Compact with the Devil: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  “That’s me,” she said, feeling a blush rise. “Shall I go now?”

  “Yes, this way,” answered the doctor, leading the way. Nikki walked past Kit with an apologetic smile.

  “She’ll be out soon,” said the doctor, pulling back a curtain, revealing Trista covered in a white sheet and hospital gown. “So you’ll have to be quick.”

  “Nikki,” said Trista hoarsely, and reached out a clawing hand. Nikki took her hand and leaned down to hear the makeup woman’s message.

  “Nikki, you have to stay with him,” whispered Trista, and licked her lips. “Duncan—”

  “I know. Don’t worry; I won’t let Duncan hurt him.”

  “No,” said Trista. “Duncan won’t hurt him. He wouldn’t want you to know; he’s afraid. But you’ve got to know.” Her voice was getting smaller, and Nikki leaned closer. “Don’t let Camille know.”

  “Know what?” demanded Nikki, leaning closer.

  “Duncan…” But whatever she had been going to say slid into muttering silence as her eyelids drifted closed and Trista slipped into unconsciousness. The nurses appeared as if on cue and popped up the metal frames on the sides of the bed.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle,” said one, politely shoving Nikki out of the way.

  Nikki didn’t notice. She had too much to think about. What would Duncan be afraid of? Duncan wasn’t afraid of anything but Kit and a bottle of booze. Slowly, she wound her way back out to the reception area. Kit was waiting impatiently for her, Duncan a solid shadow behind him. She looked from Kit to Duncan and realized that Trista had been right—Duncan was afraid. He was afraid of her.

  FRANCE II

  Dirty Laundry

  Nikki sat in the minuscule bathtub at the hotel and tried to regain some warmth. Her shoes were drying on top of the radiator. Trista’s luggage had been brought to her room. Nowhere better to put it, she supposed; at least she could raid it for additional clothing, and more importantly, she could borrow Trista’s phone.

  She dialed Jane and added more hot water while waiting for her to pick up. When it immediately kicked into voice mail Nikki frowned and redialed.

  “Uh, hey, Jane,” said Nikki as the voice mail beeped. “Give me a call when you get this. Uh … hope you’re enjoying your vacation.” Nikki hung up, feeling stupid. She had been counting on Jane to answer. Jane did have a right to enjoy a work-free vacation, but she’d seemed happy to help before … Nikki chewed her lip and then dialed Jenny.

  “Hello, this Jennifer,” said Jenny, using her professional voice.

  “Hey, Jen, it’s Nikki.”

  “Nikki!” exclaimed Jenny, all pretense of formality leaving her voice. “How y’all doing? I was going to call you, but you don’t have your phone. Camille’s gone AWOL. We think she’s gone after Cano.”

  “Believe me,” said Nikki, “I’m aware.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Jenny, laughing at Nikki’s tone. “What happened?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Nikki bitterly. “I’ve managed to sideline myself.”

  “Is that Nikki?” asked Ellen in the background.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jenny.

  “Is that Nikki?” repeated Ellen.

  “Yes, shhh,” said Jenny, turning away from the phone.

  “You’d better put it on speaker,” Nikki said. “Otherwise, I’ll just have to go over it all again with her.”

  “Oh, good point. Uh … hold on.” There was a click, and then the background noises took on a tinny quality. “Are you still there?” asked Jenny anxiously. Jenny was notorious for accidentally hanging up on people. For her, hold, transfer, and speaker were mysterious functions.

  “Still here. Where are you guys?”

  “At a bar in Colombia,” said Ellen. “We gave the bartender a twenty to vamoose for an hour, though, so speak freely.”

  “How’s the Nina Alvarez situation?” asked Nikki, belatedly remembering the case and feeling guilty.

  “We’re still trying to confirm CIA involvement.”

  “What are you going to do if the CIA is involved?” asked Nikki.

  “General consensus is sit back and keep tabs on their op and on Nina. If there’s no CIA, then we’ll replan the extraction and go. Today’s the first day she’s been out of the house. We’ve been following her; Jenny has a brown wig on as part of her disguise. It’s hilarious.”

  “It’s hot, is what it is,” said Jenny. “I think I need an ice pack.”

