End of Watch

  32

  Brady staggers through shin-deep snow, eyes wide with disbelief, Babineau's sixty-three-year-old heart banging away in his chest. There's a metallic taste on his tongue, his shoulder is burning, and the thought running through his head on a constant loop is That bitch, that bitch, that dirty sneaking bitch, why didn't I kill her while I had the chance?

  The Zappit is gone, too. Good old Zappit Zero, and it's the only one he brought. Without it, he has no way to reach the minds of those with active Zappits. He stands panting in front of Heads and Skins, coatless in the rising wind and driving snow. The keys to Z-Boy's car are in his pocket, along with another clip for the Scar, but what good are the keys? That shitbox wouldn't make it halfway up the first hill before it got stuck.

  I have to take them, he thinks, and not just because they owe me. The SUV Hodges drove down here is the only way out of here, and either he or the bitch probably has the keys. It's possible they left them in the vehicle, but that's a chance I can't afford to take.

  Besides, it would mean leaving them alive.

  He knows what he has to do, and switches the fire control to FULL AUTO. He socks the butt of the Scar against his good shoulder, and starts shooting, raking the barrel from left to right but concentrating on the great room, where he left them.

  Gunfire lights up the night, turning the fast-falling snow into a series of flash photographs. The sound of the overlapping reports is deafening. Windows explode inward. Clapboards rise from the facade like bats. The front door, left half-open in his escape, flies all the way back, rebounds, and is driven back again. Babineau's face is twisted in an expression of joyful hate that is all Brady Hartsfield, and he doesn't hear the growl of an approaching engine or the clatter of steel treads from behind him.

  33

  "Down!" Hodges shouts. "Holly, down!"

  He doesn't wait to see if she'll obey on her own, just lands on top of her and covers her body with his. Above them, the living room is a storm of flying splinters, broken glass, and chips of rock from the chimney. An elk's head falls off the wall and lands on the hearth. One glass eye has been shattered by a Winchester slug, and it looks like it's winking at them. Holly screams. Half a dozen bottles on the buffet explode, releasing the stench of bourbon and gin. A slug strikes a burning log in the fireplace, busting it in two and sending up a storm of sparks.

  Please let him have just the one clip, Hodges thinks. And if he aims low, let him hit me instead of Holly. Only a .308 Winchester slug that hits him will go through them both, and he knows it.

  The gunfire stops. Is he reloading, or is he out? Live or Memorex?

  "Bill, get off me, I can't breathe."

  "Better not," he says. "I--"

  "What's that? What's that sound?" And then, answering her own question, "Someone's coming!"

  Now that his ears are clearing a little, Hodges can hear it, too. At first he thinks it must be Thurston's grandson, on one of the snowmobiles the old man mentioned, and about to be slaughtered for trying to play Good Samaritan. But maybe not. The approaching engine sounds too heavy for a snowmobile.

  Bright yellow-white light floods in through the shattered windows like the spotlights from a police helicopter. Only this is no helicopter.

  34

  Brady is ramming his extra clip home when he finally registers the growl-and-clank of the approaching vehicle. He whirls, wounded shoulder throbbing like an infected tooth, just as a huge silhouette appears at the end of the camp road. The headlamps dazzle him. His shadow leaps out long on the sparkling snow as the whatever-it-is comes rolling toward the shot-up house, throwing gouts of snow behind its clanking treads. And it's not just coming at the house. It's coming at him.

  He depresses the trigger and the Scar resumes its thunder. Now he can see it's some kind of snow machine with a bright orange cabin sitting high above the churning treads. The windshield explodes just as someone dives for safety from the open driver's side door.

  The monstrosity keeps coming. Brady tries to run, and Babineau's expensive loafers slip. He flails, staring at those oncoming headlights, and goes down on his back. The orange invader rises above him. He sees a steel tread whirring toward him. He tries to push it away, as he sometimes pushed objects in his room--the blinds, the bedclothes, the door to the bathroom--but it's like trying to beat off a charging lion with a toothbrush. He raises a hand and draws in breath to scream. Before he can, the left tread of the Tucker Sno-Cat rolls over his midsection and chews it open.

