Page 75 of Never Flinch

Being dead is even harder than being on tour, Holly thinks… but of course doesn’t say. She has discovered that the most difficult thing about being a bodyguard is that the bodyguard’s subject considers herself, at bottom, to be invulnerable. Even blood and guts on her luggage only gave her a day’s pause.

“I still need to look at the communications from your stalker.” She also wants to catch up with Jerome. Briggs isn’t her case, but Jerome’s call this morning was moderately weird.

“Tomorrow,” Kate says. “Tomorrow is a day off, oh gloriosity.”

And with that, Holly must be content.

7

Late Saturday afternoon, Trig sets sail in his Toyota for the bucolic town of Crooked Creek, about thirty-five miles northwest of the city. As usual,his radio is tuned to WBOB, Buckeye City’s “All News, All the Time” station… although what the Big Bob mostly broadcasts isn’t news but right-wing shouters like Sean Hannity and Mark Levin. With the volume turned low, it’s not political, just the company of human voices.

Trig tells himself his current goal is nothing more than dinner at Norm’s Shack, which is considered by culinary experts (including Trig himself) to serve the finest ribs in the state, always accompanied by spicy beans and tangy coleslaw. He tells himself it’s just a coincidence that the Creek, a facility for teens dealing with substance abuse, is just a block or two from Norm’s. Why would he even care if there are runaways and dealers there?

Daddy disagrees.I got a good idea of where the bear shit in the buckwheat, as good old Dad used to say.

Trig shouldn’t take another one so soon, shouldn’t press his luck, and so what if a lot of young road warriors—like the nameless girl now decomposing in the Holman Rink—hang out at the Creek for awhile, before moving on to the next wherever? No-names who are already missing and in many cases presumed dead?

Just outside the town limits, he comes upon one of those no-names, this one a girl in a baggy duffle coat that is too warm for the day. She’s got a pack on her back, a barbwire tattoo around her skinny neck, and her thumb out.

Trig opens the console between the front seats, touches the Taurus, and closes it again. Who is he to say no when opportunity knocks? He pulls over.

The girl opens the door and peers in at him. “You dangerous, man?”

“No,” Trig says, thinking,What else would someone like me say, you idiot?“Where are you headed? The Creek?”

“How’d you know?” She’s still peering in. Trying to decide if he’s safe. And what does she see? A middle-aged man with a Mr. Businessman haircut, wearing a Mr. Businessman sportcoat over his small Mr. Businessman paunch. Looks like a salesman or something.

“Been there a few times. Once this spring. Chaired the meeting.”

“You’re Program?”

“A few years downriver from my last drink. And you’re a runaway.”

She freezes in the act of getting in, eyes wide.

“Relax, kid, I’m not going to out you. Or try to make a move on you. Ran away six times myself. Finally made it.”

She gets in and closes the door. “They let you sleep overnight there?”

Trig holds up a finger. “One night only.”

“Hot meal?”

“Yes, but not great. If you like ribs, I’ll buy you half a rack. Don’t like to eat alone.”

He pulls back onto the highway. Three miles down is the Crooked Creek Rest Area. He’ll pull in there, tell her he wants to stretch his bad back. If there’s no one there, he’ll shoot her before she knows what’s happening. Risky? Yes, of course. Killing isn’t the thrill. Risk is becoming the thrill. Might as well admit it. Like driving home with an open bottle of vodka.

“If it’s the kindness of your heart, okay. If it’s something else, just drop me at the halfway house. That’s what it is, right? A halfway?”

“Yup.” Trig checks his rearview mirror. Nobody behind him to see his license plate, and so what if there was? Just another dirty Toyota on a country road.

Two miles from the rest area—his heart beating hard and slow as he rehearses the moves he’ll make—the hemorrhoid cream ad on the radio cuts off and a horn blares the WBOB Breaking News intro. He doesn’t have to turn the radio up; the girl does it.

“This just in,” the announcer says. “Two of the jurors in the now infamous Alan Duffrey case have apparently committed suicide. I want to repeat, two of the jurors have apparently committed suicide. Sources close to the Buckeye City Police Department have confirmed it, although the names of the deceased haven’t been divulged, pending notification of next of kin. Several recent murders have been linked to the Duffrey jurors. Stay tuned to WBOB, your All News, All the Time station, for updates.”

The hemorrhoid commercial picks up where it left off. Trig barely hears, so overcome with joy he can barely keep a poker face. He never believed the surrogate killings would work, but they have, and to what an extent! If only the rest of the jurors would follow suit! But of course they won’t. Some probably feel no guilt at all. Especially the shit ADA who sent Duffrey to prison… and consequently to his death.

“Fucking incredible,” the girl says. “Pardon my mouth.”

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