The Shining Girls

Dan ^{13 JUNE 1993}

Dan spots her crazy hair right off the bat. Hard to miss, even in the clamor of the arrivals hall. He seriously thinks about getting back on the plane, but by then it’s too late, she’s spotted him. She half-raises her hand. It’s almost a question.

‘Yeah, okay, I see you, I’m coming,’ he grumbles to himself, pointing at the conveyor belt and miming lifting a suitcase. She nods, vigorously, and starts navigating the hordes towards him; a woman in a chador, like her own personal palanquin with the curtains drawn, a harried family scrambling to keep themselves together, a depressing number of obese travellers. He’s never understood the thinking that airports are glamorous. People who believe that have never had to route through Minneapolis–St Paul. Taking a bus is less tedious. Better view too. The only miracle of flight is that more passengers don’t strangle each other out of boredom and frustration.

Kirby materializes at his elbow. ‘Hey. I tried to call you.’

‘I was on the plane.’

‘Yeah, the hotel said you’d left already. Sorry. I had to talk to you. I couldn’t wait.’

‘Patience never was your strong point.’

‘This is serious, Dan.’

He sighs, heavily, and watches a dozen not-his-bags inching past on the conveyor. ‘Is this about the junkie artist girl from a couple of days ago? Because that was an ugly thing, but it’s not your guy. The cops already nailed her dealer for it. Charming fellow called Huxtable, or something like that.’

‘Huxley Snyder. No history of violence.’

Finally his suitcase emerges from the plastic curtain and thumps down the chute onto the belt. He scoops it up and shuttles Kirby towards the exit to the El.

‘History has to start somewhere, right?’

‘I spoke to the girl’s dad. He said someone had been phoning the house asking for Catherine.’

‘Sure. I get people phoning my house asking for me all the time. Most of them are insurance salesmen.’ He starts digging in his wallet for CTA tokens, but Kirby has dropped enough for both of them into the slot.

‘He said there was something sinister about him.’

‘There’s something sinister about insurance salesmen,’ Dan retorts. He’s not going to encourage her.

There’s a train waiting, already packed. He lets her take the seat and leans up against the pole as the doors-closing bell goes. Hates touching the thing. More germs on hand rails than toilet seats.

‘And she was stabbed, Dan. Not in the gut, but— ’

‘Have you enrolled for the new semester?’

‘What?’

‘Because I know you’re not talking to me about this shit again. You’re practically under a restraining order.’

‘For fuck’s sake. I didn’t come here to talk to you about Catherine Galloway-Peck, although there are similarities and…’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Fine,’ she says coldly. ‘The reason I came to meet you at the airport was because of this.’ She swings her backpack round onto her lap. Battered, black, anonymous. She unzips it and pulls out his jacket.

‘Hey, I’ve been looking for that.’

‘That’s not what I want to show you.’

She unfolds the jacket like it’s some sacred bloody shroud. He’s expecting proof of the second coming at least. Jesus’s face imprinted in a sweat stain. But what emerges is a kids’ toy. A plastic horse, the worse for wear.

‘And this now?’

‘He gave it to me when I was a little girl. I was six years old. How was I supposed to recognize him? I didn’t even remember the pony until I saw a photograph.’ She hesitates, uncertain. ‘Shit. I don’t know how to say this.’

‘Can’t be worse than anything else you’ve said to me. All the crazy theories, I mean.’ Not the moment when she turned on him in the Sun-Times boardroom, raw with the betrayal that ripped right through him, leaving a residual ache every time he thinks about her. Which is all the time. ‘This theory’s the worst one of all. But you have to hear me out.’

‘Can’t wait,’ he says.

She lays it out for him. Her impossible pony, which ties in to the impossible baseball card on that World War Two woman, which somehow ties in to the lighter and a cassette tape Julia wouldn’t have listened to. He struggles to hide his mounting dismay.

‘It’s very interesting,’ he says, carefully.

‘Don’t do that.’

‘What am I doing?’

‘Pitying me.’

‘There’s a reasonable explanation for all of this.’

‘Fuck reasonable.’

‘Look. Here’s the plan. I’ve had six and a half hours in airports and on planes. I’m tired. I stink. But for you – and really, you’re the only person in the world I would do this for – I am going to forego heading home to have the simple and very necessary joy of a shower. We’re going to go straight to the office and I’m going to phone the toy company and clear this up.’

‘You think I didn’t do that already?’

‘Yeah, but you weren’t asking the right questions,’ he says, patiently. ‘Like, for example, was there a prototype? Was there a salesman who might have had access to them in 1974? Is it possible that the numbers “1982” refer to a limited edition or a manufacturing number rather than a date?’

She’s quiet for a long time, staring at her feet. She’s wearing big clunky boots today. Half the laces are undone. ‘It is crazy, huh? Jesus.’

‘Totally understandable. That’s a weird set of coincidences right there. Of course you want to try to make sense of them. And you’re probably onto something big with this pony. If it turns out there was a salesman with a prototype, that could lead us straight to him. Okay? You done good. Don’t sweat it.’

‘You’re the one who’s sweating,’ she says with a small tight smile that doesn’t make it to her eyes.

‘We’ll sort it out,’ he says. And until they get to the Sun-Times, he actually believes it.