Page 131 of Never Flinch

6

12:00 PM.

The Anderson woman, Kate’s assistant, shows up on the dot, which Trig appreciates. He’s expecting to have anextremelybusy day, butthere’s an upside: once it’s over, he can rest in eternal darkness. He has “a god of his understanding,” because the AA program insisted it would help to keep him sober, and it has, but he doesn’t expect heaven or hell. The god of his understanding is a selfish being who assigns humans to oblivion and keeps eternal life all to itself.

He’s waiting at the service entrance for her. He knew she probably wouldn’t send the Uber driver away, as she’s only expecting to sign a few papers, and he’s prepared for that. He gives her a wave with one hand. The other remains in the pocket of his sportcoat jacket, touching a hypodermic needle loaded with 200 milligrams of pentobarbital.

Corrie waves back and he stands aside, extending a hand to usher her into the little kitchen. Once she’s past him, he grasps her around the waist good and tight, kicks the door shut, and injects her in the soft spot at the base of her neck, just above the collarbone. Corrie’s struggles are mercifully short. She collapses limply forward over his arm. He drags her to theL-shaped counter and props her against it. Her eyes are open but rolled up to whites. She’s standing, but her chest doesn’t appear to be moving.

Has he killed her? Even with this modest dose? Does it even matter? Because it might—if McKay’s smart, she will demand proof of life—Trig slaps her across the face. Not with all his strength, but plenty hard. She takes a gasping, whooping breath. Trig finds the other hypo, ready to give her another, smaller dose, but Corrie slides sideways until her cheek rests on the counter. Her eyes are still open, one iris now showing, the other still gone. Drool trickles from the corner of her mouth, but she’s breathing again on her own. Her knees buckle. Trig helps her down to the floor. He decides she can be left for a short time.Veryshort.

He goes out to the employees’ lot and taps on the window of the Uber driver’s car. “She’s decided to stay a little longer.”

Once the driver is gone, happy with his hefty cash tip, Trig opens the Transit van’s back doors. He tries to lift Corrie in his arms and can barely manage. She’s slim but muscular. He gets her under the arms instead and drags her to the service entrance door. Looks around. Sees no one in the sunstruck back parking lot. Well, maybe the ghost of his father. A joke but not a joke.

“Fuck you, Dad. Not flinching.”

He takes two deep breaths, psyching himself up, and heaves her into the back of the van. Her lolling head bonks on the floor and rolls to one side. She makes a fuzzy interrogative sound, then begins snoring.

In the van, everything is prepared. He rolls her on her side—which will help in case she vomits—and binds her ankles together with gaffer tape he takes from a reusable Giant Eagle shopping bag. He puts her hands behind her and binds them to the small of her back, winding long strips of tape around her waist and cinching it tight. He would like to tape her mouth closed so if she wakes up she won’t be able to scream, but there’s the chance of her choking to death if she does vomit, and the internet says that can happen after a dose of pento.

He’s sweating like a pig.

Trig has no more than slammed the Transit van’s door whenanothercar shows up, this one a black Lincoln sedan with GC PLAZA HOTEL COURTESY CAR on the turned-down visor. Getting out is Sista Bessie, looking as big as a battleship in a madras caftan. With her is another woman so skinny she’s little more than a stuffed string.

“This is the boss of the venue,” Sista Bessie says to her skinny companion. “I don’t remember your name, sir.”

He almost says Trig.

“Donald Gibson, Ms. Brady.” And to the skinny woman: “Program Director.”

What if she wakes up now? Wakes up and starts yelling?

“We are just going to look at some costumes and see if they need to be let out,” Sista Bessie says. “I have put on a pound or three since starting rehearsals.”

“More like ten,” the skinny woman says. “Once you start singin, you a pig for your food.” Her snow-white afro looks like a dandelion puff.

“This is Alberta Wing, my costumer and dresser,” Sista says. “And I don’t need to tell you she got a mouth on her.”

“I say what I mean,” Alberta Wing responds.

Trig smiles politely, thinking,Go in go in GO THE FUCK IN!

The hotel’s courtesy car starts to pull away, but Sista Bessie yells, “Wait up, now! Wait up!”

The driver has got the windows closed so the air conditioning can get traction, but the Sista has got a set of lungs on her, and he hears. The taillights go on, then the backup lights. The driver’s window rolls down. Sista takes a bulging wallet from her purse and extracts a bill. “For your trouble,” she says.

“Oh, ma’am, you don’t have to do that. It’s part of the hotel’s—”

“I insist,” she says, holding the bill out.

“Isn’t it just powerful warm,” Alberta Wing says to Trig.

Is she waking up yet? Does she hear us?

“It surely is.”

“This kind of weather is just boogery. No other word for it. What do you think, Mr. Gibson?”

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