Thomas Hale Jurgen. I used to be a reporter. Now I’m a private detective. I’m not very courageous. I try to stay out of trouble. But my cases, like my news stories, keep taking me into strange supernatural territory . . .
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Face to Face
Tom Jurgen is hired by a pop superstar who's being menaced by a deadly stalker with the power to take on any face he wishes . . .
Face to Face, Part One
I usually meet clients in coffee shops and diners, sometimes
their houses. But this was the first time I’d met an international pop star in
her dressing room.
Allison Gentry—known her 21 million
Twitter followers as AG—was one of the biggest singing sensations in the world.
Failed marriages? Check. Drug rehab? Check. Internet feuds with Kanye, Nikki,
and Britney? Check. Nude photos on the internet? Yeah, I checked those out too.
But lots of money to write a lowly
private detective a check for whatever she wanted to hire me for? Yeah. I’ve
got an internet bill to pay.
AG was in
rehearsals for a concert in her “Coming Home” tour at the United Center in
Chicago tomorrow night. Today she and her crew were working at a gym up in
Northbrook. I’d had to fight with the security guards at the front door, after
battling my way through a horde of paparazzi hoping for a shot of AG walking in
or out. Fortunately they didn’t find a 40ish guy in a blue windbreaker worthy
of their attention.
So I was waiting in a dressing room
that looked like a hotel suite—long couches, a mini-fridge, a big-screen TV in
one corner. The music boomed under my feet.
I checked my phone for messages. Deleted
the spam. Texted Rachel: “Hi, I’m waiting for my client, how’s your day going?”
She texted me back a minute later.
“Boring. Any hot half-naked male dancers hanging around?”
The music had stopped. I was in the
middle of a response when the door opened and—
Allison
Gentry marched into the dressing room like she was in a hurry to a more
important meeting. She wore skintight yoga pants and a loose red tank top, her
long blond hair tied back. “Goddamn it, why can’t they find me some dancers who
know what they’re doing? It’s tomorrow night, and we’re still working out the
moves? I don’t believe—”
Then she stopped, staring at me. “Kaz?
Who the hell is this?”
I stood up. The guy who followed
her into the room wore a dark jacket and a thin red necktie hanging loose
around a black T-shirt. “AG, this is Tom Jurgen. The private detective?” He
turned to me, looking nervous. Hi. Kaz Peters. We talked yesterday? I’m on AG’s
PR team.”
“Sorry.” AG
collapsed in a chair, catching her breath. “Kaz, can you get me some water? And
where’s my phone? I need a salad. Dressing on the side.” Her voice was
high-pitched and squeaky, but her throat sounded hoarse.
“Got it.” Kaz
grabbed a water bottle from the mini-fridge, dropped a cell phone on the table
in front of her, and went for the door. “Anything for you, Jurgen?”
“I’m, uh,
fine, thanks.” I sat back down. I’ve met some minor celebrities—football heroes
and local actors—but never anyone who’d been named Maxim magazine’s No.
2 hottest female celebrity (Katy Perry was No. 1). “Nice to meet you, Ms.
Gentry.”
“It’s
Allison.” She gulped down half the water. “Thanks for coming.”
I perched
on the edge of the couch. “So what can I do for you?”
She
groaned. “I’ve got this stalker.”
Hundreds of
them, probably. “Don’t take this wrong, but don’t you have security for that
kind of problem?”
“Yeah.” She
ran her hands over her face. “But Kaz said you handle—weird shit. Like people
who can change their faces?”
Of course.
“Well, I’ve dealt with shape shifters, vampires, ghosts, zombies, and even the
occasional workers comp case where the employee in question wasn’t actually
faking an injury.”
AG giggled.
Then she gulped some more water. “About a year ago I started getting these
emails from a guy named BrandonX. At first it was just the standard pervert
stuff, so I sent them to Intertext/PR—they handle my IT stuff. Miley suggested
them.”
Miley? I
didn’t ask. “What did they find out?”
“They were
coming from an email account owned by a guy named Brandon Toth. He actually
went to my high school—I mean, I went to high school in Orland Park, and we
graduated the same year, but I don’t remember him. Anyway, they stopped for a
while, and then about four months ago they started up again. The thing is—” She
took another long drink. “He’s dead. A car accident. A month before the emails
started coming.”
“Someone
could have just taken over his account.”
“Yeah, but
. . .” She rubbed her forehead. “Okay, this is where it gets weird?”
I shrugged.
“Well, like you said, I handle weird shit.”
She
giggled. “Anyway—”
The door
opened. Kaz walked in. “Hey, AG, you need anything?”
She
blinked. “Yeah, I said I wanted a salad. Dressing on the side, like always.”
