-Mudhens minor league baseball game tomorrow night. It’s this thing at Embassy Suites. Got to be, it’s too perfectly rounded to be anything else. There’s method in Brady Hartsfield’s madness; to him, alpha equals omega. Hartsfield means to finish his career as a mass murderer the same way he started it, by killing the city’s jobless.
Hodges turns to see how Holly is taking this, but Holly has left the room. She’s back in the kitchen, sitting in front of Deborah Hartsfield’s laptop and staring at the password screen. Her shoulders are slumped. In the saucer beside her, a cigarette has smoldered down to the filter, leaving a neat roll of ash.
This time he risks touching her. “It’s okay, Holly. The password doesn’t matter because now we’ve got the location. I’m going to get with my old partner in a couple of hours, when this Lowtown thing’s had a chance to settle a bit, and tell him everything. They’ll put out a BOLO on Hartsfield and his car. If they don’t get him before Saturday morning, they’ll get him as he approaches the job fair.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do tonight?”
“I’m thinking about that.” There is one thing, although it’s such a long shot it’s practically a no-shot.
Holly says, “What if you’re wrong about it being the career-day? What if he plans to blow up a movie theater tonight?”
Jerome comes into the room. “It’s Thursday, Hol, and still too early for the big summer pictures. Most screens won’t be playing to even a dozen people.”
“The concert, then,” she says. “Maybe he doesn’t know it’ll be all girls.”
“He’ll know,” Hodges says. “He’s a creature of improvisation, but that doesn’t make him stupid. He’ll have done at least some advance planning.”
“Can I have just a little more time to try and crack her password? Please?”
Hodges glances at his watch. Ten after four. “Sure. Until four-thirty, how’s that?”
A bargaining glint comes into her eyes. “Quarter to five?”
Hodges shakes his head.
Holly sighs. “I’m out of cigarettes, too.”
“Those things will kill you,” Jerome says.
She gives him a flat look. “Yes! That’s part of their charm.”
23
Hodges and Jerome drive down to the little shopping center at the intersection of Harper and Hanover to buy Holly a pack of cigarettes and give her the privacy she clearly wants.
Back in the gray Mercedes, Jerome tosses the Winstons from hand to hand and says, “This car gives me the creeps.”
“Me too,” Hodges admits. “But it didn’t seem to bother Holly, did it? Sensitive as she is.”
“Do you think she’ll be all right? After this is over, I mean.”
A week ago, maybe even two days, Hodges would have said something vague and politically correct, but he and Jerome have been through a lot since then. “For awhile,” he says. “Then . . . no.”
Jerome sighs the way people do when their own dim view of things has been confirmed. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“So what now?”
“Now we go back, give Holly her coffin nails, and let her smoke one. Then we pack up the stuff she filched from the Hartsfield house. I drive you two back to the Birch Hill Mall. You return Holly to Sugar Heights in your Wrangler, then go home yourself.”
“And just let Mom and Barb and her friends go to that show.”
Hodges blows out a breath. “If it’ll make you feel easier, tell your mother to pull the plug.”
“If I do that, it all comes out.” Still tossing the cigarettes back and forth. “Everything we’ve been doing today.”
Jerome is a bright boy and Hodges doesn’t need to confirm this. Or remind him that eventually it’s all going to come out anyway.
“What will you do, Bill?”
“Go back to the North Side. Park the Mercedes a block or two away from the Hartsfield place, just to be safe. I’ll return Mrs. Hartsfield’s laptop and billfold, then stake out the house. In case he decides to come back.”
Jerome looks doubtful. “That basement room looked like he made a pretty clean sweep. What are the chances?”
“Slim and none, but it’s all I’ve got. Until I turn this thing over to Pete.”
“You really wanted to make the collar, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Hodges says, and sighs. “Yes I did.”
24
When they come back, Holly’s head is down on the table and hidden in her arms. The deconstructed contents of Deborah Hartsfield’s wallet are an asteroid belt around her. The laptop is still on and still showing the stubborn password screen. According to the clock on the wall, it’s twenty to five.
