Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

The play also proved to be entertaining. Having come in halfway through the Second Act, I couldn't catch up with the whole story, but it seemed to be a satire about a small fictitious country that had locked its doors to the rest of the world and refused to admit that any world existed outside of its borders. In the behavior of the despotic emperor I noticed several references to Queen Victoria, and in the behavior of the citizens of Nowheria a wicked caricature of American isolationism. “We're all right, so damn the rest,” as one character said.

The Second Act finished, and we moved into the troubled Third Act, which Ryan had only just completed. I could see the poor actors struggling with their lines and heard Ryan's voice, offstage, “Get it right, for God's sake, Ethel. Is it too much to ask that an actress learn her lines?”

“I was prepared to learn lines back in April, Ryan,” she replied coldly, “only the lines weren't there to be learned.”

The act continued. Not quite as funny as its predecessor, but deeper. I was sitting lost in the enhancement of watching a real play for the first time, when I felt suddenly cold, as if a door behind me had been opened and let a draft come in. I turned around. The doors to the foyer were all closed, but I still felt chilled. As I turned back, I thought I saw a movement, as if someone had ducked behind another pillar. My skin prickled. Somebody was in the darkened theater with me.

“Don't be stupid,” I told myself. Any one of the cast could have popped through to take a look at the play from the audience's side. Maybe one of the set builders was taking a break. I peered into the darkness, but there was no sign of the other person. Nobody sitting in another seat. And yet I could still feel a presence. Call it my Celtic gift of second sight, if you will, but I have always had the ability to sense when danger was near. I was sensing it now.

Instantly I realized my complete isolation. The actors onstage were absorbed with their play. I was alone and far from help. What a perfect situation for anyone who wanted to silence me. He would only have to crawl along the row behind me, grab me from behind and finish me off. Nobody would find my body for days. I fought to remain calm. I could jump up and scream. Ryan and his cast would be angry, of course, but I'd have scared away my potential attacker.

Seconds passed and nothing happened. I just couldn't bring myself to run screaming to the stage. How very absurd I'd look if I had been frightened by some trick of the lighting. But with the knowledge that I could scream if necessary, I got to my feet and started to walk determinedly to that pass door. It was hidden from here, behind a half-drawn curtain and up a little flight of steps. I had a great desire to break into a run. I reached the door, tugged on it and found that it wouldn't open from this side. The actors went on with the scene, unaware that I was down here in the dark. There was a large orchestra pit between me and the stage. No way of leaping up to light and safety.

As I turned back, again I caught sight of a fleeting movement. He was closer to the exit door now, cutting off my escape. Two could play that game, I decided. I dropped to the floor and moved at a crouch through one of the front rows of seats. I came out on the far side of the theater. Then, still at a crouch, I made my way up toward the exit doors on that side. If my potential attacker was waiting to intercept me on the other side, then it would give me a few seconds to make my escape. I reached the last row of chairs, then, praying that one of the doors was unlocked and led somewhere, I rushed to the nearest door and pushed. It swung open easily and I was in a carpeted hallway. The hallway was almost as dark as the theater had been. I could make out ghostly shapes of Greek and Roman busts in alcoves as I hurried past. When I came out into the foyer, I was surprised to find it was also dark. I had been in the theater longer than I had intended and night had fallen outside.

As my feet tapped across the marble foyer, I heard the sound of a door swinging shut on the far side. I didn't hesitate a moment longer. I ran for the front doors. The first one I tried wouldn't budge. I tried the others in turn, fighting back the rising panic, until the door on the end swung open for me and I was out into the bustle of a Broadway night. But not safe yet. It would be easy to follow me through the darkness and wait for a moment when I would be alone. He could even follow me all the way home if he wanted. Patchin Place was always deserted. I considered running a block to the Sixth Avenue El, but the thought of standing, waiting, on an El platform was too alarming.