I leapt forward until his head came into sight. Tom’s second arm lay crumpled against the carpet, his face partially turned into the short sleeve of his red T-shirt. His one visible eye was open, staring at the wall.
Air gushed out of my mouth. He was tricking me.
“You rotten thing!” I pushed at his leg with my toe. “How —”
No change. Just that wide-eyed stare.
All the relief that had spilled out of me reversed back down my throat. My windpipe closed until I could hardly breathe. I sank to my knees beside his chest.
“Tom?” I leaned down to look into both his eyes.
The other one was gone.
I mean gone. Just a black, bloody, gaping hole.
For the longest second of my life, all I could do was stare. It pulled at me, that hole. Like it wanted me to tumble inside it. A horror-film version of Alice in Wonderland.
Faintness gripped me. I swooned toward Tom’s ravaged face, my nose almost touching where his eye used to be …
At the last possible moment, my muscles jerked me back.
I shoved to my feet and screamed.
3
My shrieks bounced off the walls during the crowd’s final shouts. In the next second all noise died away.
Silence rang in my ears.
I turned and ran.
Mick materialized in the doorway as I hurtled through it. I rammed into his rock-solid chest. With another scream I bounced off and collapsed on the carpet.
“What — ?” Mick bent over me. I looked up, mouth flopping open. No sound came. I pointed a shaking finger toward Tom. Mick’s head jerked up.
Horror crossed his face.
He jumped over me and ran to Tom, his hand reaching for the gun clipped to his belt.
Mick bent down and disappeared behind the desk. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t do anything.
Voices of band members mingled in the hall, commenting on the performance. How strange the words sounded. So naïve. So unknowing.
Heavy footsteps approached. Ross rounded the corner and almost stepped on me.
“Ahhh!” I rolled away from him.
Mick rose up from behind the desk. Ross froze at the look on his face. “What’s going on?”
“Tom’s dead.” Mick’s voice was tight.
“What?”
“Somebody shot him.”
Ross blinked rapidly, then leaped around me to see for himself.
Mick reached for the phone on the desk. “I’m calling 9 – 1 – 1.”
I stared at the ceiling, my mind going numb. My limbs felt like water. Tom was dead. Dead. My heart couldn’t grasp it. I’d just been with him. How could he be gone?
“Oh.” The word choked from Ross’s throat. He backed away from Tom.
“Yes,” Mick said into the phone. “I need to report a homicide. Hang on a minute.” He shoved the phone into Ross’s hand. “You talk to them. I need to get Bruce and Wendell. We’ll round up the band members, make sure they’re safe.”
Mom. Could whoever did this to Tom want to hurt her?
Mick ran past me, gun in hand. “Shaley, stay here.”
I barely heard him. Panic pushed me onto weak knees. I had to find my mother!
Somehow I crawled out the door. “Mom. Mommmm!”
Every person in the hallway jerked around.
Mick spun back to me. “Shaley, stay there!” He swung toward the others. “Everyone, against the wall and don’t move! Wendell, Bruce, where are you?”
People melted back, calling questions, their voices buzzing like a thousand bees in my head.
“Where’s my mom?”
Bruce ran out of the men’s bathroom, hand automatically going for his weapon. “What?” At six foot six, he has powerful, long legs and arms. I could see his head above everyone else’s.
Wendell burst from the stage area. “Here!”
“Shaley?” Mom’s sharpened voice filtered from up the hallway. “What’s happening?” She came toward me, eyes wide.
“Rayne, stay where you are!” Mick shouted.
Mom picked up speed. Her head whipped back and forth, gawking at everyone pressed against the walls. She started to run. “Shaley, are you all right?
I teetered to my feet. “Tom’s dead, Mom. He’s dead!”
Gasps rose from dozens of throats. Mom didn’t even slow. Mick grabbed her arm, but she yanked away. As if in a dream — a nightmare — I watched her tear-blurred form hurtle toward me. Mick, Bruce, and Wendell spread their feet, guns raised, eyes darting back and forth, searching the hall for danger.
