He could say yes, it wouldn’t be the first time since retiring from the force that he impersonated a police officer, but instinct tells him not to do it this time.

“No. My name is Bill Hodges. We met before, briefly, back in 2010. It was when you worked at—”

“Yeah, I remember.”

One lock turns, then another. A chain falls. The door opens, and the tangy smell of pot wafts into the corridor. The woman in the doorway has got a half-smoked fatty tweezed between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. She’s thin almost to the point of emaciation, and pale as milk. She’s wearing a strappy tee-shirt with BAD BOY BAIL BONDS, BRADENTON FLA on the front. Below this is the motto IN JAIL? WE BAIL!, but that part is hard to read because of the bloodstain.

“I should have called you,” Freddi says, and although she’s looking at Hodges, he has an idea it’s really herself she’s speaking to. “I would have, if I’d thought of it. You stopped him before, right?”

“Jesus, lady, what happened?” Jerome asks.

“I probably packed too much.” Freddi gestures at a pair of mismatched suitcases standing behind her in the living room. “I should have listened to my mother. She said to always travel light.”

“I don’t think he’s talking about the suitcases,” Hodges says, cocking a thumb at the fresh blood on Freddi’s shirt. He steps in, Jerome and Holly right behind him. Holly closes the door.

“I know what he’s talking about,” Freddi says. “Fucker shot me. Bleeding started again when I hauled the suitcases out of the bedroom.”

“Let me see,” Hodges says, but when he steps toward her, Freddi takes a compensatory step back and crosses her arms in front of her, a Holly-esque gesture that touches Hodges’s heart.

“No. I’m not wearing a bra. Hurts too much.”

Holly pushes past Hodges. “Show me where the bathroom is. Let me look.” She sounds okay to Hodges—calm—but she’s chewing the shit out of that nicotine gum.

Freddi takes Holly by the wrist and leads her past the suitcases, pausing a moment to hit the joint. She lets the smoke out in a series of smoke signals as she talks. “The equipment is in the spare room. On your right. Get a good look.” And then, returning to her original scripture: “If I hadn’t packed so much, I’d be gone now.”

Hodges doubts it. He thinks she would have passed out in the elevator.

10

Heads and Skins isn’t as big as the Babineau McMansion in Sugar Heights, but damned near. It’s long, low, and rambling. Beyond it, the snow-covered ground slopes down to Lake Charles, which has frozen over since Brady’s last visit.