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In the rink, Corrie and Barbara are waiting for what comes next, death being the most likely. They both understand this.
Kate has been afraid of death ever since she first saw shooting targets with her face on them for sale on the internet. That fear has been mostly academic, mitigated by the understanding that if it comes, her death will be a rallying cry. What she never expected was to be taken by some random crazy person with no political axe to grind, a man to whom she means nothing more than one more victim in a senseless killing spree. The pain in her face, exacerbated by the windings of tape around her head, is enormous.If I get out of this, she thinks,I’ll be buying some orthodontist a new Tesla… but I don’t think I’ll be getting out of it. The crazy man has stopped arguing with himself. He’s listening to the music.
In the rink, the three women who are going to die also listen.
6
6:52 PM.
On the field, the trio—Red and Jerome, and Betty (only now she’s Sista)—stops at the pitcher’s mound, where Izzy Jaynes will soon beginher night’s work as the PD’s hurler. Sista Bessie raises her hands for quiet, and the crowd stills.
Red steps forward and begins to play “Taps,” each note its own tolling bell. There’s a soft rustle as hats are removed. He plays slowly but doesn’t drag it out—no schmaltz. Sista knows better than to give the audience time to applaud, not for “Taps.”
When Red plays the last note—a C—she draws breath and singsa capellafrom her belly and diaphragm: “O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…”
Jerome feels chills and goosebumps race up and down his arms as Red joins in, segueing from C to G, not only playing under her but making a half-turn away from her so that her voice, even more beautiful than in those few rehearsals, is the star. She sings with her hands outstretched, slowly widening her arms as if to take in the entire audience.
As she reaches the penultimate line—O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave—Red counts off in his head:One-two-three-four, just as they rehearsed. Then she gives it everything she has, and so does he, blowing like Charlie Parker or Lester Young. Hands to the sky, Sista Bessie puts all her soul into it: “O’er the land of the free, and the HOME of the BRAVE!”
There is a moment of utter silence, and then the crowd goes bonkers, cheering and applauding. Hats are waved; hats are thrown onto the field. Sista Bessie and Red bow. Jerome beckons the audience—give it up for her, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon—and the noise redoubles.
Sista Bessie puts her hands to her mouth, kisses her fingers, and spreads her arms wide once more, giving the assembled crowd her love. Then the three of them walk back toward the equipment building. The applause and cheering continues as Betty, Jerome, and Red leave the field.
Red says, “However the game turns out, won’t nothing beat that. You killed it, Bets.”
“Totally amazing,” Jerome says.
“Thank you. Thank you both.”
“Are you all right, Ms. Brady? You look pale.”
“Fine. Just a little double-tap from the old pump. I need to go in and get out of these duds. See if you can clear those lookie-loos out. They just want autographs. Tell em to go watch the game. And you call me Betty, just like your sister does.”
“I will, and I’ll see what I can do about those people.” Jerome’s face says he has little hope of moving the crowd, and Betty thinks,Don’t I know it. Those folks didn’t come for the game, they came for me, and only mighty Jesus can clear em.
She goes into her little dressing room, closes the door, changes out of her singing clothes, and waits for the phone to ring.
7
7:00 PM.
The Fire Department team runs onto the field to cheers from the third-base side and jeers from those on the first-base side. The loudspeakers broadcast Steven Tyler screaming “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
The song reaches Holly as she circles the Holman Rink step by careful step, being quiet, looking for emergency exits. She finds two, both locked. At one point, as she nears the side of the building closest to the food wagons, she thinks she hears muffled sounds from inside the arena. They could be sounds of life or wishful thinking.
At the Mingo, almost every seat is filled. Maisie Rogan, the Assistant Program Director, is frantic, because tonight’s speaker isn’t here. After trying Don four times and getting voicemail four times, she checks all the dressing rooms again. No Kate. She tries McKay’s assistant, and gets another dose of voicemail. At last she walks out to the podium at center stage, avoiding music stands and amps but almost tripping over a power cord. The audience applauds, sensing an introduction, but Maisie shakes her head and holds up her hands.
“There’s going to be a slight delay in tonight’s program,” she says. The audience mutters about this. One of the pro-lifers yells, “What’d she do? Pussy out?” This prompts prompt replies ofShut upandSave it for the chaplainandPipe down.
A woman yells, “Don’t legislate my vajayjay!” This brings applause and hoots of approval. Maisie scuttles back to the comforting darkness at stage left and starts making more calls.
They all go to voicemail.
Betty hears “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” from her tiny dressing room, where she’s sitting on the toilet with her phone in her hand. She’s had worse dressing rooms when she was just a teenager starting out, places without running water and puke-smelling shithouses behind firetrap chicken shacks and juke joints like the Shuffle Board or the Dew Drop Inn, where the pay was five dollars a night plus tips and a pitcher of beer. At least you could get a little fresh air through the loose boards. This one, with its cinderblock walls and single flickery overhead fluorescent tube, looks like a jail cell in one of those southern towns. Nothing like the one she had at the Mingo.
This little room (at least it has a toilet and mirror) isn’t her problem. Nor is Red’s J-Frame revolver tucked into her bag. She’s checked it twice, and it’s fully loaded. Her problem is how to get away undetected. She suspects that Red and Jerome are still outside, sitting on that bench. The hotel manager, Estevez, and Jerome’s friend John are probably with them. And the autograph hounds. How is she supposed to slip away? Fame has never felt like such a burden. They call this city the Second Mistake on the Lake.Hermistake, a big one, was ever coming here in the first place. What has happened to Barbara is all her fault.
“Mighty Jesus,” she says. “Mighty Jesus, show me the way.”