I flung myself forward, sobbing.
After an eternity, Mom reached me. I collapsed into her arms, screaming Tom’s name.
4
Time blurred into commotion and people and noise.
As the news spread, the arena’s own security guards rushed backstage. Ross shoved my purse into my hands, and Mick herded me and Mom through chaos up the hallway and into her dressing room. Inside we sagged against the wall, my Mom white-faced and clinging to me as I cried. In minutes, uniformed San Jose police officers swarmed down on us, checking everyone’s identities, clearing the hall, and securing the whole backstage area with yellow crime-scene tape. Plainclothes detectives arrived. The HP Pavilion’s security force manned the doors and our private area of the parking lot.
All of us Rayne tour members were herded up to the Pavilion’s concourse level, where suite after private suite opened up off the curving hallway. The band members and I huddled in one of those rooms. Policemen stood guard in the hall, spaced about two suites apart, talking now and then into the radios fastened to their uniforms.
Looking down over the arena, I could see the front rows of chairs already broken down and the wild scatter of containers for the instruments, lights, and sound equipment. Usually roadies would be hard at work, packing everything up. Local workers would be taking down the chairs. Now everything had just — stopped.
The band members tried to console me even in their own shock. Kim, Rayne’s keyboard player and alto singer, could barely speak. Tom had been like a son to her. She hugged me hard, then stood back, long fingers sinking into her tanned forearms. Her heart-shaped face looked drawn, her heavy eye makeup smeared. “I’m so s-sorry you … had to find him.”
I could only nod.
Morrey, Rayne’s drummer and Kim’s boyfriend, slipped a tattoo-covered arm around her. He shook his head, full lips working but no sound coming out. He merely reached out a hand and laid it on my shoulder for a moment, his gold earring flashing in the overhead light. Towering over Kim, he bent his head down to hers, his shoulder-length black hair stark against her white-blonde.
Rich, the bass player, and Stan, lead guitarist, hugged Mom and me both. With his shaved head, square jaw, and piercing gray eyes, Rich had played small bad-boy parts in various movies. But I knew his heart.
“Sorry, Kitten,” he whispered, his muscular arms around me. “I’m just so sorry.”
I couldn’t speak.
He pulled back, a strand of my hair catching on one of his huge diamond earrings. With a humorless smile, he untangled it.
Stan, born in America of African parents, gripped my shoulders and studied me with his coal-dark eyes. “We’ll all be here for you, you know that.”
My throat tightened. “Thanks.”
Ross and two uniformed policemen came to our suite to talk to the band. Mom looked at me, one hand pressed against her cheek. “Let’s go into one of the other rooms.” She laid a hand on my head. “Shaley, stay here, okay? I’ll be back soon.”
I nodded.
After they all filed out, wooden and grim-faced, I closed the door. Like a lost child, I wandered a few steps toward the center of the room, then just stood there, hugging myself. Shivering.
My tears wouldn’t stop.
Tom. On the carpet. His eye … gone.
I couldn’t grasp it. Couldn’t believe it. My body was here, but my mind hovered, seeking a safe place to
land. Just minutes before, Tom had been singing one of his crazy rap songs. I was talking to him, laughing with him. How could someone die—just like that?
Who would do this? Why? Everybody loved Tom.
In my confused brain, Brittany’s name suddenly surfaced. Oh, no! Somebody needed to go in the limo to pick her up at the airport. The police didn’t want me to leave since I had found Tom. One of them would soon come to question me.
What happened to the limo, anyway?
I blinked at my watch. After eleven. Brittany’s plane should have landed. Why hadn’t she called?
Choking back my tears, I pulled my cell from my pocket and punched in her number.
Her voice mail immediately answered. Her phone was off.
Fresh panic gripped me. Had something happened to her too?
Maybe her plane was late.
With shaking fingers I pressed in her number again, praying she would answer. Telling myself this was stupid; planes were never on time these days.
