by Kahn, Denise
“Hey,” he said, kicking the dead man next to him, “want some, man?” He kicked the body again. “Asshole,” he said, licking the rest of the cocaine off the back of his hand. He put on the electrician’s baseball cap and picked up a small bag and proceeded toward the entrance.
The audience began to enter the stadium, taking their seats on the chairs in front of the stage and in the bleachers. Plainclothes police and FBI agents intermingled with them. The musicians were behind the curtains, and the sound and light crews were checking the microphones and spots on stage in the middle of the field. Twenty minutes before the concert was due to start, the stadium was almost packed to capacity. The VIP’s were being ushered into their respective reserved seats. Prominent politicians, businessmen and entertainers were in attendance.
Jean, Rodrigo and Alejandro went to Davina’s dressing room where they met B.A. and Martinez.
Alejandro’s cellular phone rang. Davina saw the troubled look on his face as he took the call. He felt her eyes on him as he hung up.
“Amor, I need to speak to you,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her away from the others. “I’m afraid I have to leave immediately for Havana. The plane is waiting for me at the airport. I am not supposed to tell anyone this but there is some problem at the embassy, apparently very serious. I am sorry. You will forgive me, querida?”
“Of course, but please be careful. Do you know when you will be back?”
“No, I have no way of knowing, my love, but I will return as soon as I can,” he said, hugging her. He turned and quickly left the stadium.
“Davina, it’s time,” B.A. said. “Everybody’s ready. I’m just sorry that we can’t be standing next to you while you’re singing.”
“Trying to steal the show?” Ernesto joked. He was on edge and at the same time confident. During their last altercation with Grady, he managed to put four police cruisers out of commission and wound two of his men. The officer thrown off Grady’s car died in intensive care of internal wounds. Martinez could see the bright side. At least now Simon Grady, wherever he was, would not be able to get off on any technicality. He was wanted for murder and attempted murder.
“Time!” a voice shouted from outside the door.
That was her cue.
Rodrigo and Jean went to one side of the stage and Ernesto and B.A. went to the other.
Grady had no problem getting through security at the Orange Bowl. He had the pass of the electrician he had killed. This was his show. Nobody was going to keep him out. He kept his head low, mumbled a hello at the guard who was checking passes at the door and went to the first restroom he could find. He went into one of the stalls, closed the toilet cover and pulled a mirror out of his pocket. He smiled at his reflection. This was his day, the one he had been waiting for, and the more he thought about it, the more he could feel an erection coming on. He thought of Jean as he masturbated, imagining the effects of the explosion. He ejaculated onto the wall in the stall. He took off the electrician's overalls and the red shirt he wore underneath and once again, he positioned the mirror. He took out a razor and shaved his beard. Then he dabbed the perspiration from his face and torso and proceeded to apply black theatrical stain to his face, neck, upper body, hands and arms. He adjusted a wig over his hair. The cops might go looking for a white man with a beard or a balding electrician with blue overalls and a cap, but not a black man.
He threw the other clothes in the garbage in the bathroom and ventured outside, losing himself in the crowd.
The audience was growing impatient. They clapped and whistled. Finally, the orchestra opened the show. The lights dimmed to almost complete darkness and Davina slowly walked unseen to the center of the stage. The enormous spotlights formed a single tiny spot of light on a microphone at the center of the stage. As the circle of light opened a little wider, a hand could be seen holding the microphone. The sounds of the orchestra softened and from the darkness, Davina Walters' crystalline voice danced ahead of her into the audience. As the sound of the music and the voice grew, the stadium became eerily quiet. Slowly the spotlights opened up and a perfect circle colored by soft orange gels formed on Davina's face. Her chin was tilted slightly upward and the microphone, which she held with a finger and thumb, carried her voice throughout the arena. The sphere of light kept widening until her entire spectacular form was illuminated. Throughout this first song, she stood in the same spot, letting the full impact envelope the audience.
