End of Watch Read online

  "Well, that's fine. Because I don't know what I'd do without you, Bill. I just don't."

  "Holly--"

  "Actually, I do. I'd go back home. And that would be bad for me."

  No shit, Hodges thinks. The first time I met you, in town for your aunt Elizabeth's funeral, your mom was practically leading you around like a mutt on a leash. Do this, Holly, do that, Holly, and for Christ's sake don't do anything embarrassing.

  "Now tell me," she says. "Tell me the something new. Tell me tell me tell me!"

  "Give me fifteen minutes, then I'll spill everything. In the meantime, see if you can find out what happened to all those Commander consoles. It's probably not important, but it might be."

  "Okay. Wonderful news about your tests, Bill."

  "Yeah."

  He goes into his office. Holly swivels her chair to look after him for a moment, because he rarely closes the door when he's in there. Still, it's not unheard of. She returns to her computer.

  2

  "He's not done with you yet."

  Holly repeats it in a soft voice. She puts her half-eaten veggie burger down on its paper plate. Hodges has already demolished his, talking between bites. He doesn't mention waking with pain; in this version he discovered the message because he got up to net-surf when he couldn't sleep.

  "That's what it said, all right."

  "From Z-Boy."

  "Yeah. Sounds like some superhero's sidekick, doesn't it? 'Follow the adventures of Z-Man and Z-Boy, as they keep the streets of Gotham City safe from crime!'"

  "That's Batman and Robin. They're the ones who patrol Gotham City."

  "I know that, I was reading Batman comics before you were born. I was just saying."

  She picks up her veggie burger, extracts a shred of lettuce, puts it down again. "When is the last time you visited Brady Hartsfield?"

  Right to the heart of the matter, Hodges thinks admiringly. That's my Holly.

  "I went to see him just after the business with the Saubers family, and once more later on. Midsummer, that would have been. Then you and Jerome cornered me and said I had to stop. So I did."

  "We did it for your own good."

  "I know that, Holly. Now eat your sandwich."

  She takes a bite, dabs mayo from the corner of her mouth, and asks him how Hartsfield seemed on his last visit.

  "The same . . . mostly. Just sitting there, looking out at the parking garage. I talk, I ask him questions, he says nothing. He gives Academy Award brain damage, no doubt about that. But there have been stories about him. That he has some kind of mind-power. That he can turn the water on and off in his bathroom, and does it sometimes to scare the staff. I'd call it bullshit, but when Becky Helmington was the head nurse, she said she'd actually seen stuff on a couple of occasions--rattling blinds, the TV going on by itself, the bottles on his IV stand swinging back and forth. And she's what I'd call a credible witness. I know it's hard to believe--"

  "Not so hard. Telekinesis, sometimes called psychokinesis, is a documented phenomenon. You never saw anything like that yourself during any of your visits?"

  "Well . . ." He pauses, remembering. "Something did happen on my second-to-last visit. There was a picture on the table beside his bed--him and his mother with their arms around each other and their cheeks pressed together. On vacation somewhere. There was a bigger version in the house on Elm Street. You probably remember it."

  "Of course I do. I remember everything we saw in that house, including some of the cheesecake photos of her he had on his computer." She crosses her arms over her small bosom and makes a moue of distaste. "That was a very unnatural relationship."

  "Tell me about it. I don't know if he ever actually had sex with her--"

  "Oough!"

  "--but I think he probably wanted to, and at the very least she enabled his fantasies. Anyway, I grabbed the picture and talked some smack about her, trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get him to respond. Because he's in there, Holly, and I mean all present and accounted for. I was sure of it then and I'm sure of it now. He just sits there, but inside he's the same human wasp that killed those people at City Center and tried to kill a whole lot more at Mingo Auditorium."

  "And he used Debbie's Blue Umbrella to talk with you, don't forget that."

  "After last night I'm not likely to."

  "Tell me the rest of what happened that time."

