18
Hodges hasn’t taken the bait because he understands the stakes: pot limit. If he writes the wrong message, he’ll never hear from Mr. Mercedes again. On the other hand, if he does what he’s sure Mr. Mercedes expects—coy and clumsy efforts to discover who the guy is—the conniving sonofabitch will run rings around him.
The question to be answered before he starts is simple: who is going to be the fish in this relationship, and who is going to be the fisherman?
He has to write something, because the Blue Umbrella is all he has. He can call on none of his old police resources. The letters Mr. Mercedes wrote to Olivia Trelawney and Hodges himself are worthless without a suspect. Besides, a letter is just a letter, while computer chat is . . .
“A dialogue,” he says.
Only he needs a lure. The tastiest lure imaginable. He can pretend he’s suicidal, it wouldn’t be hard, because until very recently he has been. He’s sure that meditations on the attractiveness of death would keep Mr. Mercedes talking for awhile, but for how long before the guy realized he was being played? This is no hopped-up moke who believes the police really are going to give him a million dollars and a 747 that will fly him to El Salvador. Mr. Mercedes is a very intelligent person who happens to be crazy.
Hodges draws his legal pad onto his lap and turns to a fresh page. Halfway down he writes half a dozen words in large capitals:
I HAVE TO WIND HIM UP.
He puts a box around this, places the legal pad in the case file he has started, and closes the thickening folder. He sits a moment longer, looking at the screensaver photo of his daughter, who is no longer five and no longer thinks he’s God.
“Good night, Allie.”
He turns off his computer and goes to bed. He doesn’t expect to sleep, but he does.
19
He wakes up at 2:19 A.M. by the bedside clock with the answer as bright in his mind as a neon bar sign. It’s risky but right, the kind of thing you do without hesitation or you don’t do at all. He goes into his office, a large pale ghost in boxer shorts. He powers up his computer. He goes to Debbie’s Blue Umbrella and clicks GET STARTED NOW!
A new image appears. This time the young couple is on what looks like a magic carpet floating over an endless sea. The silver rain is falling, but they are safe and dry beneath the blue umbrella. There are two buttons below the carpet, REGISTER NOW on the left and ENTER PASSWORD on the right. Hodges clicks ENTER PASSWORD, and in the box that appears he types kermitfrog19. He hits return and a new screen appears. On it is this message:
merckill wants to chat with you!
Do you want to chat with merckill?
Y N
He puts the cursor on Y and clicks his mouse. A box for his message appears. Hodges types quickly, without hesitation.
20
Three miles away, at 49 Elm Street in Northfield, Brady Hartsfield can’t sleep. His head thumps. He thinks: Frankie. My brother, who should have died when he choked on that apple slice. Life would have been so much simpler if things had happened that way.
He thinks of his mother, who sometimes forgets her nightgown and sleeps raw.
Most of all, he thinks of the fat ex-cop.
At last he gets up and leaves his bedroom, pausing for a moment outside his mother’s door, listening to her snore. The most unerotic sound in the universe, he tells himself, but still he pauses. Then he goes downstairs, opens the basement door, and closes it behind him. He stands in the dark and says, “Control.” But his voice is too hoarse and the dark remains. He clears his throat and tries again. “Control!”
The lights come on. Chaos lights up his computers and darkness stops the seven-screen countdown. He sits in front of his Number Three. Among the litter of icons is a small blue umbrella. He clicks on it, unaware that he’s been holding his breath until he lets it out in a long harsh gasp.
kermitfrog19 wants to chat with you!
Do you want to chat with kermitfrog19?
Y N
Brady hits Y and leans forward. His eager expression remains for a moment before puzzlement seeps in. Then, as he reads the short message over and over, puzzlement becomes first anger and then naked fury.
Seen a lot of false confessions in my time, but this one’s a dilly.
I’m retired but not stupid.
Withheld evidence proves you are not the Mercedes Killer.
Fuck off, asshole.
Brady feels an almost insurmountable urge to slam his fist through the screen but restrains it. He sits in his chair, trembling all over. His eyes are wide and unbelieving. A minute passes. Two. Three.
Pretty soon I’ll get up, he thinks. Get up and go back to bed.
Only what good will that do? He won’t be able to sleep.
“You fat fuck,” he whispers, unaware that hot tears have begun to spill from his eyes. “You fat stupid useless fuck. It was me! It was me! It was me!”
Withheld evidence proves.
That is impossible.
He seizes on the necessity of hurting the fat ex-cop, and with the idea the ability to think returns. How should he do that? He considers the question for nearly half an hour, trying on and rejecting several scenarios. The answer, when it comes, is elegantly simple. The fat ex-cop’s friend—his only friend, so far as Brady has been able to ascertain—is a nigger kid with a white name. And what does the nigger kid love? What does his whole family love? The Irish setter, of course. Odell.
Brady recalls his earlier fantasy about poisoning a few gallons of Mr. Tastey’s finest, and starts laughing. He goes on the Internet and begins doing research.
My due diligence, he thinks, and smiles.
At some point he realizes his headache is gone.