بخش 04 - فصل 19

19

They go back to Finders Keepers in Jerome’s Jeep. The back is full of Jerome’s junk, meaning Freddi has to sit on someone’s lap, and it’s not going to be Hodges’s. Not in his current condition. So he drives and Jerome gets Freddi.

“Hey, this is sort of like getting a date with John Shaft,” Freddi says with a smirk. “The big private dick who’s a sex machine to all the chicks.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Jerome says.

Holly’s cell rings. It’s a guy named Trevor Jeppson, from the police department’s Computer Forensics Squad. Holly is soon speaking in a jargon Hodges doesn’t understand—something about BOTS and the darknet. Whatever she’s getting back from the guy seems to please her, because when she breaks the connection, she’s smiling.

“He’s never dossed a website before. He’s like a kid on Christmas morning.”

“How long will it take?”

“With the password and the IP address already in hand? Not long.”

Hodges parks in one of the thirty-minute spaces in front of the Turner Building. They won’t be here long—if he gets lucky, that is—and given his recent run of bad luck, he considers the universe owes him a good turn.

He goes into his office, closes the door, then hunts through his ratty old address book for Becky Helmington’s number. Holly has offered to program the address book into his phone, but Hodges has kept putting it off. He likes his old address book. Probably never get around to making the changeover now, he thinks. Trent’s Last Case, and all that.

Becky reminds him she doesn’t work in the Bucket any longer. “Maybe you forgot that?”

“I didn’t forget. You know about Babineau?”

Her voice drops. “God, yes. I heard that Al Brooks—Library Al—killed Babineau’s wife and might have killed him. I can hardly believe it.”

I could tell you lots of stuff you’d hardly believe, Hodges thinks.

“Don’t count Babineau out yet, Becky. I think he might be on the run. He was giving Brady Hartsfield experimental drugs of some kind, and they may have played a part in Hartsfield’s death.”

“Jesus, for real?”

“For real. But he can’t be too far, not with this storm coming in. Can you think of anyplace he might have gone? Does Babineau own a summer cottage, anything like that?”

She doesn’t even need to think about it. “Not a cottage, a hunting camp. It isn’t just him, though. Four or maybe five docs co-own the place.” Her voice drops to that confidential pitch again. “I hear they do more than hunt out there. If you know what I mean.”

“Where is out there?”

“Lake Charles. The camp has some cutesy-horrible name. I can’t remember it offhand, but I bet Violet Tranh would know. She spent a weekend there once. Said it was the drunkest forty-eight hours of her life, and she came back with chlamydia.”

“Will you call her?”

“Sure. But if he’s on the run, he might be on a plane, you know. Maybe to California or even overseas. The flights were still taking off and landing this morning.”

“I don’t think he would have dared to try the airport with the police looking for him. Thanks, Becky. Call me back.”

He goes to the safe and punches in the combination. The sock filled with ball bearings—his Happy Slapper—is back home, but both of his handguns are here. One is the Glock .40 he carried on the job. The other is a .38, the Victory model. It was his father’s. He takes a canvas sack from the top shelf of the safe, puts the guns and four boxes of ammunition into it, then gives the drawstring a hard yank.

No heart attack to stop me this time, Brady, he thinks. This time it’s just cancer, and I can live with that.

The idea surprises him into laughter. It hurts.

From the other room comes the sound of three people applauding. Hodges is pretty sure he knows what it means, and he’s not wrong. The message on Holly’s computer reads ZEETHEEND IS EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. Below is this: CALL 1-800-273-TALK.

“It was that guy Jeppson’s idea,” Holly says, not looking up from what she’s doing. “It’s the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.”

“Good one,” Hodges says. “And those are good, too. You’re a woman with hidden talents.” In front of Holly is a line of joints. The one she adds makes an even dozen.

“She’s fast,” Freddi says admiringly. “And look how neat they are. Like they came out of a machine.”

Holly gives Hodges a defiant look. “My therapist says an occasional marijuana cigarette is perfectly okay. As long as I don’t go overboard, that is. The way some people do.” Her eyes glide to Freddi, then back to Hodges. “Besides, these aren’t for me. They’re for you, Bill. If you need them.”

Hodges thanks her, and has a moment to reflect on how far the two of them have come, and how pleasant, by and large, the trip has been. But too short. Far too short. Then his phone rings. It’s Becky.

“The name of the place is Heads and Skins. I told you it was cutesy-horrible. Vi doesn’t remember how to get there—I’m guessing she had more than a few shots on the ride, just to get her motor running—but she does remember they went north on the turnpike for quite a ways, and stopped for gas at a place called Thurston’s Garage after they got off. Does that help?”

“Yeah, a ton. Thanks, Becky.” He ends the call. “Holly, I need you to find Thurston’s Garage, north of the city. Then I want you to call Hertz at the airport and rent the biggest four-wheel drive they’ve got left. We’re going on a road trip.”

“My Jeep—” Jerome begins.

“Is small, light, and old,” Hodges says . . . although these are not the only reasons he wants a different vehicle built to go in the snow. “It’ll be fine to get us out to the airport, though.”

“What about me?” Freddi asks.

“WITSEC,” Hodges says, “as promised. It’ll be like a dream come true.”