Chapter 23
1
5:45 PM.
Holly rides down in the elevator with competing scenarios running through her mind like overlapping images from different projectors aimed at the same screen. One basic thought comes through all of them, a unifying drumbeat: My responsibility, my responsibility .
The Charlotte Gibney who lives in her head tries to add, My fault, my fault , but Holly refuses to swallow that particular poison pill. Her boss has mistaken Trig for Stewart, but that isn’t Kate’s biggest mistake. The real error—hopefully not fatal—is her belief that she can talk Corrie’s kidnapper into seeing sense. This isn’t a cable news debate where logic and quick, cutting comebacks will carry the day. Holly thinks Kate McKay’s arrogance is the worst kind. It doesn’t recognize itself.
The hotel elevators open on a short hallway around the corner from the lobby. When Holly steps out, she hears an excited babble of voices accompanied by a spatter of applause. She walks to the end of the hall and sees Sista Bessie—broad-shouldered, deep-bosomed, big-legged—in the lobby. Betty stops to sign a quick autograph for a star-struck desk clerk in a hotel blazer, and offers a token smile for the clerk’s iPhone. Standing beside her, looking crazy-handsome in his blue shirt, is Jerome Robinson. Holly feels an almost insurmountable urge to rush to him and enlist his help in what she has to do (whatever that is).
Others want autographs, but Jerome shakes his head and points to his watch, miming we’re late . He escorts Sista—Betty to her besties—toward the elevators. Holly has only seconds to make a decision, and instead of standing where she is so they’ll see her, she steps into the newsstand and turns her back. It’s an instinctive move, as thoughtless on the conscious level as taking the next breath. She only realizes why she avoided Jerome while she’s looking at the magazines without seeing them. Jerome has his own security job to do this evening. He would let that go in a moment if Holly asked him, but she won’t ask him to desert his post. Or put him in harm’s way. How would she ever explain to his parents or to Barbara if she got him hurt or, God forbid, killed? That would be her fault.
She crosses the lobby to the revolving doors, Find My app open on her phone.
2
5:50 PM.
The late Christopher Stewart got a ha-ha room; the best Corrie could wangle for her boss was a junior suite; three floors up, Betty Brady got the Presidential. Jerome escorts her inside. Sitting in the living room in front of the TV are two people, one male and one female, both old and skinny. The man is wearing a showy red suit and a black turtleneck with a peace sign on a gold chain. Short snakeskin boots adorn his feet. Betty introduces them to Jerome as Alberta Wing and Red Jones and says Red will be accompanying her on sax when she sings the Anthem.
“Your outfit is on the bed,” Alberta says. “I had to let out the ass of the pants to the limit. You gettin so big , girl.”
It’s clear that Alberta expects a zesty comeback—Jerome does, too, it’s how his aunts and mother do when they get together—but Betty just gives another of those token smiles and tells Red to come with her. He picks up a blue travel bag and leaves his saxophone case by his chair. The two of them go into the bedroom and Betty closes the door.
Alberta says, “This song she’s doin tonight is a freebie, and those the ones that always cause trouble. You ever hear that old sayin, no good deed goes unpunished?”
Jerome says he has.
“It’s true. Huh, lookit you, like the cat that got the cream.” She waves a dismissive hand. “You think you gettin close to a big star is all this is, somethin to tell your friends and your kids about later on, but I’m sayin you must take this serious. Hear me?”
“I do.”
“You goan take care of her? Keep anyone from gettin nasty with her?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You make sure the plan works, then.” Alberta shakes her head. “Somethin weighin on her. She ain’t right.”
3
In the bedroom, Betty strips off her shirt, displaying a truly mighty bra and a mightier midsection. The mom jeans come next, exposing an acre of cotton underpants. Red takes a glance, then turns his attention out the window to the skyline.
Although burdened, Betty isn’t entirely devoid of humor. “You can look, Ernest,” she says. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me with my clothes off before.”
“True,” he says, still looking out, “but the last time you was a double-D.”
“Triple,” she says, shimmying on the sequined bellbottoms and a pink silk smock that falls to her thighs. She cinches it with the starry sash. “Now I’m a goddam F, but ne’mine my bra size. Did you bring it?”
“Yes I did, and why you want it I don’t know.”
“Nor do you need to. Give it over.”
