Page 138 of Never Flinch

The young woman’s mouth is taped shut, but her eyes are easy enough to read:Then let me go!

“I can’t free you. Not yet. Eventually I may be able to.” She repeats, “I have nothing against you,” and walks back into the lobby to wait for the one she wants. The one that God, working through the agency of Sportcoat Man, is going to deliver to her. Chrissy is sure of it.

The two women can’t even look at each other; the tape around their necks is cruelly tight. Barbara can press her shoulder against that of the other woman. And the other woman presses back. It’s not much in the way of comfort… but it’s something.

7

2:30 PM.

Trig has barely returned to his office at the Mingo when the scrawny Black woman, Alberta what’s-her-face, gives a token rap on the door and then walks in uninvited. She’s got a sparkly dress over her arm.

“Betty nappin,” she says. “Wants you to wake her up around four-thirty. I got to let this dress out back at the hotel. She gettin sofat.”

“Do you need me to call a—”

“A ride? Already got one, he should be waitin. Damn well better be, cause time istight. Four-thirty, mind. Don’t forget.”

Ordinarily Trig would be irritated at being treated like a flunky, especially by someone who’s a flunky herself, but this afternoon it doesn’t bother him. Too many things to do, too many balls in the air.

What if they get free somehow?

That’s stupid, the kind of thing that only happens on TV shows. They’re trussed up like turkeys.

“Grocery day?” the scrawny Black woman asks. She flashes many white teeth in an alligator grin.

“What?”

“I ast if it’s grocery day.” She points beside his desk, and he sees he’s brought in the Giant Eagle bag. Wasn’t even aware of it.

“Oh… no. Just a few things. Personal things.”

“Fewscantythings?” The alligator grin widens and she waggles her eyebrows like Groucho Marx. What is she implying? He has no idea. Then the grin winks off like a neon sign. “Just kiddin witcha. Don’t forget my gal Betty.”

“I won’t.”

The Black woman leaves. He hears the whine of the elevator going down. Sista Bessie is snoozing in her dressing room. That’s good.Verygood. And he’ll wake her up, all right. Yes indeed, she’ll get the wake-up of her life. He could do her right now, the place is empty and no one would hear the shot, but she needs to sing the National Anthem. It will be her swan song. The signboard needs to change at 7:17, while the game is going on at Dingley and at the Mingo the crowds are wondering where the hell Kate is.

In a weird echo of Chrissy Stewart, Trig says, “I have nothing against any of you. You’re just…” What? What are they? The right words come to him. “You’re stand-ins. Proxies.Surrogates.”

The murders have to happen at the Holman Rink, because that was where Daddy told Trig that his mother was gone, which meant never coming back, which meant dead, which meant Daddy killed her. The Holman Rink was where Trig finally understood that fact. Did not run off, as Daddy told the police.

It would be nice to believe that it was Daddy who made Trig an alcoholic. That made him a murderer. That made him the one who had badgered the three holdouts on the Duffrey jury to give in and vote to convict.

None of those things are true. He was a drunk from the first drink and a serial killer from the first murder. Finding out that Duffrey had been falsely convicted, then murdered in prison… that was like thefirst drink. A pretext. He has a character flaw, it is intractable, and will only end with the death of the guiltiest one of all. Which is him.

But it still must end at the Holman Rink, and it must end—willend—in fire. The next call will go to Kate McKay, but not for a little while. Let tonight’s big game on the other side of the park get closer. And let him think of exactly what he will say to her to make her come… and make her keep her mouth shut. He suspects these things may turn out to be quite easy. He has seen YouTube vids of her in action, and knows her for what she is—a woman used to doing things herself, and used to getting her way.

C’mon, Trig thinks.C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.

8

3 PM.

In Dingley Park, off-duty cops and firemen are bringing in beer in coolers and nips in the pockets of cargo shorts. PD and FD whoareon duty are also drinking. The carny atmosphere spreads under the warm sunshine, and the trash talk grows thorns.

Izzy gets a soda and makes some calls, hoping that either Bill Wilson (aka Trig) or Christopher Stewart has been apprehended. No luck. She looks around for Barbara, but Barbara has left. Shedoessee George Pill, who points at her, then grabs his crotch.Stay classy, George, Izzy thinks.

In her hotel room, Holly has given up on research—Real Christ Holy is just too depressing—and stands looking out the window. She hasseensomething… orheardsomething… and until she can recall it (and hopefully dismiss it), it’s driving her buggy.

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