All Hallow's Eve: The One Day It's BAD to Be Good (21 page)

“We could stay here,” Michael suggested. “Go back to Frannie and the rest.”

A part of her really wanted to embrace that idea. The girl she was this morning would have jumped at the chance to huddle in the corner, hoping and wishing the fear to go away. The girl she was tonight? Well, she wasn’t brave by any means. However, the thought of sitting in the near-dark waiting for that hawk-masked man to jump from the shadows seemed the scarier option.

Well, at least a little scarier.

* * *

Paxton rushed after Ruth as they approached the backstage door. A roadie tried to block Ruth, but she flashed her badge. The guy wouldn’t budge, though. Paxton pulled back the edge of his very wet coat and indicated his gun.

But another half dozen roadies wearing black eyeliner made a wall of stupid human flesh, blocking Ruth and Paxton from getting up onstage. Their options were limited. They only had two cuffs each. Which left two idiotic roadies to cause problems.

Without hesitating, Ruth and Paxton strode forward. The roadies tried to protect their demon-worshipping master, but, after all, they were roadies for a demon-worshipping master. Not the brightest or hardiest of roadies, as far as roadies went.

Paxton had to give them credit that they stood fast until Ruth was about a foot away, and then they broke rank. Actually they stumbled and scrambled out of rank. Paxton seriously doubted if the Stones’ roadies would have let them pass quite so easily.

Once past the “front lines,” Ruth led the way onto the stage. However, getting to Diana Dahmer was more difficult than she expected, as the agile singer jumped from speaker to speaker, belting out what passed for music at this soiree.

“Sir, I must ask you to get down!” Ruth screamed, but who could hear her over the fingernails-down-a-chalkboard sound coming out of the speakers?

Speakers.

Paxton was a youth once, with his fair share of delinquency. Rock ‘n’ roll was such a cooler act of rebellion. He ran over to the first amp and jerked out the wires connecting it to the microphone.

A loud
pop
interrupted Dahmer mid-chorus. Paxton charged over to the next speaker and pulled that one out as well.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dahmer yelled.

Up close, the singer truly looked scary. Not as in terrifying, but as in a “what in the hell were you thinking?” kind of way. Red contacts seemed to glow against the white makeup that painted his face. But the man beneath the makeup was gaunt and actually frail—like an underweight spider monkey.

But the guy had a set of lungs on him. He yelled again, “Do not mess with my equipment!”

Paxton ignored him and crossed the stage to the other speakers, pulling out each of their cords. The only sound filling the great ballroom now was the crowd’s booing.

But Dahmer charged forward, wrists offered up. “Go ahead. Arrest me!” He opened his arms to the rapt audience. “It’ll make great press.”

“I’ll show you press,” Paxton said under his breath, but Ruth grabbed his arm.

Dahmer just ate it up, though. “Go ahead! Police brutality will be my next Top Ten hit!”

Ruth seemed to keep her temper, though, as she stepped closer to Dahmer. She indicated the screaming, wailing, and flailing fans trying to claw their way onstage. “I don’t think you want me to arrest you and some of your more zealous fans.”

“Go ahead. They will eat it up.”

Ruth’s tone lowered, but nothing was timid about her words. “I know. And then we will put you in a cell with all those kids who eat up every word you write about torture and human sacrifice. I’d love to see how that goes for ya.”

Dahmer’s red eyes flickered right, then left, then back down to the maniacal crowd.

Ruth’s words were barely above a whisper. “Help me get them under control, or I swear, you will be getting to know your fans up close and personal.”

Paxton knew that they had broken Dahmer before the singer even realized it. The guy’s shoulders slumped as his nostrils pinched closed.

She stopped. The crowd drowned her out. Paxton rushed over and plugged the mic’s feed back in—grateful for the skills his youthful indiscretions brought him.

And maybe they would throw Darby in there as well, just as a kicker,
Paxton thought. If they didn’t get this crowd under control soon, it would turn into a mob. And no matter that the police got a mob under control. Injuries, and even death, were always present. A stampede, even by human feet, could easily crush people. Forget the killer. More people could die in a stage crush than at the hands of a madman.

Dahmer sneered at Ruth as he took the mic. “Fans! Worshippers! True Believers!”

Paxton had to grab a girder as the stage shook with the crowd’s response.

“There are times to fight, but tonight is not yet ripe.” Despite the crowd’s boos, Dahmer still stalked the stage. “Follow these unredeemed souls. Pretend you are sheep, but know the wolf beneath will soon be released!”

