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“I’m sure. You have to keep it to yourself, John. Promise me.”
“All right. You know best.”
If only, Holly thinks.What can I do? Depend on Kate to rescue Corrie?
It would be nice if she could even half-believe that, but she keeps thinking of how Kate froze when the man with the bat came at her. This is no pundits’ forum on CNN or MSNBC; this is a crazy man who is luring her in. If Kate had taken her truck, Holly might be able to track her to wherever Corrie was being held, but shedidn’ttake her truck.
Think, she tells herself.Think, you stupid ineffectual bitch, think! But the only thing that comes to mind is a thing Bill Hodges used to say:Sometimes the universe throws you a rope.
If ever she needed a rope, it’s now.
9
5:30 PM.
Kate sprints through a small lot for park employees, past a white Transit van, and up a cracked and frost-heaved sidewalk to an old wooden building with faded hockey players flanking the double doors. She’s breathing hard, but not gasping; years of swimming have conditioned her for this hard run from Dingley Boulevard, which skirts the park, to Service Road A. One hand is in her purse, gripping the can of pepper spray.
As she reaches the doors, she risks a glance at her watch and sees it’s 5:31. What if she’s too late?
She hammers on the door with her free hand. “I’m here! I’m here, goddammit, don’t you kill her, Stewart!Don’t you—”
The door opens. Trig’s right arm is cocked back like a rifle bolt, his right hand fisted. Before Kate can get her hand out of her purse, he punches her in the face. There’s a crunch as her nose breaks. The painis enormous. A red mist, not blood but shock, clouds her vision as she stumbles backward and goes down on her butt. She holds onto the cannister of spray in her purse while she’s falling, but when she lands, her hand is jarred loose. The strap of her purse slides down to her elbow.
Trig bends, trying to shake the pain out of his hand. He grabs her forearm, yanks her to her feet, punches her in the face again. Kate is distantly aware that warmth is flooding over her mouth and chin.Blood, she thinks,that’s my bl—
“NO!” someone shouts.“NO, SHE’S MINE!”
The hand gripping her arm lets go. There’s a gunshot, and Kate is vaguely aware of something buzzing close by her ear. She plunges her hand back into her purse as someone—a woman with dark hair—rushes at the man who’s grabbed her. The woman has a pistol in her hand, but before she can level it for a second shot, the man grabs her wrist and twists it. The woman screams. The man pulls her, turns her, and uses her forward momentum to hurl her into Kate, who is still struggling to get the pepper spray out of her purse. They both go down, the woman on top of Kate.
This close, face to face like lovers in bed, Kate can see speckles of stubble on the woman’s face, and realizes it’s a man. The one in the picture Holly showed her. Christopher Stewart.
The man in the sportcoat bends over Stewart and grabs his head in both hands. He twists it, and Kate hears a muffled crack as Stewart’s neck fractures, or—oh God—actually breaks. Kate finally gets the can out of her purse.
“Hey, you fucking piece of shit.”
The sportcoat man looks at her and Kate gives him a faceful of Sabre Red Pepper. He screams and claps his hands to his eyes. Kate struggles to get out from beneath Stewart’s dead weight. She looks around for somebody,anybody, and sees no one. On the far side of the park there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people, but nobody here. Not a soul. She can hear John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” blaring from the softball field’s speakers, the sound tinny with distance.
“Help!” she tries to scream, but all that comes out is a wheezy whisper. It’s not the run; it’s the shock of being punched, then having Christopher Stewart land on top of her.
She struggles to her knees, but before she can get away, a hand closes around her ankle. It’s Stewart. Foam is drizzling from his mouth, his wig has come askew, and he seems to be grinning. He gasps, “Baby… killer.”
Kate kicks him in the throat. Stewart’s hand loosens, then lets go. Kate staggers to her feet, only to be knocked sprawling again by a hard blow to the center of her back. She turns her head and sees the man in the sportcoat. His eyes are fiery red and spouting tears, but he’s seeing her. She tries to get to her feet again and he kicks her. There’s a flare of pain as something in her left side breaks.
The man in the sportcoat stumbles over Stewart, flails for balance, gets it, and grabs her arm. He jerks her to her feet again, backs up, and falls over Stewart, who is spasming weakly. Kate lands on top of the sportcoat man and rams her forehead into his mouth.
“Ow! Fuck, that hurts! Stop it, bitch!”
She rams down again, and feels Mr. Sportcoat’s lips squash against his teeth. Before she can do it a third time, something clubs her on the temple. The red mist returns. Then darkens to black.
10
5:33 PM.
Holly decides she’ll have to call the police after all—there’s no other option. She’s reaching for her phone when she remembers something from Iowa City: Kate holding up the keys to her truck and her seaside home in Carmel. “They need their own bodyguard,” she said. “I’m always losing track of these puppies.”
So Holly, wiser in the ways of computer-assisted living than Kate McKay, had attached an Apple AirTag to Kate’s keyring.
She grabs her phone, drops it (her hands are shaking), snatches it off the carpet, and opens the Find My app on her phone.Please, universe, she thinks.Throw me a rope.