“Yeah, we're really happy to be here in New Orleans. I've always wanted to come here. The music's got its own soul, like. Fee has this vision of gathering up the spirit of the United States for the album we're cutting when we get back home . . . No, man, I don't know what happened. I was just setting up my boards. Sound good in here, don't they?” His long fingers danced up and down the keys, sending a weird, discordant wailing echoing through the auditorium. “Yeah, it's a thing I'm trying out for this gig. I think it's a new sound. Can't wait to see what they think of it in San Francisco.” The music attracted the attention of the other reporters on stage. Like rats to the Pied Piper, they turned away from other victims and crowded in on Vincent, who played more eerie-sounding music to the rapt crowd.
Liz grinned. Vincent had a little benevolent magic of his own. Nigel Peters, Lloyd Preston and a cordon of security guards swooped in. They rounded up the protesting group of reporters and escorted them toward the door, talking all the while to distract them. Very quickly, the Superdome was cleared of members of the press. Green Fire seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Liz followed Boo into the boxes surrounding the stage. The two of them split up and went in opposite directions.
The tiers of seats were raked steeply and the space between them was alarmingly narrow. Liz hated to admit it, but she was afraid of heights. Her heart pounded every time she stumbled, grabbing for the metal railing to keep herself from plummeting down the concrete stairs. There was no way for her to watch what was going on down on stage and walk at the same time. If she was to concentrate on magic-sniffing, it was better for her acrophobia not to be able to see how far up they were. She kept her gaze on the few feet of floor immediately in front of her, and listened.
She began to understand why Green Fire had chosen the Superdome as a concert venue. The acoustics were surprisingly good. Voices carried well into the bleachers from the stage. Over the racket created by grips dragging equipment to its places, the tuning of instruments, and the pounding of feet on the hollow platform, Liz eavesdropped on the crew and the band. They all sounded impatient and resentful of the long interruption of their jobs.
“ . . . my opinion, Fitz won't admit he had a cigarette in his hand under . . .” a deep male voice rose out of the hubbub. “ . . . set fire to it himself and . . .”
“ . . . silk goes up in a puff . . .” another man's voice agreed.
“ . . . filmy sleeves . . .” one of the stagehands drawled, scornfully.
“ . . . really an attack on Fee?” piped a woman's voice. Liz recognized Laura Manning.
“No!” “Maybe.” “Yes, and by whom?” echoed around the stage.
“ . . . one of us?” asked Lockney's voice.
“No!” came the immediate protest, but other voices chimed in. “Maybe.” “Could be.” “Who?”
“Who knows?” Michael Scott's clear voice cut above the noise. “Let's get this done.”
Who indeed? Liz wondered, as she reached the end of the tier. She had not sensed any magical evidence whatsoever in the circuit. She glanced across the open arena at the sea of multicolored seats, but she couldn't see Boo-Boo. If it wasn't an accident, perhaps the prank was the work of an earthbound stalker trying to make Fionna's life miserable. In that eventuality Liz would have to turn the case over to the FBI. Ringwall wouldn't like that, but he'd be relieved. Anything that smelled of the mystical worried the ministry. On the whole he would be happier if Liz could prove a negative instead of a positive. You open the floodgates, she thought wryly, and that let in all the bogeys down the coal cellar, the walking ghosts, and before you know it Panorama and 60 Minutes are doing a special on you.
A dark-skinned man in a plain gray guard's uniform sprang up out of nowhere in front of her. Liz jumped in surprise and clutched for a handhold.
“Can I help you, ma'am?” he asked, his warm brown eyes serene but watchful. The temples of his black, curly hair were a distinguished gray. Liz showed him her credentials, which he examined with raised eyebrows. “Well, isn't that interesting. Welcome to America, ma'am.”
“How is it going, Captain Evers?” Liz asked, reading his name tag.
“Under control, ma'am,” the man said, taking a side glance down at the stage area. “We're clearing out the rest of the city folks. Pretty soon it'll just be us chickens in here. There's no damage we can find, no signs of a break-in. I guess they were right about that flash powder causing the fire in the first place . . .”
