Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King Read Free Book Online

“They had a picture that’d shoot a few steroids into their saggy-ass circulation, and they fucking used it.”
    Hodges enlarges the news photo until that grinning yellow face fills the computer screen. The mark of the beast, he thinks, twenty-first-century style.
    This time the number he speed-dials isn’t PD Reception but Pete’s cell. His old partner picks up on the second ring. “Yo, you ole hossy-hoss. How’s retirement treating you?” He sounds really pleased, and that makes Hodges smile. It also makes him feel guilty, yet the thought of backing off never crosses his mind.
    â€œI’m good,” he says, “but I miss your fat and hypertensive face.”
    â€œSure you do. And we won in Iraq.”
    â€œSwear to God, Peter. How about we have lunch and catch up a little? You pick the place and I’ll buy.”
    â€œSounds good, but I already ate today. How about tomorrow?”
    â€œMy schedule is jammed, Obama was coming by for my advice on the budget, but I suppose I could rearrange a few things. Seeing’s how it’s you.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself, Kermit .”
    â€œWhen you do it so much better?” The banter is an old tune with simple lyrics.
    â€œHow about DeMasio’s? You always liked that place.”
    â€œDeMasio’s is fine. Noon?”
    â€œThat works.”
    â€œAnd you’re sure you’ve got time for an old whore like me?”
    â€œBilly, you don’t even need to ask. Want me to bring Isabelle?”
    He doesn’t, but says: “If you want.”
    Some of the old telepathy must still be working, because after a brief pause Pete says, “Maybe we’ll make it a stag party this time.”
    â€œWhatever,” Hodges says, relieved. “Looking forward.”
    â€œMe too. Good to hear your voice, Billy.”
    Hodges hangs up and looks at the teeth-bared smile-face some more. It fills his computer screen.
    10
    He sits in his La-Z-Boy that night, watching the eleven o’clock news. In his white pajamas he looks like an overweight ghost. His scalp gleams mellowly through his thinning hair. The big story is the Deepwater Horizon spill in the Gulf of Mexico where the oil is still gushing. The newsreader says the bluefin tuna are endangered, and the Louisiana shellfish industry may be destroyed for a generation. In Iceland, a billowing volcano (with a name the newsreader mangles to something like Eeja-fill-kul l ) is still screwing up transatlantic air travel. In California, police are saying they may have finally gotten a break in the Grim Sleeper serial killer case. No names, but the suspect (the perk , Hodges thinks) is described as “a well-groomed and well-spoken African-American.” Hodges thinks, Now if only someone would bag Turnpike Joe. Not to mention Osama bin Laden.
    The weather comes on. Warm temperatures and sunny skies, the weather girl promises. Time to break out the bathing suits.
    â€œI’d like to see you in a bathing suit, my dear,” Hodges says, and uses the remote to turn off the TV.
    He takes his father’s .38 out of the drawer, unloads it as he walks into the bedroom, and puts it in the safe with his Glock. He has spent a lot of time during the last two or three months obsessing about the Victory .38, but tonight it hardly crosses his mind as he locks it away. He’s thinking about Turnpike Joe, but not really; these days Joe is someone else’s problem. Like the Grim Sleeper, that well-spoken African-American.
    Is Mr. Mercedes also African-American? It’s technically possible—no one saw anything but the pullover clown mask, a long-sleeved shirt, and yellow gloves on the steering wheel—but Hodges thinks not. God knows there are plenty of black people capable of murder in this city, but there’s the weapon to consider. The neighborhood where Mrs. Trelawney’s mother lived is predominantly wealthy and predominantly white. A black man