Stephen King: End of Watch

‘You’re coming inside with me,’ Brady says. ‘The question is whether or not we bring her, or leave her out here, to turn into a Popsicle.’ And, as if he’s read Hodges’s mind (for all Hodges knows, he can do that): ‘Oh, she’s still alive, at least for now. I can see her back going up and down. Although after a hit that hard, and with her face in the snow, who knows for how long?’

‘I’ll carry her,’ Hodges says, and he will. No matter how much it hurts.

‘Okay.’ No pause to think it over, and Hodges know it’s what Brady expected and what Brady wanted. He’s one step ahead. Has been all along. And whose fault is that?

Mine. Entirely mine. It’s what I get for playing the Lone Ranger yet again… but what else could I do? Who would ever have believed it?

‘Pick her up,’ Brady says. ‘Let’s see if you really can. Because, tell you what, you look mighty shaky to me.’

Hodges gets his arms under Holly. In the woods, he couldn’t make it to his feet after he fell, but now he gathers everything he has left and does a clean-and-jerk with her limp body. He staggers, almost goes down, and finds his balance again. The burning arrow is gone, incinerated in the forest fire it has touched off inside him. But he hugs her to his chest.

‘That’s good.’ Brady sounds genuinely admiring. ‘Now let’s see if you can make it to the house.’

Somehow, Hodges does.

The wood in the fireplace is burning well and throwing a stuporous heat. Gasping for breath, the snow on his borrowed hat melting and running down his face in slushy streams, Hodges gets to the middle of the room and then goes to his knees, having to cradle Holly’s neck in the crook of his elbow because of his broken wrist, which is swelling up like a sausage. He manages to keep her head from banging on the hardwood floor, and that’s good. Her head has taken enough abuse tonight.

Brady has removed his coat, the night-vision goggles, and the balaclava. It’s Babineau’s face and Babineau’s silvery hair (now in unaccustomed disarray), but it’s Brady Hartsfield, all right. Hodges’s last doubts have departed.

‘Has she got a gun?’

‘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 right-handed, 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 pantslegs 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.’

Hodges closes his eyes. The pain is very bad, and he would give everything he owns to get away from it, and from what is going to happen next. He would give anything to just sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But he opens them again and forces himself to look at Brady, because you play the game to the end. That’s how it works; play to the end.

‘I have a lot of stuff to do in the next forty-eight or seventy-two hours, Detective Hodges, but I’m going to put it on hold in order to deal with you. Does that make you feel special? It should. Because I owe you so much for fucking me over.’

‘You need to remember that you came to me ,’ Hodges says. ‘You were the one who started the ball rolling, with that stupid, bragging letter. Not me. You.’

Babineau’s face – the craggy face of an older character actor – darkens. ‘I suppose you might have a point, but look who’s on top now. Look who wins , Detective Hodges.’

‘If you call getting a bunch of stupid, confused kids to commit suicide winning, I guess you’re the winner. Me, I think doing that is about as challenging as striking out the pitcher.’