Liz found she was only half-listening to him. She was aware of a looming presence overhead, like a storm cloud. She glanced up at the large, square box hovering over the stage, a huge cube covered with lights, screens and speakers.
“What is that?” she asked, cutting Evers off in the middle of his explanation. His eyes followed hers upward.
“Oh, that's the Jumbotron, ma'am.”
“What's it for?”
“She raises and lowers so you can watch the screens. They use her all the time during concerts and games, to show the scores, instant replays and so on.”
“Good heavens,” Liz said, gawking at its size. “What does that thing weigh?”
“Seventy-two tons, ma'am.” Evers sounded proud.
Liz frowned. “Could it be detached?” she asked. “Is there any possible chance it could come down on anyone?”
Captain Evers looked very worried until Boo leaned around from behind her. “She's with me, Abelard.”
The dark-skinned man's lined face relaxed into a wide grin.
“Boo-Boo, is that you?” Evers asked. He rocked back on his heels, and stuck out his hands to clasp the American agent's. “You young rascal, how you be?”
“Not as good as you look, old man,” Boo said, grinning back. “Now, tell the lady what she wants to know.”
Evers turned to Liz with an air of apology.
“Well, no, ma'am, the Jumbo can't come down; not without a lot of help. She's anchored to the steel girders holding up the roof. The roof's a soft plastic, not very heavy.”
“How do they control it? Do you have to go up there?” Liz shuddered. Evers's eyes lightened mischievously.
“Oh, there's catwalks, ma'am,” the captain said, his eyes crinkling. He seemed unable to resist teasing an obvious acrophobe. “Way high up. Yes, ma'am, you can climb up right inside the ceiling. But don't fall off those catwalks, or you'll come right through. Do you want to go up and see?” he offered, the impish grin returning. “It's just about two hundred sixty feet above the floor.”
Liz, feeling green, shook her head weakly. She thought of the fall from such a height, and swayed slightly on her feet, holding onto the banister with a firm grip. “Not unless there's an alternative.”
“Abelard!” Boo looked at the man with a wry smile.
“Well, you don't have to,” the guard captain said, releasing his prisoner reluctantly. “They work her from the control room with a couple of buttons. It's as easy as raising your garage door.”
Boo took her arm in a firm and reassuring grip as he helped her to the next level.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“Not a whisker,” Liz said. “It's beginning to look as if it's a job for the Men in Black, not us.”
Boo came up alongside her as she reached the top of the steep stairs. “I have to admit I'm kind of hoping not,” he said.
“Me, too,” Liz said. Though she would far rather not have to deal with a supernatural menace and it would be a relief if Fionna's troubles turned out to be a set of coincidences and accidents, the department needed all the credibility it could get, and this was her first solo mission. Negative results were no way to earn promotion.
They went out into the broad, tiled hallway. Names of corporations were engraved on plaques set into the metal doors on her left. Those must lead to the luxury skyboxes she saw from the stage level. Boo steered her toward a set of blank doors. Scraping sounds shook the floor, and sirens echoed through the corridors. Liz looked around in alarm.
“T
hat's just the loading bay doors, opening to let the fire truck out,” Boo explained. “Come on, let's take a look in the control room.”
He rapped on the blind door, and a bearded man in T-shirt, jeans and headset let them in. Inside the cramped, glass-fronted room the crew was in a frenzy of activity. The technical director, Gary Lowe, stood shouting into his headset behind a man and a woman seated at the console. Behind him, the event director was talking simultaneously to Lowe and to the floor director down on the stage. Robbie Unterburger glanced up from her high-tech keyboard, and cocked her head to beckon them over. Her hands flitted from one control to another, tweaking levers, knobs and keys.
“This is a fantastic setup,” Liz said, staring at the control panel as she tried to figure out what any of it did. “You aren't running all your machinery, are you?”
