The Scream (48 page)

Ms. Goldstein tried to compose herself, her prefab smile askew. "Well, we're a little concerned. Especially in light of this past weekend, well, we wouldn't want there to be another riot or anything."

"Don't worry." He turned toward her now. He liked the way she shook under his gaze, wondered what exactly had her so worked up. Was it the kids outside or the crew within or the set they had erected? Or was she sensitive enough to smell the death already in the air?

No time for questions
, he reminded himself and continued.

"I promise you, once the place fills up and the show starts, we'll have everything completely under control."

It was his sincerity that brought her around. That, and the look that he flashed to her before he turned away. The light in his eye was direct and succinct.

She was touching her throat as she left.

Hook waved good-bye to the fire inspector and paused in the middle of the auditorium, the better to let the full effect sweep over him. It was the last few seconds before the teeming swarms came through the ramps like ants on a Sunday picnic. His work was nearly completed.

And it was glorious.

He was ringed by five towering columns, all laid out like the points of an enormous pentagram, each one a fucking masterpiece of artful deception. From this distance they maintained every illusion of being built of rough-hewn stone. And close up, they appeared to be harmless chicken wire and papier-mâché. He should know: he had personally overseen the masking and painting, especially of the most critical front pieces.

He had also overseen the hard-wiring and camouflage of the det-cord, which was tucked into the bundles of cable that snaked across the floor, linking the columns to the floating island at the very back of the floor opposite the stage, where his sound and light boards lay.

And he had personally taken the fire inspector on a tour of the sight, showing him what careful pains they had gone to, the better to build this set with state-of-the-art precision. He'd shown him the wiring diagrams, which were meticulously detailed. He'd shown him his electrician and demolitions credentials, which were Class A and up-to-date. He'd shown him how each column's flashpots and lasers and smoke machines could be precisely controlled from his station. He had shown him everything.

Well, almost everything.

He had neglected to show him some of the really interesting bits. Like the enormous length of hose that would soon house his secret recipe, the special sauce. Or the pheromone sensors. Or the one hundred and sixty-five six-pound surprises artfully deployed across the canvas of his masterpiece.

Yep, Hook plumb forgot to bring those up.

Oh, well.

He was sure the fire inspector would hear about it later.

"Excuse me," Pastor Furniss began, "but I have a bit of a problem."

The security guard silently stared at him from behind the glass of the information booth. He was a colored man in his late fifties, gaunt and mean as a half-starved rattlesnake. It took a minute for Furniss to realize that the man wasn't going to respond.

"What I mean to say is . . ." He was nervous, off-balance, unused to being intimidated. ". . . that I believe a runaway girl may be on your premises."

The security guard said nothing.

"And what I was wondering is, might I be allowed to go inside and look for her? That would be such a blessing-"

"Do you have a ticket," the man interrupted, no upward trill at the end to imply it was a question.

"Well, no, I don't," Furniss stuttered. "And, you see, that's my predicament. I need to get inside there, and see if I can find her before-"

"So buy a ticket."

The pastor was appalled and sweaty. Both lay cold against him, burning. He tried to imagine such callousness in his own body. He couldn't, praise God. Were there not such a need for secrecy . . .

"Surely you must understand the importance of this," he began again, putting some power behind it. "A young girl has run away from home. We suspect that she might be on your premises. It is
absolutely imperative
that I be allowed entrance before she has a chance to mingle and . . ."

The security guard pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

Quiet rage set in: a righteous fury, aimed at the self-serving and the blind. It was obvious that this man didn't care about people, the morality that bound decent civilization. He was concerned with his paycheck, the things of the flesh. No doubt, he had
orders
to bar God's will.

This was Satan's place, no question about it. But it would be brought down.

He believed that with all his heart.

Praise Jesus.

"Good day, sir." He turned away from the window. There was no point in speaking further. He moved past the row of empty windows with the SOLD OUT banners slung across them, achieved the door, stepped through.

The heathen hordes awaited.

Paul Weissman was there, too.

"So far, no good," said the chubby young man. His face was grim. Furniss knew how he felt. "Nobody has seen her. I'm having my doubts."

"She's here. Trust in the Father. We'll find her."

But even Furniss was getting discouraged now, his own faith flagging. Their avenues of approach were closing off one after another.

The pastor had hoped to avoid this situation. He'd hoped to apprehend her before she got in. Six pairs of stalwart Liberty Christian youth had been brought for that reason, scattered near the gates, distributing pamphlets, keeping their eyes peeled for that long blond head of hair.

It did not appear to be working. More than half of the crowd was already inside. His guess was that Mary was among them.

Not calling her parents immediately had been a mistake. He knew that now. But, after all, his expectation had been that they would find her.

They almost always did.

And when things did go wrong-as with the Anderson boy, the parents calling first and demanding to know just "what in Hell" was going on-he'd been able to explain the situation well enough to stave off the lawsuits. Barely.

But this was more than bad. This was a dangerous place. If all rock concerts were like this, then Lord have mercy on our souls. All of the pastor's worst suspicions were confirmed by these kids. He'd never seen such potential for violence and outrage, such rampant moral decay.

And if anything happens to her
, he mused, then cut it short, disallowing the thought. There were more important things to concentrate on. Like how to get inside.

"Hey, mister," said a voice from behind him. He turned. "You needa buy some tickets?"

The speaker was maybe fourteen years old. He was sitting above them on the concrete wall outside the door, one leg dangling lackadaisically. He had hair like a rooster. He was drinking a beer.

Dauntlessly, Paul Weissman leaped into the fray. "Let me handle this," he whispered to Furniss, then, "Yeah,
sure
, dude. We'll take two. How much are they?" He advanced, digging a hand into his pocket.

"Hundred bucks."

Paul stopped dead in his tracks. "A hundred bucks for two tickets?!" he gasped.