  "For just a second he stopped looking out his window at the parking garage across the way. His eyes . . . they rolled in their sockets, and he looked at me. Every hair on the nape of my neck stood up at attention, and the air felt . . . I don't know . . . electric." He forces himself to say the rest. It's like pushing a big rock up a steep hill. "I arrested some bad doers when I was on the cops, some very bad doers--one was a mother who killed her three-year-old for insurance that didn't amount to a hill of beans--but I never felt the presence of evil in any of them once they were caught. It's like evil's some kind of vulture that flies away once these mokes are locked up. But I felt it that day, Holly. I really did. I felt it in Brady Hartsfield."

  "I believe you," she says in a voice so small it's barely a whisper.

  "And he had a Zappit. That's the connection I was trying to make. If it is a connection, and not just a coincidence. There was a guy, I don't know his last name, everyone just called him Library Al, who used to hand Zappits out along with Kindles and paperbacks when he made his rounds. I don't know if Al was an orderly or a volunteer. Hell, he might even have been one of the janitors, doing a little good deed on the side. I think the only reason I didn't pick up on that right away was the Zappit you found at the Ellerton house was pink. The one in Brady's room was blue."

  "How could what happened to Janice Ellerton and her daughter have anything to do with Brady Hartsfield? Unless . . . has anyone reported any telekinetic activity outside of his room? Have there been rumors of that?"

  "Nope, but right around the time the Saubers business finished up, a nurse committed suicide in the Brain Injury Clinic. Sliced her wrists in a bathroom right down the hall from Hartsfield's room. Her name was Sadie MacDonald."

  "Are you thinking . . ."

  She's picking at her sandwich again, shredding the lettuce and dropping it onto her plate. Waiting for him.

  "Go on, Holly. I'm not going to say it for you."

  "You're thinking Brady talked her into it somehow? I don't see how that could be possible."

  "I don't, either, but we know Brady has a fascination with suicide."

  "This Sadie MacDonald . . . did she happen to have one of those Zappit things?"

  "God knows."

  "How . . . how did . . ."

  This time he does help. "With a scalpel she filched from one of the surgical suites. I got that from the ME's assistant. Slipped her a gift card to DeMasio's, the Italian joint."

  Holly shreds more lettuce. Her plate is starting to look like confetti at a leprechaun birthday party. It's driving Hodges a little nuts, but he doesn't stop her. She's working her way up to saying it. And finally does. "You're going to see Hartsfield."

  "Yeah, I am."

  "Do you really think you'll get anything out of him? You never have before."

  "I know a little more now." But what, really, does he know? He's not even sure what he suspects. But maybe Hartsfield isn't a human wasp, after all. Maybe he's a spider, and Room 217 at the Bucket is the center of his web, where he sits spinning.

  Or maybe it's all coincidence. Maybe the cancer is already eating into my brain, sparking a lot of paranoid ideas.

  That's what Pete would think, and his partner--hard to stop thinking of her as Miss Pretty Gray Eyes, now that it's in his head--would say it right out loud.

  He stands up. "No time like the present."

  She drops her sandwich onto the pile of mangled lettuce so she can grasp his arm. "Be careful."

  "I will."

  "Guard your thoughts. I know how crazy that sounds, but I am crazy, at least some of the time, so I c
an say it. If you should have any ideas about . . . well, harming yourself . . . call me. Call me right away."

  "Okay."

  She crosses her arms and grasps her shoulders--that old fretful gesture he sees less often now. "I wish Jerome was here." Jerome Robinson is in Arizona, taking a semester off from college, building houses as part of a Habitat for Humanity crew. Once, when Hodges used the phrase garnishing his resume in relation to this activity, Holly scolded him, telling him Jerome was doing it because he was a good person. With that, Hodges has to agree--Jerome really is a good person.

  "I'm going to be fine. And this is probably nothing. We're like kids worrying that the empty house on the corner is haunted. If we said anything about it to Pete, he'd have us both committed."