For nearly twenty-five years, since 9/11 tightened up inspections and restrictions at airports, Red has traveled by bus. He never liked to fly in the first place. He’s afraid of being hijacked, he hates the turbulence and the crowding, says the food isn’t fit for sick dogs. He says trains are better, but he favors a good old Greyhound because he says it gives him a chance to watch at least three movies and unpack his thoughts. Sometimes he even entertains fellow travelers with a tune or two, like “Yakety Sax” or “Baker Street.” Also, he can bring along “his good pal,” which he now takes out of his ancient Pan Am flight bag. It’s an elderly Smith the entire staff of the Mingo has this asshole’s picture. Other copies of the photo have been posted backstage, in the ticket booths, in the elevators for the staff and public, and on the bulletin boards in the men’s and women’s bathrooms. It’s the McKay woman’s stalker.
Still, he asks it again: “Who the fuck are you?”
In his head an earworm awakes and he hears the song by The Who that serves as CSI ’s theme. What he actually means—somewhere in the back of his mind he understands this—is Who are you to try and stop me from finishing my job?
He trussed McKay to one of the supporting bleacher stanchions near the other two women, then dropped Stewart’s gun into the inner pocket of his sportcoat. Now he kicks the body again and asks again who he is.
Don’t be a fool. You know who he is, Trigger .
Daddy’s right there, leaning in the doorway, wearing his lucky #19 Buckeye Bullets shirt.
“Shut up, Daddy. Shut your fucking trap.”
Never would have dared say something like that when I was alive .
“Well, I don’t have to worry about that, do I? You deserved that heart attack. I wish I could have done this after you had it.” He kicks Christopher Stewart’s body hard enough to lift it briefly from the dusty foyer floor. “And this . And this .”
The ghost standing in the doorway laughs. You worthless fucking flincher. Mr. Useless, that’s you.
“ MOTHER-KILLER! ” Trig shrieks. “YOU’RE A MOTHER-KILLER! ADMIT IT, ADMIT IT!”
In the old days before AA, there was a part of him—the barest kernel—that always stayed sober no matter how much he drank. That time the cop stopped him three blocks from his house, he had known to be polite. Polite and coherent. Dignified. No yelling. No slurring. While most of his mind was racing and raging and terrified of what a DUI arrest would mean to his job at the Mingo, a job that was essentially a mixture of public relations and keeping the celebs happy, that kernel of sobriety kept him courteous and reasonable and the cop had let him go with a warning. Nevertheless, he understood that driving while so drunk, and with an open handle of vodka close by, meant that kernel of sobriety—of sanity —was shrinking. His descent into chaos was close, and so he had sought help in the Program.
This was like that, only worse. With each murder he had grown bolder and less sane. Now he’s kicking a corpse and talking to his dead father. Seeing his dead father. Crazy. On the other hand, so what? He has an hour before the Black singer shows up—assuming she is able to show up at all—and this idiot , this surrogate for Duffrey’s lawyer, had actually tried to kill him! Had just missed!
“ Who ARE you? ” he screams, and it is good to scream. It’s great to scream. He kicks the body again.
Stop it, you little idiot. The ghost leaning in the doorway is now munching popcorn.
“Shut up, Daddy. I’m not afraid of you.”
He leaves the body and begins to snatch the old posters off the walls. The hockey players he and his daddy had rooted for. He snatches them and crumples them, shouting as he does it. “Bobby Simoy, fuck you ! Evzenek Beran, the Czech Wonder Boy, fuck you ! Charlie Moulton, fuck you !”
An armload of paper. Hockey players from his terrified childhood. Hockey players long gone , like his mother. He looks at the armload of paper he is holding to his chest and whispers, “Who are you guys?”
6
6:05 PM.
Barbara Robinson understands that she is going to die. Once upon a time, not too long ago, she faced a creature from beyond rational understanding, a creature whose human face dripped and ran into something that was living insanity. She hadn’t thought then that she was going to die—not that she could recall, at least—because she had been too horrified. But Mr. Gibson is no creature from outside the known universe, he’s a human being. Yet like the thing that had been masquerading as Chet Ondowsky, he’s a face-changer. She’s seeing that other face now as he comes into the rink with an armload of paper, stepping from tie to tie and talking to a father who isn’t there. She understands that extreme horror is, in its own way, merciful. It doesn’t allow you to look ahead to the end.
No more poems. No more singing. No more spring nights and fall afternoons. No more kisses and lovemaking. All about to be burned away. And speaking of burning—
Mr. Gibson pushes his armload of paper into a square made by four of the crossties. Barbara wishes she were too horrified to know what that paper means. Then the other girl, the one he took first, bumps her shoulder repeatedly and makes muffled noises. The other girl knows what the paper means, too.
