Page 47 of Never Flinch

“Could you join us in Iowa City? Tomorrow? I know that’s short notice, but I’ve had problems finding someone who meets Kate’s needs. I know you can’t get here in time for her lecture tonight, but we’ll have a police escort both to and from. Kate kicked about that, but I insisted.”

Good for you, Holly thinks.

Corrie continues, clearly worried. “No one at the venue, though—sheinsisted onthat. You’d be with us for quite awhile. Before we get to your city, we’ve got Davenport, Madison, Chicago—that’s a big one—and Toledo. We have a break in your town because of the Sista Bessie concert.”

Holly says, “I’m supposed to go to that with a friend. She actually knows Ms. Brady.”

“Kate has half a dozen front-row seats, if that’s any inducement. The venue’s manager comped us. I think it was a make-up call for us not making a big fuss about getting bumped from our original date.”

Holly is doing the math in her head and realizing this could be a good payday. Check that, anexcellentpayday. Thanks to an inheritance from her mother, the agency is in good financial shape, but Holly believes the only real money that matters is earned money. Payday aside, joining one of the most influential feminists now working and writing in America is a big inducement. Her curiosity has always been strong, and this would be a chance to see what the woman is really like. With her shoes off and her hair down, so to speak. She’s also curious about McKay’s assistant, this Corrie Anderson. She sounds very young for such a responsible position. So, all in all…

Then the Holly who lives inside her even now—the young one, the scared one, the girl who always got cold sores and acne outbreaks before a big test—holds up a big red stop sign.

What if this person who threw the bleach and sent the anthrax gets McKay anyway? You know anybody can kill anybody, as long as they’re willing to give themselves up to do it. Then you’d have your own publicity problem, wouldn’t you? You’d be the woman who let Kate McKay get maimed or killed on your watch. It would destroy the agency.

Never mind the agency, Holly thinks.It would destroyme.With guilt. And what do I know about being a bodyguard, anyway?

Not much, that’s true, but she knows how to keep her eyes and ears open. Her nose, too—she’s gotten quite good at smelling danger. Plus,somebodyhas to watch out for those women, and since McKay insists on a female who’s not police, she might be a good choice.

“Ms. Gibney?”

“My schedule is fairly clear, and I’m inclined to do this, but I’d like to speak to Ms. McKay before coming to a final decision. Can you put her on the phone?”

“I’ll get with her and call you back in ten minutes. No, five!”

“That will be fine.”

Holly ends the call. Inclined to do this? Nonsense. She’sgoingto do it, assuming Kate McKay doesn’t come across as an arrogant poophead. That’s always possible, but the woman didn’t get to where she is without putting on the charm.

It will be something new and out of the ordinary, she thinks.

To which the mother who, dead or not, will always live on in Holly’s head responds,Oh, Holly. Only you could think of a trip to Iowa City as something out of the ordinary.

Holly leans back in her office chair, hands clasped above her small bosom, and laughs.

7

Izzy and Tom are escorted into Reverend Michael Rafferty’s Tapperville house by a County Sheriff’s detective named Mo Elderson. He says, “Have a look around, then I’ll show you something interesting.”

They skirt the chalked outline of the body, mostly out of superstition, and pass through the living room. The door of the bedroom closet has been pulled free of its tracks and hangs agape. The clothes are scattered on the floor.

“Guy might have been looking for a safe,” Tom says.

Izzy goes to the half-open drawer on the nightstand, using a handkerchief to pull it open all the way. She doesn’t want fingerprint powder on her hands. It’s nasty stuff, hard to get out from under the fingernails.

She sees a Bible, some recovery-type books, and a bunch of medallions. These have also been dusted for prints. She picks one up, handling it by the edges. On the front are the co-founders of AA. Below them is the Roman numeral IX. On the back is an AA motto:Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path.

“Tom.” He comes over. Izzy shows him the medallions. “A regular thief might have taken these, thinking they could be worth something. A person in AA or NA would know better.”

“And this Rafferty guy was AAed up the ying-yang,” Tom says. “Did you see the pictures in the living room? And those sofa pillows?”

From the doorway, Mo Elderson says, “One of those pillows was used to smother him when the bullet didn’t do the job. You could say that he got AA literally crammed down his throat.”

Tom laughs. Izzy doesn’t. She asks, “What did you want to show us?”

“Maybe the killer’s name. Can’t say for sure, but confidence is high.”

Elderson leads them into the kitchen and shows them the appointment book. Neatly printed in caps on May 20th is BRIGGS 7 PM. “Can’t be sure, but we think most of these names are for counseling sessions.” He thumbs back to April, where there are three other names and times—BILLY F., JAMIE, and TELESCOPE. None in March, but four in February and two in January. Izzy takes some pictures with her phone.

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