Mr. Mercedes

Holly clenches a fist on either side of her face. ‘Yes,’ she says, and Hodges finds himself remembering what she said earlier: They can’t find him. We can.

In spite of his desire to confront Hartsfield – to wrap his hands around Hartsfield’s neck and see the bastard’s eyes bulge as his breath stops – Hodges hopes she’s wrong about that. Because if it’s up to them, it may already be too late.

32

This time it’s Jerome behind the wheel and Hodges in back. Olivia Trelawney’s Mercedes gathers itself slowly, but once the twelve-cylinder engine gets cranking, it goes like a rocket … and with the lives of his mother and sister on the line, Jerome drives it like one, weaving from lane to lane and ignoring the protesting honks of the cars around him. Hodges estimates they can be at the MAC in twenty minutes. If the kid doesn’t pile them up, that is.

‘Call the security man!’ Holly says from the passenger seat. ‘Call him, call him, call him!’

As Hodges takes his Nokia out of his jacket pocket, he instructs Jerome to take the City Bypass.

‘Don’t backseat-drive me,’ Jerome says. ‘Just make the call. And hurry.’

But when he tries to access his phone’s memory, the fucking Nokia gives a single weak tweet and then dies. When was the last time he charged it? Hodges can’t remember. He can’t remember the number of the security office, either. He should have written it down in his notebook instead of depending on the phone.

Goddam technology, he thinks … but whose fault is it, really?

‘Holly. Dial 555-1900 and then give me your phone. Mine’s dead.’ 1900 is the department. He can get Windom’s number from Marlo again.

‘Okay, what’s the area code here? My phone’s on—’

She breaks off as Jerome swerves around a panel truck and drives straight at an SUV in the other lane, flashing his lights and yelling, ‘Get out of the way!’ The SUV swerves and Jerome skates the Mercedes past with a coat of paint to spare.

‘—on Cinci

Hodges, thinking he could use some of the drugs she’s on, recites the area code. She dials and hands her phone to him over the seat.

‘Police Department, how may I direct your call?’

‘I need to talk to Marlo Everett in Records, and right away.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I saw Ms Everett leave half an hour ago.’

‘Have you got her cell number?’

‘Sir, I’m not allowed to give that information ou—’

He has no inclination to engage in a time-consuming argument that will surely prove fruitless, and clicks off just as Jerome swings onto the City Bypass, doing sixty. ‘What’s the holdup, Bill? Why aren’t you—’

‘Shut up and drive, Jerome,’ Holly says. ‘Mr Hodges is doing the best he can.’

The truth is, she really doesn’t want me to reach anyone, Hodges thinks. Because it’s supposed to be us and only us. A crazy idea comes to him, that Holly is using some weird psychic vibe to make sure it stays them and only them. And it might. Based on the way Jerome’s driving, they’ll be at the MAC before Hodges is able to get hold of anyone in authority.

A cold part of his mind is thinking that might be best. Because no matter who Hodges reaches, Larry Windom is the man in charge at the Mingo, and Hodges doesn’t trust him. Romper-Stomper was always a bludgeoner, a go-right-at-em kind of guy, and Hodges doubts he has changed.

Still, he has to try.

He hands Holly’s phone back to her and says, ‘I can’t figure this fucking thing out. Call Directory Assistance and—’

‘Try my sister again first,’ Jerome says, and raps off the number.

Holly dials Barbara’s phone, her thumb moving so fast it’s a blur. Listens. ‘Voicemail.’

Jerome curses and drives faster. Hodges can only hope there’s an angel riding on his shoulder.

‘Barbara!’ Holly hollers. No mumbling now. ‘You and whoever’s with you get your asses out of there right away! ASAP! Pronto!’ She clicks off. ‘Now what? Directory Assistance, you said?’

‘Yeah. Get the MAC Security Department number, dial it, and give the phone back to me. Jerome, take Exit 4A.’

‘3B’s the MAC.’

‘It is if you’re going in front. We’re going to the back.’

‘Bill, if my mom and sis get hurt—’

‘They won’t. Take 4A.’ Holly’s discussion with Directory Assistance has lasted too long. ‘Holly, what’s the holdup?’

‘No direct line into their Security Department.’ She dials a new number, listens, and hands him the phone. ‘You have to go through the main number.’

He presses Holly’s iPhone to his ear hard enough to hurt. It rings. And rings. And rings some more.

As they pass Exits 2A and 2B, Hodges can see the MAC. It’s lit up like a jukebox, the parking lot a sea of cars. His call is finally answered, but before he can say a word, a fembot begins to lecture him. She does it slowly and carefully, as if addressing a person who speaks English as a second language, and not well.

‘Hello, and thank you for calling the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex, where we make life better and all things are possible.’

Hodges listens with Holly’s phone mashed against his ear and sweat rolling down his cheeks and neck. It’s six past seven. The bastard won’t do it until the show starts, he tells himself (he’s actually praying), and rock acts always start late.

‘Remember,’ the fembot says sweetly, ‘we depend on you for support, and season’s passes to the City Symphony and this fall’s Playhouse Series are available now. Not only will you save fifty percent—’

‘What’s happening?’ Jerome shouts as they pass 3A and 3B. The next sign reads EXIT 4A SPICER BOULEVARD ½ MILE. Jerome has tossed Holly his own phone and Holly is trying first Tanya, then Barbara again, with no result.

‘I’m listening to a fucking recorded ad,’ Hodges says. He’s rubbing the hollow of his shoulder again. That ache is like an infected tooth. ‘Go left at the bottom of the ramp. You’ll want a right turn I think about a block up. Maybe two. By the McDonald’s, anyway.’ Although the Mercedes is now doing eighty, the sound of the engine has yet to rise above a sleepy purr.

‘If we hear an explosion, I’m going to lose my mind,’ Jerome says matter-of-factly.

‘Just drive,’ Holly says. An unlit Winston jitters between her teeth. ‘If you don’t wreck us, we’ll be fine.’ She’s gone back to Tanya’s number. ‘We’re going to get him. We’re going to get him get him get him.’

Jerome snatches a glance at her. ‘Holly, you’re nuts.’

‘Just drive,’ she repeats.

‘You can also use your MAC card to obtain a ten percent discount at selected fine restaurants and local retail businesses,’ the fembot informs Hodges.

Then, at long last, she gets down to business.

‘There is no one in the main office to take your call now. If you know the number of the extension you wish to reach, you may dial it at any time. If not, please listen carefully, because our menu options have changed. To call the Avery Johns Drama Office, dial one-oh. To call the Belinda Dean Box Office, dial one-one. To reach City Symphony—’

Oh dear Jesus, Hodges thinks, it’s the fucking Sears catalogue. And in alphabetical order.

The Mercedes dips and swerves as Jerome takes the 4A exit and shoots down the curved ramp. The light is red at the bottom. ‘Holly. How is it your way?’

She checks with the phone still at her ear. ‘You’re okay if you hurry. If you want to get us all killed, take your time.’

Jerome buries the accelerator. Olivia’s Mercedes shoots across four lanes of traffic listing hard to port, the tires squalling. There’s a thud as they bounce across the concrete divider. Horns blare a discordant flourish. From the corner of his eye, Hodges sees a panel truck climb the curb to avoid them.

‘To reach Craft Service and Set Design, dial—’

Hodges punches the roof of the Mercedes. ‘What happened to HUMAN FUCKING BEINGS?’