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“You’re important to her,” Jerome says. “She’s not as shy as she once was, but she still can’t even believe she’s here, let alone all the other stuff.”
“I get that, but shefits.” She gives him an intense look. For the first time Jerome sees not a stout lady in a frumpy jumper but a diva who is used to getting her way. “I got as far as her saying shemightsing ‘Lowtown’ with me here and go along with the tour as far as Boston, but as a roadie. She’swastedas a roadie!”
“I gotthat,” Jerome says, and when Betty gives him a hearty slap on the back, he almost falls into the orchestra pit.
“She listens to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Maybe she’ll listen to you about this.” She pulls him close and whispers in his ear. “Because she wants to do it.”
The crew and musicians are gathered backstage, eating White Castle sliders, fruit, crackers and cheese. Betty breaks away from Jerome to talk to an elderly Black man. Barbara seizes Jerome’s hand. “What did she want?”
“Tell you later.”
“She wants me to sing with her.”
“I know. And not just here.”
“I’m apoet, Jerome! Not a… a rock and roll girl!”
Jerome kisses her below the red bandanna, which is damp with sweat. He’s not thinking about John Ackerly, or the Briggs name in Mike “the Rev” Rafferty’s appointment book. Right then he’s just thinking about how much he loves his pretty, multi-talented sister.
“Who says you can’t be both?”
2
Holly stands in the back of the Radisson’s Conference Center during Kate’s press conference. Her purse is slung over her shoulder, unzipped. Her revolver (she still thinks of it as Bill’s revolver) is inside, with the first chamber—the one the cylinder will rotate to when the trigger is pulled—unloaded, just as her mentor taught her. There’s also a can of pepper spray and an Original Defense anti-rape siren. She reminds herself to get two more of each, for Kate and Corrie. The spray or the siren would be her own first choices, the pistol only a last resort.
Turnout for the press conference is good; after Reno and Des Moines, Kate is hot news. In what Holly considers to be the unpleasant parlance of the Social Media Age, Kate is “trending,” if not yet “viral.” There are cams and reporters from KWWL and KCRG. A grizzled old guy from thePress-Citizen. Stringers from various internet sites, most leaning left on the political spectrum. Kate is looking good in a plain white tee that emphasizes her full breasts, and tight jeans that speak to her slim hips. Tilted back on her head is a blue Iowa Cubs cap.
Kate gives a brief statement, not mentioning the fact that her luggage was drenched in blood and guts. She does, however, share that her room was childishly vandalized and brings up those verses from Exodus, saying that pro-life religious zealots have twisted them out of context—torturedthem out of context—to give them a meaning they don’t have. Holly is pretty sure the stalker will get the message and be pissed.
One of the reporters asks, “Isn’t there a big difference between God ending fetal life and doctors destroying it?”
“Depends on whether or not you believe in God, or which God you believe in. Either way, this country is a democracy, not a theocracy. Read the Constitution, son.”
Holly is barely listening. She’s scanning the attendees for anyone who doesn’t have a press credential. A few lookie-loos wander in, but no one makes a move Holly considers suspicious. She wishes she’d gotten a better look at that woman in the housekeeperly brown dress on the third floor, but most of her attention was fixed on Kate and Corrie. Was the woman blond? She thinks so but isn’t sure.
Kate buttons up the presser by saying she’s happy to be in Iowa City, she’ll be speaking at Macbride Hall at seven PM, and some seats are still available. The woman with the credential saying she’s fromRaw Storypatters a little applause, but no one else joins in; they just file out. Kate goes to a new suite. Hers has been taped off by the police, and after the gig tonight, the three of them will be going to a different hotel.
“That went pretty well, didn’t it?” Kate asks Corrie. Always the same question.
“Dynamite,” Corrie says. Always the same (correct) answer.
3
At roughly the same time, another press conference is going on in another city. Alice Patmore, the Buckeye City Chief of Police, is standing at the microphones with Darby Dingley, the city’s Fire Commissioner. Behind them are two designated members of the opposingteams in the upcoming Guns and Hoses tilt. One is a tall young man named George Pill, looking overdressed in his ceremonial FD whites and hat. The other is Isabelle Jaynes, looking more comfortable in her summerweight blues.
Lew Warwick told Izzy before meeting the press that a little trash talk wouldn’t be out of place. “All in good fun, you know.”
Izzydoesn’tknow. She feels like a horse’s ass in her short-sleeved uni. She has a serial murderer to catch, and instead she’s up here playing fiddly-fuck at what is essentially a photo op. She looks at Pill to see if he feels the same, but he’s staring out at the assembled reporters with a severe and heroic can-do look on his face. If the brain under that stupid white shovel hat is uncomfortable, he’s not showing it.
Meanwhile, the big dogs drone on about the wonderful charities this year’s competition will benefit. Chief Patmore speaks first, then Commissioner Dingley gets his turn. Izzy hopes that’s enough from them and she can get back into her street clothes (and back to work), but no joy; each takes another turn. The assembled press looks as bored as Izzy feels, until Chief Patmore announces that Sista Bessie has agreed to sing the National Anthem; wishful thinking has become a firm commitment. This causes a murmur of interest in the reporters, and brief applause.
“Before we send you to the refreshment table,” Commissioner Dingley says, “I’d like to introduce two of this year’s star players. For the Hoses team, Fireman First Class George Pill, who will be playing center field.”
Patmore takes her turn. “And for the Guns team, Detective Sergeant Isabelle Jaynes, our starting pitcher.”