  35

  Holly has zero doubt concerning the identity of their rescuer, and doesn't hesitate. She runs through the bullet-pocked foyer and out the front door, crying his name over and over. Jerome looks as if he's been dusted in powdered sugar when he picks himself up. She's sobbing and laughing as she throws herself into his arms.

  "How did you know? How did you know to come?"

  "I didn't," he says. "It was Barbara. When I called to say I was coming home, she told me I had to go after you or Brady would kill you . . . only she called him the Voice. She was half crazy."

  Hodges is making his way toward the two of them at a slow stagger, but he's close enough to overhear this, and remembers that Barbara told Holly some of that suicide-voice was still inside her. Like a trail of slime, she said. Hodges knows what she was talking about, because he's got some of that disgusting thought-snot in his own head, at least for the time being. Maybe Barbara had just enough of a connection to know that Brady was lying in wait.

  Or hell, maybe it was pure woman's intuition. Hodges actually believes in such a thing. He's old-school.

  "Jerome," he says. The word comes out in a dusty croak. "My man." His knees unlock. He's going down.

  Jerome frees himself from Holly's deathgrip and puts an arm around Hodges before he can. "Are you all right? I mean . . . I know you're not all right, but are you shot?"

  "No." Hodges puts his own arm around Holly. "And I should have known you'd come. Neither one of you minds worth a tinker's damn."

  "Couldn't break up the band before the final reunion concert, could we?" Jerome says. "Let's get you in the--"

  There comes an animal sound from their left, a guttural groan that struggles to be words and can't make it.

  Hodges is more exhausted than ever in his life, but he walks toward that groan anyway. Because . . .

  Well, because.

  What was the word he used with Holly, on their way out here? Closure, wasn't it?

  Brady's hijacked body has been laid open to the backbone. His guts are spread out around him like the wings of a red dragon. Pools of steaming blood are sinking into the snow. But his eyes are open and aware, and all at once Hodges can feel those fingers again. This time they're not just probing lazily. This time they're frantic, scrabbling for purchase. Hodges ejects them as easily as that floor-mopping orderly once pushed this man's presence out of his mind.

  He spits Brady out like a watermelon seed.

  "Help me," Brady whispers. "You have to help me."

  "I think you're way beyond help," Hodges says. "You were run down, Brady. Run down by an extremely heavy vehicle. Now you know what that feels like. Don't you?"

  "Hurts," Brady whispers.

  "Yes," Hodges says. "I imagine it does."

  "If you can't help me, shoot me."

  Hodges holds out his hand, and Holly puts the Victory .38 into it like a nurse handing a doctor a scalpel. He rolls the cylinder and dumps out one of the two remaining bullets. Then he closes the gun up again. Although he hurts everywhere now, hurts like hell, Hodges kneels down and puts his father's gun in Brady's hand.

  "You do it," he says. "It's what you always wanted."

  Jerome stands by, ready in case Brady should decide to use that final round on Hodges instead. But he doesn't. Brady tries to point the gun at his head. He can't. His arm twitches, but won't rise. He groans again. Blood pours over his lower lip and seeps out from between Felix Babineau's capped teeth. It would almost be possible to feel sorry for him,
Hodges thinks, if you didn't know what he did at City Center, what he tried to do at the Mingo Auditorium, and the suicide machine he's set in motion today. That machine will slow down and stop now that its prime operative is finished, but it will swallow up a few more sad young people before it does. Hodges is pretty sure of that. Suicide may not be painless, but it is catching.

  You could feel sorry for him if he wasn't a monster, Hodges thinks.

  Holly kneels, lifts Brady's hand, and puts the muzzle of the gun against his temple. "Now, Mr. Hartsfield," she says. "You have to do the rest yourself. And may God have mercy on your soul."

  "I hope not," Jerome says. In the glare of the Sno-Cat's headlights, his face is a stone.

  For a long moment the only sounds are the rumble of the snow machine's big engine and the rising wind of winter storm Eugenie.

  Holly says, "Oh God. His finger's not even on the trigger. One of you needs to help me, I don't think I can--"

  Then, a gunshot.

  "Brady's last trick," Jerome says. "Jesus."

