Darker Than Any Shadow

by Tina Whittle

  “And you’ve got everybody’s cell phone number, right?”

  “Garrity’s, Trey’s, Frankie’s, Padre’s, yours.”

  “Good.” Rico pulled a DVD from his pocket. “And this will keep you busy until the show starts.”

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.”

  “I’ve had enough surprises.”

  He slid it into the computer, tapped a few keys. It opened with a shot of the Atlanta skyline, the rhinestone slash of Midtown. Then a solitary mike stand in the spotlight, the background like dark velvet. As I watched, a younger version of Rico stepped behind it, cupping the microphone in one hand. He smiled and dropped his eyes. “You begin in the softest of ways,” he said.

  I grinned. “Padre’s video. He finished it.”

  “He did. We’re all on there—Frankie, Cricket, Vigil, Lex, even Padre himself. He’s been working like a man obsessed.” Rico dropped his voice. “He told me about the Alzheimer’s. He told me you knew.”

  I laid my hand on top of his. “It was his secret to tell, not mine.”

  “I know. He also told me that his ability to work with images is as sharp as ever. So this video is something to celebrate for all kinds of reasons. Enjoy it.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Promise me you’ll be okay?”

  “I promise.” He dropped his voice. “I’m gonna get the rest of these people out of here, so you can have a minute with Trey. He did this for you, you know.” Rico leaned closer. “He really is a great boyfriend.”

  He said it with longing in his mouth, bittersweet. And I knew he was missing Adam. I wanted to console him, to tell him all things come in time, to be patient.

  “You’re gonna be awesome,” I said instead.

  He shrugged, cracked a smile. “Yeah.”

  “Break a leg, okay? Or whatever poets break for good luck.”

  He regarded my braces and bandages. “Looks like you took that hit for me.”

  ***

  Soon the raucous laughter and music softened into murmurs, punctuated by the opening and closing of the refrigerator, the front door, the various goings of the guests. I propped myself on the sofa and watched the exodus. Sloane and the Hollywood entourage packed it up for the Fox, and most of the crowd vanished with them. Trey stayed in the kitchen, rinsing the champagne glasses. He was still in boyfriend mode, but I knew that would change soon.

  Eventually, Rico herded the stragglers out, then hugged me goodbye himself and left for the elevator. Trey now stood at his desk with his back to me, his shoulder holster in place, the dark leather a stark contrast to his white shirt. I heard the snick of the nine-millimeter magazine sliding into place, the soft clink of the bullets as he loaded his spare.

  When he was ready, I walked him to the door despite his insistence I get in bed. He put the back of his hand to my forehead.

  “It’s not the flu,” I said.

  “The doctor said to watch for signs of infection.”

  “I’m not infected.”

  He shrugged into his jacket. “I put your cell phone on the bedside table, next to the pain medicine—your next dose is in an hour. Your gun’s in the drawer, in the holster, fully loaded with extra ammo. And here’s the remote for the television. I put fresh batteries in.”

  He handed me a rectangle of black plastic with three dozen miniscule buttons on it. I had to squint to make them out.

  “It also works the ceiling fan and the window shades.” He checked his watch. “You have forty-five minutes before the show starts. Check in with me when you get the system functioning.”

  “I will.”

  He started to leave, but I tugged at his elbow. “Keep him safe.”

  “I will.”

  He looked like he meant it too, him on one side of the threshold and me on the other, him sliding into duty, me sliding into all-by-myselfness. Already the wall was up. I could feel its perimeter, impenetrable.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Gabriella will be here in a few minutes.”

  I froze. “Gabriella?”

  “Yes. I gave her your key. She’ll let herself in.”

  There was so much wrong with that statement, I didn’t know where to start. “You gave her my key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without asking?”

  “You were asleep.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  He exhaled sharply. “Probably. But your staying alone was not an option. Garrity was supposed to stay, but he got called in, and Gabriella was the only available person I trusted.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Yes, I can. You told me to tell you what you had to do. That’s what I’m doing.”

  I felt the argument at the back of my tongue, and I set my teeth to keep it in. “We are soooo gonna talk about this later.”

  “I know.” He paused at the door. “I also took your cigarettes. And your car keys. We can talk about that later too.”

  And then he shut the door, and I heard the deadbolt engage. My face burned, like red heat waves were bursting out the top of my head.

  “Oh, we are gonna talk all right,” I said to the empty living room. “It’s gonna be epic. Fucking Armageddon.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  I decided it was just as well I didn’t have any cigarettes. I was already shuffling around in faded sweatpants and a ratty bathrobe, remote in one pocket, loose hydrocodone in the other. Cigarettes would have shoved me over the edge right into redneck caricature.

  So yes, good that I didn’t have any. This did not, however, dampen my anger. It still smoldered in the middle of my skull. I was going to ream that man out. Like I would have smoked in his apartment, or tried to drive my car, or tried to sneak out.

  I sighed. Who was I kidding? Of course I would have.

  I abandoned the crutches at the door and hopped into the bedroom. Trey’s apartment always felt strange without him in it. His presence softened the minimalist lines and put a human heart in the middle, black and white though it might be. Now it felt acutely empty, and I felt utterly not at home.

