Hodges picks up the red wallet and starts returning the credit cards to the slots. They’re probably not in the same order Mrs. Hartsfield had them in, but who’s going to notice? Not her.
There are photos in an accordion of transparent envelopes, and he flips through them idly. Here’s Mrs. Hartsfield standing arm-in-arm with a broad-shouldered, burly guy in a blue work coverall—the absent Mr. Hartsfield, perhaps. Here’s Mrs. Hartsfield standing with a bunch of laughing ladies in what appears to be a beauty salon. Here’s one of a chubby little boy holding a fire truck—Brady at age three or four, probably. And one more, a wallet-sized version of the picture in Mrs. Hartsfield’s alcove office: Brady and his mom with their cheeks pressed together.
Jerome taps it and says, “You know what that reminds me of a little? Demi Moore and what’s-his-name, Ashton Kutcher.”
“Demi Moore has black hair,” Holly says matter-of-factly. “Except in G.I. Jane, where she hardly had any at all, because she was learning to be a SEAL. I saw that movie three times, once in the theater, once on videotape, and once on my iTunes. Very enjoyable. Mrs. Hartsfield is blond-headed.” She considers, then adds: “Was.”
Hodges slides the photo out of the pocket for a better look, then turns it over. Carefully printed on the back is Mom and Her Honeyboy, Sand Point Beach, Aug 2007. He flicks the picture against the side of his palm a time or two, almost puts it back, then slides it across to Holly, photo-side down.
“Try that.”
She frowns at him. “Try what?”
“Honeyboy.”
Holly types it in, hits RETURN . . . and utters a very un-Hollylike scream of joy. Because they’re in. Just like that.
There’s nothing of note on the desktop—an address book, a folder marked FAVORITE RECIPES and another marked SAVED EMAILS; a folder of online receipts (she seemed to have paid most of her bills that way); and an album of photos (most of Brady at various ages). There are a lot of TV shows in her iTunes, but only one album of music: Alvin and the Chipmunks Celebrate Christmas.
“Christ,” Jerome says. “I don’t want to say she deserved to die, but . . .”
Holly gives him a forbidding look. “Not funny, Jerome. Do not go there.”
He holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”
Hodges scrolls rapidly through the saved emails and sees nothing of interest. Most appear to be from Mrs. Hartsfield’s old high school buddies, who refer to her as Debs.
“There’s nothing here about Brady,” he says, and glances at the clock. “We should go.”
“Not so fast,” Holly says, and opens the finder. She types BRADY. There are several results (many in the recipe file, some tagged as Brady Favorites), but nothing of note.
“Try HONEYBOY,” Jerome suggests.
She does and gets one result—a document buried deep in the hard drive. Holly clicks it. Here are Brady’s clothing sizes, also a list of all the Christmas and birthday presents she’s bought him for the last ten years, presumably so she won’t repeat herself. She’s noted his Social Security number. There’s a scanned copy of his car registration, his car insurance card, and his birth certificate. She’s listed his co-workers at both Discount Electronix and Loeb’s Ice Cream Factory. Next to the name Shirley Orton is a notation that would have made Brady laugh hysterically: Wonder is she his gf?
“What’s up with this crap?” Jerome asks. “He’s a grown man, for God’s sake.”
Holly smiles darkly. “What I said. She knew he wasn’t right.”
At the very bottom of the HONEYBOY file, there’s a folder marked BASEMENT.
“That’s it,” Holly says. “Gotta be. Open it, open it, open it!”
Jerome clicks BASEMENT. The document inside is less than a dozen words long.
Control = lights
Chaos?? Darkness??
Why don’t they work for me????
They stare at the screen for some time without speaking. At last Hodges says, “I don’t get it. Jerome?”
Jerome shakes his head.
Holly, seemingly hypnotized by this message from the dead woman, speaks a single word, almost too low to hear: “Maybe . . .” She hesitates, chewing her lips, and says it again. “Maybe.”
25
Brady arrives at the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex just before six P.M. Although the show isn’t scheduled to start for over an hour, the vast parking lot is already three-quarters full. Long lines have formed outside the doors that open on to the lobby, and they’re getting longer all the time. Little girls are screeching at the top of their lungs. Probably that means they’re happy, but to