“No,” Robbie said, tossing her straight, brown hair, “this is a dry run. I'm just following my cues this time. I'll test everything, and we'll have one live technical run-through just before showtime tomorrow. These are the triggers for the lasers, and here are the joysticks for each one. I can run them manually or program the whole thing to run by computer. They did not go off and set Fitzy on fire.” Her dark brows drew down as she dared the agents to say otherwise. “This is the control for the smoke pots,” she said, pointing to a bank of a dozen switches, “and here's the hologram projectors that show images on the clouds. It's fantastic.” Robbie's eyes sparkled as she turned one of four small screens toward them so they could see the turning figures of constellations and mythical beasts that were cued up and ready to run. Liz found the change from sullen child to lively effects wizard a charming transformation. Liz caught Ken Lewis glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He saw Liz looking at him and swiftly turned away. “The firing mechanism for sparklers and fireworks is disabled just now; we're not permitted to use it unless the fire engine is on standby. Pity. This is a great place for flash and bang. The bigger the better.”
“Do you mind?” the technical director barked, cupping his hand over the microphone on his headset. “Excuse us, we're doing a show here. Sorry,” he said to Liz and Boo. Boo put a finger to his lips and nodded to Liz. They retreated to the rear of the control room to watch the crew prepare. The female sound engineer shouted into the microphone set in the console in front of her. The lighting engineer gestured with both hands as he talked into his headset. Lowe gave Liz and Boo a brief glance, and then forgot about them as the disembodied baritone of stage manager Hugh Banks boomed out of the speakers overhead.
“All right, people! That's the last of the firemen and the cleanup squad out the door. Everyone's gone. Let's get to work.”
Down below on the stage the miniature figures of the band took their places and lifted their instruments. Michael Scott flicked his long fingers down and over the strings of his guitar in the fanning gesture Liz had seen in a dozen concert videos, drawing forth a glissando like a harp. As always, the ripple of sound made her quiver with delight. If this case wasn't so serious she would be thrilled to be here with her idol. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head, then attacked his drums with a frenzy. The other two joined in. Liz could hear the music begin to echo and thrum outside, but it was much muted here in the booth. The sound engineer's hands flew over the controls.
Fionna appeared at the edge of the stage in a flame-red sheath dress that could have been painted on her. Her eyes, cheeks, and lips were tinted the same bright shade. What with her green hair close-cropped against her skull Liz thought she looked like a shapely match. Liz wondered why she hadn't detected Fionna leaving her dressing room. She counted back in time, and decided the cantrip alarm must have gone off while Captain Evers was teasing her about the Jumbotron.
The tiny, brightly colored figure stopped at the edge of the stage, while a couple of men in security uniforms ran around the open platform like questing hounds.
“All right,” Lowe said, leaning forward with his hands on the chairbacks. “Cue the spotlights, cue Fionna, and . . . what the hell is the matter with her?”
The music died away, and all the band turned to look at Fionna.
“Come on, down there!” Lowe growled. “What's the hang-up now?”
“She wants them to check for bombs, sir,” an overhead speaker crackled. “She says she's afraid of being attacked again.”
“Bombs! Hell and damnation!” the technical director shouted, pounding on the engineers' seat backs. They sat rigidly, watching the screen. “We have a show to do! Get those men off the stage, or carry Fee over to her mark yourself. We haven't got any more time to waste.” He flopped down into his seat, between Robbie and the sound engineer. “I wish that Fee had been in the damned costume when it went up, and then we'd have a reason for all this fuss! Let her writhe in agony! Let those rotten `filmy sleeves' burn to ash! Now, let's get a move on! Get her on stage!”
Below them, a man in blue jeans and a headset went over to Fionna, and pulled her into place in the center of the stage. Fionna held out her hand in appeal. From the edge of the platform, the bulky form of Lloyd Preston came over to stand beside her. Next to Liz, Robbie let out an audible growl.
The band struck up again. Fionna grabbed her microphone in both hands, closed her eyes and emitted a piercing ululation that softened and resolved into a mellow warble that rose and fell like folds of silk. The technicians' shoulders relaxed visibly. Even Lowe stood back, arms crossed, to watch. Boo touched Liz's arm, and they slipped out of the room.