I’m not
exactly Sherlock Holmes, but I try to notice details. Like the fact that Kaz
was wearing the same dark jacket as before, but now his necktie was knotted tight
around the collar of a white shirt.
People who
can change their faces . . .
I stood up again. “Hi. I’m . . . Pete Cogburn.”
He held out
his hand. “Hi, Pete. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh shit.” AG
lunged for her phone.
“Kaz”
suddenly darted forward. I didn’t quite block him, but I managed to give him a
shove that sent him stumbling against a chair. “You son of a—”
AG pounded
her phone. “Update! Update! Come on, hurry!”
I shifted
around, trying to stay between them even though every instinct in my body told
me to hide behind a couch and call my mother. “Slow down, Brandon.” I tried to
keep my voice low and calm. “Are you Brandon? You’re not Kaz. How do you do
that?”
“Bitch!” He
jabbed a finger at AG. “Slut! Sing it for me! You know you want to sing it!”
Then a
security guard ran through the door, brandishing a heavy black baton. The
stalker swung around, laughing, and somehow ducked down and then rammed a fist
into his stomach, strong enough to force a grunt from him. And fast enough to
run through the door.
The guard cursed, straightened up,
and ran after him.
I looked at
AG. My chest was pounding. “Was that . . .?”
She dropped
her phone on the floor and leaned down, her head between her knees. “Oh god, oh
god, oh god . . .”
Chasing the
fake Kaz would only add to the confusion. So I crouched next to her and picked
up her water bottle. “Here.”
“Th-thanks.”
She sat up and grasped the bottle, her shoulders twitching. “Okay, you saw
that? This is where it gets—oh, no . . .”
Kaz was dead. They found him in a stairwell with a broken
skull.
The cops
found his jacket and necktie in the parking lot. The stalker, whoever he was,
had gotten away. The ability to change his face probably had something to do
with it.
AG’s afternoon
rehearsal was cancelled.
We met again
in an office overlooking the gym floor. Allison Gentry was dressed—slacks and a
blue T-shirt—and she was drinking more water. “Oh my god.”
“C-can I
get you anything, AG?” Jamie Yamada was in her 20s, an Asian woman who had
apparently been Kaz’s assistant. Her eyes were bleary and bloodshot.
AG threw
her bottle on the floor. “Just some more water.”
I leaned
against the window and folded my arms, mostly to keep them from shaking. I’d
seen Kaz’s body.
After a moment I said, “Maybe you
should tell me the rest of it. Unless you’ve changed your mind about hiring me,
I mean.”
“Oh no.” She took the bottle from
Jamie and twisted it open. “Okay, this was about a month ago, in Miami? I’m
doing a residency at a club there, and one night after the show I’m back in my
dressing room with a couple of friends, and there’s a knock on my door. The
guard says it’s my ex-husband. Freddie?” She made a face. “I thought it was
strange, but anyway, I said let him in. So he comes in, and it’s Freddie, but
he doesn’t really say much, just says he liked the show and wished I’d sing a
song for him, and then he tries to kiss me.”
Another grimace. “But there are
people there, so after a few minutes he leaves. And I still think it’s strange,
so I send a text. It turns out he’s in Las Vegas! He sends me a picture in
front of a casino with his latest bimbo—I mean, girlfriend?” She tittered. Then
her head dropped down. “Sorry. But it was so weird, I didn’t even think about
it.”
Lots of people ignore strange
happenings—until they can’t anymore. “So what else?”
“Then last Wednesday I was in New
York. Staying with my mother.” She ran her hands over her hair, still pulled
back in a tight ponytail. “She has an apartment in Brooklyn. I like to visit
her when I have a few days between shows. Anyway, we ordered Thai food, and
then the doorman buzzed. A minute later there’s a knock, and when I open the
door, it’s . . . this guy from high school. Mark Kirkenstock.”
AG laughed. “We went on a few
dates. Movies, nothing serious.” Then her face got serious again. “But he’s
standing there, saying ‘Hi, do you remember me?’ And I don’t know what to do. I
don’t have any bodyguards around. So I keep my hand on the door. I’m like, ‘Hi,
Mark, what are you doing here?’ And he’s
like, ‘I just wanted to see you.’“ She shuddered.
“Okay.” I didn’t know what else to
say.
“He tried to push through the door.”
AG clenched her hands. “But I pushed back, and it hit his face. Then he’s
screaming. Calling me a fucking whore, and a dirty little piece of . . .’” She closed
her eyes. “But then he said, ‘Sing it for me! Sing it right now, like you want
to!’” She glared at me, like it was somehow my fault.
I gave her some slack. It had been
a tough day for her.
She took a breath. “My mom
screamed, and he ran away. The Thai food guy came two minutes later. We called
the cops, but they couldn’t find the guy. My mom yelled at the doorman and I
think she got him fired, but it probably wasn’t his fault.”