When the first song came to an end, the audience loudly proclaimed their approval, but the whistling threw Davina off, at least initially. In Europe, whistling was not a compliment as it was in the U.S. She quickly composed herself. It was an odd time, and she felt it. Alejandro and Jacques weren’t there. Jacques had never missed any of her concerts before.
"Martinez!" Lieutenant Peterson hissed to his sergeant behind the curtain.
"Yeah, what's up?"
He beckoned him over. "We reran a check on everyone working for the show. Everyone checks out except one, Sy Goodman. He doesn't exist."
Martinez felt a tightening in his stomach. It took him only seconds to figure it out. Sy Goodman was Simon Grady. Of course.
"He was working with the light crew. Chief electrician fired him yesterday.” Peterson paused. "Ernesto, the bastard is here. We just found two bodies."
"Two?"
"Head electrician’s right outside the grounds in some bushes. Slit his throat. His pass is missing. We also found traces of cocaine.”
"Damn it. I'm going to look for him.”
"No, stay here. He might just try to get to the singer or his ex-wife before we get to him.”
"Yes, sir. What about the second body?"
"Prostitute on Biscayne. Late last night, same MO.
“Grady."
"Yeah. He’s getting sloppy. Maybe it's the cocaine. We've got an eyewitness who saw him come in with the girl." Peterson put his hand around Martinez’s shoulder. "I need you here two hundred percent.”
An embassy car took Alejandro to the airport, onto the tarmac directly to the jet that awaited him. The co-pilot saluted him. "Don Alejandro, please fasten yourself in your seat. Our orders are to depart immediately.”
"Entendido. Understood," Alejandro said as he clipped his seat belt into place, anxious and irritable at the same time. He did not know what was happening in Havana and he hated missing Davina's performance. They only had tonight and tomorrow together before he was supposed to return to Cuba. Why couldn't this have waited another twenty-four hours? It better be important. That was his Davina down there singing to the world. “I will you see soon, mi amor,” Alejandro said softly as he watched the lights of Miami fade into the black horizon.
At that moment, Davina was singing one of Alejandro's favorite songs. "Eres el hombre de mi vida. You are the man of my life..."
As she sang the next song, she walked toward the audience, descending the steps toward the first row of seats. Still singing, she approached some of Florida's most famous residents. The dozens of lights with their kaleidoscope gels narrowed to her face. She moved closer to the audience and shook hands with a few of the ladies and lightly kissed some of the gentlemen on the cheek.
Ernesto Martinez didn't like it. Davina was off the stage, too far from him. He followed her every movement.
Davina was singing a slightly faster melody now but she continued to greet the delegates in the front seats. She stopped in front of Zeferino da Cunha, her friend from Brazil and embraced him. Still singing, she looked inquiringly at the young woman in the beautiful silk dress sitting next to him. Yes, Zeferino nodded, this was she. “My fiancée,” he whispered. Davina squeezed her hand and, still singing, started back up onto the stage.
Alejandro was briefed as soon as the plane was at cruising altitude. Apparently there had been an infiltration at the Spanish Embassy in Havana. There was a collaborator among the staff and Alejandro had been chosen to find this person. His thoughts about who this might be were abruptl
y interrupted as the plane suddenly lurched forward and pitched down sharply.
“What’s going on?” he shouted into the cockpit over the noise of the engines.
“We’ve lost our hydraulics,” the pilot said.
“Is there anything I can do?” Alejandro said.
“No. Assume crash position in one of the back seats. And put a life vest on.”
Alejandro did as he was told, frustrated that he could not help the situation. How he hated to idly wait, especially when he was forced to wait for something that he knew would come to no good. He tried to push away the memories of crash landing in Egypt, Davina at his side.
“Davina, amor, I love you,” he whispered, as the small jet screamed toward the black water below.
