Page 114 of Never Flinch

Before his doze can deepen into real sleep, he sits up, goes into the bathroom, and splashes cold water on his face. Then he sets off to scout the Mingo Auditorium. There’s a crowd in front of the hotel. Some are wearing Sista Bessie Soul Power shirts. Some are carrying pro-life signs and waiting for an opportunity to jeer at Kate McKay. Chris knows jeering won’t stop her.

Nothing will stop her but a bullet.

7

Why does it have to be the Holman Rink?

The question keeps recurring to Trig, interrupting the work of his real life, which now seems more and more like a dream to him. His computer is on and there are contracts that need to be filled out and emailed to various companies; there are insurance forms and variousindemnifications to be printed, signed, and sent off. But this month—thelastmonth—his real work has been murder, as drinking was his real work before he joined AA. And, say! Did he ever really believe he could make the jurors feel guilty? Or that smug ADA? Or the stiffnecked, self-righteous judge?

It’s late in the game, too late to continue fooling himself, which is what he has been doing. There are jurors—maybe Gottschalk, or Finkel, especially Belinda Jones—who undoubtedly felt regret when Alan Duffrey was murdered in the prison-yard, and more regret when it turned out he had been imprisoned for a crime he hadn’t committed. But did they feel actual guilt, the kind you lose sleep over?

No.

Why does it have to be the Holman?

Because the Holman was alpha, and it’s only right that it should be omega. After his mother left—after she wasgone, put it that way—some of the best and worst times he ever spent with his father

(alpha/omega)

had been in that rink, watching the Buckeye Bullets skate, and never mind that he couldn’t say anything right after a Bullets loss. Never mind that there had been that night when he had tried to comfort Daddy about the terrible referee that cost them the game and his father had pushed him into the counter, Daddy mopping up the blood afterward and saying,Ah, you baby, a few stitches will close that. His father, so sure about everything, never apologized. Never explained. When Trig dared—only once or twice—to ask about his mother, Daddy said,She’s gone, left us, that’s all you have to know, now shut up about it if you don’t want your ass busted.

Maisie knocks on his office door and pokes her head in. “You have a call on line one, Don.”

For a moment he doesn’t respond because Don is his real-life name, and more and more during these last days of the last month he thinks of himself as Trig. He supposes that even before Duffrey was killed and Cary Tolliver came forward, he must have been planning something like this, aspree, without letting his conscious mind know. It was certainly that way with the drinking. Once you meant to do it, you couldn’t let your conscious mind in on the secret. In AA they saidslipstood forsomething lousy I planned.

“Don?” It’s Maisie, but she’s far away. Far, far away.

There’s a ceramic horse on his desk. He uses it for a paperweight. He touches it now, caresses it. His mother gave it to him when he was very young. He liked that old horsey. Loved it, really. Took it to bed with him (much as Chrissy took her Glitter Girl, Eudora, to bed with her). It was a horse with no name until his father said,Call it Trigger, because it looks like the one Roy Rogers used to ride. Daddy said, Roy Rogers was an old-time cowboy. So the ceramic horse became Trigger and Daddy started calling him Trig. Mommy never did, Mommy called him her little Donnie, but then she wasgone.

“Don? Line one?”

He snaps to. “Thanks, Maisie. Off in the clouds today.”

She gives him a noncommittal smile that might saynot just today, and withdraws.

He looks at the blinking light on his phone and wonders how his caller would respond if he picked up the handset and said,Hello, this is Trig, also known as Donald, also known as Juror Nine.

“Quit it,” he says, then takes the call. “Hi, this is Don Gibson.”

“Hi, Mr. Gibson, this is Corrie Anderson. Kate McKay’s assistant? We’ve spoken before.”

“Indeed we have,” Trig says, putting on his friendly Program Director’s voice.

“Thanks for getting us in tomorrow. A lot of Kate’s supporters will appreciate it.”

“Thank Sista Bessie, not me,” Trig says. “She was kind enough to cancel her last pre-show rehearsal.”

“You thank her for me, would you do that?”

“Happy to.”

“Kate is fine with working around Sista Bessie’s equipment. As for me, I just have a few questions about the logistics of her lecture tomorrow evening.”

“Happy to answer them, but first I have a question of my own. Could you come in tomorrow and sign a few papers? One of them is pretty important. It’s a Global Insurance form, and considering Ms. McKay’s… mmm… controversial stance on some issues… it should be executed before Ms. McKay goes onstage.”

“I have to be at the auditorium to take a delivery of Kate’s most recent book tomorrow at two. Twenty cartons, actually. Would two be okay?”

Actually, it wouldn’t. Too many people around.

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