Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Thirty-seven

Cool and dark and as exotic as absinthe, the Fox Theatre provided a welcome escape from the pounding heat. Heavy saffron curtains absorbed any harsh noise, while golden wall sconces oozed a thick soothing light. Entering its Egyptian revival atmosphere was like stepping into one of Scheherazade’s stories, and I was grateful for the momentary respite.

Padre was not hard to track down; I merely followed the sound of loud cursing from the Egyptian salon. This area had been designed as a children’s theater, but it currently functioned as a staging area of sorts—tables of paperwork, people scurrying around with clipboards, all of it set against faux-stone pillars and elaborate hieroglyphics. Padre was shaking a bunch of papers at no one in particular, his face red.

I hurried over. “Jeez, what’s wrong?”

He slammed the papers on the table. His photographer’s vest bulged with pens and sticky notes, and his hair flowed loose under a black cowboy hat. “It’s that f*cking rumor that some maniac’s killing poets. It’s a liability, they say.”

“Who says?”

“Our insurance company. Plus I’m getting pressure from the city to call it off, even though the APD says there’s no evidence whatsoever our poets are being targeted, no matter what Frankie says.”

“Does she realize she’s putting the finals in jeopardy?”

“She doesn’t care. She’s all about the movie now. The way things are going, Rico and I will be having the finals at my apartment, and everybody else will be rolling off to Hollywood.”

I sat on the edge of the table. “So do you think somebody really could be stalking poets?”

“No. Lex brought this on himself, and Debbie followed him down. It doesn’t concern the rest of us. But nobody cares what I believe. This is a story now, and people love a story, the darker around the edges the better.”

His dream was coming true, on the cusp of it anyway, unless it was derailed by Frankie’s mythic maniac, the serial killer with a taste for putting poets into their graves and setting massive reptiles loose in bookstores. I studied his expression. On the wall behind him, Egyptian gods strutted in a proud procession, a stark contrast to his bowed head and trembling hands. He had a lot riding on the finals, more perhaps than anyone else.

“Did you know Lex had been blackmailing team members?”

“Rico told me some of it. Why?”

“Because that’s when things started going downhill—when Vigil got put in jail and Lex joined the team. And then Vigil got out and Lex tried to manipulate everyone he possibly could to stay on the team. He did that by sticking his fingers into everybody’s secrets. Everybody’s.” I lowered my voice. “So what about you, Padre?”

“Me?”

“What did he find out about you?”

Padre shook his head slowly. He looked as if he wanted to talk, but no words came out. Then his pale complexion went gray, and he blinked rapidly.

My stomach dropped. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head and pointed toward the corner where a messenger bag lay. I jumped out of my chair and fetched it for him. He rummaged in it, hands scuttling, his breathing ragged and rapid. First one bottle on the table, then two. His complexion was ashen by the time he found the right bottle, an herbal remedy for dizziness. He dumped two pills in his palm and swallowed them dry. After five minutes, his skin tone returned to normal and the shaking subsided.

He wouldn’t look at me. “You wanted to know my secret? There it is.”

“There what is?”

He closed his eyes. “The vertigo is a side effect of the meds. The real problem…the real problem…”

I picked up the bottles of medicine. They were both multi-syllabic and sounded like poisons. But I recognized the name. I’d seen the commercials.

“How long have you known?” I said.

“Got diagnosed six months ago, but I knew before then. I’ve been able to keep it under wraps, but that won’t last much longer. This competition is my last project. And now it’s in danger, and the documentary people don’t want me unless I can deliver it.”

I stared at the medicine. One was a well-known anti-depressant. The other was a recently approved drug for mild to moderate Alzheimer’s disease.

Padre took the bottle from my hand. “My memory’s shot. I can’t remember poems anymore, can’t even remember appointments.”

“Is this why you were late to the debut party?”

He winced. “Yeah. I’m kicking myself for that one. Can’t help but think that if I’d managed to be there, Lex would still be alive.”

“Did Lex know?”

“Sure. Like you said, he had a way of getting his fingers in everybody’s secrets. But he wasn’t blackmailing me.”

I examined him skeptically. “You can tell me the truth, you know.”

“I am. Lex only blackmailed people with power. I don’t have any.” He stood, shaky but determined, his hands stuffed into one of his many pockets. “Frankie’s got the documentary producers enthralled with the Dead Poet Killer. The only thing I’m good for is making sure the finals go off without a hitch, and if I can’t get this liability shit figured out, then that’s a bust too.”

I handed him his medicine, then hugged him tightly, breathing in his comforting patchouli fragrance. “I can’t straighten out Hollywood. But as for the liability problems, I might have an idea.”

***

Marisa was not amenable at first. “There’s no way a bunch of poets could afford Phoenix.”

“I wasn’t suggesting they try.”

“You’re talking charity.”

“Pro bono. To ease the mind of some loss prevention and asset protection people.”

This was the genius of my proposal. Win-win both sides. The team got Phoenix, and Phoenix got some goodwill markers to call in with the people they most needed to impress—the corporate and governmental decision makers. And Padre got…well, he got his one last event.

I didn’t explain that last part to Marisa; she was a ledger book kind of gal.

“It’s behind the scenes all the way,” I assured her. “No press conferences. No big speeches. Exactly the kind of gold standard, discreet services you want to be known for, provided to people who will be quietly, discreetly grateful. Nobody wants to shut down this event, not the poets, not the city, not the many many vendors.”

She considered. “So what exactly are your poets needing?”

“They need to assure the insurance company that they can provide a protocol to go along with the Fox’s in-place security systems and the Atlanta Police Department’s requirements. That if there is someone stalking and killing the poets of Atlanta—and that’s a big if, mind you—then that someone will find no crack to squeeze through at the Fox.”

“And this would be entirely behind the scenes, working with the poetry foundation?”

“The Performance Poetry International Committee,” I supplied. “Plus there’s a documentary crew at work that will need coordinating with. And the venue personnel. But you already have a relationship with the Fox, right?”

“My premises liability expert does.”

She flashed a look across the room, where Trey stood in the corner, arms folded. He’d kept silent through my speech and Marisa’s questions. A quiet night at home and ten hours of sleep had him snapped back on point.

“Correct,” he said. “I put together the latest crime feasibility study in February, so the data haven’t altered significantly. It would require an update, of course. But the bulk of the work is in place.”

“So this is doable?”

I held my breath. Trey cocked his head, thinking hard. It was an irresistible combination—an interesting challenge with a strictly enforced SOP that he helped create. One job, only one, which sure as hell beat my catch-as-catch-can approach.

Marisa raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

He considered. “We’ll have to discuss the specifics, of course. And this is field work, which will require my being there in person.”

“That’s not a problem for me. Is it for you?”

He thought some more, not looking my way at all.

“If Phoenix can provide the resources,” he concluded, “I can provide my time and expertise. But we have to create some non-negotiable rules first.”

And then he looked right at me.

I smiled. “Whatever it takes, Mr. Seaver. Rule me up.”