  I turned the television on. The DVD still played, only now it was Frankie on the screen, her delivery clipped and unsure as she tried to be sweet, expanding into power and sureness when she didn’t. I fast-forwarded through Vigil, then watched Rico again, and Cricket, and Padre. Lex went last, the fully-fledged version of him, all edges and spikes and attitude. I remembered the verses hidden in his box—Kyle’s verses, aching in their delicacy—and the sadness welled up again.

  I turned it off, shoving the remote into the pocket with the pills. I opened the drawer, checked on the gun. Then I loaded the surveillance grid on my computer pad. Sure enough, Rico’s coordinates pulled up every interior public access camera. I could see almost everywhere and everything.

  Including Garrity, who was poised at the main entrance. I grabbed my phone and called him. He answered, but his voice was full of warning.

  “Make it fast, I’m on duty.”

  “I know. I see you.”

  “What?”

  “Look up at the camera in the corner. That’s me.”

  He grinned. “I knew you weren’t behaving.”

  “Am too. Hey, did you know that Trey—”

  “Yeah, I know. Be nice to Gabriella, she’s trying to help.” He looked around the gilded opulence of the long narrow entrance. “So what do you see at your end? Anything unusual?”

  “No, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

  “Remember, I’m official tonight. If you call, it had better be important.”

  I assured him—yet again—that I wasn’t an idiot, and he went inside. Cross-currents of people streamed down the low-lit hallways, twin rivers of busy coming and going. I knew the poets themselves were in the green room upstairs, Rico included. And I knew Trey was with him.

  I fiddled with my grid, selecting the green room. I sent Rico a text as soon as I saw him. “You OK?”

  He turned to face the camera in the c
orner. “Cool.”

  “Where’s Trey?”

  “By the door.”

  I expanded the screen and caught a glimpse of an Armani-clad shoulder at the threshold. Relief surged even as my temper flared. I didn’t even want to hear that man’s voice. I’d told him I’d check in, however, so I punched in his number.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m not talking to you right now, but I want you to know that I will in no way interfere with your decision-making—I promised as much—but if something happens, once you deal with it, I’d better be your first call, is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” He stepped forward and looked squarely into the lens, hands on hips, head cocked. “How many screens can you see at once?”

  “Nine.”

  “Where are the blackout zones?”

  “The restrooms. Pieces of the stairwells. Little corners here and there, but nothing huge.”

  “Call me if you see anything unusual. I’ll need a specific location.”

  He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it. I cursed. I knew what he needed—space and single-minded focus—but it was still crazy-making. On the screen, he paced off the green room and then returned to the door, all his attention on the hallway.

  The pills rattled in my pocket. The pain meds were toward the end of their four-hour cycle, so the muzzy head faded as a dull throbby ache crested in its place. I’d turned off Padre’s video, and yet the poems still flowed around me in the silent apartment, the remembered voices like a haunting, a visitation, a ghost in the machine.

  Suddenly, a familiar face on the screen jarred me out of my reverie.

  Oh no. Not him. Not now.

  But it was.

  Adam.

  He didn’t act nervous—no looking over his shoulder, no scanning the edges of the crowd. He was more disheveled than usual, however, his hair unkempt, his clothes wrinkled. I called Garrity.

  “Rico’s drama-boy ex just showed up in the lobby, looking hinky.”

  “Describe him.”

  I squinted at the screen. “Scrunched blond hair, blue eyes, young. Black graphic tee-shirt, blue jeans. Slouchy.”

  “You just described half the building.”

  “I’m sending you a picture.”

  I texted him a shot of Adam I’d taken at the debut party. I saw Garrity peer at his phone, then scan the crowd.

  “Do you think he’s here for trouble?”

  “I have no idea what he’s up to.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The foyer, about to hit the main staircase.”

  Except that he wasn’t. I zoomed out, scanning the crowd. But while the camera was good for an overall panoramic view, it was lousy for picking out one face in the low-res collection of colors and shapes.

  “Damn it, I don’t see him anymore!”

  Garrity didn’t reply. He was in stalk-and-capture mode, moving with deceptive casualness, keeping to the wall.

  “I’m calling Trey,” I said.

  “Do it.”

  I hit Trey’s speed dial. When he picked up, I got right to the point. “Adam’s on premises.”

  “Where?”

  “Last I saw in the lobby. Probably headed your way if he can figure out how to get up there.”

  “He can’t. It’s a limited access checkpoint.”

  “Still.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  He hung up abruptly. On the screen, he moved into the green room and shut the door. Rico disengaged himself from the crowd of poets and went to him. Trey started explaining. Rico explained back. Trey turned his back on him and moved back to the door, leaving Rico standing there, hands splayed in bewilderment.

  I chewed my pen. “Damn it, Adam, where are you?”

  Garrity paced the lobby. But in the green room, Trey stood motionless beside the door, shoulders down. He never buttoned his jacket when he was carrying, and he kept his left hand poised at the hem, his right hand loose and empty. I knew the kinetic potential of what nestled under that dark fabric, right against his rib cage, ready for action.