  36

  There's no way Hodges can make it back to the Expedition, but Jerome is able to muscle him into the cab of the Sno-Cat. Holly sits beside him on the outside. Jerome climbs behind the wheel and throws it into gear. Although he backs up and then circles wide around the remains of Babineau's body, he tells Holly not to look until they're at least up the first hill. "We're leaving blood-tracks."

  "Oough."

  "Correct," Jerome says. "Oough is correct."

  "Thurston told me he had snowmobiles," Hodges says. "He didn't mention anything about a Sherman tank."

  "It's a Tucker Sno-Cat, and you didn't offer him your MasterCard as collateral. Not to mention an excellent Jeep Wrangler that got me out here to the williwags just fine, thanks."

  "Is he really dead?" Holly asks. Her wan face is turned up to Hodges's, and the huge knot on her forehead actually seems to be pulsing. "Really and for sure?"

  "You saw him put a bullet in his brain."

  "Yes, but is he? Really and for sure?"

  The answer he won't give is no, not yet. Not until the trails of slime he's left in the heads of God knows how many people are washed away by the brain's remarkable ability to heal itself. But in another week, another month at the outside, Brady will be all gone.

  "Yes," he says. "And Holly? Thanks for programming that text alert. The home run boys."

  She smiles. "What was it? The text, I mean?"

  Hodges struggles his phone out of his coat pocket, checks it, and says, "I will be goddamned." He begins to laugh. "I completely forgot."

  "What? Show me show me show me!"

  He tilts the phone so she can read the text his daughter Alison has sent him from California, where the sun is no doubt shining:

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY! 70 YEARS OLD AND STILL GOING STRONG! AM RUSHING OUT TO THE MARKET, WILL CALL U LATER. XXX ALLIE

  For the first time since Jerome returned from Arizona, Tyrone Feelgood Delight makes an appearance. "You is sem'ny years old, Massa Hodges? Laws! You don't look a day ovah sixty-fi'!"

  "Stop it, Jerome," Holly says. "I know it amuses you, but that sort of talk sounds very ignorant and silly."

  Hodges laughs. It hurts to laugh, but he can't help it. He holds onto consciousness all the way back to Thurston's Garage; is even able to take a few shallow tokes on the joint Holly lights and passes to him. Then the dark begins to slip in.

  This could be it, he thinks.

  Happy birthday to me, he thinks.

  Then he's gone.

  AFTER

  Four Days Later

  Pete Huntley is far less familiar with Kiner Memorial than his old partner, who made many pilgrimages here to visit a long-term resident who has now passed away. It takes Pete two stops--one at the main desk and one in Oncology--before he locates Hodges's room, and when he gets there, it's empty. A cluster of balloons with HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD on them are tethered to one of the siderails and floating near the ceiling.

  A nurse pokes her head in, sees him looking at the empty bed, and gives him a smile. "The solarium at the end of the hall. They've been having a little party. I think you're still in time."

  Pete walks down. The solarium is skylighted and filled with plants, maybe to cheer up the patients, maybe to provide them with a little extra oxygen, maybe both. Near one wall, a party of four is playing cards. Two of them are bald, and one has an IV drip running into his arm. Hodges is seated directly under the skylight, doling out slices of cake to his posse: Holly, Jerome, and Barbara. Kermit seems to be growing a beard, it's coming in snow-white, and Pete has a brief memory of going to the mall with his own kids to see Santa Claus.

  "Pete!" Hodges says, smiling. He starts to get up and Pete waves him back into his seat. "Sit down, have some cake. Allie brought it from Batool's Bakery. It was always her favorite place to go when she was growing up."

  "Where is she?" Pete asks, dragging a chair over and placing it next to Holly. She's sporting a bandage on the left side of her forehead, and Barbara has a cast on her leg. Only Jerome looks hale and hearty, and Pete knows the kid barely escaped getting turned into hamburger out at that hunting camp.

  "She went back to the Coast this morning. Two days off was all she could manage. She's got three weeks' vacation coming in March, and says she'll be back. If I need her, that is."

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Not bad," Hodges says. His eyes flick up and to the left, but only for a second. "I've got three cancer docs on my case, and the first tests came back looking good."

  "That's fantastic." Pete takes the piece of cake Hodges is holding out. "This is too big."