“No magic,” Boo said, as they went through the next set of double doors on the level. This was the press box, another large area like the control room, with a broad, curved window looking down on the stage. Facing it were tiers of desks with microphones and places for computer terminals to be plugged in. Toward the rear of the chamber, television and radio transmission lines ran from a labeled console into the ceiling. Several video screens showed different camera angles of the stage, a necessary innovation to supplement the view, unless the reporters were carrying binoculars. At this distance the figures of the band were tiny, almost featureless.
Down on the stage, Fionna was making love to her microphone like a torch singer. She and the guitarist started to step toward one another, intent with passion. Liz felt a shiver of delight, waiting for them to close the distance and begin their duet.
“Nothin',” Boo-Boo said, bringing her back to the present with a disappointing snap. “Nothin' but what we brought ourselves. It's lookin' as if the cause was somethin' natural or physical. That'd be a job for the local police, not for us.”
“My chief will be happy,” Liz said, resignedly. “He'd always rather prove a negative. Less difficult to explain to Upstairs.”
Boo-Boo grinned engagingly. “Y'all got one of them, too?”
“Don't we all?” Liz asked, smiling back.
She found in spite of her earlier misgivings she was beginning to like this American. No matter how unconventional his approach, nor that he looked like a bag of rags, he was a good investigator and an effective agent. She was convinced he was right. Nothing more here than an accident, and accumulated paranoia of a spoiled rich girl with powerful connections. Liz had no idea what would account for the Irish agent's difficulty. Possibly he had been drugged by someone who recognized him as MI-5. There were more strange chemicals floating around in the underworld than even most of the department was permitted to know. There'd be grumbling in Whitehall about her spending thousands of pounds to fly here to investigate, but at least Lord Kendale would be happy.
The music rose toward a crescendo. On the stage Fionna stood in her place under the lights, trembling. Her hands had fallen to her sides, but they were slowly lifting with the music. Michael Scott stood behind her, back bowed as he tore the notes out of his guitar. Liz enjoyed the rich psychic waves this song put out. It felt as though power was rising through her. She stood almost on tiptoe waiting for Fionna to shout out the last line, when the music would crash around her like waves ag
ainst a cliff.
And then, Liz felt it. Or smelled it. Or just knew, in that way her grandmother always told her she would. There was evil here. Powerful evil. But where was it coming from?
“Do you feel that?” she started to ask Boo. Suddenly, there was a flash of light on the screens. Fionna let out a shriek of agony, throwing her arms up against the blaze.
Liz wasn't prepared for another attack so soon, but her training kicked in without hesitation. Never mind where the fire had come from, put it out! Liz summoned up every erg of magic she had, down to the reserves, and threw it through the glass at Fionna with both hands in a smothering spell that would have extinguished a house fire. The force of the spell knocked all the wind out of her for a moment. She staggered backward, staring. The huge pane of glass seemed to shiver and sing dangerously, threatening to break. The little figures on the stage swayed and ran towards one another. She had no time to consider the consequences when she was flung to the floor by a blast that came from Boo's direction.
“Clear!” he yelled, too late. Automatically, the analyzing part of Liz's brain recognized the effect as a containment field to suppress any other occult activity in the area. Liz was impressed. She didn't know the Americans had been working on anything so sophisticated. Boo glanced over at her. “Seems like we were wrong.”
Liz scrambled to her feet and made for the door, the American half a step behind her.
“Rapid deployment, eh?” she asked, as they ran down the stairs toward the stage.
“Finest kind,” Boo said.
“If you'd thrown that thing one second sooner you'd have blotted out my spell!”
“I saw what you was doin', ma'am,” Boo said, peevishly. “I waited. Now, let's see what happened.”
* * *
Liz shoved her way through the crowd of people that had gathered on the stage. The fire alarm was blaring overhead. Nigel Peters's voice cut through the noise.
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