Hodges is afraid she’ll protest his plan to return her home, but Holly only sits up, opens the fresh pack of cigarettes, and slowly removes one. She’s not crying, but she looks tired and dispirited.
“You did your best,” Jerome says.
“I always do my best, Jerome. And it’s never good enough.”
Hodges picks up the red wallet and starts returning the credit cards to the slots. They’re probably not in the same order Mrs. Hartsfield had them in, but who’s going to notice? Not her.
There are photos in an accordion of transparent envelopes, and he flips through them idly. Here’s Mrs. Hartsfield standing arm-in-arm with a broad-shouldered, burly guy in a blue work coverall—the absent Mr. Hartsfield, perhaps. Here’s Mrs. Hartsfield standing with a bunch of laughing ladies in what appears to be a beauty salon. Here’s one of a chubby little boy holding a fire truck—Brady at age three or four, probably. And one more, a wallet-sized version of the picture in Mrs. Hartsfield’s alcove office: Brady and his mom with their cheeks pressed together.
Jerome taps it and says, “You know what that reminds me of a little? Demi Moore and what’s-his-name, Ashton Kutcher.”
“Demi Moore has black hair,” Holly says matter-of-factly. “Except in G.I. Jane, where she hardly had any at all, because she was learning to be a SEAL. I saw that movie three times, once in the theater, once on videotape, and once on my iTunes. Very enjoyable. Mrs. Hartsfield is blond-headed.” She considers, then adds: “Was.”
Hodges slides the photo out of the pocket for a better look, then turns it over. Carefully printed on the back is Mom and Her Honeyboy, Sand Point Beach, Aug 2007. He flicks the picture against the side of his palm a time or two, almost puts it back, then slides it across to Holly, photo-side down.
“Try that.”
She frowns at him. “Try what?”
“Honeyboy.”
Holly types it in, hits RETURN . . . and utters a very un-Hollylike scream of joy. Because they’re in. Just like that.
There’s nothing of note on the desktop—an address book, a folder marked FAVORITE RECIPES and another marked SAVED EMAILS; a folder of online receipts (she seemed to have paid most of her bills that way); and an album of photos (most of Brady at various ages). There are a lot of TV shows in her iTunes, but only one album of music: Alvin and the Chipmunks Celebrate Christmas.
“Christ,” Jerome says. “I don’t want to say she deserved to die, but . . .”
Holly gives him a forbidding look. “Not funny, Jerome. Do not go there.”
He holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”
Hodges scrolls rapidly through the saved emails and sees nothing of interest. Most appear to be from Mrs. Hartsfield’s old high school buddies, who refer to her as Debs.
“There’s nothing here about Brady,” he says, and glances at the clock. “We should go.”
“Not so fast,” Holly says, and opens the finder. She types BRADY. There are several results (many in the recipe file, some tagged as Brady Favorites), but nothing of note.
“Try HONEYBOY,” Jerome suggests.
She does and gets one result—a document buried deep in the hard drive. Holly clicks it. Here are Brady’s clothing sizes, also a list of all the Christmas and birthday presents she’s bought him for the last ten years, presumably so she won’t repeat herself. She’s noted his Social Security number. There’s a scanned copy of his car registration, his car insurance card, and his birth certificate. She’s listed his co-workers at both Discount Electronix and Loeb’s Ice Cream Factory. Next to the name Shirley Orton is a notation that would have made Brady laugh hysterically: Wonder is she his gf?
“What’s up with this crap?” Jerome asks. “He’s a grown man, for God’s sake.”
Holly smiles darkly. “What I said. She knew he wasn’t right.”
At the very bottom of the HONEYBOY file, there’s a folder marked BASEMENT.
“That’s it,” Holly says. “Gotta be. Open it, open it, open it!”
Jerome clicks BASEMENT. The document inside is less than a dozen words long.
Control = lights
Chaos?? Darkness??
Why don’t they work for me????
They stare at the screen for some time without speaking. At last Hodges says, “I don’t get it. Jerome?”
Jerome shakes his head.
Holly, seemingly hypnotized by this message from the dead woman, speaks a single word, almost too low to hear: “Maybe . . .” She hesitates, chewing her lips, and says it again. “Maybe.”