It’s kindling.
7
6:15 PM.
It’s almost two miles to Dingley Park, and the Thunderbird convertible bearing tonight’s guest singer passes Holly, rolling at walking speed, while she’s still half a mile away. An elderly Black man is in the backseat with Jerome, sitting comfortably with his arms widespread. Holly bends down and pretends to tie her shoe as the car goes by. Once it has, she resumes walking, phone in hand.
She can see the tops of the light standards that ring the playing field when she catches up to the blue T-Bird again. It’s pulled over at the side of the road with the flashers going. The people who were walking toward the park, carrying coolers and blankets, now crowd around the car and its famous occupant. Mr. Estevez is behind the wheel, back ramrod straight, exuding ownership.
Holly stops and watches Sista Bessie get out and approach a family with young kids who squeal excitedly when they see her coming. Jerome vaults from the T-Bird’s backseat and shadows her. Good for you, Jerome , Holly thinks. The kids look to be about eleven and nine and surely don’t know Sista Bessie from Eve, but they are holding up signs in those rainbow colors only Crayolas can create: WE LOVE YOU SISTA B!
Betty hugs the children, and tells them something Holly can’t hear. A crowd gathers, laughing and excited. Phones are raised. Sista smiles for pictures, but when someone offers her a pen and paper, she shakes her head. “Not startin that nonsense, so don’t ask.”
Holly slips in a little closer, fascinated in spite of her mission. The elderly black man in the red suit still sits easily in the back of the T-Bird, smiling as more and more people approach Sista Bessie. She’s coming back to the car. Holly crosses the street so Jerome won’t see her and continues on toward the park. The Wise Men had a star. Holly, not feeling wise at all, has her Find My app.
The blue T-Bird passes her again, and Holly again pretends to tie her shoe until the car is gone.
8
6:20 PM.
Jerome is amazed.
Word has spread— Sista Bessie is on her way to the field in a big old blue convertible! —and more and more people are falling in behind the T-Bird, which continues to roll along at a stately pace. People surround it, stand in front of it to snap pictures, then good-naturedly break away to allow it passage. There’s no pushing, no anger, only an apolitical shower of good wishes for the Sista. Dingley Boulevard fills in from side to side with cheering people. Mr. Estevez continues to sit erect behind the wheel. Betty touches outstretched hands, waves, smiles for photos. Jerome thinks her smile looks strained. He gets out again, vaulting over the back deck, and walks behind the slow-rolling car, trying to keep people away from the blind side. He feels like a Secret Service agent. Someone gives him a flower. A large Black woman says, “Take care of her, honey, she a national treasure.” He’s thinking this might be what it would be like if Tupac came back, or—perhaps—Whitney. There are a few cries of Stay strong and We love you, Sista and We’ll be at your show, honey , but many of the hundreds following and surrounding the car are silent and awestruck. Yet Jerome, who has never precisely believed (or not believed) in such things as telepathy or emotional transmission, can feel strong vibes of human kindness here: alive, strong, and well. From the tears in Betty’s eyes as she turns from side to side, acknowledging the crowd that’s walking with them, it seems that—whatever else might be bothering her—she feels it, too. He wonders briefly if Holly’s Kate McKay, famous in her own way, has ever felt this sort of love, the kind that’s untinctured by the hate her supporters feel for those on the other side of the political spectrum. He guesses probably not.
The T-Bird bears right. Ahead, bathed in bright white light, is the park. The crowd stops to let the car pass under the arched gate that says, GUNS AND HOSES TONIGHT. They begin to applaud. Then to cheer.
Those who follow stop to chuck money into a gigantic fireman’s boot on the left or an equally gigantic plastic policeman’s hat on the right. The crowd is laughing, happy. They have seen an authentic Talented Celebrity, the night is pleasant, and they are primed for a good time.
9
The doors of the Mingo Auditorium opened at 6 PM, and by 6:20 the seats are filling up. A pro-life contingent, wearing blue tee-shirts showing a baby in utero (although looking roughly four months old), takes up a bloc of seats in the middle of the first three rows, but pro-choice people fill in the aisle areas around the pro-lifers, isolating them. They are wearing red shirts that say, HANDS OFF MY BODY. One of the pro-lifers checks out one of the pro-choicers—a heavyset elderly woman with a scream of white hair—and says, “You couldn’t pay me to put my hands on your body.” The elderly woman replies, as she learned from her teenybop friends many years ago in junior high school: “If you don’t like it, don’t look.”
