Stephen King: End of Watch

‘Who ended up taking care of her.’

Holly nods. ‘Very strange, very sad. But at least there was a financial safety net, which is the purpose of insurance. They even moved up in the world.’

‘Yes,’ Hodges says, ‘but now they’re out of it.’

To this Holly makes no reply. Up ahead is the Ridgedale exit. Hodges takes it.

Pete Huntley has put on weight, his belly hanging over his belt buckle, but Isabelle Jaynes is as smashing as ever in her tight faded jeans and blue blazer. Her misty gray eyes go from Hodges to Holly and then back to Hodges again.

‘You’ve gotten thin,’ she says. This could be either a compliment or an accusation.

‘He’s having stomach problems, so he had some tests,’ Holly says. ‘The results were supposed to be in today, but—’

‘Let’s not go there, Hols,’ Hodges says. ‘This isn’t a medical consultation.’

‘You two are more like an old married couple every day,’ Izzy says.

Holly replies in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Marriage to Bill would spoil our working relationship.’

Pete laughs and Holly shoots him a puzzled glance as they step inside the house.

It’s a handsome Cape Cod, and although it’s on top of a hill and the day is cold, the house is toasty-warm. In the foyer, all four of them put on thin rubber gloves and bootees. How it all comes back, Hodges thinks. As if I was never away.

In the living room there’s a painting of big-eyed waifs hung on one wall, a big-screen TV hung on another. There’s an easy chair in front of the tube with a coffee table beside it. On the table is a careful fan of celebrity mags like OK! and scandal rags like Inside View . In the middle of the room there are two deep grooves in the rug. Hodges thinks, This is where they sat in the evenings to watch TV. Or maybe all day long. Mom in her easy chair, Martine in her wheelchair. Which must have weighed a ton, judging by those marks.

‘What was her mother’s name?’ he asks.

‘Janice Ellerton. Husband James died twenty years ago, according to…’ Old-school like Hodges, Pete carries a notebook instead of an iPad. Now he consults it. ‘According to Yvonne Carstairs. She and the other aide, Georgina Ross, found the bodies when they arrived this morning shortly before six. They got paid extra for turning up early. The Ross woman wasn’t much help—’

‘She was gibbering,’ Izzy says. ‘Carstairs was okay, though. Kept her head throughout. Called the police right away, and we were on-scene by six forty.’

‘How old was Mom?’ Hodges asks.

‘Don’t know exactly yet,’ Pete says, ‘but no spring chicken.’

‘She was seventy-nine,’ Holly says. ‘One of the news stories I searched while I was waiting for Bill to pick me up said she was seventy-three when the City Center Massacre happened.’

‘Awfully long in the tooth to be taking care of a quadriplegic daughter,’ Hodges says.

‘She was in good shape, though,’ Isabelle says. ‘At least according to Carstairs. Strong. And she had plenty of help. There was money for it because—’

‘—of the insurance,’ Hodges finishes. ‘Holly filled me in on the ride over.’

Izzy gives Holly a glance. Holly doesn’t notice. She’s measuring the room. Taking inventory. Sniffing the air. Running a palm across the back of Mom’s easy chair. Holly has emotional problems, she’s breathtakingly literal, but she’s also open to stimuli in a way few people are.

Pete says, ‘There were two aides in the morning, two in the afternoon, two in the evening. Seven days a week. Private company called’ – back to the notebook – ‘Home Helpers. They did all the heavy lifting. There’s also a housekeeper, Nancy Alderson, but apparently she’s off. Note on the kitchen calendar says Nancy in Chagrin Falls . There’s a line drawn through today, Tuesday, and Wednesday.’

Two men, also wearing gloves and bootees, come down the hall. From the late Martine Stover’s part of the house, Hodges assumes. Both are carrying evidence cases.

‘All done in the bedroom and bathroom,’ one of them says.

‘Anything?’ Izzy asks.

‘About what you’d expect,’ the other says. ‘We got quite a few white hairs from the tub, not unusual considering that’s where the old lady highsided it. There was also excrement in the tub, but just a trace. Also as you would expect.’ Off Hodges’s questioning look, the tech adds, ‘She was wearing continence pants. The lady did her homework.’

‘Oough,’ Holly says.

The first tech says, ‘There’s a shower chair, but it’s in the corner with extra towels stacked on the seat. Looks like it’s never been used.’

‘They would have given her sponge baths,’ Holly says.

She still looks grossed out, either by the thought of continence pants or shit in the bathtub, but her eyes continue to flick everywhere. She may ask a question or two, or drop a comment, but mostly she’ll remain silent, because people intimidate her, especially in close quarters. But Hodges knows her well – as well as anyone can, at least – and he can tell she’s on high alert.

Later she will talk, and Hodges will listen closely. During the Saubers case the year before, he learned that listening to Holly pays dividends. She thinks outside the box, sometimes way outside it, and her intuitions can be uncanny. And although fearful by nature – God knows she has her reasons – she can be brave. Holly is the reason Brady Hartsfield, aka Mr Mercedes, is now in the Lakes Region Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic at Kiner Memorial. Holly used a sock loaded with ball bearings to crush in his skull before Hartsfield could touch off a disaster much greater than the one at City Center. Now he’s in a twilight world the head neuro guy at the Brain Injury Clinic refers to as ‘a persistent vegetative state.’

‘Quadriplegics can shower,’ Holly amplifies, ‘but it’s difficult for them because of all the life-support equipment they’re hooked up to. So mostly it’s sponge baths.’

‘Let’s go in the kitchen, where it’s sunny,’ Pete says, and to the kitchen they go.

The first thing Hodges notices is the dish drainer, where the single plate that held Mrs Ellerton’s last meal has been left to dry. The countertops are sparkling, and the floor looks clean enough to eat on. Hodges has an idea that her bed upstairs will have been neatly made. She may even have vacuumed the carpets. And then there’s the continence pants. She took care of the things she could take care of. As a man who once seriously considered suicide himself, Hodges can relate.

Pete, Izzy, and Hodges sit at the kitchen table. Holly merely hovers, sometimes standing behind Isabelle to look at the collection of photos on Izzy’s iPad labeled ELLERTON/STOVER, sometimes poking into the various cupboards, her gloved fingers as light as moths.

Izzy takes them through it, swiping at the screen as she talks.

The first photo shows two middle-aged women. Both are beefy and broad-shouldered in their red nylon Home Helpers uniforms, but one of them – Georgina Ross, Hodges presumes – is crying and gripping her shoulders so that her forearms press against her breasts. The other one, Yvonne Carstairs, is apparently made of sterner stuff.

‘They got here at five forty-five,’ Izzy says. ‘They have a key to let themselves in, so they don’t have to knock or ring. Sometimes Martine slept until six thirty, Carstairs says. Mrs Ellerton is always up, gets up around five, she told them, had to have her coffee first thing, only this morning she’s not up and there’s no smell of coffee. So they think the old lady overslept for once, good for her. They tiptoe into Stover’s bedroom, right down the hall, to see if she’s awake yet. This is what they find.’