Davina was finishing a song on the stage when suddenly her throat froze and a flash of heat rushed through her body. She felt as if she were having a heart attack but that was ridiculous. She was too young for that, too healthy. But what was this feeling, this rock forming in her chest? She breathed deeply, trying to take in more air. She couldn’t get enough air. She stepped toward the backdrop, trying desperately to conceal the burning in her eyes and the invisible fingers tightening her lungs. She thought she would never reach the curtain, such a short distance that now seemed like miles. California was closer. She pushed herself, worried that her legs would give out. Come on, come on, just a few more steps. She could see Alejandro’s hand reaching out to her, but when finally she reached the backdrop, Alejandro was gone. She turned back to her audience.
The maestro and the musicians knew something was amiss and continued playing. Davina finally reached behind the curtain. B.A. caught her as she fainted. He slapped her lightly on the cheek.
“Davina, what’s wrong? Davina?”
Martinez brought over a glass of water. She took a sip and a deep breath, and she closed her eyes. Again Alejandro flashed in front of her.
“Davina, talk to me,” B.A. said.
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what happened. My voice froze for a second and I felt hot all over.” She didn’t mention that she had seen Alejandro. “Anyway, I’m fine now. The audience is waiting.” She stood to go.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” B.A. asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
Davina returned to center stage, nodding to her maestro. She began to sing again. The audience had not suspected anything amiss.
The lights, including the four five-hundred-watt quartz lamps at each corner of the stage, flooded the platform. It was momentarily blinding. For Martinez and B.A., it was enlightening. Now they knew. The explosives Grady bought were triggered by heat.
Martinez spoke into his two-way radio. “Light engineer, cut the lights! Cut the lights, all of them! Now!”
The engineer did as he was ordered and the entire stadium blackened, leaving only the security people roaming the crowds with their flashlights. A few shrill screams could be heard from the bleachers but there was no panic. On the contrary, the crowd thought it was part of the show and began flicking their lighters, giving the sensation of hundreds of fireflies invading the stadium.
But a blackened stadium was not in Simon Grady’s plans. He moved quickly from where he had positioned himself in the crowd on the field and crept up to the sound and light console. Johnny Thornton was behind it. Grady grabbed a light reflector and hit Johnny over the head with it, knocking him to the ground. Grady turned on the main switch. The entire stadium was instantly bathed in light except for the four quartz lights at the corners of the stage; these took a full minute to come back on. The audience now saw a very different show on stage.
B.A. was screaming. “Martinez, that’s it! I can see the det cord. Pull it out!” B.A. grabbed Davina and literally threw her toward the back of the stage, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped she was still as agile and athletic as she was as a kid. He rushed at one of the four quartz lamps and yanked at the det cord that connected the small pack of explosives to the light fixture. Martinez did the same at another lamp.
Peterson and Rodrigo, who understood from watching the other two men what needed to be done, went for the remaining two lamps. They both reached for the det cords just as the lights came back on. They were a split second too late. The heat generated by the lamps triggered both detonators.
The left side of the platform exploded, hurling Petersen and Rodrigo through the air like broken dummies onto the middle of the stage. The klieg lights above came crashing down. Davina saw the heavy steel coming right at her and ran, but as quick as her reaction was, it was no match for gravity. A strobe landed on her head.
The audience was now out of control. People were screaming and trying to run in every direction. The stadium was in complete chaos. People were crushed underfoot by others trying to escape. Chilling screams of pain continuously pierced the smoke filled sky above the Orange Bowl and, as the crowds fought for the exits, the spot lights went into a wild frenzy and created their own feverish show forming circles of light in erratic designs that landed crazily on the faces in the crowd.
The stage was on fire, almost fully engulfed with flames.
B.A. had been struck by a beam from above. He slowly opened his eyes as the smoke filled his nostrils and made him cough. Davina lay face down. He tried to get up to reach her but the pain tore through him and he collapsed. He tried once more and, to his amazement, his muscles responded, although slowly. Jean stood on the side of the platform, apparently unhurt, but in obvious shock. Her eyes were glassy, focused on something, and when B.A. followed her line of sight, he saw a body. Rodrigo had taken the full impact of the explosion and most of his torso had been blown away, leaving a river of blood.
