That’s where the message-time—extra-long, for clients who call after-hours, usually from the West Coast—finally runs out. Beep.
Drew sits down in his chair (ignoring its despairing squeal, as always), and stares at the answering machine for nearly a full minute. He feels no need to call the River Bend Resort . . . which is, amusingly enough, only six or seven miles upriver from the penitentiary where the original notebook thief is now serving a life sentence. Drew is sure Saubers was telling the truth about the retreat, because it’s so easy to check. About his reasons for not ditching it he’s far less sure. Maybe Saubers has decided to call Drew’s bluff about bringing the police into it. Except it’s not a bluff. He has no intention of letting Saubers have what Drew can’t have himself. One way or another, the little bastard is going to give those notebooks up.
I’ll wait until Monday afternoon, Drew thinks. I can afford to wait that long, but then this situation is going to be resolved, one way or the other. I’ve already given him too much rope.
He reflects that the Saubers boy and his old friend Morris Bellamy, although at opposite ends of the age-spectrum, are very much alike when it comes to the Rothstein notebooks. They lust for what’s inside them. It’s why the boy only wanted to sell him six, and probably the six he judged least interesting. Drew, on the other hand, cares little about John Rothstein. He read The Runner, but only because Morrie was bonkers on the subject. He never bothered with the other two, or the book of short stories.
That’s your Achilles’ heel, son, Drew thinks. That collector’s lust. While I, on the other hand, only care about money, and money simplifies everything. So go ahead. Enjoy your weekend of pretend politics. When you come back, we’ll play some hardball.
Drew leans over his paunch and erases the message.
13
Hodges gets a good whiff of himself on his way back into the city and decides to divert to his house long enough for a veggie burger and a quick shower. Also a change of clothes. Harper Road isn’t much out of his way, and he’ll be more comfortable in a pair of jeans. Jeans are one of the major perks of self-employment, as far as he’s concerned.
Pete Huntley calls as he’s heading out the door, to inform his old partner that Oliver Madden is in custody. Hodges congratulates Pete on the collar and has just settled behind the wheel of his Prius when his phone rings again. This time it’s Holly.
“Where are you, Bill?”
Hodges looks at his watch and sees it’s somehow gotten all the way to three fifteen. How the time flies when you’re having fun, he thinks.
“My house. Just leaving for the office.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Stopped for a shower. Didn’t want to offend your delicate olfactories. And I didn’t forget about Barbara. I’ll call as soon as I—”
“You won’t have to. She’s here. With a little chum named Tina. They came in a taxi.”
“A taxi?” Ordinarily, kids don’t even think of taxis. Maybe whatever Barbara wants to discuss is a little more serious than he believed.
“Yes. I put them in your office.” Holly lowers her voice. “Barbara’s just worried, but the other one acts scared to death. I think she’s in some kind of jam. You should get here as soon as you can, Bill.”
“Roger that.”
“Please hurry. You know I’m not good with strong emotions. I’m working on that with my therapist, but right now I’m just not.”
“On my way. There in twenty.”
“Should I go across the street and get them Cokes?”
“I don’t know.” The light at the bottom of the hill turns yellow. Hodges puts on speed and scoots through it. “Use your judgment.”
“But I have so little,” Holly mourns, and before he can reply, she tells him again to hurry and hangs up.
14
While Bill Hodges was explaining the facts of life to the dazed Oliver Madden and Drew Halliday was settling in to his eggs Benedict, Pete Saubers was in the nurse’s office at Northfield High, pleading a migraine headache and asking to be dismissed from afternoon classes. The nurse wrote the slip with no hesitation, because Pete is one of the good ones: Honor Roll, lots of school activities (although no sports), near-perfect attendance. Also, he looked like someone suffering a migraine. His face was far too pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. She asked if he needed a ride home.
“No,” Pete said, “I’ll take the bus.”
She offered him Advil—it’s all she’s allowed to dispense for headaches—but he shook his head, telling her he had special pills for migraines. He forgot to bring one that day, but said he’d take one as soon as he got home. He felt okay about this story, because he really did have a headache. Just not the physical kind. His headache was Andrew Halliday, and one of his mother’s Zomig tablets (she’s the migraine sufferer in the family) wouldn’t cure it.
Pete knew he had to take care of that himself.
15
He has no intention of taking the bus. The next one won’t be along for half an hour, and he can be on Sycamore Street in fifteen minutes if he runs, and he will, because this Thursday afternoon is all he has. His mother and father are at work and won’t be home until at least four. Tina won’t be home at all. She says she has been invited to spend a couple of nights with her old friend Barbara Robinson on Teaberry Lane, but Pete thinks she might actually have invited herself. If so, it probably means his sister hasn’t given up her hopes of attending Chapel Ridge. Pete thinks he might still be able to help her with that, but only if this afternoon goes perfectly. That’s a very big if, but he has to do something. If he doesn’t, he’ll go crazy.
He’s lost weight since foolishly making the acquaintance of Andrew Halliday, the acne of his early teens is enjoying a return engagement, and of course there are those dark circles under his eyes. He’s been sleeping badly, and what sleep he’s managed has been haunted by bad dreams. After awakening from these—often curled in a fetal position, pajamas damp with sweat—Pete has lain awake, trying to think his way out of the trap he’s in.
He genuinely forgot the class officers’ retreat, and when Mrs. Gibson, the chaperone, reminded him of it yesterday, it shocked his brain into a higher gear. That was after period five French, and before he got to his calculus class, only two doors down, he has the rough outline of a plan in his head. It partly depends on an old red wagon, and even more on a certain set of keys.