  "Man up and chow down," Hodges says. "Listen, about you and Izzy--"

  "We worked it out," Pete says. He takes a bite. "Hey, nice. There's nothing like carrot cake with cream cheese frosting to cheer up your blood sugar."

  "So the retirement party is . . . ?"

  "Back on. Officially, it was never off. I'm still counting on you to give the first toast. And remember--"

  "Yeah, yeah, ex-wife and current squeeze both there, nothing too off-color. Got it, got it."

  "Just as long as we're clear on that." The too-big slice of cake is getting smaller. Barbara watches the rapid intake with fascination.

  "Are we in trouble?" Holly asks. "Are we, Pete, are we?"

  "Nope," Pete says. "Completely in the clear. That's mostly what I came to tell you."

  Holly sits back with a sigh of relief that blows the graying bangs off her forehead.

  "Bet they've got Babineau carrying the can for everything," Jerome says.

  Pete points his plastic fork at Jerome. "Truth you speak, young Jedi warrior."

  "You might be interested to know that the famous puppeteer Frank Oz did Yoda's voice," Holly says. She looks around. "Well, I find it interesting."

  "I find this cake interesting," Pete says. "Could I have a little more? Maybe just a sliver?"

  Barbara does the honors, and it's far more than a sliver, but Pete doesn't object. He takes a bite and asks how she's doing.

  "Good," Jerome says before she can answer. "She's got a boyfriend. Kid named Dereece Neville. Big basketball star."

  "Shut up, Jerome, he is not my boyfriend."

  "He sure visits like a boyfriend," Jerome says. "I'm talking every day since you broke your leg."

  "We have a lot to talk about," Barbara says in a dignified tone of voice.

  Pete says, "Going back to Babineau, hospital administration has some security footage of him coming in through a back entrance on the night his wife was murdered. He changed into maintenance-worker duds. Probably raided a locker. He leaves, comes back fifteen or twenty minutes later, changes back into the clothes he came in, leaves for good."

  "No other footage?" Hodges asks. "Like in the Bucket?"

  "Yeah, some, but you can't see his face in that stuff, because he's wearing a Groundhogs cap, and you don't see him go into Hartsfield's room. A defense lawyer might be able to make
something of that stuff, but since Babineau's never going to stand trial--"

  "No one gives much of a shit," Hodges finishes.

  "Correct. City and state cops are delighted to let him carry the weight. Izzy's happy, and so am I. I could ask you--just between us chickens--if it was actually Babineau who died out there in the woods, but I don't really want to know."

  "So how does Library Al fit into this scenario?" Hodges asks.

  "He doesn't." Pete puts his paper plate aside. "Alvin Brooks killed himself last night."

  "Oh, Christ," Hodges says. "While he was in County?"

  "Yes."

  "They didn't have him on suicide watch? After all this?"

  "They did, and none of the inmates are supposed to have anything capable of cutting or stabbing, but he got hold of a ballpoint pen somehow. Might have been a guard who gave it to him, but it was probably another inmate. He drew Zs all over the walls, all over his bunk, and all over himself. Then he took the pen's metal cartridge out of the barrel and used it to--"

  "Stop," Barbara says. She looks very pale in the winterlight falling on them from above. "We get the idea."

  Hodges says, "So the thinking is . . . what? He was Babineau's accomplice?"

  "Fell under his influence," Pete says. "Or maybe both of them fell under someone else's influence, but let's not go there, okay? The thing to concentrate on now is that the three of you are in the clear. There won't be any citations this time, or city freebies--"

  "It's okay," Jerome says. "Me 'n Holly have still got at least four years left on our bus passes, anyway."

  "Not that you ever use yours now that you're hardly ever here," Barbara says. "You should give it to me."

  "It's non-transferrable," Jerome says smugly. "I better hold onto it. Wouldn't want you to get in any trouble with the law. Besides, soon you'll be going places with Dereece. Just don't go too far, if you know what I mean."

  "You're being childish." Barbara turns to Pete. "How many suicides were there in all?"

  Pete sighs. "Fourteen over the last five days. Nine of them had Zappits, which are now as dead as their owners. The oldest was twenty-four, the youngest thirteen. One was a boy from a family that was, according to the neighbors, fairly weird about religion--the kind that makes fundamentalist Christians look liberal. He took his parents and kid brother with him. Shotgun."