AG stood up and started to pace.
“That was last week. And now today? Kaz is dead, but all I can think about is
I’ve lost half a day of rehearsal. And I know I’m supposed to say I don’t care
what happens to me. But I’m scared.”
Jamie brought her another bottle of
water. “Your safety is what’s important. Don’t worry about other people. We’ve
got lots of help for that.”
“Yeah.” AG took the water and
looked at me. “So, can you help?”
I straightened up from my perch at
the window. “Can you send me everything you’ve got on BrandonX from this InterTech
place?”
“Sure.” Jamie picked up an iPad and
started pressing the screen. “What’s your email address?”
I handed her my card. “Right there.
Call or email me with anything.”
AG put a hand on my arm, and then
stood on her toes to kiss my cheek. “Thank you.”
I managed to keep my feet on the
floor. “No problem. I’ll be in touch.”
“Jamie?” AG slumped down on the
couch again, exhausted. “Make sure to get a retainer check to Tom?” She closed
her eyes. “And maybe a salad for me.”
Face to Face, Part Two
I got past the reporters and paparazzi out front and drove
back to my apartment. Jamie’s email was waiting on my laptop, containing an
attachment with roughly 122 kabillion gigazots of data from Intertext/PR about
BrandonX.
So I called
Rachel. She’s my upstairs neighbor, a graphic designer who knows more about
computers and the Internet than most MIT scientists. Plus, she’s kind of
psychic. She also admits to being my girlfriend, at least some of the time.
“Allison Gentry? AG?” I could almost
hear Rachel’s shriek from upstairs without the phone. “I hate her! I hate her
music! I hate everything about her! Did you really meet her? What’s she like? Wait
a minute, I’ll be right down.”
Two minutes
later she was standing in my apartment. “What’s she like? What was she wearing?
Did she have any of her hot male dancers around? All the details, Jurgen, now!”
“She’s got
a shape-shifting stalker. And he killed someone today.” I told her the story.
Leaving out the face-tingling kiss. Rachel sometimes gets territorial.
“Oh god.”
She reached for my hand. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I guess.” I squeezed. “Anyway, he may
be related to an emailer named BrandonX. Her IT firm tracked him down, but it
turns out he’s dead. Can you take a look at these files and tell me what they
mean?” I forwarded them to her computer.
She opened
her laptop on the other side of the table. “Get me a beer.”
I got two
bottles of Heineken from the fridge and sat down. Rachel was hunched over, her
hazelnut eyes glazed as she tapped at her computer as if we were playing
Battleship against each other. I sipped my beer and got to work.
Mark Kirkenstock was easy to find,
and I figured he’d be easier to get hold of than AG’s ex-husband Freddie. He
was a carpenter in Naperville, married with three kids according to his website—which
included his phone number. So I called him and left a message.
I looked over the top of my screen
at Rachel. “Anything?”
“Well, it’s
pretty solid that the mails came from an account owned by a guy named Brandon
Toth. And I looked at them. They’re pretty disgusting.” She swallowed some
beer. “It starts out relatively tame, just ‘I love you and I want your body’
sort of stuff. Then he starts sending pictures—some of her nudes that were
leaked on the internet, and some dick pics Photoshopped on them. They stop
around the time he died, and then they start up again, only now he starts
demanding that she dedicate a song to him at one of her concerts, but he never
says which one.” She shrugged. “This Intertext place did a good job, I have to
say.”
I nodded.
“Miley recommended them.”
Rachel
rolled her eyes. “Yeah. She’d know.”
My phone buzzed. “Hang on—Hello,
Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Hi, this
is Mark Kirkenstock, returning your call?” He sounded nervous. Lots of people
do when a private investigator rings them up. “Am I being sued or something?”
“Not at
all.” I tried to sound calm and reassuring. “I’m working for . . . let’s just
say a celebrity right now. You can check out my website if you want to confirm
that I’m legitimate.” Yes, I have a website. Rachel set it up for me. “Or we
can meet in person.”
He hesitated.
“I guess you can’t reveal your client’s name?”
“If it
becomes necessary, I’ll check. I really just need to confirm a few facts. It
would be a big help.”
“Well . . .
okay, I guess. What do you want?”
“Can you
tell me where you were last Wednesday?”
“Wednesday?
I was . . . oh, yeah, I was working at a customer’s house all day, putting in
new floors. Keisha Vaughn. I guess you can call her if you want. Hang on,
here’s her number . . .”
“Thanks.
All day?”
“Until six.
Then I had to go to a school council meeting. I got home around 9:00. Lots of
people were there. I think the minutes are posted on the school’s website. I’ve
got three kids there, second grade, fourth grade, and kindergarten.” He sounded
proud.
