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From the audience, faint in the greenroom, she hears the periodic thunder of applause as Kate makes her points. The haters are drowned out.
But it only takes one, she thinks as she ends the call.I guess I knew that, but now I’ve… what?
“Internalized it,” she murmurs.
It wasn’t shame at all. What she felt, standing beside that absurdly huge picture of herself and listening to the applause, wasused. It doesn’t make her angry, but it does make her realize she has to take care of herself. Has to grow up a little. A gun won’t do that. Neither will pepper spray.
11
The next day they drive to Spokane in Kate’s Ford F-150 Crew Cab, their gear in back under a locked vinyl canopy. Kate is behind the wheel, keeping five over the 70 MPH speed limit, still high from last night. The radio is on loud, Alan Jackson singing about the Chattahoochee and what that muddy water meant to him. Corrie leans over and turns it off.
“I’ll keep the pepper spray, but I don’t want a gun after all.”
“Didn’t have time to find one, anyway,” Kate says. “We’re slaves to the damn schedule now, hon.”
“I’ve made arrangements with the Spokane police to have an off-duty cop with us while we’re in town.He’llhave a gun. The lady I spoke to—Denise—says there are always widebodies who want to earn a little extra cash. You’ll have to pay him, of course.”
Kate is frowning. “I don’t want—”
For the first time in their still-new relationship, Corrie interrupts her. “I’ll make similar arrangements as we go along.” She gathers herself and says the rest—the bottom line. “If you want me to continue, this is non-negotiable. It wasn’t just a threat, Kate. Not some online troll with a potty mouth. The person said, ‘Go home while you still can.’ She’s out to get you, she got me by mistake, and she could try again.”
Kate says nothing, but Corrie can tell by the set of her mouth and the vertical line between her brows that she’s not even close to happy about this—call it what it is—this ultimatum. Kate McKay doesn’t want to be perceived as a woman who needs a man to protect her. It’s antithetical to everything she’s made a career of standing against. But there’s something else as well, and it’s pretty simple: Kate McKay doesn’t like anyone telling her what to do.
She changes her mind when they check in. There’s the usual budget of messages, a couple of bouquets, and five letters. Four are fanmail. The fifth contains a photo of Kate and Corrie eating at an outdoor restaurant in Portland, a day or two before the first gig. They are laughing about something. The F-150 is parked at the curb in the background. There’s a note, carefully printed.You only get 1 warning, so receive it well. Next time it will be you and it will be for real. She who speaks lies shall perish.
Kate’s name is printed on the envelope, but there’s no stamp. She asks the desk clerk who dropped it off. The clerk, a pretty young man in a white shirt and red vest, tells her someone must have left it while he was away from the desk. Which probably means on a pee break.
“Don’t you have a security camera in the lobby?” Corrie asks.
“Yes, ma’am, we sure do, but it’s pointed at the front doors, not at the reception desk. Plus, whoever left it could have come in through the restaurant.”
Kate thinks this over, then turns to Corrie. “When is your rent-a-cop due?”
“He’ll meet me—both of us, if you want—in the lobby at three o’clock. Before I go to the venue to meet the event coordinator and the bookstore people.”
Kate holds up the photo and the note. “Let’s show him this. And then get a look at the security footage. See if the bitch made the mistake of coming in the front door.”
“Good idea,” Corrie says. Now that she’s gotten her way, she’s back to being the meek (but can-do) assistant.
“Bitch is actually following us,” Kate marvels.
“Yes,” Corrie says. “She is.”
Chapter 3
1
Trig expected bad dreams. He expected to see himself putting the gun to the woman’s temple over and over again, on instant replay and in slow motion. The poodle looking up at her as she sagged in his encircling arm, its eyes asking,What’s wrong with my mistress?
There were no bad dreams, at least that he can remember. He slept right through.
Now he makes coffee and pours himself a bowl of cornflakes. Sniffs the milk, decides it’s all right, gives the cornflakes a bath, and sits down to eat. He’s stepped over the line and he feels okay about it. Fine, in fact. Best thing to do, he decides, is go to work like any other day, then move ahead with hisrealwork.
One down, thirteen to go.
He rinses out his bowl and leaves it in the sink. Pours more coffee into an insulated go-cup and leaves his trailer. It’s a nice doublewide in the Elm Grove Trailer Park, which is far out on Martin Luther King Boulevard, just before MLK becomes Route 27 and Upsala County becomes Eden County. Sticksville, in other words.
Mrs. Travers next door is loading her twins into the back of her car. She gives him a wave and Trig returns it. The kids are bundled into identical jackets, because the morning is chilly. They just turned three. Mrs. Travers had a birthday party for them the previous week, outside because the weather was warmer than it is now. She brought Trig a birthday cupcake, which was nice of her.