backstage area, passing a strange desk full of switches, manned by an overfed roadie in a tour T-shirt and a donut clasped in one hand. A panoply of wires connected the desk to what looked like an air compressor, which ran hoses for pneumatic mechanical legs that rose into the dark recesses above their heads.
“That’s the elevating stage,” said Trista, noticing the direction of Nikki’s gaze. “The band’s up there, and when Kit comes out after intermission, he’ll get on that.” She pointed to a small platform that was ringed with an iron railing. “It’ll shoot him up on the stage. Then he’ll get on the elevating stage with the band, and then they’ll all rise another twenty-five feet in the air and hover while the fireworks go off.”
“Great,” said Nikki, feeling that some sort of response was called for. She wasn’t sure where they were going or why. She needed to question Trista about likely suspects for Tracksuit’s identity, but instead Trista seemed to be giving her a tour. They climbed steep, corrugated metal stairs, the concrete floor beneath them disappearing rapidly.
“We need to focus on Cano,” said Nikki, feeling that she was losing control of the situation and raising her voice over the music that was getting louder as they approached the stage. “Assuming Cano’s targeting Kit, who on the tour would meet with him?”
“No one,” said Trista. “Everyone loves Kit.”
Nikki rolled her eyes. “Well, someone met with Cano. Someone I chased back here; someone who conked you on the head.”
“No one would want to hurt Kit.” Trista’s face folded into an angry pout.
“All these people ‘love’ Kit?” asked Nikki skeptically, gesturing around ascurrying roadies. “No one would give up security details for a fat lot of cash?”
“Duncan vetted everyone,” said Trista.
“Who’s Duncan?” Nikki asked.
“Duncan Kilkenny, Kit’s bodyguard,” said Trista, looking distracted as they came out into the wings of the stage. “He takes care of all the security matters. Here, hold this.” She pushed a pile of clothes at Nikki.
“No, really,” said Nikki, fumbling the clothes. “I don’t have time for this. I have a mission. Cano—”
“That’s why you have to stay!” exclaimed Trista. “You have to protect Kit.”
“He’s got bodyguards. You just said.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Trista, checking her watch. “He should be offstage by now.”
Onstage Kit Masters was screaming lyrics into a microphone, leaning way out over a speaker. His sleeveless T-shirt was soaked through and clung to his body. The square stadium was jammed with people. Banners littered the swarming pile of fans. As the band jammed, Nikki craned her head and watched sweat fly off the drummer in post-bath-dog shakes of his flailing arms. Kit finished the song, throwing up his hands in exultation. The fans screamed in reaction, and Kit stepped back from the microphone and looked around, seeing who was with him. He lifted his hands and made small patting, shushing movements. The stadium quieted to a mountainous whisper. Kit hitched up his pants with an almost embarrassed movement.
“Now, look, people, ordinarily at this point in the show I go sponge myself off, but we are having such a good time that I think we need to do one more song. Which one do you think we should do? What do you think, guys?” He turned around to look at the band.
“One more song,” muttered Trista. “He must be having a really good time. He never does an extra song. He’s always prompt about his halftime break.”
Out onstage, Nikki could hear the band shouting suggestions.
“‘God Hates Elvis,’” said the guitar player; the bass player shrugged.
“‘Less Than Second,’” said the keyboardist, and then the drummer yelled, “‘Heaven-Sent!’”
Kit laughed. He turned back to the microphone.
“Burg wants to do ‘Heaven-Sent.’”
There was a terrific roar of approval from the crowd. Kit
“That’s the elevating stage,” said Trista, noticing the direction of Nikki’s gaze. “The band’s up there, and when Kit comes out after intermission, he’ll get on that.” She pointed to a small platform that was ringed with an iron railing. “It’ll shoot him up on the stage. Then he’ll get on the elevating stage with the band, and then they’ll all rise another twenty-five feet in the air and hover while the fireworks go off.”
“Great,” said Nikki, feeling that some sort of response was called for. She wasn’t sure where they were going or why. She needed to question Trista about likely suspects for Tracksuit’s identity, but instead Trista seemed to be giving her a tour. They climbed steep, corrugated metal stairs, the concrete floor beneath them disappearing rapidly.
“We need to focus on Cano,” said Nikki, feeling that she was losing control of the situation and raising her voice over the music that was getting louder as they approached the stage. “Assuming Cano’s targeting Kit, who on the tour would meet with him?”
“No one,” said Trista. “Everyone loves Kit.”
Nikki rolled her eyes. “Well, someone met with Cano. Someone I chased back here; someone who conked you on the head.”
“No one would want to hurt Kit.” Trista’s face folded into an angry pout.
“All these people ‘love’ Kit?” asked Nikki skeptically, gesturing around ascurrying roadies. “No one would give up security details for a fat lot of cash?”
“Duncan vetted everyone,” said Trista.
“Who’s Duncan?” Nikki asked.
“Duncan Kilkenny, Kit’s bodyguard,” said Trista, looking distracted as they came out into the wings of the stage. “He takes care of all the security matters. Here, hold this.” She pushed a pile of clothes at Nikki.
“No, really,” said Nikki, fumbling the clothes. “I don’t have time for this. I have a mission. Cano—”
“That’s why you have to stay!” exclaimed Trista. “You have to protect Kit.”
“He’s got bodyguards. You just said.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Trista, checking her watch. “He should be offstage by now.”
Onstage Kit Masters was screaming lyrics into a microphone, leaning way out over a speaker. His sleeveless T-shirt was soaked through and clung to his body. The square stadium was jammed with people. Banners littered the swarming pile of fans. As the band jammed, Nikki craned her head and watched sweat fly off the drummer in post-bath-dog shakes of his flailing arms. Kit finished the song, throwing up his hands in exultation. The fans screamed in reaction, and Kit stepped back from the microphone and looked around, seeing who was with him. He lifted his hands and made small patting, shushing movements. The stadium quieted to a mountainous whisper. Kit hitched up his pants with an almost embarrassed movement.
“Now, look, people, ordinarily at this point in the show I go sponge myself off, but we are having such a good time that I think we need to do one more song. Which one do you think we should do? What do you think, guys?” He turned around to look at the band.
“One more song,” muttered Trista. “He must be having a really good time. He never does an extra song. He’s always prompt about his halftime break.”
Out onstage, Nikki could hear the band shouting suggestions.
“‘God Hates Elvis,’” said the guitar player; the bass player shrugged.
“‘Less Than Second,’” said the keyboardist, and then the drummer yelled, “‘Heaven-Sent!’”
Kit laughed. He turned back to the microphone.
“Burg wants to do ‘Heaven-Sent.’”
There was a terrific roar of approval from the crowd. Kit
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