Jerome raises his eyebrows, and when Hodges doesn’t elaborate, he shrugs and takes Freddi by the arm. “John Shaft will now escort you to your suite.”
She pushes his hand away. “Be lucky if it even has a minibar.” But she gets up and walks with him toward the elevators.
“I found Thurston’s Garage,” Holly says. “It’s fifty-six miles north on I-47, the direction the storm’s coming from, unfortunately. After that it’s State Road 79. The weather really doesn’t look g—”
“We’ll be okay,” Hodges says. “Hertz is holding a Ford Expedition for us. It’s a nice heavy vehicle. And you can give me the turn-by-turn later. I want to talk to you about something else.” Gently, he takes her iPad and turns it off.
Holly looks at him with her hands clasped in her lap, waiting.
22
Brady comes back from Carbine Street in Hillbilly Heaven refreshed and exhilarated—the Ellsbury fatso was both easy and fun. He wonders how many guys it will take to get her body down from that third-floor apartment. He’s guessing at least four. And think of the coffin! Jumbo size!
When he checks the website and finds it offline, his good mood collapses again. Yes, he expected Hodges would find a way to kill it, but he didn’t expect it to happen so fast. And the phone number on the screen is as infuriating as the fuck-you messages Hodges left on Debbie’s Blue Umbrella during their first go-round. It’s a suicide prevention hotline. He doesn’t even have to check. He knows.
And yes, Hodges will come. Plenty of people at Kiner Memorial know about this place; it’s sort of legendary. But will he come straight in? Brady doesn’t believe that for a minute. For one thing, the Det.-Ret. will know that many hunters leave their firearms out at camp (although few are as fully stocked with them as Heads and Skins). For another—and this is more important—the Det.-Ret. is one sly hyena. Six years older than when Brady first encountered him, true, undoubtedly shorter of wind and shakier of limb, but sly. The sort of slinking animal that doesn’t come at you directly but goes for the hamstrings while you’re looking elsewhere.
So I’m Hodges. What do I do?
After giving this due consideration, Brady goes to the closet, and a brief check of Babineau’s memory (what’s left of it) is all it takes for him to choose outerwear that belongs to the body he’s inhabiting. Everything fits perfectly. He adds a pair of gloves to protect his arthritic fingers and goes outside. The snow is only a moderate fall and the branches of the trees are still. All that will change later, but for now it’s pleasant enough to go for a tramp around the property.
He walks to a woodpile whose surface is covered with an old canvas tarp and a few inches of fresh powder. Beyond it are two or three acres of old-growth pines and spruces separating Heads and Skins from Big Bob’s Bear Camp. It’s perfect.
He needs to visit the gun closet. The Scar is fine, but there are other things in there he can use.
Oh, Detective Hodges, Brady thinks, hurrying back the way he came. I’ve got such a surprise. Such a surprise for you.
23
Jerome listens carefully to what Hodges tells him, then shakes his head. “No way, Bill. I need to come.”
“What you need to do is go home and be with your family,” Hodges says. “You especially need to be with your sister. She had a close call yesterday.”
They are sitting in a corner of the Hilton’s reception area, speaking in low voices although even the desk clerk has retired to the nether regions. Jerome is leaning forward, hands planted on his thighs, his face set in a stubborn frown.
“If Holly’s going—”
“It’s different for us,” Holly says. “You must see that, Jerome. I don’t get along with my mother, never have. I see her once or twice a year, at most. I’m always glad to leave, and I’m sure she’s glad to see me go. As for Bill . . . you know he’ll fight what he’s got, but both of us know what the chances are. Your case is not like ours.”
“He’s dangerous,” Hodges says, “and we can’t count on the element of surprise. If he doesn’t know I’ll come for him, he’s stupid. That’s one thing he never was.”
“It was the three of us at the Mingo,” Jerome says. “And after you went into vapor lock, it was just Holly and me. We did okay.”
“Last time was different,” Holly says. “Last time he wasn’t capable of mind control juju.”
“I still want to come.”
Hodges nods. “I understand, but I’m still the wheeldog, and the wheeldog says no.”
“But—”