XO (52 page)

And then he got angry too. And the answer to her question was, Yes, I do know. You’re the bitch I’m going to fuck in about sixty seconds.

He started to rise. Then saw something in her hand. What—? Oh, it was just a cup. It had to be plastic. There wasn’t anything inside that could be broken or made into a knife.

He’d thought of that.

But one thing he hadn’t thought of.

What the cup held:

Ammonia, from under the sink. She’d filled it to the brim.

The cut hair wasn’t a message or a lesson. It was a distraction.

He tried to turn away but Kayleigh stepped forward fast and flung the chemical straight into his face; it spread up his nose, into his mouth. He managed to save his eyes by half a second, though the fumes slipped up under his lids and burned like red-hot steel. He cried at the pain, pain worse than any he’d ever felt. Pain as a creature, an entity, a
thing
within his body.

Screaming, falling backward, wiping frantically at his face. Anything to get away! Choking, gasping, coughing.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!

Then more pain as she hit him hard in the throat, the wound where he’d fired the bullet into his own neck.

He screamed again.

Doubling over, paralyzed, he felt her rip the keys from his pocket. He tried to grab her arm but she was quickly out of reach.

The bitter, biting chemical flowed deeper into his mouth and nose. He sneezed and spit and coughed and struggled to catch his breath. Edwin staggered to his feet and shoved his face under the faucet in the kitchen sink to rinse the terrible fire away.

But there was no water.

Kayleigh had run the supply dry.

Edwin stumbled to the refrigerator and yanked it open, feeling for a
bottle of water. He found one and flushed his face, the cold liquid little by little dulling the sting. His vision, though fuzzy, returned. He stumbled to the front door, which she’d closed and locked. But he took a second key from his wallet and opened the door, then hurried outside, wiping his eyes.

He looked around. He spotted Kayleigh running down the road that led to the highway.

As the pain diminished, Edwin relaxed. He actually smiled.

The road was three miles long. Gravel. She was barefoot.

She wasn’t going to get away.

EDWIN STARTED AFTER
her, jogging at first, then sprinting.

The terrible burn of the chemical had diminished his passion but not eliminated it. He was all the more driven to fling her to the ground, rip her jeans off. Then over onto her belly …

Make her cry, the way he was crying. Teach her who was in charge.

He saw her disappear around a curve in the road, only a hundred feet away. He was closing fast.

Seventy feet, fifty …

Teach her that she was his.

And then he turned the corner.

He ran for ten more steps, five, three, slowing, slowing. And then Edwin stopped. His shoulders sagging, coughing hard from the run and the ammonia.

And he laughed. He just had to.

Kayleigh stood with two people: a uniformed deputy and a woman, who had her arm around the singer.

Edwin laughed once more, a deep, hearty sound. The sound his mother made when she was happy and sober.

The man was a deputy he recognized from Fresno, the one with the thick black mustache.

And the woman, of course, was Kathryn Dance.

The deputy held a pistol, aimed squarely at Edwin’s chest.

“Lie down,” he called. “Lie down, on your belly, hands to your side.”

Edwin debated. If I take one step I’ll die.

If I lie down I’ll go to jail.

Thinking, thinking …

In jail at least he’d have a chance to talk to Kayleigh, possibly to see her. She’d probably come visit him. Maybe she’d even sing for him. They
could talk. He could help her understand how bad everybody else was for her. How he was the man for her. How he was Mr. Today.

Edwin Sharp lay down.

As Kathryn Dance covered him with her pistol, the deputy circled around, cuffed his hands and lifted him to his feet.

“Could I get some water for my eyes please? They’re burning.”

The officer got a bottle and poured it over Edwin’s face.

“Thank you.”

Other cars were arriving.

Edwin said, “The news. I heard on the news—you thought we were in Monterey. Why did you come here?” He was speaking to the dust and gravel but the person his words were intended for answered.

Dance holstered her pistol and replied, “We have teams in Monterey, true, but mostly for the press. So you’d think you’d fooled us if you listened to the radio or went online. To me, it didn’t make sense for you to go there. Why would you tell Sally Docking anything about a location unless you figured she’d tell us eventually? That
is
a pattern of yours, you know. Misinformation and scaring witnesses into lying.

“As for here? CSU found trace evidence near your house that could have come from a mining operation. I remembered Kayleigh’s song ‘Near the Silver Mine.’ You knew she was unhappy Bishop sold the place and it made sense you wanted to bring her back here. We looked at some satellite pictures of the place and saw the trailer. Camouflage netting doesn’t really work.”

Edwin reflected that Kathryn Dance was impressive but she quickly vanished from his thoughts entirely as he looked toward Kayleigh, standing defiant, feet apart, staring back coldly. Still, he had the impression that there was a spark of flirt in her eyes.

As soon as her hair grew back, she’d be beautiful again.

God, did he love her.

AT SEVEN-THIRTY THAT
night Kathryn Dance was backstage at the convention center.

There’d been talk about canceling the concert but, curiously, Kayleigh Towne was the one who insisted that it go on. The crowds were rapidly filling the venue and Dance sensed the same electricity that she remembered from her times on stage as a folksinger, years ago.

There really was nothing like that utter exhilaration, the power of voice and music in unison, streaming from the speakers, the audience yours, the connection consuming. Once you’ve been up in front of the lights it’s easy to understand the addiction of having thousands of people in your spell. The power, the drug of attention, affection, need.

It’s why performers like Kayleigh Towne continue to climb up onstage, despite the exhaustion, the toll on families … despite the risk from people like Edwin Stanton Sharp.