From the speakers comes a medley of Sista Bessie’s hits from back in the day, and the stage is littered with the band’s equipment. In the middle of this is a podium for the star of tonight’s show, who at this moment happens to be trussed up to a bleacher stanchion.
All the ushers have pictures of Christopher Stewart and check faces dutifully, but so far they have seen no one even close to his description… and it helps that tonight men, especially young men, are in a decided minority. There’s also no sign of Don Gibson, the Program Director. That’s not unheard-of; once arrangements for the night’s gig are made, he sometimes shows up late or not at all.
The signs over the lobby doors and out front on Main Street still read FRIDAY MAY 30 7 PM KATE McKAY and SATURDAY-SUNDAY MAY 31 AND JUNE 1 SISTA BESSIE SOLD OUT .
They will continue to say that for another fifty-seven minutes.
10
6:25 PM.
Holly’s progress is slow until she can veer away from the crowd. She would like to run, or at least jog, but doesn’t dare. She doesn’t want to attract attention from either the news crews filming the crowd or the cops, dressed in blue shorts and blue shirts with the Guns logo on them, who are directing traffic.
The flashing green dot takes her to the left, along a narrow street (made narrower by cars parked on both sides) called Dingley Place. Music from the field’s PA rolls and echoes, currently Taylor Swift’s “Hey Stephen.” Holly walks through two parking lots that are crammed full. Beyond this is a narrow paved lane with signs reading SERVICE ROAD A and PARK SERVICE ONLY and ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED.
The app is telling her she’s about three hundred yards from her destination, and it almost has to be the old condemned hockey rink. She had no idea this service road existed, even though the picnic area where she and Izzy had their lunches has to be nearby. (Those lunches now seem impossibly long ago.) With trees lining both sides of the road, the daylight is becoming an untrustworthy murk.
She comes out in another, smaller, parking lot meant for Park Service vehicles. According to the app, YOU HAVE REACHED KATE’S KEYS . She turns her phone off and puts it in her pocket, mindful of its glow in the shadowy lot. Up ahead, parked with two wheels on the pavement and two on the grass, is a white Transit van. The fir trees are tall enough to block the light from the playing field stanchions here, but there’s enough for Holly to read what’s written on the van’s side: MINGO AUDITORIUM and JUST THE GOOD STUFF! ?
The truck is empty. Kate must be close, and, very likely, Corrie. Holly’s mind flashes briefly to Barbara and Jerome. At least they are safe, and thank God for that. Lizzo drifts to Holly from the PA like something out of a dream.
She sees a wide paved path—frost-heaved and sprouting weeds from many cracks—leading to the dark hulk of the rink. Ghostly hockey players adorn the double doors. One day last fall, she and Izzy walked around this place as they munched fish tacos from Frankie’s lunch wagon, and Holly knows there are no windows. She sits on the bumper of the Mingo van and tries to think how to proceed.
He may have already killed the women, in which case she’s too late. But if he has, why is the van still here? That he left it and walked away strikes her as unlikely. There are a hundred cops nearby—hell, maybe two hundred—and she doesn’t dare call them for fear of precipitating two murders, and, very likely, Gibson’s suicide.
She checks the time and sees it’s just gone 6:40. Could he be waiting for the game to begin? She can think of no reason why he would. But the game isn’t the only thing happening at seven tonight. There’s also Kate’s lecture. Suppose he wants her crowd to gather, and wonder where she is? Wonder and worry? Gibson might even hope Christopher Stewart is drawn to the Mingo and can be captured. The irony of that happening might appeal to a crazy man; it has a comic-book Joker feel to it.
She tries to pray and can’t. Now through the loudspeakers comes the sound of a cheer squad chanting, something about Mary and her little lamb.
Wait , the Charlotte Gibney in her head tells her. It’s all you can do. Because if he knows you’re here, he’ll shoot them both and it will be your fault.
But she has another voice in her head, one that belongs to her late friend, Bill Hodges. That’s bullshit, Holly. Do you want to be standing around out here with your thumb up your butt when you hear gunshots?
She does not.
Holly starts toward the doors, keeping to the side of the main walkway and in the thickening shadows of the trees. She reaches into her unzipped purse and touches the .38. It used to belong to Bill. Now, like it or not, it belongs to her.