Mr. Mercedes Read Online Free PDF Page B

letter’s subtext could not be clearer. Off yourself. You’re thinking about it already, so take the next step. Which also happens to be the final step.
    Has he seen me playing with Dad’s .38?
    Seen me putting it in my mouth?
    Hodges has to admit it’s possible; he has never even thought of pulling the shades. Feeling stupidly safe in his living room when anybody could have a set of binocs. Or Jerome could have seen. Jerome bopping up the walk to ask about chores: what he is pleased to call chos fo hos .
    Only if Jerome had seen him playing with that old revolver, he would have been scared to death. He would have said something.
    Does Mr. Mercedes really masturbate when he thinks about running those people down?
    In his years on the police force, Hodges has seen things he would never talk about with anyone who has not also seen them. Such toxic memories lead him to believe that his correspondent could be telling the truth about the masturbation, just as he is certainly telling the truth about having no conscience. Hodges has read there are wells in Iceland so deep you can drop a stone down them and never hear the splash. He thinks some human souls are like that. Things like bum fighting are only halfway down such wells.
    He returns to his La-Z-Boy, opens the drawer in the table, and takes out his cell phone. He replaces it with the .38 and closes the drawer. He speed-dials the police department, but when the receptionist asks how she can direct his call, Hodges says: “Oh, damn. I just punched the wrong button on my phone. Sorry to have bothered you.”
    â€œNo bother, sir,” she says with a smile in her voice.
    No calls, not yet. No action of any kind. He needs to think about this.
    He really, really needs to think about this.
    Hodges sits looking at his television, which is off on a weekday afternoon for the first time in months.
    5
    That evening he drives down to Newmarket Plaza and has a meal at the Thai restaurant. Mrs. Buramuk serves him personally. “Haven’t seen you long time, Officer Hodges.” It comes out Offica Hutches .
    â€œBeen cooking for myself since I retired.”
    â€œYou let me cook. Much better.”
    When he tastes Mrs. Buramuk’s Tom Yum Gang again, he realizes how sick he is of half-raw fried hamburgers and spaghetti with Newman’s Own sauce. And the Sang Kaya Fug Tong makes him realize how tired he is of Pepperidge Farm coconut cake. If I never eat another slice of coconut cake, he thinks, I could live just as long and die just as happy. He drinks two cans of Singha with his meal, and it’s the best beer he’s had since the Raintree retirement party, which went almost exactly as Mr. Mercedes said; there was even a stripper “shaking her tailfeathers.” Along with everything else.
    Had Mr. Mercedes been lurking at the back of the room? As the cartoon possum was wont to say, “It’s possible, Muskie, it’s possible.”
    At home again, he sits in the La-Z-Boy and takes up the letter. He knows what the next step must be—if he’s not going to turn it over to Pete Huntley, that is—but he also knows better than to try doing it after a couple of brewskis. So he puts the letter in the drawer on top of the .38 (he never did bother with the Glad bag) and gets another beer. The one from the fridge is just an Ivory Special, the local brand, but it tastes every bit as good as the Singha.
    When it’s gone, Hodges powers up his computer, opens Firefox, and types in Under Debbie’s Blue Umbrella . The descriptor beneath isn’t very descriptive: A social site where interesting people exchange interesting views. He thinks of going further, then shuts the computer down. Not that, either. Not tonight.
    He has been going to bed late, because that means fewer hours spent tossing and turning, going over old cases and old mistakes, but tonight he turns in early and knows he’ll sleep almost at once. It’s a