  “Don’t mention ice packs,” said Nikki. “I’m freezing.”

  “Freezing? What happened?”

  “Well…,” said Nikki, trying to remember how far back to start. “I left there on Christmas Eve and landed in Germany the day after Christmas. I’m still a little bitter about that.”

  “Understandable,” said Ellen. “My daughters were surprisingly upset about my missing Christmas, too. Which is funny; I didn’t think they’d notice.”

  “My family didn’t even call,” said Jenny sadly. “But I called Jane! She said we should wait to exchange presents until we’re all back in L.A.”

  “Yeah,” said Nikki, “that was my plan. All your presents are back at the apartment.”

  “We’re getting distracted,” said Ellen. “We were catching up with Nikki.”

  “Wait, I need a soda,” said Jenny. There was shuffling and then the crisp noise of a beer bottle top. “’Kay, continue.”

  “You didn’t bring one for me?” asked Ellen.

  “You didn’t say anything while I was over there,” said Jenny in protest. Ellen sighed. There was more shuffling and a second bottle-top sound.

  “And the story resumes on Boxing Day in Germany,” said Ellen. Ellen had weaned herself off soaps but had never quite lost the taste for lurid tales of adventure.

  Nikki recounted her story, adding in her phone calls with Jane.

  “Well, something is definitely going on with the Kit Masters tour,” said Ellen when she had finished. Nikki put her own phone on speaker and exited the bath, wrapping herself in a towel.

  “But is it related to Cano?” asked Jenny.

  “And what’s with Duncan?” said Ellen.

  “Yes, I’m worried about him. That conversation outside the television studio … ‘I don’t need any more Carrie Mae women.’ That sounds like he knows more about Carrie Mae women than he should. And why is he covering up the accidents if he knows they’re not accidents? And why is he scared of you? Is he causing the accidents?” Jenny had the same questions Nikki did.

  “I don’t know. I feel like I’m missing something. Trista keeps insisting that no one would want to hurt Kit, but she did sort of hint that she thought Duncan was a bit off. I feel like there’s something else going on … I just can’t put my finger on it.” Nikki rummaged through Trista’s luggage looking for clothes that she could wear without hiding her face in shame.

  “Well, it could be any one of the band or crew,” said Ellen.

  “Can’t be the band,” said Nikki. “They were all onstage when I was chasing Tracksuit.”

  “That doesn’t mean they can’t be responsible for the accidents,” said Jenny. “Tracksuit and Cano may have an accomplice or they may not be related to the accidents at all. And what better way to throw off suspicion than to be part of the accident?”

  “Oh great,” said Nikki bitterly. “Just when I have my suspect pool narrowed down, you gotta stick your two cents in. But I have to say these accidents aren’t as simple as I thought. Trista keeps insisting that no one would want to hurt Kit, and after the crash today, I’d almost agree with her. I just don’t see a motive for hurting or killing him.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ellen.

  “Oh, his people. They kept asking about him. I’d go try to get someone off the bus and they’d ask if he was OK. Trista’s right; his people love him. And they are literally his people. They’d follow him anywhere.”

  “Sounds like that kind of bugs ya,” said Jenny, and Nikki sighed in response.

>   “It’s just weird. He says jump; they say how high. It’s so … feudal.”

  “You’re just not used to a power structure that doesn’t include you at the top,” said Ellen.

  “I’m nowhere near the top!” exclaimed Nikki, shocked. “I’m a drone in the Carrie Mae army!” There was a snorting noise from the other end of the phone, and Ellen laughed.

  “Sorry, Jenny tried to breathe soda through her nose. Honey, you may not have noticed this, but for the last year or so you’ve had a bunch of women following you around doing what you tell them to do. It’s called being a leader.”

  “We’re a team,” muttered Nikki, blushing. “Besides, you don’t tiptoe around and kowtow to my every whim. Which frankly would be a nice change from all of you bossing me around and telling me not to use the zip line!”

  “I stand by my opinion. It was a bad idea in that instance,” Jenny said. “The angle was all wrong and the Congolese would totally have spotted you coming out of the tree.”