He went to hand Ruth the microphone back, but the detective crossed her arms.

Dahmer leaned low over the side of the stage. “But you must wait for my signal. Until then,
behave
!”

The crowd milled a bit, but the overhead lighting finally came back on and the audience dispersed. Especially after someone shouted, “Fresh chicken wings!” from the back of the ballroom.

Paxton breathed a sigh of relief.

Now they just needed to capture the saint-obsessed serial killer.

As Jeremy would say,
No biggie
.

* * *

Cecilia jumped as a creak sounded overhead. Now that the concert wasn’t going full blast, every little sound made her flinch. It was almost better when the walls shook from the bass. At least then, you could chalk a noise up to Diana Dahmer. Now, though, each and every squeak of a baseboard seemed to be a sure sign that the killer was nearly on top of them.

“This sounded so good in theory,” Cecilia said, mainly to fill the emptiness that threatened to consume her.

“Yeah. Being noble sucks.”

She grinned at Michael. Out of all of this, he was the biggest surprise. He hadn’t left her. He hadn’t wavered during this whole grotesque night. She was about to tell him so when a muffled yell came from down the hallway. Cecilia squeezed Michael’s hand so hard that she feared she would cut off the circulation.

“We’d better catch up with—” Cecilia was interrupted as John charged out of the room. His unbuttoned shirt flapped at his side, and his belt hung loose.

“Better question—what are
you
doing here, John?” Michael asked. “And where’s your costume?”

Fury returned to the jock’s face as he turned to Michael. “I’d leave now, bitch, and not look back.”

Cecilia watched in horror as John’s hands balled up into fists. His arms shook as he backed up a step, like a snorting bull getting ready to take out the matador. She grabbed Michael’s arm.

“Come on.”

Michael stood his ground, though, clinging to his only weapon—the lamp they had stolen from a room. “Go.”

But she couldn’t leave him here. She knew exactly how she would feel if she found Michael like she had Helen. Slashed and crucified. “No.”

“Damn it, go!” Michael yelled, as John charged forward.

Seeing the whites of John’s eyes, Cecilia nearly balked. She would never know whether she would have stood her ground, since the floor beneath them cracked. Then the hallway between them and John exploded. Cecilia’s hands flew up to protect her face as chunks of wood rushed past them.

Smoke stung her eyes as a ring of fire rose from the edge of the hole. Heat shimmered, distorting John’s already tangled features. His chest rose and fell as he prepared to make the leap across.

Choking on the smoke, Cecilia felt panic rise. They couldn’t go back the way they came—not unless they wanted to run across the glass and nails. And she couldn’t draw John back to Frannie and the others.

Finally, Cecilia nodded.

Michael counted down. “One. Two …”

Cecilia was prepared when Michael leapt long before he said three. Instead of being terrified, though, Cecilia was struck by the beauty of it all. The flames flickered as they passed, as if they were being reborn in fire. Air caught her dress, making it flap, as it would from a warm summer breeze. And for the first time in a while, things were actually light enough for her to see.

Of course, then they hit the next level, really, really hard. Her ankle buckled and she banged her elbow, but considering they were falling through fire with a serial killer on their tail, it wasn’t all that bad.

Michael staggered up, seemingly a little dazed. A bright gash seeped on his forehead. But Cecilia was more concerned as she looked up to find John framed in flame.

She grabbed Michael’s wrist and tugged at him. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

As they fled down the hallway, Cecilia risked a glance over her shoulder. Just as they turned the corner, a large figure jumped down, hitting the floor hard.

Michael listed to the side as she tried to get him to pick up speed.

With Michael injured, could they outrun death?

* * *

Ruth coughed, still pointing toward the exit. “You have got to get them out in an orderly fashion,” she said to the security chief. “We do not want anyone trampled. The fire is still contained—”

Another bomb exploded, this time right behind the dressing rooms. The band poured out of the room as smoke billowed. Ruth looked to her right. That, too, was aflame. She couldn’t see if the security chief had survived the blast, or even if the exit was still accessible.

“This way!” Paxton ordered.

The path he suggested moved them deeper into the mansion, but there was no other direction to head toward, which worried Ruth. Those weren’t random explosions. They were timed. Synchronized. And now they had to wonder when the next one would strike.

* * *

Cecilia didn’t see who was wielding the gun—only its bright, shiny barrel. She tried to stop, but Michael was right behind her, and his legs had finally kicked in.