  Holly, who actually has been committed (twice), believes some empty houses really might be haunted. She removes one small and ringless hand from one shoulder long enough to grasp his arm again, this time by the sleeve of his overcoat. "Call me when you get there, and call me again when you leave. Don't forget, because I'll be worrying and I can't call you because--"

  "No cell phones allowed in the Bucket, yeah, I know. I'll do it, Holly. In the meantime, I've got a couple of things for you." He sees her hand dart toward a notepad and shakes his head. "No, you don't need to write this down. It's simple. First, go on eBay or wherever you go to buy stuff that's no longer available retail and order one of those Zappit Commanders. Can you do that?"

  "Easy. What's the other thing?"

  "Sunrise Solutions bought out Zappit, then went bankrupt. Someone will be serving as the trustee in bankruptcy. The trustee hires lawyers, accountants, and liquidators to help squeeze every cent out of the company. Get a name and I'll make a call later today or tomorrow. I want to know what happened to all those unsold Zappit consoles, because somebody gave one to Janice Ellerton a long time after both companies were out of business."

  She lights up. "That's fracking brilliant!"

  Not brilliant, just police work, he thinks. I may have terminal cancer, but I still remember how the job is done, and that's something.

  That's something good.

  3

  As he exits the Turner Building and heads for the bus stop (the Number 5 is a quicker and easier way to get across town than retrieving his Prius and driving himself), Hodges is a deeply preoccupied man. He is thinking about how he should approach Brady--how he can open him up. He was an ace in the interrogation room when he was on the job, so there has to be a way. Previously he has only gone to Brady to goad him and confirm his gut belief that Brady is faking his semi-catatonic state. Now he has some real questions, and there must be some way he can get Brady to answer them.

  I have to poke the spider, he thinks.

  Interfering with his efforts to plan the forthcoming confrontation are thoughts of the diagnosis he's just received, and the inevitable fears that go with it. For his life, yes. But there are also questions of how much he may suffer a bit farther down the line, and how he will inform those who need to know. Corinne and Allie will be shaken up by the news but basically okay. The same goes for the Robinson family, although he knows Jerome and Barbara, his kid sister (not such a kid now; she'll turn sixteen in a few months), will take it hard. Mostly, though, it's Holly he worries about. She isn't crazy, despite what she said in the office, but she's fragile. Very. She's had two breakdowns in her past, one in high school and one in her early twenties. She's stronger now, but her main sources of support over these last few years have been him and the little company they run together. If they go, she'll be at risk. He can't afford to kid himself about that.

  I won't let her break, Hodges thinks. He walks with his head down and his hands stuffed in his pockets, blowing out white vapor. I can't let that happen.

  Deep in these thoughts, he misses the primer-spotted Chevy Malibu for the third time in two days. It's parked up the street, opposite the building where Holly is now hunting down the Sunrise Solutions bankruptcy trustee. Standing on the sidewalk next to it is an elderly man in an old Army surplus parka that has been mended with masking tape. He watches Hodges get on the bus, then takes a cell phone from his coat pocket and makes a call.

  4

  Holly watches her boss--who happens to be the person she loves most in the world--walk to the bus stop on the corner. He looks so slight now, almost a shadow of the burly man she first met six years ago. And he has his hand pressed to his side as he walks. He does that a lot lately, and she doesn't think he's even aware of it.

  Nothing but a small ulcer, he said. She'd like to believe that--would like to believe him--but she's not sure she does.

  The bus comes and Bill gets on. Holly stands by the window watching it go, gnawing at her fingernails, wishing for a cigarette. She has Nicorette gum, plenty of it, but sometimes only a cigarette will do.

  Quit wasting time, she tells herself. If you really mean to be a rotten dirty sneak, there's no time like the present.

  So she goes into his office.

  His computer is dark, but he never turns it off until he goes home at night; all she has to do is refresh the screen. Before she can, her eye is caught by the yellow legal pad beside the keyboard. He always has one handy, usually covered with notes and doodles. It's how he thinks.

  Written at the top of this one is a line she knows well, one that has resonated with her ever since she first heard the song on the radio: All the lonely people. He has underlined it. Beneath are names she knows.

