Someone yelled for her to stop, but she was already running. She didn’t have time to turn around and look.
Turning a corner, she was faced with a crowd of roadies and backup dancers.
“Gray tracksuit, which way?” she yelled. There were a handful of startled stares. “Which way!” yelled Nikki again. A half-naked girl in devil horns and body paint pointed left. Nikki ran left through a door and stopped. The cavernous room was packed with clothing and makeup; it was a disaster zone of nooks and crannies and had no visible exit. There was a groan from the floor to her left, and Nikki saw a pair of legs emerging from under a toppled chair.
Nikki moved the chair and found herself staring into the woozy blue eyes of an older woman with huge bouffant hair. She was also wearing an older-model Carrie Mae necklace. Rachel had one displayed in her lab. It was the first 100 percent reliable knockout-gas model—a real breakthrough in Carrie Mae technology.
“Whahappen?” asked the woman, rubbing her head.
“I’m with Carrie Mae,” said Nikki, speaking rapidly. “Is there a way out of this room?”
“Carrie … Did Camille send you?” The older woman’s face brightened at the idea.
“What? No. Is there another way out?”
“The back door,” said the woman, pointing vaguely. “But, why…”
Nikki dropped the woman and pushed her way through the racks of costumes. Sure enough, a back door stood open, revealing the expanse of backstage area. Tracksuit was nowhere in sight.
GERMANY II
Maxwell’s Silver Hammer
“Bastard piece of shit!” exclaimed Nikki. It was one of Z’ev’s favorite swear phrases.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate Carrie Mae language, dear,” said the woman, peering over Nikki’s shoulder.
Nikki pivoted slowly to look at the woman.
“Who are you?” she demanded, thinking of a few other examples of un–Carrie Mae–like language.
“I’m Trista,” said the woman, patting absentmindedly at her towering hair. “Who are you? What are you doing here if Camille didn’t send you?”
“I’m asking the questions,” snapped Nikki. “What’s your mission?”
“I’m not on a mission,” said Trista primly. “I retired from Carrie Mae. I’m now the head makeup artist to Kit Masters.”
“Son of a bi—”
“Young lady!” exclaimed Trista. “I just do not know what ishappening in Carrie Mae these days that they would hire women who use that kind of language.”
Nikki took a deep breath and counted to ten.
“What concert is this? Where am I?”
“It’s the Hotel Hell tour,” answered Trista. “Kit Masters?” she added when Nikki’s expression tightened.
“Kit Masters, Camille Masters’s son?”
“Yes,” said Trista. “Is there some kind of trouble? Who are you?”
“Nikki Lanier,” said Nikki. “Antonio Cano escaped from prison; I’ve been sent to apprehend him.”
“Oh God,” said Trista, going pale and clutching the nearest clothing rack for support. “Please tell me he’s not here.”
“I was chasing someone he was talking to,” said Nikki, withholding the information that the meeting had been interrupted by Camille.
“Oh God!” exclaimed Trista again, her hand dramatically covering her heart. “We have to do something! That’s too much; Kit can’t know about that.”
“No one’s telling him anything yet. Doesn’t he have security?” asked Nikki impatiently.
“Of course, but he’s just come out of rehab, and he doesn’t know anything about Cano or Camille’s job. You can’t tell him!” Trista was wide-eyed in horror.
Somewhere an alarm went off, beeping in a rapid rhythm.
“Oh!” exclaimed Trista, jumping slightly at the noise. “Oh! We have to go. It’s time!”
“Time for what?” asked Nikki.
“Uh … uh…” Trista was hurrying around the room, collecting bits of clothing and strapping on a tool belt full of makeup. “Just … come on. I’ll explain it on the way.”
They walked rapidly through the
Turning a corner, she was faced with a crowd of roadies and backup dancers.
“Gray tracksuit, which way?” she yelled. There were a handful of startled stares. “Which way!” yelled Nikki again. A half-naked girl in devil horns and body paint pointed left. Nikki ran left through a door and stopped. The cavernous room was packed with clothing and makeup; it was a disaster zone of nooks and crannies and had no visible exit. There was a groan from the floor to her left, and Nikki saw a pair of legs emerging from under a toppled chair.
Nikki moved the chair and found herself staring into the woozy blue eyes of an older woman with huge bouffant hair. She was also wearing an older-model Carrie Mae necklace. Rachel had one displayed in her lab. It was the first 100 percent reliable knockout-gas model—a real breakthrough in Carrie Mae technology.
“Whahappen?” asked the woman, rubbing her head.
“I’m with Carrie Mae,” said Nikki, speaking rapidly. “Is there a way out of this room?”
“Carrie … Did Camille send you?” The older woman’s face brightened at the idea.
“What? No. Is there another way out?”
“The back door,” said the woman, pointing vaguely. “But, why…”
Nikki dropped the woman and pushed her way through the racks of costumes. Sure enough, a back door stood open, revealing the expanse of backstage area. Tracksuit was nowhere in sight.
GERMANY II
Maxwell’s Silver Hammer
“Bastard piece of shit!” exclaimed Nikki. It was one of Z’ev’s favorite swear phrases.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate Carrie Mae language, dear,” said the woman, peering over Nikki’s shoulder.
Nikki pivoted slowly to look at the woman.
“Who are you?” she demanded, thinking of a few other examples of un–Carrie Mae–like language.
“I’m Trista,” said the woman, patting absentmindedly at her towering hair. “Who are you? What are you doing here if Camille didn’t send you?”
“I’m asking the questions,” snapped Nikki. “What’s your mission?”
“I’m not on a mission,” said Trista primly. “I retired from Carrie Mae. I’m now the head makeup artist to Kit Masters.”
“Son of a bi—”
“Young lady!” exclaimed Trista. “I just do not know what ishappening in Carrie Mae these days that they would hire women who use that kind of language.”
Nikki took a deep breath and counted to ten.
“What concert is this? Where am I?”
“It’s the Hotel Hell tour,” answered Trista. “Kit Masters?” she added when Nikki’s expression tightened.
“Kit Masters, Camille Masters’s son?”
“Yes,” said Trista. “Is there some kind of trouble? Who are you?”
“Nikki Lanier,” said Nikki. “Antonio Cano escaped from prison; I’ve been sent to apprehend him.”
“Oh God,” said Trista, going pale and clutching the nearest clothing rack for support. “Please tell me he’s not here.”
“I was chasing someone he was talking to,” said Nikki, withholding the information that the meeting had been interrupted by Camille.
“Oh God!” exclaimed Trista again, her hand dramatically covering her heart. “We have to do something! That’s too much; Kit can’t know about that.”
“No one’s telling him anything yet. Doesn’t he have security?” asked Nikki impatiently.
“Of course, but he’s just come out of rehab, and he doesn’t know anything about Cano or Camille’s job. You can’t tell him!” Trista was wide-eyed in horror.
Somewhere an alarm went off, beeping in a rapid rhythm.
“Oh!” exclaimed Trista, jumping slightly at the noise. “Oh! We have to go. It’s time!”
“Time for what?” asked Nikki.
“Uh … uh…” Trista was hurrying around the room, collecting bits of clothing and strapping on a tool belt full of makeup. “Just … come on. I’ll explain it on the way.”
They walked rapidly through the
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