“Jean!” he shouted. “Move! Help me with Davina.” But Jean did not move. The heat of the flames and the boards of the stage were getting hot. The fire had already destroyed most of the platform and was heading for their corner. B.A. used all the strength he had to reach Davina. Then he picked her up and got to Jean. “Come on!” he screamed. “Jean!” Finally her eyes moved and she looked straight at B.A., then at Davina. Jean started screaming hysterically, thrashing clenched fists. B.A. punched her and let her fall on his other arm. He carried the women, one on each of his shoulders, down past the backdrop and behind the stage. Fortunately the crowds had not stormed that part of the stadium; there was no exit there. B.A. thought they would be more or less safe, at least for a while. He had to leave them. He had to contact emergency medical staff. Davina needed help and fast.
B.A. went back onto the stage, what was left of it. He saw Peterson, dead. Martinez jumped off the stage just before a flaming beam came crashing down in exactly the same place he had been standing.
“Martinez! Are you alright?”
“Yes,” the sergeant answered. “You?”
“Fine. What about the microphones, can they be used?”
“The ones at the console are probably still intact,” Martinez said. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. I’ve called emergency help.”
“I’m okay. I’m going to the light booth to see what I can do. Davina and Jean are behind the stage. See if you can get a chopper to lift them out of here.”
“Right, I’ll see what I can do but I don’t think a pilot will land in this chaos.”
B.A. made his way to the booth where Johnny was passed out on the floor. He sat him up and shook him. “Hey! You okay?”
Johnny mumbled. His head was pounding.
“I’m FBI. We’ve got a panic on our hands and I need your help. You with me?” B.A. shook his shoulder again.
“Yeah, yeah...”
“I need a working microphone connected to all the speakers in the stadium and I need it now.”
“Okay, okay.” Johnny arranged the wires and cables to their connections. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat. “Is Davina Walters okay?”
“She’s hurt. Come on, let’s go!”
“My sister and her fiancé were in the
first row.”
“I don’t know about them. Listen, if we don’t stop this panic now, thousands of people will be killed.”
“Okay, we’re on,” Johnny said, handing him a microphone.
“Please remain calm!” B.A. said into the mic, as calmly as he dared. His deep voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Do not panic. There is no danger. Walk, walk toward the exits. There is no danger. The fire is contained to the stage. Do not panic.”
Ambulances, police cruisers and fire trucks arrived en masse. Hospitals and trauma centers were on alert. Helicopters hovered over the Orange Bowl. The stadium was bathed in light. The choppers took turns, like giant flying insects of all colors, some with red crosses, some green or brown and khaki, and others still had television channel logos and numbers. They were suspended in the depressing sky of smoke and bright raw light, waiting in a formation coordinated by the police from their own perch in the sky. B.A.’s announcement helped, but there were still casualties. Now the medical teams were finally getting to the wounded. The stage was charred rubble and the VIP section, the front rows and the chairs in front of the stage on the field had all been kicked and turned over. Bodies lay on top of several of them.
Martinez thought about his pregnant wife. He had lost sight of her and couldn’t find her. His mind was in a million different places. Petersen, his lieutenant, was dead. Martinez could hardly breath. He did not know if it was because of the fumes and the smoke or his anger at himself for not having prevented this disaster. He should have done something when they had Grady in custody, even if they couldn’t pin anything on him. He watched as the firemen extinguished the flames on the stage. Suddenly he was overcome with the smoke and fell to the ground. Firefighters rushed to him and put an oxygen mask over his face. Martinez inhaled deeply. It helped. He could breathe now. He had to find Isabel. His heart tightened at the thought of anything happening to her. She was the most important thing in his life. She had brought happiness and joy to him and now she was carrying a part of them both.