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“I’m really sorry, Iz. I went too far out on a limb and it broke off.”
“Quit with the sorry,” Izzy says. “Number one, we had to re-interview Grinsted anyway. Number two, we have a potentially valuablelead and that’s down to you. Number three, you’re always too hard on yourself. Give yourself some fucking credit, Hols.”
Holly almost says,I’m sorry, I’ll try, then chokes it off. “Thanks, Izzy, that’s kind. I reached out to my guy in the recovery program. If he knows a Trig, he’ll let me know and I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll be doubling down on that,” Izzy says. “This will come as a shock to you, but there are a lot of cops who have substance abuse problems and some of them go to recovery meetings. I’ll circulate a memo that asks about Trig and guarantees anonymity for any cop who has info. You concentrate on taking care of that woman you’re bodyguarding. They’re saying nasty things about her on that so-called news station. The Big Bob.”
“I’ll do my best,” Holly says, and ends the call. She goes into the bathroom and splashes cold water on her burning cheeks. She understands that Izzy is right; all her life she has dwelled on her failures while discounting her successes as coincidence or pure luck. Some of this was no doubt the result of growing up in the shadow (no; under the thumb) of Charlotte Gibney, but she suspects some of it is just the way she’s built.
I need my own program, she thinks.Call it SEA. Self-Esteem Anonymous.
Her phone chirps. It’s Corrie Anderson, telling Holly she and Kate are saddling up for the drive to Wisconsin.
“I’ll be half an hour behind you,” Holly says. “Keep on the main-traveled roads and watch out for cars that seem like they’re sticking with you.”
“Not easy,” Corrie says. “After Iowa City, we’ve picked up the usual tail of Kate fans.”
“Watch for a woman on her own.” She almost adds,Probably wearing dark glasses, but that’s stupid. On a sunny morning like this, most drivers will be wearing them.
“Roger that.” Corrie sounds insouciant, unconcerned. Holly doesn’t like it. “Hold on. Kate wants to talk to you.”
There’s a rustle, and then Holly’s boss is on the phone. “I just want to thank you again for what you did last night. I was frozen in place. So was Corrie and everyone else. You, however, were not.”
Holly starts to say something about how she didn’t even think, just reacted. Then she thinks of Izzy saying,Give yourself some fuckingcredit, Hols. What she says is, “You’re very welcome.” Saying that is difficult but not impossible.
She ends the call feeling good about herself again. Well… no. Holly never feels exactly good about herself, but shedoesfeel better, and decides to treat herself to a breakfast pastry before getting on the road.
Her phone rings again as she’s going out the door. It’s Jerome. He says he’ll be happy to research fundamentalist churches that have gotten in trouble with the law.
“I know it’s a big ask,” Holly says, tossing her suitcase into the backseat of the Chrysler (the luxury of which she is coming to enjoy). “I’m sorry to take you away from your book.”
“I told you, I hit a roadblock on it. I’ll finish it eventually—it’s how I was raised—but I guess I wasn’t made for fiction. Research, though… I love that shit.”
“Well, do what you can, but don’t let your novel go cold on my account. My idea will probably come to nothing, anyway. I’ve already pulled one boner on the Surrogate Juror thing.” Leaning against her car in the mellow morning sunshine, she tells Jerome how she thought Trig might have been a nickname for Russell Grinsted.
“Don’t let it get you down,” he says. “Even Aaron Judge strikes out once in awhile. Actually quite a lot.”
“Thanks, J.”
“Don’t mention it, Hollyberry.”
“That’s one,” she says, and can’t keep the smile out of her voice. “You get two more.”
He laughs, then says, “I’ll hoard those. Stay safe, Hols.”
“That’s the plan.”
2
It was Chrissy who went to sleep in Cabin 6 of the Davenport Rest, but it’s Chris who wakes up, yawns, stretches, and gets into the rusty, coffin-sized shower. He doesn’t need coffee; as a person that grew up in the Real Christ Holy Church of Baraboo Junction, he has never used it. Or alcohol. Or drugs, including aspirin.
He’s in a good mood. Deacon Fallowes mentioned Brenda’s Bitches last night, and Chris woke up thinking about them this morning. Pastor Jim (also Andy Fallowes) likes to say that “the Way of the Cross is a hard way,” and it’s true, but that makes every victory sweeter. The day the church bested Brenda’s Bitches was a sweet day indeed. It’s true that Mama didn’t care for what happened, but as the Book of Titus says, women should not be argumentative, but submissive.
Not that she argued much that day; just a few words was all. As Isaiah says, “The ox knows its owner.”
The bathroom’s one towel is little more than a rag, but Chris doesn’t care; he’s having a pleasant walk down Memory Lane to Rawcliffe, Pennsylvania, and the Rawcliffe Women’s Center.
That day he was all Chris.