Constant Readers are a bit divided on the subject of Holly Gibney. Some love the intrepid private investigator and her evolving confidence through horrific adventures while others grow weary of her quirky catchphrases and cautiousness that occasionally veers into scolding. Perhaps it’s not so much Holly herself who proves alienating but the knowledge that her involvement foretells a specific type of Stephen King story. We know that a “Holly” novel—or the Hodges Trilogy from which she emerges—will be a crime story with little to no supernatural elements. Fans of King’s modern work clamor for these more hard-boiled stories that race towards an explosive climax while many Constant Readers long for the nuance and danger of vintage King where characters could be ripped away in the blink of an eye and emotional dread hangs over each scene. King’s recent short story collection You Like it Darker proves the master of horror still has the former in his massive toolbox, but Never Flinch is an example of the latter. This busy story features Holly Gibney trying to untangle two disturbing crimes as they unfold in her ill-fated midwestern town.
We rejoin Holly as the sole proprietor of Finders Keepers, a private investigation company she founded with her late mentor Bill Hodges. Her second partner has now retired, leaving Holly to track down bail jumpers and missing pets on her own. Despite an early professional rivalry, she’s grown close to Detective Izzy Jaynes who consults with Holly on her latest case. In the wake of an egregious miscarriage of justice, someone calling themselves Bill Wilson and/or Trig is murdering innocent civilians to protest the death of a wrongly accused man. Meanwhile, feminist author Kate McKay embarks on a nationwide speaking tour, becoming the target of a dangerous anti-choice zealot. Amidst credible threats of assasination, Holly joins Kate’s entourage as a bodyguard tasked with protecting the brash and overconfident woman. As the tour winds its way towards Holly’s native Buckey City and Trig’s plan spirals out of control, the two plotlines merge in an explosive, yet rushed, final conclusion.
With six previous Holly stories under his belt, King seems enamored with this controversial character and the world of crime she inhabits. While several of these novels have been outstanding explorations of destructive desire, others feel like cozy mysteries. A small group of constant protagonists, led by Holly herself, seem to perpetually find themselves wrapped up in the city’s latest caper with minimal chance that they will actually die. King has never shied away from killing his darlings and this series lacks his trademark unpredictability. His most successful Holly books use the mystery genre to explore larger themes that emerge from authentic characters with rich inner lives. In Never Flinch, King seems more concerned with the format itself than the feminist message he’s determined to include. The plot-heavy story aches with effort and fails to say much of substance. To be fair, King admits this in a candid afterward implying that the novel has been through extensive reworking. It’s difficult to conclude Never Flinch without agreeing with the author that this latest story never reaches its full potential.
Despite being considered a Holly novel, the recurring character accounts for only a fraction of the story. We spend significant time with the mysterious Trig (aka Bill Wilson), a serial killer using murder as a means of protest. King keeps the madman’s true identity secret until late in the game, cleverly using the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous to cloak his villain in anonymity while alluding to the story’s exploration of shifting addiction. King draws on personal experience to create a powerful portrait of long-term sobriety and the dangers of forgetting your commitment to recovery.
The story’s other antagonist feels comparatively thin if not outright problematic. We first meet the anonymous Chris as he’s throwing bleach disguised as acid in the face of Kate McKay’s faithful assistant Corrie. Bolstered by an extremist church, he follows her tour across the country with escalating acts of terror designed to culminate in assassination. An afterward concludes with a list of abortion doctors murdered on the job and King is clearly passionate about reproductive rights, but this dated villain overshadows any point he’s trying to make. Chris is a gender-fluid character who’s shifting identity stems from childhood trauma—a problematic idea in and of itself. While Chris is not trans and does not mention his sexual identity, the ill-formed and messy details of his characterization fall into a dangerous pattern of queer vilification. We simply don’t learn enough about Chris to form strong opinions about who he is and King hesitates to fully unpack what he’s trying to say, likely trying to avoid offense. However, this vagary is itself offensive. Chris does not feel like a real character but an amalgamation of misconceptions about gender identity and mental illness. Combined with Trig’s disturbing habit of conversing with his dead father, King seems to be pulling from Psycho’s Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) without unpacking well-documented criticism surrounding the iconic villain.
Similar problems arise with Kate McKay who often feels like a leftist version of Ann Coulter. She has an unceasing dedication to women’s rights, yet behind the scenes she’s the boss from hell. As a bodyguard, Holly has agreed to take a bullet for Kate and she quickly grows frustrated with the woman’s combative lifestyle. Relentlessly targeted, threatened, and maligned for her admirable beliefs, Kate becomes a welcome study in the long-term effects of outspoken leadership on progressive ideals, but even this is complicated by uneven characterization. King often seems frustrated with Kate through Holly’s eyes, muddying what sometimes feels like nominal dedication to women’s liberation. At one point, Holly muses that Kate is “begging to be assassinated,” an uncomfortable echo of the dreaded “what was she wearing?”
Kate is brash, opinionated, overconfident, and cruel, but this unlikability is not an empowering aspect of complex humanity. Holly views her as a petulant child who makes good points and we leave the story feeling as if Corrie, her silent supporter, is the true feminist delivering Kate’s message through action rather than speech. King goes out of his way to praise Kate’s ideals while disparaging the woman herself. Is he saying that she should be more palatable in her feminism, hinting at the patriarchal expectation that women remain pleasing and demure? Or is he creating an unlikeable female character and daring us to nonetheless rally behind her? The author can’t seem to decide how he feels about this lightning rod speaker and seems to want both at the same time, diluting any message of female empowerment. Perhaps this is unfair and King should be praised for tackling such a risky subject. But he is touching live wires and, as with Chris, seems to back off before making any meaningful statement.
If these were the only two stories, Never Flinch would perhaps feel like mirror images of similar trauma, but there are at least two other competing plotlines. Holly’s friend Barbara befriends a legendary soul singer poised to come out of retirement while Izzy prepares for a charity softball game overrun with interdepartmental rivalry. While these two stories do eventually wind their way together, they sideline our main characters for significant chunks of the story. Each feels like a pinball dancing around an elaborate machine, touching important motives and themes then moving on before we can fully invest. The novel’s final act barrels towards an exciting conclusion and King effectively weaves through each plotline, but the climax itself feels rushed and abrupt. Characters are tossed aside and the story ends before we’ve had a chance to consider what we’ve just read. Trig and Chris feel like echoes of Jack Torrance (The Shining) and Scott Landon (Lisey’s Story) with their addictive need for violence and history of childhood abuse. However, their respective novels are deep character studies set in intimate worlds. Here, King taps into a similar vein, but doesn’t allow himself the space to fully explore.
Despite its messiness, Never Flinch does contain a poignant, if painful, message. King sets out to comment on feminism and addiction, but what we’re left with is a story about women simply trying to live their lives while men insist on getting in the way. Chris and Trig both carry emotional pain and see punishing women as the only way forward. Those victimized by the novel’s combustible conclusion have little to do with the story’s two villains, but their proximity to dangerous men put them in mortal danger—mirroring the peril real women face every day. Bringing to life the quippy, “men will terrorize a city and burn women alive before going to therapy,” Never Flinch is a story about women yearning for rich and independent lives of their own who are constantly hindered by male interference. By reflecting the lived experience of millions of women, it’s an intensely political and feminist story, but perhaps not in the way King intended.
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