The phone started to ring. I hunched over, smashing the phone against my ear. “Come on, Brittany, come on.”
“Hey, you’ve reached Brittany. Call me ba —”
I choked out a sob. Snapped the phone shut.
My knees weakened. I stumbled over to a chair and fell into it.
A new kind of grief surged through me. I bent my head, shoulders shaking as I cried. Brittany had to be okay. I needed her now—so much. She’d been my best friend since second grade. Way before my mom and the band ever became famous. Way before I hit celebrity status as Mom’s daughter. Now Brittany was the only friend I could talk to about certain things — like my deep yearning to know about my father and my resentment that Mom would never speak of him. Fame carried a heavy price. Now if I spoke of my unknown father with some other “friend,” my intimate feelings just might end up on the cover of some national tabloid.
My nose started to clog, and my head ached. I tipped my chin up, brushing away tears, swiping hair from my face. I flipped my cell open, dialed 4 – 1 – 1 for the number to Southwest Airlines. Impatiently I listened to the company’s automated answering system. I pushed the button to check arrival times.
What was her flight number?
I dug in my purse for the piece of paper with her flight and scheduled arrival, then pressed in the numbers, following the automated voice’s instructions. Stupid thing. Why couldn’t you talk to a real person?
Finally I heard my answer. Her plane was just landing.
Relief flowed through my veins, cold and biting. And right behind it — more pain over Tom.
I pushed off the couch. I had to find someone to ride in the limo and pick up Brittany. I didn’t want some unknown driver doing it. Brittany would be upset enough when she heard what happened. She’d need someone to talk to —
A knock sounded on the door. I hurried toward it. “Yeah?”
Carly Sanders, my favorite of Rayne’s three backup singers, opened the door before I could reach it. “Hey there, Shaley.” Tears had tracked through the blusher on her black face.
“Hi.” My chest constricted at the sight of her large, kind eyes. Carly had a way of looking not at me, but through me, as if she could read my soul.
She hugged me briefly but hard. “I came to tell you I’m going to pick up your friend at the airport.”
“Oh, thanks. I was just going to find someone. Is the limo still here?”
“Yes. Mick took care of it.”
Funny how unsettled that made me feel. People were always “taking care” of details for Mom and me. Suddenly, I didn’t want that anymore. I wanted to take care of my own friend.
I wanted to find out who did this to Tom.
Carly put a hand underneath my chin. “I’m so sorry, Shaley. How awful for you. I know what a friend Tom was to you.”
Was.
My face crumbled.
Carly pulled me close again and patted my back, crooning like a mother to her baby. “Poor child. Jesus, help her. Only your power and strength can help Shaley get through this.”
Carly talks as openly about God as Mom talks about publicity, but I’d never heard her pray for me before. It felt strange but good.
I pulled back, wiping at the tears. “You’d better leave.”
“Yeah.”
I stepped into the doorway to watch her go. To the left of the threshold stood the ever-brooding Bruce, feet apart and arms folded. Solid as a mountain.
“Hi.” I sniffed. “Didn’t know you were here.”
Like Mick, Bruce had served in the Marines. His hands and feet are huge, his face all stark angles with deep-set brown eyes. With his blond hair in a ponytail and a trimmed goatee, he looks like a hairy version of Lurch from the old Addams Family reruns. Like Lurch, he rarely smiles.
“I’m always here for you, Shaley.”
“Yeah, I know.”
That new resentment stirred within me once more — irrational, but there it was. Mom and I, as well as the rest of the band, needed to be guarded. Especially now. But I didn’t want to be cut off from the world. I wanted to do something. I wanted to fight back against the evil that had happened to us.
“You okay?” Bruce asked.
I looked at the floor. “No.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s a shock. Wish I’d found him instead of you.”
Me too.
I turned to look down the wide curving hallway. Carly was about to round the corner out of sight. From the other direction came Jerry Brand, one of our bus drivers. He nodded kindly to Carly as she passed.
