Page 101

Her head is starting to pound. Earlier John Ackerly called her and relayed what he’d learned from Cathy 2-Tone: white and medium height, mid-thirties (maybe), spectacles. The only interesting things are the scar on Trig’s jaw and the thing about the “woo-woo meeting” in Upsala. Because of the anonymity issue (Holly finds this more and more annoying, not to say poopy), she doesn’t ask John to pass this on to Izzy Jaynes, but she asks him if he’d mind attending a meeting or two in Upsala. John agrees.
After twenty or thirty seconds that feel much longer, Kate stands back from the edge of the stage. She sticks the microphone into its sleeve on the podium and makes hercome on, come on, come ongesture with her fingers. The audience is on its feet, roaring its approval.
“You came here, now go to the polls! TELL THE MOSSBACKS THAT THE OPPOSITE OF WOKE IS FAST ASLEEP!”
She strides off with plenty of hip-sway. Corrie is festooned with bags, mostly souvenirs and tee-shirts from the bookstore. Holly says, “Let’s get out of here. This time we’re going to ditch the eBayers.”
Of that she’s confident. From the venue’s downstairs offices, a service tunnel leads under the street to a city museum—now closed—on the other side. Holly hurries down the stairs, Kate and Corrie behind her.
Kate is asking what she always asks—Was it good tonight?—and Corrie responds as usual, assuring her it was.
They walk through the tunnel and climb a set of stairs. A museum security guard is waiting for them. “There’s quite a few people out there,” he says apologetically.
Holly looks. Quite a few? Easily a hundred, all of them eBayers with posters, glossies, even—who the frack knew there were such things—Kate McKay bobbleheads and Funko toys. A woman in a Chicago Bears sweatshirt is waving an oversizedBreitbartprintout, the one with the headline reading THE B*TCH IS BACK.As if Kate would sign that, Holly thinks… then realizes she really might; it fits Kate’s chin-out persona.
“How do theyknow?” Holly asks.
Corrie sighs with her lower lip out, blowing hair off her fringe. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery. We slipped them once, but now—”
Kate says, “Come on, come on, come on,” and pushes through the door, head down, walking to the waiting car. Holly hurries to catch up, hand in her purse clutching her pepper spray, head throbbing. Brady Hartsfield and Morris Bellamy were bad, but the eBayers are somehow worse.
5
Later that Monday night.
In Dingley Park, the Guns and Hoses teams have finished their practices, with some good-natured trash talk from both squads (and some not so good-natured).
In Madison, Holly finally talks to Izzy, making sure Iz got her earlier message. Izzy did, and says she’ll pass it on to the State Police team of four detectives that has been ginned up to investigate the Surrogate Juror Murders. Holly is tempted to hold back the part about the Upsala candlelight meeting, wanting to give John a chance to check it out, but passes it on (reluctantly). Izzy asks for Holly’s source, and Holly tells her she’ll need to check with said source before giving Iz a name.
“This anonymity thing sucks like an Electrolux,” Izzy says, and Holly agrees. She thinks John will agree to talk to Izzy, but will be reluctant to give uphissource, or sources.
She ends the call and lies down, but ramrod straight. Adrenaline is still buzzing around her body. She keeps seeing Kate walk to the apron and start shaking those waving hands. Kate’s confidence, especially in light of all that’s happened, is terrifying. They’re off to Chicago bright and early tomorrow, a two-hour drive through steadily thickening traffic. Holly needs her rest but knows it will be a long time before she sleeps.
6
In Buckeye City, Trig parks in a public lot near the bus station and walks down to Dearborn Street, also known as Saloon Row. Four or five of the real dives have been closed down during urban renewal over the last few years, but a few are still open and doing good business even on a Monday night. The evening is chilly, with a strong breeze off the lake, and Trig is wearing his duffle coat. The Taurus .22 is in his pocket. He knows that what he’s thinking of doing is crazy, but he knew driving with an open bottle of vodka was crazy, too, and it never stopped him.
Behind the Chatterbox he sees two men making out with two women. No good.
Behind the Lions Lair he sees a man in cook’s whites alone, sitting on a plastic crate and smoking a cigarette. Trig starts to approach, hand sweating on the butt of the Taurus, but sheers off when another guy comes out and tells the guy in cook’s whites to come on back inside.
His last stop is the Hoosier Bar, the closest thing the city has to a honky-tonk. The back door is open. The sound of George Strait singing “Adalida” comes out, and a drunken man in a cowboy shirt is dancing by himself up and down in front of a pair of dumpsters. Trig approaches him, heart thundering in his chest. His eyes feel like they’re throbbing in their sockets.
The drunken man sees him and says, “Dance with me, asshole.” Trig nods, moves in close, takes a couple of dance steps, and shoots the drunken man in the eye. The drunk falls between the dumpsters, legs kicking. Trig bends down, sticks the Taurus under the drunken man’s chin, and shoots him again. The drunk’s back hair flips. Blood splats on bricks.
A man comes out the back door. “Curt? You out here?”
Trig crouches between the dumpsters, throat dry, mouth tasting coppery.He’ll smell the gunsmoke!
“Curtis?”
I’ll shoot him, too. Have to, have to.
“Fuck ya, buddy,” the man says, “there’s a draft. Walk around.” He goes inside and slams the door. Into the dead dancer’s hand, Trig puts the name of Andrew Groves, Juror 1 in the Duffrey trial.
Daddy:You’re crazy. Out of control.
It’s true. “But I didn’t flinch,” he whispers. “No flinching, Daddy.”