  “Probably,” said Nikki, skipping over the old argument, and pulled out a plain white T-shirt that looked unobjectionable, “but my point is, I want more tiptoeing, damn it! Other people get tiptoeing.” She shook out the shirt and from the folds dropped a medium-sized roll of fabric. It looked like a rolled-up travel jewelry kit, but Nikki knew instantly that it wasn’t. She undid the knot and unrolled it, feeling her heart beat faster. Trista had clearly not abandoned the Carrie Mae way entirely.

  “Well, if you’re looking for a motive, I say follow the money. Find out who benefits from his death financially. I’d go talk to that Angela girl. She’s sounds a little suspect—go find out about her.”

  “I could stand to know a little more about all of them,” said Nikki.

  “Room search?” suggested Jenny.

  “How’s she going to search rooms?” objected Ellen. “She doesn’t have any equipment.”

  “Actually, I do,” said Nikki. “I guess Carrie Mae retirees don’t entirely give up the life.”

  “Trista’s packing?” asked Jenny gleefully.

  “Lock picks, a small fingerprint kit, knife, and an early version of knockout gas perfume.”

  “Ha!” said Ellen. “Once you’re Carrie Mae, you are always Carrie Mae.”

  “So it would seem,” said Nikki, pulling on her mostly dry bra and reaching for the T-shirt. “Although … I know I didn’t ask for this stuff, but I’m pretty sure that their existence is something that I should have been told about. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes, but I’m starting to feel like I’m not being taken seriously.” Nikki knew she was drifting off into whining, but it had been a bad day.

  “Nonsense,” said Ellen. “We take you seriously.”

  “Yeah, but you like me. I’m starting to think that everyone else just sees me as some redheaded…” Words failed her and she reverted to the one thing she was afraid she’d always be labeled. “Cheerleader. I mean, I’m not like Z’ev. He looks solid and reassuring and people just assume that he knows what he’s doing. Or Val. Well, mostly people were scared Val was going to shoot them, but people still did what she told them. Or Kit. He just smiles and suddenly people want to take care of him and be with him. But I’m just some twenty-six-year-old Twinkie. Nobody’s even questioned that I could be a makeup artist; they think it’s totally reasonable.”

  “That is ridiculous,” scolded Ellen. “You are not a Twinkie. You are a smart, kick-ass woman. And you’re undercover; no one is supposed to question whether or not you could be a makeup artist.”

  “It’s just kind of hard,” said Nikki. “Did I tell you about the groupie? She looked like a six-foot-tall supermodel and he kicked her out. I mean, she had drugs and everything, but it’s just hard not to feel a little … short.”

  “You like him,” said Jenny, and Nikki could hear the smirk in her voice.

  “No, I don’t,” snapped Nikki.

  “Yes, you do. You have a crush on the rock star. You’re not mad that people trip over themselves when he smiles; you’re mad because you trip over yourself when he smiles.”

  Nikki drummed her fingers on the bedside table.

  “Maybe,” she said, admitting it finally. “But that is irrelevant to my point about leadership. And besides, he has bigger issues than I do, which is a serious red flag. Plus, I just broke up with Z’ev.”

  “Yes, and you seem to be taking that awfully well,” said Jenny.

  “I haven’t had time to think about it,” said Nikki, fighting the lump that unexpectedly welled up in her throat. If she thought about Z’ev she would break down and cry. And crying, even in front of Jenny and Ellen … Well, she just couldn’t do it. Better to not think about the bad stuff, as her mother said. “This isn’t really the time to think about me anyway,” said Nikki, trying to reroute her emotions before they became dangerous. “I’ve got a job to do. Got to figure out just what the hell Camille and Cano are up to and save the rock star from whoever’s trying to kill him, yadda yadda yadda. And I get to do it all on about four hours’sleep.”

  “Oh, stop your pity party,” said Ellen with good-humored acerbity.

  “See?” said Nikki, smiling. “I don’t want to hear that. People don’t tell the leader that.”

  “Yes, they do,” said Ellen. “That’s one of your problems with Kit—no one is telling him the truth, and he’s not insisting that they do. It’s hard to be a leader when all you hear is the echo of your own voice. But that’s not you. You thrive on collaboration and information. It’s part of what makes you a good leader.”

