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I won’t be able to get all of them, anyway, he thinks, rising to his feet.That was too ambitious. A foolish dream. I can’t keep getting lucky. But I might be able to get most of them, including the guilty party. The one who most deserves to die.
“I have to make a plan,” Trig murmurs as he walks back along the crisscrossing boards. “Have to find a way to get them here. As many as possible.”
Why does it have to be here?
It just does, that’s all. He thinks about the eighteen-minute sermons, and the occasional rough hug from his dad. Beyond that
(Trig, my good old Trigger)
he won’t let himself go. Certainly not to his mother, who wasgone.
“Shut up,” he says, loud enough to startle some of the pigeons into flight. “Just shut up.”
He crosses the abandoned snackbar and passes the ticket booth. Cracks the door and sees no one. A breeze rattles the posters in the lobby. Steps out and taps the Plumber’s Code, relocking the door. He starts down the weedy cement walk to his car, then changes his mind and decides to take a look at the practice happening at the softball field.
He’s halfway through the trees when a girl—dirty hair, hollow eyes, scrawny body, maybe twenty—approaches him.
“Hey, guy.”
“Hey.”
“You wouldn’t be holding, would you?”
Although he’s attended NA meetings as well as the AA ones—they all treat the same disease, that of addiction—the tidal pull of the jonesing addict never ceases to amaze him. This girl sees a man who, in his sportcoat and Farah slacks, looks more like a business guy(or a narc) than a user/pusher, but her need is so great that she still comes on to him. He thinks she’d probably ask an old geezer pushing a walker if he was holding.
Trig is about to say no, then changes his mind. She’s serving herself up on a platter, and if she dies, the only loser will be the rehab she’s undoubtedly heading for. He touches the gun in his pocket and says, “What are you looking for, sweetheart?”
Her previously dead eyes take on a spark. “What have you got? I got these.” She cups her breasts.
He thinks of the Baggies he’s seen in various gutters and alleyways just lately. “Would you possibly be interested in Queen’s Best?”
The spark kindles into a flame. “Good. Great. Yes. What do you want? Handjob? Blowjob? Maybe a little of both?”
“For the Queen,” Trig says, “I want to get with you. All the way.”
“Oh, man, I don’t know. How much do you have?”
“A cueball.” He knows the lingo; a cue is an eightball times two.
“Where?” She looks around dubiously. “Here?”
“In there.” He gestures at the Holman. “Privacy.”
“It’s locked, man.”
He lowers his voice, hoping he doesn’t look like a man contemplating a chick who is probably incubating half a dozen different diseases. “I have a secret code.”
After another look around to make sure they’re alone, he takes her by the hand and leads her back to the abandoned rink.
No flinching. Never flinch.
Later, the name he puts in her hand is Corinna Ashford.
6
When Kate walks onstage—no,struts—most of the audience rises to its feet, cheering and applauding. Standing in the shadows at stage left with Corrie, Holly gets goosebumps. She has learned courage and bravery because those things were required. They made her a better person, too, but at heart she’ll always be a fundamentally shy woman who often feels inadequate, unable to put any foot forward that isn’tthe wrong foot, and she can’t comprehend how anyone can stride so confidently into the view of all those people. And not all of them are applauding. A contingent toward the back, wearing blue shirts that say LIFE AT CONCEPTION, are booing heartily.
Kate stands at center stage, sweeps off her ball cap, and makes a deep bow. Then she grabs the mic and gives it a baton-twirl.