The Miranda Contract (25 page)

“You are good boy,” the grandfather said. “Make me proud.”

“I couldn’t get the steps right,” Dan apologized.

The old man coughed a little and looked weaker than he had in a long time.

“No, you did well. My legs, they move quicker than yours only because they know the patterns. You will learn and you will get faster.”

Dan wanted to reach out and reassure the man, but he didn’t want to get him angry. Signs of compassion were for weaker people, not for Galkins.

“Are you going to die?” Dan asked.

He didn’t mean to ask it. It was just a dance.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But we all must die, at one time. Even the gods themselves must one day make way for the newer ones.”

The grandfather chuckled.

“If we did not die, this place would be very full of old men like me.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?” Dan asked.

“I think, perhaps, it is a bad thing, Danya.”

Dan reached out and held his grandfather’s hands. He gripped them tightly and was surprised to see a small smile cross the old man’s creased face. His grandfather squeezed his hands back and then pulled him down into a hug.

It was not a real memory.

It never happened.

Dan gulped for air. And felt a flash of heat.

Chapter 33

Miranda

I
t was like
a dance the way Dan and his grandfather spun slowly within the too-bright pillar of light. Miranda could see their silhouettes but she couldn’t tell who was who. They shifted, blurred. She crouched low and shielded her eyes. The deafening roar of the energy was accompanied by whipping tendrils of electricity which reached out and struck the elevator behind her. Her cheeks were wet with tears but she couldn’t leave Dan to die alone.

And she knew that it was bad, really bad. Dan was never going to be a match for the maniac who had terrorized the world for decades. He was just a boy.

The thought made her sob. It wasn’t true. No matter how he acted, no matter how often he tried to hide from the world, Miranda knew he was more than that. He wasn’t just a boy.

And she wasn’t really just a girl either.

She stood and looked around for something to help break the storm, for anything to disrupt the wild electricity and heat whipping around the plaza. The ray-gun was charred and broken, but there were more in the box. She cupped her forearm over her eyes to keep them open, and stumbled through the debris as she searched for the box.

Behind her a few survivors moved towards the exit doors, helping each other, calling out to those who were still hidden. She couldn’t see Kyla or the other dancers and hoped they were safe back behind the stage.

Suddenly another explosion blew outward from above, ballooning over them, fragments falling to the ground. Miranda dropped to a crouch again and looked up, her eyes burned by the intensity, but not before she witnessed the fall of fire.

It was so close to her, the churning orange and red flames, rolling in on itself, reaching out with hungry fingers. A boy falling backward, downward. The heat flushed her face, dried her tears. The boy’s arms were at his sides, falling gracefully, peacefully. He was so close, the flames reaching out to her like her name on his dying lips. She didn’t know what she was seeing or remembering.

When her eyes cleared enough she looked to the broken stage. She could see the bottom of Dan’s shoe closest to her and beyond that the two bodies lay crumpled together, entwined and on fire. Dan’s head rested on his grandfather’s chest. They looked like they were asleep. Miranda pulled herself up over the broken wood, scraping her knee but ignoring it. She tore at the red velvet lining the front of the elevator and pulled it free, ripping a long strip to beat back the flames.

Standing above, she looked down at Dan and saw the boy form Jakarta again. She crashed to his side, pulled him off his grandfather and thumped the curtain on his back, hammering it down with her hands and then her whole body, to extinguish the flames.

She kept hitting him, chasing away the flames.

And then she felt his arm move around her and pull her close. She collapsed into him, their faces together, cheek to cheek. His skin was so hot, her tears ran uncontrollably. She kissed his ear.

“Oh god…” she whispered, still lying on top of him.

The storm had broken. Only light rain fell down from the broken roof to land around them. The people in the seating kept their distance, although a large crowd of them had gathered by a far exit, banging loudly against the barricaded doors. Closer to her, dark scorch marks radiated from Dan and the Mad Russian. She ran her fingers over the charcoaled surface, smooth but crumbling. The black starburst reflected the reckless power they had unleashed.

Dan shifted under her weight and Miranda pulled back a little, bringing him up with her so he was sitting. She kissed him, her hands hesitating over his arms which had horrible burns running up and down them.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. His fingers were a mess of blisters.

He shook his head. She reached out and touched his hair which was singed and missing in places. The smell of burning was everywhere. She held him to her again, his face pressed against her t-shirt. She looked around again.

There was no one to help.

Her eyes fell on the Russian and fear gripped her again, like coming face to face with a nightmare. But he wasn’t moving. His mouth lolled open but his eyes were closed, his face scarred with a bright burn. The red mark crossed his face like an elemental slap. He might have been dead, she thought.

Minutes passed with her cradling Dan on the scorched stage. She couldn’t leave him but she couldn’t carry him either. Eventually the exits were forced open and the police moved cautiously inside. They moved in like a line of beetles, full riot gear and drawn black pistols. The survivors fled to the safety of the car park and the audible shouts of relief from outside, but Miranda stayed with Dan.

The police reached her first but they didn’t ask questions. She watched them surround the Mad Russian and hastily set up some kind of electronic collar and manacles combination. She closed her eyes and rested her head on Dan’s hair, breathing him in, closing out the rest of the scene.

Her own people swept in soon after. She heard her name first, but then felt their touch. A paramedic lifted her away from Dan. Todd Christie was there with his slicked back hair and his beady eyes. He wore a police-issue vest and looked down at her with open-faced elation. Bodyguards, the tour manager, other faceless essentials flanked him.

“You look a million dollars,” Christie said.

“I’m fine,” she said softly to the ambulance woman, ignoring her tour manager, but letting them move her off the stage. Two ambulances had been brought in somehow, their back doors thrown open.

