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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’SKEYS. 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 andJUST 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.
Chapter 24
1
The bleachers are chock-full, and of course they face toward the field, so when the blue Thunderbird enters the park grounds, everyone on the third-base side stands and turns to watch it go by. Those on the first-base side, which includes the cops’ dugout, don’t get a good look at first, because the people across the field are blocking the view. There’s applause and cheering.
“What’s up?” Izzy asks.
Tom Atta climbs on top of the dugout and shades his eyes from the bank of lights. “Some old car touring the field. Vintage. Almost got to be Sista Bessie.”
They don’t have to wonder long, because Mr. Estevez takes the T-Bird on a complete circuit. Izzy and Tom trot down to the bullpen area reserved for the cops team, and get a good look when the T-Bird comes to their side. It rolls at a steady five miles an hour. A young man is now riding on the rear deck, black Converse sneakers parked on the back bumper. He looks bemused. Tom points and says, “That’s Jerome. Holly’s friend.”
“I know.”
Standing in the front, wearing a dark blue sash covered with stars, is Sista Bessie. She waves to the cheering crowd.
Izzy applauds like mad. “I remember her songs. They used to play on the radio all the time when I was a kid. Sweet voice.”
The car disappears behind the cinderblock building. “Can’t wait to hear her sing,” Tom says.
“Neither can I.”
2
The T-Bird pulls up to the equipment building on the other side of the centerfield fence. Well-wishers, autograph seekers, and eBayers gather, but Jerome and Mr. Estevez do their best to shoo them away, or at least keep them back, shouting, “Give the lady some privacy.” John Ackerly has been allowed to park in the small VIP lot. He gets out of Jerome’s Subaru and daps first Red, then Jerome. “All good?”
“Fine so far,” Jerome says.
Two representatives of the opposing teams come around the corner of the building. The Guns rep is Lewis Warwick. He gives Jerome a nod, shakes hands with Red, then turns to Betty and tells her how honored they are to have her.
The Hoses greeter, Fire Chief Darby Dingley, is wearing too-short shorts that display his large can and knobby knees. “Very pleased to have you, Sista Bessie. Can’t wait to hear you sing.”