“No.”
The man who looks like Felix Babineau smiles. “Well, here’s what I’m going to do, Bill. I’ll search her pockets, and if I do find a gun, I’ll blow her narrow ass into the next state. How’s that for a deal?”
“It’s a .38,” Hodges says. “She’s righthanded, so if she brought it, it’s probably in the right front pocket of her coat.”
Brady bends, keeping the Scar trained on Hodges as he does so, finger on the trigger and the butt-plate braced against the right side of his chest. He finds the revolver, examines it briefly, then tucks it into his belt at the small of his back. In spite of his pain and despair, Hodges feels a certain sour amusement. Brady’s probably seen badass dudes do that in a hundred TV shows and action movies, but it really only works with automatics, which are flat.
On the hooked rug, Holly makes a snoring sound deep in her throat. One foot gives a spastic jerk, then goes still.
“What about you?” Brady asks. “Any other weapons? The ever-popular throwdown gun strapped to your ankle, perhaps?”
Hodges shakes his head.
“Just to be on the safe side, why don’t you hoist up your pants-legs for me?”
Hodges does it, revealing soaked shoes, wet socks, and nothing else.
“Excellent. Now take off your coat and throw it on the couch.”
Hodges unzips it and manages to keep quiet while he shrugs out of it, but when he tosses it, a bull’s horn gores him from crotch to heart and he groans.
Babineau’s eyes widen. “Real pain or fake? Live or Memorex? Judging from a quite striking weight loss, I’m going to say it’s real. What’s up, Detective Hodges? What’s going on with you?”
“Cancer. Pancreatic.”
“Oh, goodness, that’s bad. Not even Superman can beat that one. But cheer up, I may be able to shorten your suffering.”
“Do what you want with me,” Hodges says. “Just let her alone.”
Brady looks at the woman on the floor with great interest. “This would not by any chance be the woman who smashed in what used to be my head, is it?” The locution strikes him funny and he laughs.
“No.” The world has become a camera lens, zooming in and out with every beat of his laboring, pacemaker-assisted heart. “Holly Gibney was the one who thumped you. She’s gone back to live with her parents in Ohio. That’s Kara Winston, my assistant.” The name comes to him from nowhere, and there’s no hesitation as he speaks it.
“An assistant who just decided to come with you on a do-or-die mission? I find that a little hard to believe.”
“I promised her a bonus. She needs the money.”
“And where, pray tell, is your nigger lawnboy?”
Hodges briefly considers telling Brady the truth—that Jerome is back in the city, that he knows Brady has probably gone to the hunting camp, that he will pass this information on to the police soon, if he hasn’t already. But will any of those things stop Brady? Of course not.
“Jerome is in Arizona, building houses. Habitat for Humanity.”
“How socially conscious of him. I was hoping he’d be with you. How badly hurt is his sister?”
“Broken leg. She’ll be up and walking in no time.”
“That’s a shame.”
“She was one of your test cases, wasn’t she?”
“She got one of the original Zappits, yes. There were twelve of them. Like the twelve Apostles, you might say, going forth to spread the word. Sit in the chair in front of the TV, Detective Hodges.”
“I’d rather not. All my favorite shows are on Monday.”
Brady smiles politely. “Sit.”
Hodges sits, bracing his good hand on the table beside the chair. Going down is agony, but once he actually makes it, sitting is a little better. The TV is off, but he stares at it, anyway. “Where’s the camera?”
“On the signpost where the road splits. Above the arrows. You don’t have to feel bad about missing it. It was covered with snow, nothing sticking out but the lens, and your headlights were off by then.”
“Is there any Babineau left inside you?”
He shrugs. “Bits and pieces. Every now and then there’s a small scream from the part that thinks it’s still alive. It will stop soon.”
“Jesus,” Hodges mutters.
Brady drops to one knee, the barrel of the Scar resting on his thigh and still pointing at Hodges. He pulls down the back of Holly’s coat and examines the tag. “H. Gibney,” he says. “Printed in indelible ink. Very tidy. Won’t wash off in the laundry. I like a person who takes care of her things.”