  “I’m a leader without a pack,” said Nikki plaintively.

  “OK, fine,” said Ellen, “lone-wolf it then. You’re suspicious of Duncan; you think someone is attempting to sabotage Kit’s sobriety and you’re pretty sure Cano’s trying to kill him. Time to get busy. What are you going to do?”

  “Trista knows something,” said Nikki, giving in. “I’m going to search the rooms tonight and then talk to her in the morning.”

  “Well, call us back afterward,” said Jenny. “I want to hear what you find.”

  “Probably a lot of dirty laundry,” said Nikki realistically.

  “That’s what we’re hoping for!” exclaimed Jenny, mistaking the actual laundry in Nikki’s mind for a metaphor.

  “Signal!” said Ellen suddenly.

  “Ooh! That’s us. Gotta go. Talk to you later, fearless leader!”

  The line went dead, and Nikki sighed again. She wished her friends were with her now. Things always seemed so much more manageable when they were around.

  Nikki found a pair of Carrie Mae purple sweats that had faded almost to gray in Trista’s bag and put them on, rolling the top down several times. Then, packing Trista’s roll of bad-girl tools into a bath towel, Nikki stepped out into the corridor, hoping she just looked like a guest searching for the hot tub.

  FRANCE III

  Say It Ain’t So

  With everyone else still at the hospital, Nikki set out to search the rooms. Trista’s tools were archaic, but fortunately, so was the hotel. They still operated off of actual keys and locks, even at the penthouse level—her first stop. It was on the top floor, but Nikki had the impression from Holly that it was below Kit’s usual standards. She bypassed Kit’s luggage and went directly to the phone and dialed the front desk.

  “Hullo,” she said. Her English accent wasn’t perfect, but it would fool a French person. If the phone call ever came under suspicion the limited number of French speakers on the tour would make her a suspect. But a random British female widened the pool significantly.

  “Yes, hullo, I’m part of the Kit Masters tour and I need a record of what rooms the Kit Masters tour is currently occupying.” She listened to the person on the other end of the line, as she searched the desk drawers. “Yes, I’m afraid we’re all a bit confused and no one can find anyone. If you wouldn’t mind just running down the names and numbers of our rooms, that would be smashing.” Turning up nothing of interest other than
stationery and a fax machine, Nikki waited impatiently for the clerk to finish looking up the room numbers.

  She had just finished jotting down the numbers when she heard a key in the door. She ran into the hall, ducking into the bathroom just as the front door opened.

  “This is it?” asked Angela disdainfully. “This is the penthouse? God, I don’t even want to see our rooms.”

  “Well, we must make do with what fate hands us,” said Brandt, sounding as if he was only half listening.

  “It ought to be your room anyway,” said Angela. “You’re the head of a major record label. He’s just an artist.”

  Nikki blinked at the major sucking up from Angela.

  “Just drop your stuff,” said Brandt. “We’re not staying that long. We’ll see what Kit’s doing at the hospital and get out of here as soon as possible. Probably tonight.”

  “I don’t know…,” said Angela. “He’s awfully attached to that stupid Trista. He’s not going to leave.”

  “Well, he’ll have to,” said Brandt, sounding more stern. “He has contractual obligations, which I will remind him of.”

  “This wouldn’t be a problem if he were boozing again,” said Angela. “We could just feed him a bottle of Jack and some E and pack him on a plane to Paris.”

  “Yes, his sobriety has been surprisingly long-lived,” said Brandt, not sounding in the least perturbed by Angela’s suggestion. “Who would have thought he’d develop willpower at this stage in his life? Maybe he’ll take one of your little hints one day.”

  There was the sound of bags being put down as Angela laughed nervously.

  “The champagne was just a joke,” said Angela, clearly defensive. “I thought you’d be into it.”

  “Leaving a bottle of champagne in every greenroom? Hilarious. But don’t worry about it,” said Brandt. “Between Duncan and Trista he hasn’t seen one of them. You’re really going to have to try harder.” Brandt didn’t sound mad—just annoyed in a distant way.

  “Do we really have to go to the hospital?” asked Angela in the uncomfortable silence that followed.