  Olivia Trelawney (Widowed)

  Martine Stover (Unmarried, housekeeper called her "spinster")

  Janice Ellerton (Widowed)

  Nancy Alderson (Widowed)

  And others. Her own, of course; she is also a spinster. Pete Huntley, who's divorced. And Hodges himself, also divorced.

  Single people are twice as likely to commit suicide. Divorced people, four times as likely.

  "Brady Hartsfield enjoyed suicide," she murmurs. "It was his hobby."

  Below the names, circled, is a jotted note she doesn't understand: Visitors list? What visitors?

  She hits a random key and Bill's computer lights up, showing his desktop screen with all his files scattered helter-skelter across it. She has scolded him about this time and again, has told him it's like leaving the door of your house unlocked and your valuables all laid out on the dining room table with a sign on them saying PLEASE STEAL ME, and he always says he will do better, and he never does. Not that it would have changed things in Holly's case, because she also has his password. He gave it to her himself. In case something ever happened to him, he said. Now she's afraid something has.

  One look at the screen is enough to tell her the something is no ulcer. There's a new file folder there, one with a scary title. Holly clicks on it. The terrible gothic letters at the top are enough to confirm that the document is indeed the last will and testament of one Kermit William Hodges. She closes it at once. She has absolutely no desire to paw through his bequests. Knowing that such a document exists and that he has been reviewing it this very day is enough. Too much, actually.

  She stands there clutching at her shoulders and nibbling her lips. The next step would be worse than snooping. It would be prying. It would be burglary.

  You've come this far, so go ahead.

  "Yes, I have to," Holly whispers, and clicks on the postage stamp icon that opens his email, telling herself there will probably be nothing. Only there is. The most recent message likely came in while they were talking about what he found early this morning under Debbie's Blue Umbrella. It's from the doctor he went to see. Stamos, his name is. She opens the email and reads: Here is a copy of your most recent test results, for your files.

  Holly uses the password in the email to open the attachment, sits in Bill's chair, and leans forward, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. By the time she scrolls down to the second of the eight pages, she is crying.

  5

  Hodges has no more than settled in his seat at the back of the Number 5 when
glass breaks in his coat pocket and the boys cheer the home run that just broke Mrs. O'Leary's living room window. A man in a business suit lowers his Wall Street Journal and looks disapprovingly at Hodges over the top of it.

  "Sorry, sorry," Hodges says. "Keep meaning to change it."

  "You should make it a priority," the businessman says, and raises his paper again.

  The text is from his old partner. Again. Feeling a strong sense of deja vu, Hodges calls him.

  "Pete," he says, "what's with all the texts? It isn't as if you don't have my number on speed dial."

  "Figured Holly probably programmed your phone for you and put on some crazy ringtone," Pete says. "That'd be her idea of a real knee-slapper. Also figured you'd have it turned up to max volume, you deaf sonofabitch."

  "The text alert's the one on max," Hodges says. "When I get a call, the phone just has a mini-orgasm against my leg."

  "Change the alert, then."

  Hours ago he found out he has only months to live. Now he's discussing the volume of his cell phone.

  "I'll absolutely do that. Now tell me why you called."

  "Got a guy in computer forensics who landed on that game gadget like a fly on shit. He loved it, called it retro. Can you believe that? Gadget was probably manufactured all of five years ago and now it's retro."

  "The world is speeding up."

  "It's sure doing something. Anyway, the Zappit is zapped. When our guy plugged in fresh batteries, it popped half a dozen bright blue flashes, then died."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "Some kind of virus is technically possible, the thing supposedly has WiFi and that's mostly how those bugs get downloaded, but he says it's more likely a bad chip or a fried circuit. The point is, it means nothing. Ellerton couldn't have used it."

  "Then why did she keep the charger cord for it plugged in right there in her daughter's bathroom?"

  That silences Pete for a moment. Then he says, "Okay, so maybe it worked for awhile and then the chip died. Or whatever they do."

  It worked, all right, Hodges thinks. She played solitaire on it at the kitchen table. Lots of different kinds, like Klondike and Pyramid and Picture. Which you would know, Peter my dear, if you'd talked to Nancy Alderson. That must still be on your bucket list.