“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do,” Hodges says, although she’s right; it doesn’t seem fair at all. “But I’d sure like to know what’s on those computers. That might help me make up my mind.”
“He won’t be like Olivia,” Holly says. “He’ll have a good password.”
Jerome picks one of the computers at random (it happens to be Brady’s Number Six; not much on that one) and pushes the recessed button on the back of the monitor. It’s a Mac, but there’s no chime. Brady hates that cheery chime, and has turned it off on all his computers.
Number Six flashes gray, and the boot-up worry-circle starts going round and round. After five seconds or so, gray turns to blue. This should be the password screen, even Hodges knows that, but instead a large 20 appears on the screen. Then 19, 18, and 17.
He and Jerome stare at it in perplexity.
“No, no!” Holly nearly screams it. “Turn it off!”
When neither of them moves immediately, she darts forward and pushes the power button behind the monitor again, holding it down until the screen goes dark. Then she lets out a breath and actually smiles.
“Jeepers! That was a close one!”
“What are you thinking?” Hodges asks. “That they’re wired up to explode, or something?”
“Maybe they only lock up,” Holly says, “but I bet it’s a suicide program. If the countdown gets to zero, that kind of program scrubs the data. All the data. Maybe just in the one that’s on, but in all of them if they’re wired together. Which they probably are.”
“So how do you stop it?” Jerome asks. “Keyboard command?”
“Maybe that. Maybe voice-ac.”
“Voice-what?” Hodges asks.
“Voice-activated command,” Jerome tells him. “Brady says Milk Duds or underwear and the countdown stops.”
Holly giggles through her fingers, then gives Jerome a timid push on the shoulder. “You’re silly,” she says.
15
They sit at the kitchen table with the back door open to let in fresh air. Hodges has an elbow on one of the placemats and his brow cupped in his palm. Jerome and Holly keep quiet, letting him think it through. At last he raises his head.
“I’m going to call it in. I don’t want to, and if it was just between Hartsfield and me, I probably wouldn’t. But I’ve got you two to consider—”
“Don’t do it on my account,” Jerome says. “If you see a way to go on, I’ll stick with you.”
Of course you will, Hodges thinks. You might think you know what you’re risking, but you don’t. When you’re seventeen, the future is strictly theoretical.
As for Holly . . . previously he would have said she was a kind of human movie screen, with every thought in her head projected large on her face, but at this moment she’s inscrutable.
“Thanks, Jerome, only . . .” Only this is hard. Letting go is hard, and this will be the second time he has to relinquish Mr. Mercedes.
But.
“It’s not just us, see? He could have more explosive, and if he uses it on a crowd . . .” He looks directly at Holly. “. . . the way he used your cousin Olivia’s Mercedes on a crowd, it would be on me. I won’t take that chance.”
Speaking carefully, enunciating each word as if to make up for what has probably been a lifetime of mumbling, Holly says, “No one can catch him but you.”
“Thanks, but no,” he says gently. “The police have resources. They’ll start by putting a BOLO out on his car, complete with license plate number. I can’t do that.”
It sounds good but he doesn’t believe it is good. When he’s not taking insane risks like the one he took at City Center, Brady’s one of the smart ones. He will have stashed the car somewhere—maybe in a downtown parking lot, maybe in one of the airport parking lots, maybe in one of those endless mall parking lots. His ride is no Mercedes-Benz; it’s an unobtrusive shit-colored Subaru, and it won’t be found today or tomorrow. They might still be looking for it next week. And if they do find it, Brady won’t be anywhere near it.
“No one but you,” she insists. “And only with us to help you.”
“Holly—”
“How can you give up?” she cries at him. She balls one hand into a fist and strikes herself in the middle of the forehead with it, leaving a red mark. “How can you? Janey liked you! She was even sort of your girlfriend! Now she’s dead! Like the woman upstairs! Both of them,