Stephen King - End of Watch

The legal shield has gone bye-bye. Schneider is animated now, wrapped up in his own story. ‘The guy offered to buy eight hundred Zappits at eighty dollars apiece, which was roughly a hundred dollars cheaper than the suggested retail. We dickered a bit and settled on a hundred.’

‘Per unit.’

‘Yes.’

‘Comes to eighty thousand dollars,’ Hodges says. He’s thinking of Brady, who had been hit with God only knew how many civil suits, for sums mounting into the tens of millions of dollars. Brady, who’d had – if Hodges’s memory serves him right – about eleven hundred dollars in the bank. ‘And you got a check for that amount?’

He’s not sure he’ll get an answer to the question – many lawyers would close the discussion off at this point – but he does. Probably because the Sunrise Solutions bankruptcy is all tied up in a nice legal bow. For Schneider, this is like a postgame interview. ‘Correct. Drawn on the Gamez Unlimited account.’

‘Cleared okay?’

Todd Schneider chuckles his big business chuckle. ‘If it hadn’t, those eight hundred Zappit consoles would have been recycled into new computer goodies along with the rest.’

Hodges scribbles some quick math on his doodle-decorated pad. If thirty percent of the eight hundred units were defective, that leaves five hundred and sixty working consoles. Or maybe not that many. Hilda Carver got one that had presumably been vetted – why else give it to her? – but according to Barbara, it had given a single blue flash and then died.

‘So off they went.’

‘Yes, via UPS from a warehouse in Terre Haute. A very small recoupment, but something. We do what we can for our clients, Mr Hodges.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ And we all say hooray, Hodges thinks. ‘Do you recall the address those eight hundred Zappits went to?’

‘No, but it will be in the files. Give me your email and I’ll be happy to send it to you, on condition you call me back and tell me what sort of scam these Gamez people have been working.’

‘Happy to do that, Mr Schneider.’ It’ll be a box number, Hodges thinks, and the box holder will be long gone. Still, it will need to be checked out. Holly can do it while he’s in the hospital, getting treatment for something that almost certainly can’t be cured. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Schneider. One more question, and I’ll let you go. Do you happen to remember the name of the Gamez Unlimited CEO?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Schneider says. ‘I assumed that’s why the company was Gamez with a Z instead of an S.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘The CEO’s name was Myron Zakim.’

Hodges hangs up and opens Firefox. He types in zeetheend and finds himself looking at a cartoon man swinging a cartoon pickaxe. Clouds of dirt fly up, forming the same message over and over.

Another idea worthy of Reader’s Digest , Hodges thinks, and goes to his window. Morning traffic on Lower Marlborough is moving briskly. He realizes, with wonder and gratitude, that the pain in his side has entirely disappeared for the first time in days. He could almost believe nothing is wrong with him, but the bitter taste in his mouth contradicts that.

The bitter taste, he thinks. The residue .

His cell rings. It’s Norma Wilmer, her voice pitched so low he has to strain to hear. ‘If this is about the so-called visitors list, I haven’t had a chance to look for it yet. This place is crawling with police and cheap suits from the district attorney’s office. You’d think Hartsfield escaped instead of died.’

‘It’s not about the list, although I still need that info, and if you can get it to me today, it’s worth another fifty dollars. Get it to me before noon, and I’ll make it a hundred.’

‘Jesus, what’s the big deal with this? I asked Georgia Frederick – she’s been bouncing back and forth between Ortho and the Bucket for the last ten years – and she says the only person she ever saw visiting Hartsfield besides you was some ratty chick with tattoos and a Marine haircut.’

This rings no bells with Hodges, but there is a faint vibration. Which he doesn’t trust. He wants to put this thing together too badly, and that means he must step with special care.

‘What do you want, Bill? I’m in a fucking linen closet, it’s hot, and I’ve got a headache.’

‘My old partner called and told me Brady swallowed some shit and killed himself. What that says to me is he must have stockpiled enough dope over time to do it. Is that possible?’

‘It is. It’s also possible I could land a 767 jumbo jet if the whole flight crew died of food poisoning, but both things are very fucking unlikely. I’ll tell you what I told the cops and the two most annoying yappers from the DA’s office. Brady got Anaprox-DS on PE days, one pill with food before, one late in the day if he asked, which he rarely did. Anaprox isn’t really much more powerful when it comes to controlling pain than Advil, which you can buy OTC. He also had Extra Strength Tylenol on his chart, but only asked for it on a few occasions.’

‘How did the DA guys react to that?’

‘Right now they’re operating under the theory that he swallowed a shitload of Anaprox.’

‘But you don’t buy it?’

‘Of course I don’t! Where would he hide that many pills, up his bony bedsored ass? I have to go. I’ll get back to you on the visitors list. If there ever was one, that is.’

‘Thank you, Norma. Try some Anaprox for that headache of yours.’

‘Fuck you, Bill.’ But she says it with a laugh.

The first thought to cross Hodges’s mind when Jerome walks in is Holy shit, kiddo, you grew up!

When Jerome Robinson came to work for him – first as the kid who cut his grass, then as an all-around handyman, finally as the tech angel who kept his computer up and running – he was a weedy teenager, going about five-eight and a hundred and forty pounds. The young giant in the doorway is six-two if he’s an inch, and at least a hundred and ninety. He was always good-looking, but now he’s movie star good-looking and all muscled out.

The subject in question breaks into a grin, strides quickly across the office, and embraces Hodges. He squeezes, but lets go in a hurry when he sees Hodges wince. ‘Jesus, sorry.’

‘You didn’t hurt me, just happy to see you, my man.’ His vision is a little blurry and he wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

‘You too. How you feeling?’

‘Right now, good. I’ve got pills for pain, but you’re better medicine.’

Holly is standing in the doorway, sensible winter coat unzipped, small hands linked at her waist. She’s watching them with an unhappy smile. Hodges wouldn’t have believed there was such a thing, but apparently there is.

‘Come on over, Holly,’ he says. ‘No group hug, I promise. Have you filled Jerome in on this business?’

‘He knows about Barbara’s part, but I thought I’d better let you tell the rest.’

Jerome briefly cups the back of Hodges’s neck with a big warm hand. ‘Holly says you’re going into the hospital tomorrow for more tests and a treatment plan, and if you try to argue, I’m supposed to tell you to shut up.’

‘Not shut up,’ Holly says, looking at Jerome severely. ‘I never used that phrase.’

Jerome grins. ‘You had be quiet on your lips, but shut up in your eyes.’

‘Fool,’ she says, but the smile returns. Happy we’re together, Hodges thinks, sad because of the reason why. He breaks up this strangely pleasant sibling rivalry by asking how Barbara is.