  One-point-four seconds.

  And then I saw Adam cutting down the third-floor hallway. I enlarged that square into full screen. And my stomach plummeted.

  He was in the hall outside the green room, heading straight for it. How in the hell…

  I snatched up the phone and punched in his number. On the screen, he stopped, puzzled. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. When he saw the name, he put it to his ear.

  “I have to see Rico,” he said simply. The need in his voice was heartbreaking.

  “I know.”

  “I only wanna talk.”

  “And you’ll get to, I promise. But right now I need you to stay put.”

  “Padre said I could come up.”

  I cursed silently. Padre. Of course he’d let Adam up. I was beginning to share Trey’s opinion of poets. Utterly clueless.

  Adam looked wildly left and right. “Somebody’s coming up the stairs.”

  “It’s only security, Adam. Stay where you are—”

  “But I haven’t done anything!”

  In the green room, Rico stood. Trey turned to face him and closed the space between until they were standing six inches apart. Trey pointed at the chair in the corner. Rico sat. Trey moved once again toward the door, and Rico looked up at the camera, his eyes wide.

  I got a pang. I knew what he’d seen in Trey’s expression. On the screen, Adam paced the hall, then caught sight of the green room. He made a beeline for it, determined now.

  I tried to sound calm. “Listen to me, Adam. If you go through that door, you won’t see Rico ever again, not ever, and that’s a guarantee.”

  He let loose a hitching sob and stopped walking. “I want to see him!”

  “And you will. But you have to trust me.”

  “Frankie said this would be my last chance.”

  “Frankie?”

  “She said I had to come.”

  I scanned the video grid, looking for Frankie. She was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you talk to her?”

  “This afternoon.”

  I felt a spike of anger mixed with apprehension. No way she’d miss the finals, no way in hell, especially not after conniving Adam into creating yet another subplot for the documentary crew to film. Damn the meddling, egomaniacal…

  Adam lurched down the hall. “I need to see Rico!”

  “And I need you to sit down right now!”

  Adam heard the panic in my voice. He froze, then slumped against the wall. On the square of screen right beside him, I saw the green room door, Trey on the other side, head cocked, cool. A sequence of events waiting to be set into motion, as irreversible as the fall of dominoes.

  Adam crumpled to the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees. On screen I saw Garrity approach, steady and slow, until he and Adam were in the same frame. Garrity’s posture loosened, and when he crouched in front of Adam, he was as non-threatening as a Labrador retriever. Adam lifted his head. Garrity nodded. Then he pulled Adam up, and they headed back to the stairwell.

  I sent Rico a text. “Tell Trey to stand down.”

  Rico’s thumbs worked. “What happened?”

  “False alarm.”

  Rico stood, and Trey’s gaze switched his way. They talked. Trey looked at the camera, then nodded. His hands went to his hips, and his posture relaxed. And the green room door stayed shut.

  But I had another worry now—Frankie. Where was she? She wouldn’t have missed this self-engineered piece of theatre unless something bad had happened.

  Or unless…

  I shivered. Of course. Frankie. It made perfect sense, stunning and clear and absolute. And I had my finger poised above Trey’s speed dial when I heard it, the smooth slide of the walk-in closet door behind me. I yanked my head around.

  Frankie stood there, gloved, a semi-automatic in one hand.
She stepped into the bedroom and pointed it at me.

  “And that,” she said, “is enough of that.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Frankie made a gimme gesture. “Hands up. And give me that phone.”

  I handed it over, my head buzzing. “How in the hell—”

  “Shut up.” Frankie pocketed the phone. “Now get into the living room. And if you even think of going for that gun, I’ll put a hot one between your eyes before you can get the drawer open.”

  I couldn’t think about shit. The pain fuzzed my brain, which was still blurry from the hydrocodone. I was half-baked, my draw hand a swath of bandages, my ankle a useless lump. I stood, wobbling and shaking.

  “Good. Now hobble yourself over by the door. Leave your gizmos behind, including the remote.”

  I followed her instructions. I still couldn’t believe she was standing there, in Trey’s double-deadlocked apartment, holding me hostage.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I never left. I pretended to go to the bathroom earlier and then ducked in the closet. Everybody assumed I left without saying goodbye. I do stuff like that.”

  I was so angry I could spit. Padre letting Adam in, us letting Frankie in. Damn criminals messing up security procedures left and right.

  From where I stood, I could see the shifting grid of the Fox on my computer. The competition had begun, and I knew the entire force of Trey’s attention was now riveted on securing the green room and the stage. Likewise Garrity and the entire Atlanta police force, all honed and targeted and utterly focused.

  On entirely the wrong thing.

  My phone chirped, and Frankie examined the readout. Then she expertly typed out a response with one thumb.

  “Rico wonders what’s up,” she said. “He’s on in fifteen minutes. I told him everything was cool, to do whatever Trey said. Good advice, don’t you think?”

  “They’ll figure out you’re not there.”

  “Eventually. But I can make a story out of anything. And the story I make depends on you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Lex’s box.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “That’s it? You’re holding me at gunpoint for a stupid box!”