The singer was dressed for the concert—in her good-girl outfit, of course. The only difference was that tonight she was the good girl who’d just been playing softball with friends; on her head a Cal State Fresno Bulldogs’ cap covered her shorn hair.

At the moment she was off to the side, “banging in” a new guitar. She wouldn’t perform on her favorite Martin until it had been restrung and completely cleaned—because of the human bone picks Edwin had given her. Dance, as unsuperstitious as they came, couldn’t blame her one bit; she herself might’ve thrown out the instrument and bought a new one.

“Well.” P. K. Madigan wandered up, accompanied by a short, round woman of about forty. She had a pretty face, rooted forever in her high school years, with big cheerful eyes and freckles, framed by page-boy-cut brown hair. Dance found it charming that they held hands.

He introduced Dance to his wife.

“The CBI’s welcome in Fresno anytime,” Madigan told her, “provided
you’re
the point person.”

“It’s a deal. Let’s just hope you don’t get any more cases like this one.”

“We’re gonna hear the concert,” he added dubiously. “Or some of it. Long as it doesn’t get too loud. Oh, here.”

He thrust a box into her hand. Dance opened it and laughed. It was a Fresno Madera Consolidated Sheriff’s Office badge.

“Tin star.”

She thanked him and resisted the urge to pin it to her green silk blouse.

Madigan looked around grumpily and then said, “All righty then.” He led his wife to their seats. It might have been Dance’s imagination but he seemed to be looking for something in the back of the hall. Was it shadows or stalkers or ice cream vendors?

Dance turned her attention back to Kayleigh, who’d handed off the new guitar to Tye Slocum with some instructions. The singer then spoke to the band about some last-minute changes in the order of who would take instrumental solos and when. She’d changed a verse in one of her original songs, one that was meant for Bobby. Now, it included a few lines for Alicia. She’d told Dance that she was praying that she could get through the number without crying.

Tye Slocum shyly approached and told her the action had been adjusted as she wanted. She thanked him and the big man waited a moment. His generally evasive eyes snuck a glance or two at the singer’s face and then he headed off. One might infer something suspicious from the expressions and kinesics, but to Dance all they revealed was a sheen of adoration. Which would forever remain unrequited.

But it was clear that he would never act on his secret hope—beyond microsecond glances and making sure her guitars were ready for battle.

Tye Slocum defined the difference between the normal and the mad.

It was then that a man in chinos and starched dress shirt, without tie, came up to Kayleigh and Dance. He was in his midthirties and had a boyish grin. Curly black hair was losing the war against a shiny scalp.

“Kayleigh, hi.” Nothing more for a moment, other than a polite nod to Dance. “I’m Art Francesco.” Both Dance and Kayleigh regarded him cautiously until his all-access badge dangled forward.

“Hi,” Kayleigh said absently. Dance assumed he was a friend of
Bishop’s; she thought she’d seen them talking earlier that night in the parking lot.

“I’m so sorry about everything’s that happened. Your dad told me. What a terrible time. But that guy’s in jail, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. Well, just wanted to say how happy I am we’re going to do business together.”

“Uh-hum. And who are you again?”

He frowned. “Art. Art Francesco.” A pause and when she gave no reaction the man added, “Your father mentioned I’d be coming tonight, didn’t he?”

“Afraid he didn’t.”

He laughed. “Isn’t that just like Bishop—a genius, you know. Sometimes details elude him.”

A card appeared.

Dance didn’t have to be a kinesics expert to note the shock that went through Kayleigh’s body. The agent glanced at the singer’s hand. The card was JBT Global Entertainment.

“What do you mean, doing business?”

Francesco licked the corner of his mouth. “Well, I’m sorry. But—”

“What is this?” Kayleigh snapped.

“Well, I thought your father…. He didn’t say he hadn’t told you. I just talked—”

“Tell me what?”

“Jesus Christ. Look, I’m sorry. He said he was going to tell you this morning, after we signed up everything. But with that crazy man, maybe he forgot or was distracted.”

“Signed up
what
?”

“Well, you. Signed up
you.
He’s … I’m sorry, Kayleigh. Oh, shit. I really thought you knew.” Francesco looked miserable. “Look, why don’t you talk to your father?”

The singer stepped forward. She’d just survived a homicidal stalker. She wasn’t going to be put off by a suit from L.A. “
You
tell me. Now.”

“He just signed you with Global. He’s not renewing with Barry Zeigler and your label.”

“What?”

“Can he do that?” Dance asked.

Jaw set in anger, Kayleigh muttered, “Yeah, he can. It was set up that way when I was a minor. I never changed it. But he never did anything that I didn’t agree with. Until now.”

Francesco said, “Oh, but it’s a great deal, Kayleigh. And the money! … You won’t believe the money. You’ve got hundred-percent creative control. Bishop and his lawyers drove a really tough bargain. It’s a three-sixty deal. We’ll handle all your concert tours, your recordings, production, CDs, download platforms, marketing, advertising … everything. You’ll go international, big-time. We’ve already got commitments from CMT and MTV, and HBO is interested in a special. That all happened just today after he signed up. And Starbucks and Target both want exclusive albums. This is taking you to a whole new level. We’ll get you into amphitheaters, Vegas, London. You’ll never have to play little … places like this again.”

“This little place happens to be my hometown.”

He held up his hand. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, this’ll expand your career exponentially. I’m sorry it happened this way, Kayleigh. Let’s start over.” He extended his hand.

She ignored it.

Bishop Towne had seen the exchange and, with a disgusted look on his face, ambled over. He said, “Artie.”