Stage manager Pete Strickland, in charge of all logistics — traveling to a new venue, setting up, loading out — appeared farther down the hall and spoke to an officer. Pete’s thin lips and hooked nose had earned him the nickname Hawk. He was like a hawk too, always keeping an eye on everything that happened. Most likely he was now questioning when we could leave. He and the officer spoke for a moment before Pete turned to talk to Jerry.
Memories of the yellow crime-scene tape tugged at me. On TV it seemed so benign. In real life it looked brutal.
What was happening backstage?
Was Tom still in Ross’s office, lying on the floor? I thought of all the crime shows I’d seen, people plucking stray hairs and pieces of lint from the body. Taking pictures, discussing the corpse’s temperature and position, theorizing how and when the murder had occurred.
How cold and inhuman. He wasn’t Tom anymore; he was just a mound of evidence waiting to be hauled to the morgue.
My stomach flip-flopped.
Who had done this to him? Why?
I leaned against the doorjamb, gazing at nothing, mounting anger mixing with my pain. Somebody had killed Tom. That person needed to pay.
And I was going to do everything I could — and more — to make sure that happened.
Lifting my chin, I stepped into the hallway, set on asking the nearest policeman to radio someone backstage. I wanted to know what they were doing down there.
5
Shaley, where you going?” Bruce demanded.
I didn’t look back. “To talk to that policeman.”
“You’re supposed to stay here.”
“I don’t care.”
A deep sigh seeped from his throat. I heard his heavy footsteps following.
Down the hall, Jerry Brand saw me coming and cut off his conversation with Pete. Jerry started toward me, glancing at the officer as he passed. He met me halfway, planting his short, stocky body in my path. I halted. Behind me, Bruce’s footsteps stopped.
“Hey, Shaley.” Jerry’s voice was gentle. “I was just about to come see how you’re doing.”
Despite his obvious goal to stop me, the genuine concern in his voice squeezed my heart. His green eyes studied me, his forehead wrinkled. In his fifties, Jerry wore a black Rayne T-shirt, his belly hanging over the waist of his loose-cut jeans. He gave me his trademark crooked smile, although this one was sad. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
I nodded.
Under the lights, Jerry’s bald crown looked sallow. He latched his hands behind his back, put his weight on one leg, and thrust the other one forward. His eyes rose briefly over my shoulder to Bruce. “I know you got a lot of help here, but I just … wondered if there’s anything I can do.”
The word no formed on my tongue, then dissolved. As awkward as he appeared in asking, Jerry clearly wanted to help. I forced a tiny smile of my own. “In the next few days I just might need another one of your wild hunting stories.”
His round face brightened. “Oh yeah? The fish so big it pulled me outta the boat?”
“You know I’ve heard that a dozen times.”
“The bear that chased me through the woods when I was stalking a deer?”
In spite of myself, my smile widened. “I like that one. Brittany’s coming tonight, you know. She’ll love to hear it.”
Three men in the HP Pavilion’s security-guard uniform appeared and spoke with the policeman. They spotted me and turned their backs, talking in low tones.
Jerry glanced around at them, then nodded at me, satisfied. “Okay. You got it. Maybe in Denver. We’re pulling out at six a.m.”
We meant the tech bus and the huge trucks that carried all the equipment. “Wow, that will be hard. You’ll be tired.” Normally he and Vance, the driver he switched off with, would be sleeping now. While on the road, the driver’s job was the hardest. At least the technicians on the bus could sleep in their beds all day if they wanted. Jerry only got to rest on his bunk when Vance drove.
Jerry shrugged. “It’s what I was hired for.”
“How long’s the drive?”
“About twenty hours. That’s without stops to eat. So probably more like twenty-three. We’ll get there about six o’clock Sunday morning. Denver time.”
What a life. I was glad I got to stay in hotels and fly everywhere. All day tomorrow, while the buses and trucks were driving, the band had a free day at the hotel.
“Okay, Jerry. See you there. And thanks for coming to check on me.”
“No problem.”
I made a move to pass him.
Always Watching Page 2
