بخش 02 - فصل 20

20 Three miles away, at 49 Elm Street in Northfield, Brady Hartsfield can’t sleep. His head thumps. He thinks: Frankie. My brother, who should have died when he choked on that

apple slice. Life would have been so much simpler if things had happened that way. He thinks of his mother, who sometimes forgets her nightgown and sleeps raw. Most of all, he thinks of the fat ex-cop. At last he gets up and leaves his bedroom, pausing for a moment outside his mother’s door, listening to her snore.

The most unerotic sound in the universe, he tells himself, but still he pauses. Then he goes downstairs, opens the basement door, and closes it behind him. He stands in the dark and says, “Control.” But his voice is too hoarse and the dark remains. He clears his throat and tries again. “Control!”

The lights come on. Chaos lights up his computers and darkness stops the seven-screen countdown. He sits in front of his Number Three. Among the litter of icons is a small blue umbrella. He clicks on it, unaware that he’s been holding his breath until he lets it out in a long harsh gasp. kermitfrog19 wants to chat with you!

Do you want to chat with kermitfrog19? YN Brady hits Y and leans forward. His eager expression remains for a moment before puzzlement seeps in. Then, as he reads the short message over and over, puzzlement becomes first anger and then naked fury.

Seen a lot of false confessions in my time, but this one’s a dilly. I’m retired but not stupid. Withheld evidence proves you are not the Mercedes Killer. Fuck off, asshole. Brady feels an almost insurmountable urge to slam his fist through the screen but restrains it. He sits in his chair, trembling all over. His eyes are

wide and unbelieving. A minute passes. Two. Three. Pretty soon I’ll get up, he thinks. Get up and go back to bed. Only what good will that do? He won’t be able to sleep. “You fat fuck,” he whispers, unaware that hot tears have begun to spill from his eyes. “You fat stupid useless fuck. It was me! It was me! It was me!”

Withheld evidence proves. That is impossible. He seizes on the necessity of hurting the fat ex-cop, and with the idea the ability to think returns. How should he do that? He considers the question for nearly half an hour, trying on and rejecting several scenarios. The answer,

when it comes, is elegantly simple. The fat ex-cop’s friend –his only friend, so far as Brady has been able to ascertain–is a nigger kid with a white name. And what does the nigger kid love? What does his whole family love? The Irish setter, of course. Odell. Brady recalls his earlier fantasy about poisoning a few gallons of Mr. Tastey’s finest,

and starts laughing. He goes on the Internet and begins doing research. My due diligence, he thinks, and smiles. At some point he realizes his headache is gone.