Page 116 of Never Flinch

“Plenty. Research is my métier. You woke me up, Hols. I trashed my novel—”

“Jerome, no!”

“Jerome yes. I’m going to write about these crazy-pants churches instead. The stuff you asked for is just the tip of the iceberg. This is some scary shit. I could tell you some of the things I’ve already found, but that’s for another time. Right now I’ve got the pictures you askedfor. One still is from a brief court hearing in Rawcliffe, Pennsylvania, all charges dismissed. The other is from the Macbride in Iowa City. I had them blown up as eight-by-ten glossies.”

He unships his man-bag and removes two pictures. The one from Rawcliffe isn’t great, but good enough for Holly to identify Fallowes, one of the Real Christ Holy deacons, and the young man who has to be Christopher Stewart. In the photo he’s got his head down and his hair, which is long for a churchgoing boy of the fundamentalist sort, is obscuring part of his face.

The picture from the Macbride in Iowa City is far better. He’s in the third row, his hair combed back, his face upturned, his arm raised.

“Looks like he’s having a come-to-Jesus moment,” Jerome says.

“That’s not it,” Holly says. She’s excited. “In the early part of her appearances, Kate asks all the men in the audience to raise their hands, and only keep them up if they’ve had an abortion.”

“Not exactly a trick question,” Jerome says, “but I guess that’d be the point.”

Kate gives a courtesy knock and pokes her head in. She’s wearing a hotel robe over her red bathing suit. “Time to swim, Holly. And who, pray tell, is this handsome hunk of man?”

“My Finders Keepers associate, Jerome Robinson,” Holly says, wondering what Kate would think if some man said of her,Who is this good-looking, curvaceous chickadee?

“He found another picture of the man—not a woman but a man—who has almost certainly been stalking you. Christopher Stewart.”

Kate comes into the room. Her robe is open, and Holly sees Jerome give her the sort of quick onceover that she assumes is a heterosexual male reflex… although not the longer, almost clinical inspection that’s become notorious as “the male gaze.”

Kate either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She bends over the Macbride photo. A smile dawns on her face. “You know what, I actually remember this guy. He forgot to put his hand down with the rest of the men, and I made some crack about him being the XY chromosome version of the Virgin Mary. The audience laughed—with him, not at him—and gave him a hand. He blushed. Now that you know who he is, what are you going to do about him?”

“Tell the police,” Holly says, “but they are otherwise occupied with a serial killer—”

“The Surrogate Juror nut,” Kate says. “He’s all over the news.”

“Yes.” The police in general and Izzy in particular are also occupied with a charity softball game, but that’s so stupid (at least in Holly’s opinion) that she doesn’t like to mention it. “We’re also going to keep our eyes wide, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Kate says, but she’s got her phone to her ear. “Corrie? Are you still here? Good, can you come to Holly’s room?” She lowers the phone. “She’ll be right in.”

Jerome says, “Can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” Kate says to him, and without first glancing at Holly. Which Holly finds irritating, interesting, and amusing… all at the same time.

“I bet Holly already knows,” Jerome says, which Holly considerstrès galant.

Holly does. “We need to check all the hotels and motels for a Christopher Stewart, either reserved or already here. Including this one.”

“I’ll ask Tom Atta,” Jerome says. “He’s only a sub in the big game tomorrow, claims he’s got a hamstring pull, so he should be able to do it.”

“What game?” Kate asks, but before Jerome can answer, Corrie comes in with her head bent over her laptop.

“There’s a problem with Cincinnati, Kate, but I’m handling it. Elmira is okay, the weather isn’t going to be a problem after all. I have to go in to the Mingo tomorrow at noon to sign some dumb insurance papers—”

“Never mind all that for now, look at this picture from Iowa City,” Kate says. “It’s a lot better than the one in the Florida paper. Is this the female impersonator from Reno?”

“I told you, I only got a glimpse—”

There’s a Sharpie in the side pocket of Corrie’s slacks, perfect for signing autographs, and also perfect for drawing on glossy photos. Holly plucks it out and draws bangs on the upturned face of the man who was sitting in the third row of the Macbride a week ago.

Corrie looks long and hard. Then she turns to Holly. “That’s him. Her. Whatever. I’m almost positive.”

Holly says, “As well as the police, we need to make sure the press knows about this guy. And social media. The Macbride picture is good. We might not be able to get it in the print edition of the paper tomorrow, but on Twitter and Facebook, in the online edition of the—”

Kate clamps down her shoulder, and hard. “Are you crazy?”

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