“We’ll see,” the woman said with a nice smile. They examined her, noting the scratches and bruises. As they bandaged her leg Christie moved in again.

“We’ve got media out there Miranda, darling. Let the girls have a look at you.”

Two stylists moved forward, reaching for her hair, stepping over the paramedics. Christie stood back and watched her. The paramedics moved on to other survivors.

Miranda nodded to everyone, letting them do what they had to. She watched as the medics treated Dan. He was awake and looked silently across to her as they bandaged his head and arms, gently wrapping gauze over his blistered body. She wanted to be with him, to hold him again even if it meant they had to face the evils of the world every single day. But she knew it couldn’t happen that easily. Her people fussed around her, teasing at her hair, applying product, shaping her back into the Miranda Brody the world had grown to love.

Time wouldn’t stop. Not even for her.

“Honey, you’re crying,” a stylist said, chewing sympathetically on minty gum. Miranda sniffed and wiped her nose, nodding her head and smiling to put the girl at ease.

“Been a big night,” she said, sniffing again.

A trolley was assembled beside Dan and the paramedics prepped him to leave. Miranda covered her mouth with her hand, her throat tightening against what she knew would have to happen next. He held out his arm to her, tubing restricting his movements. She stepped away from the stylist and ran to him, pleading with herself not to cry. At his side she looked down and brushed a strand of his hair from his forehead. Dan smiled self-consciously up at her.

“Hey,” she said, taking his hand. She gave the men holding the trolley a quick look and they waited. “You rest, okay?”

“Don’t go,” he said, so softly that she felt like he was still slipping away from her. He let his hand fall from hers.

“I’ll be here,” she promised, knowing it was a lie. She bent down and kissed his forehead once and then a second time, tears unleashed and a tremble in her voice. “I love you.”

When she pulled up his eyes were closed. The trolley was pushed away and Miranda stood watching it.

Outside the stadium, rows of lights were erected behind even more reporters and cameramen. Beyond them were crowds of people but she couldn’t see their faces or decide whether they were here for her or for the tragedy which had taken place. She saw flashes from cameras and glimpses of posters and costume, and she knew there were people out there who cared about her. Todd Christie swore under his breath and gave her a firm push. She stepped into the light and the media shuffled in their seats.

“Miss Brody!” called a woman from the front, a signal to the others that questions would be taken. Hands shot up everywhere. More flashes exploded. Miranda managed a slight smile and sat down on a canvas director’s chair which had been set up along with a table and promotional posters. As she sat down, her newly cleaned and styled hair swept across her vision. She ran her hands back through it and focused on the crowd. The woman who had called her name first was still mouthing words.

“Yes?” Miranda asked, pointing at the reporter, trying to catch the woman’s question. The other voices fell to the side.

“What happened in there, Miranda?”

“That’s a hard question to answer,” Miranda said leaning forward, reading the woman’s name on her press pass. “I think the police will know more than me. It’ll be pieced together eventually.”

“But you were there,” the reporter pushed.

“I was stuck under a broken prop for most of it, actually,” Miranda said. “This wasn’t part of the show.”

There was a burst of more questions but Miranda held up her hand and they died away again.

“This isn’t entertainment,” she said softly. “It’s not part of the Tour, but tonight a lot of people died. My fans, my little freaks… and the brave people who tried to help when it seemed the whole world was falling apart.”

She looked directly into the banks of cameras.

“I want to thank everyone for what they did in there. I want to thank my crew, the security team especially, and the moms and dads with their terrified little kids. I want you all to know that I thank you. That I know how much this has cost each and every one of you, but that I love you.”

“How many people got killed in there?” called someone from the back. Miranda winced at the way it was thrown at her.

“Too many.”

“Is it true that you were kidnapped, Miranda?”

“No,” Miranda said simply.

“You’ve been reported missing,” the reporter continued. She looked at her iPad and then back to Miranda. “Your management suggested you might be under threat.”

Miranda looked across at Christie and wondered what he had been doing while she had been running for her life. He had his phone to his ear, nodding enthusiastically. A woman by his side was taking notes on her blackberry. Miranda Brody’s entourage had reassembled in spectacular fashion: elegant, sophisticated and unencumbered by conscience or trauma.

“Pretty sure she was under threat,” another reporter called out and many of them laughed.

Miranda turned back to the reporters. They were so far removed, so caught up in a whole other world.

“I think what happened tonight wasn’t about me,” she said softly.

“Will you be cancelling the Human Tour?”

“This was the final concert. I’m back in the States tomorrow. I’ll keep you in my heart, I promise, but – yes, the Tour is finished.”

There was a murmur of voices and somewhere beyond the crowd of journalists someone cried out. Miranda held up her hands.

“Is this the end of Miranda Brody?” a reporter called out from the back.

Miranda shrugged.

“I’m still here,” she said. “And that’s thanks to a boy in there.”

She looked directly at the cameras again, composed herself with the breathing exercises she had learned. She would be gone by the morning, but Dan would remain.

“There’s a boy,” she said. “His name is Dan Galkin, and he saved my life.”

Once she was in the air, Miranda allowed herself to sink back, to let out the breath she’d been holding as her people organized a hasty exit from Australia. Thurston Klein had already taken the reins back from Christie and lined up a string of television appearances across several key chat shows in the States. He was destined for disappointment, though. Miranda had already made her decision to quit. The only place she was going was Riverside, back to her family, back to the life she should have held on to. The hum of the plane’s engines calmed her. The dimmed cabin was a relief after the hordes of cameras she’d walked through to get there.