"No, dickhead," the kid drawled. "A hundred bucks
apiece
."

"That's obscene!"

"Free enterprise, dude. The American way." The kid took a long pull off his beer. "You wan 'em or what?"

"Let's go," Furniss said. "The Lord will provide."

"I wouldn't hold my fuckin' breath," the kid said, then turned his attentions elsewhere. Furniss's heart went out to him, replete with visions of the dear boy in proper clothes, with a proper haircut, after a couple of days in the Quiet Room with the Good Book and plenty of time to reflect on his sins.

But at least he'd narrowed his possibilities. Soon, the Lord would show him the path of least resistance, and there he would go. He had no doubt that God was guiding him. The only real question was where.

"Are there any other entrances we haven't tried?" he asked Paul Weissman.

And lo, Paul provided the answer.

"God, these are beautiful." Alex listened as the patterns shimmied in his ears and on the screen. "Just beautiful."

He sat at the computer console, a commset hooked delicately around one ear, hands deftly fingering the keys on the MIDI controller. The DIOS sat on its stand, LEDs strobing as the data fed in and the data fed out. The signal was strong.

And so, for the first time in ages, was Alex.

He felt superb, truly superb. It was as though an enormous cloud had been lifted from his eyes. And while that might not be so in the most clinically literal sense, it was true that he was seeing things he had never seen before.

There, in the darkness in his mind. Getting clearer with every note that he played.

"Okay," he whispered into the commset's mike, "let's run through our feed sequences again, shall we?"

"
Roger
," came the voice from below the stage. "
Feed sequence A coming on line
."

"Okay." Alex smiled. His fingers moved over the keys like speed-reading braille. "Switch on my command."

"
Roger. On your command
."

Alex nodded.
On my command
. Had a nice ring to it. He could get used to that. Father would be pleased. Momma certainly was.

"Give me pulse . . ."

"
Check
."

"Respiration . . ."

"
Check
."

"Galvanic response . . . EMG . . . MEG . . ."

"
Check
. . .
check
. . .
check
. . ."

These were the best yet: sample-wise, they were looping superclean and clear, with not a trace of harmonic distortion, and most of all-
fast
. With his mind clear at last he had been able to finish the control program and load the sequencers and the coprocessors, which even now were number-crunching megabyte whole body gestalt complexes to beat the band. Walker's new E-prom was just the ticket, bless his black heart. If Alex had any doubts about the efficacy of a live feed, they were dispelled forever. The studio was fine, but he had a feeling that nothing would beat a live performance of the Symphony of Death.

"Okay, now for Momma Bear. Is she ready?"

"
Coming right up
."

Momma Bear's vital signs, too, were right on line. Alex couldn't be more pleased.

"Okay," he said, "this is critical. Slip her the probe and give us little Baby Bear."

There was a pause. "
She's fighting us
."

"Then sedate her again. But
lightly
. We don't want to suppress her reaction time too much."

"
No problem
."

Alex turned his attention inward as he waited for them to bring her under control. It was closer still, responding to even the scantiest snatches of manifested sound as he did this last check. He stretched and tilted his head back.

In his mind's eye he saw the huge centerpiece of the stage, towering over him. The cloud was dissipating, now little more than a smoky film, obscuring the details like an underexposed Bob Guccione centerspread. Still, he could make it out. It was big. God, yes. It was smiling.

And getting clearer by the second.

And as for beauty
, he thought,
well, that's in the eye of the beholder, isn't it?

"
She's under
."

"Wonderful. Now remember, this is going to be a very delicate, very tricky operation. In order to generate the proper feedback level we need to get a good representative signal from all the members of our happy family, and I'm getting a little glitching up here. We need better contact."

"
Sorry, but it's hot down here. She's sweating like a pig, and he's getting kinda gamy. The adhesive just gives out after a while
."

"Oh dear," Alex murmured. "Well, get a fan down there.

"And see if anyone has some Crazy Glue."

Another pause.

Then, "
Roger
."

Alex giggled a little. He'd almost forgotten just how much he enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the stage. Already he felt invigorated, refreshed. Like a new man.

He felt the presence an instant before she made contact. He leaned his head against her belly as she pressed up against him. "Having fun?" Tara asked.

"God, yes."

And the fun was just beginning.

His hair was perfect, his makeup was perfect, his costume was perfect, but Rod could not get happy. His warmup exercises were not going well. More specifically, his hands were trembling so much that he was blowing his riffs. This was bad, especially when the show was this close to starting.

"Damn!" He set down the guitar for a second and paced around his dressing room. He couldn't shake the paranoia. As always, something strange was going on behind his back. He expected as much.

But the change in Alex was a wee bit too extreme to be ignored.

Sure, it was great to see the boy up and around again. At first it had been cause for outright celebration. But to see him bounce out of his deathbed so chipper was its own kind of frightening. It didn't make sense.

First thing, of course, Rod had checked his brother's eyes, thinking
if Tara did this to you, man, she's fucking dead and it's all over
. The big surprise was that they were still intact. After what she'd done to the rhythm section, Rod wouldn't put anything past her.

But no. Little brother was fine. In fact, he was primo. The wheels were in motion. The sounds he was weaving were too good to be real. His playing was sharp. His wits were like a razor. He was laughing all the time.

So why was he so scary?

Rod reached into his pocket for the vial of toot, laid a sixth of a gram out and sucked it up. One thing was for sure: he would want to be aware. Nobody was gonna slip nothin' by him tonight. When the Earth opened up for inheritance, Rod Royale would be there.

But if you play one wrong note
. . . , Walker said in his head, and that brought all the paranoia pinwheeling back. The question
What exactly do you stand to gain from all this?
occurred, for at least the millionth time; and again, it was Walker's voice that answered.