“Thank
you.” I’d have to check out the details, but he didn’t sound as if he was
hiding anything. “Now in high school, did you know a student named Brandon Toth?”
“Brandon .
. .” He groaned. “Oh. I know what this is about. Allison Gentry, right?””
“I’m afraid
I can’t confirm—”
“Brandon
had a huge crush on Ally. Hell, a lot of us did. She was a cheerleader in those
days, and she was pretty hot even then. I managed to get a date with her, but
it didn’t go anywhere.” He chuckled. “But Brandon was a little . . . over the
top.”
“In what
way?”
“He
wouldn’t talk to her or anything. He just sort of followed her around. Not like
stalking, really. I don’t think she ever noticed. He’d rearrange his schedule
so they had lunch at the same time, but he’d sit three tables away. That sort
of thing.”
“Can you—”
“Okay,
before we go on, can I just tell you some things?” He didn’t sound angry. Just
firm. “Brandon was a good guy. He took advanced algebra just so he could be in
her class. He almost flunked, but Mr. Durr gave him some breaks. He wasn’t
dumb, you know? He just didn’t know how to get a girl to go out with him.”
I was
careful to keep my words neutral. “Have you been in contact with him since high
school?”
“A few
times. I think he was working at a bar the last time I saw him. That was about six
months ago.” He paused. “You know he’s dead, right?”
“Yes. Can
you tell me anything about his death?”
“Just what
I read in the papers. A car accident? Four or five months ago. He was speeding,
maybe drunk. That’s all I know, really. It’s not like we were close pals. We
were just in a few classes together.”
“Anything
else?”
“I don’t .
. . No, wait, there was one weird thing.” He hesitated. “I thought I saw him on
the street, but he didn’t recognize me, so I figured it was just a coincidence.
That was before I heard about the accident.”
“All right.” So someone had taken
over Brandon’s email account—and his face? “Thanks for your time, Mr.
Kirkenstock.”
“Sure
thing. And say hi to Ally for me, okay? I still remember her kiss goodnight,
and that was nine years ago.”
My face
still tingled from her kiss on my own cheek. “Without confirming or denying
anything, I will attempt to pass that along.”
He laughed
as he hung up.
Okay. I
rubbed my eyes. “That was Kirkenstock. He was friends, sort of, with Brandon
Toth.”
“But he’s
dead. Is he a zombie or something?” Rachel shuddered. “I hate zombies.”
“Forget
that for now. I need anything you can find on face-changing. The stalker,
whoever he is, just changed his face and put on the guy’s jacket and necktie.
That’s got to be a different kind of magic, right?”
“Get me
another beer.” She drained her bottle. “Are you making dinner or ordering out?”
I brought
two more beers, and then I called Keisha Vaughn, Kirkenstock’s customer last
week, to confirm that he’d been in her house all day. I found the elementary
school his kids went to, and checked that he was listed in attendance in the
minutes of the school council meeting.
So he was
out of it as a suspect. I hadn’t really suspected him of flying to New York
just to get into AG’s mother’s apartment, but as the old reporter’s saying
goes, if your mother says she loves you, check it out.
Rachel sifted
through the files while I ran some searches on Brandon Toth. His car accident
seemed legitimate. Like Kirkenstock had said, he’d been speeding when he hit a
parked pickup truck at 2:30 in the morning, and police had found five empty
beer cans in his car. He’d worked as a bartender, and before that at a grocery
store. Unmarried, survived by his parents and a sister.
I didn’t
want to call them. Not yet, and not unless I had to. I’d interviewed enough
grieving family members as a reporter.
So I went
to the website of AG’s Orland Park high school. The home page featured a wide
image of the school, with students pouring in and out of the front doors. I scanned
the links: faculty, programs, enrollment, volunteer . . . and a page featuring OUR MOST FAMOUS GRADUATE—ALLISON GENTRY! The
headline sat above a photo of AG, about 17, in her cheerleading uniform,
holding her pom-poms high with the same smile she flashed these days in all her
videos and concerts.
A link
called “History” took me to a website for high school yearbooks. I had to
register as a student, but Rachel showed me a hack around that. Then I was
scrolling down the pages, looking for Brandon, and Kirkenstock. And of course,
Allison Gentry.
She showed
up dozens of times, in classes and team photos—cheerleading squad, of course,
but also the gymnastics team, choir, and a production of Brigadoon, in
the chorus.
Rachel
peered behind my shoulder. “Cute. Can you email me that cheerleading picture
for my dartboard? I hate cheerleaders.”
“You don’t
have a dartboard.”
She poked
my back. “I’m thinking of getting one.”
I hit “save
picture.” Then I found Mark in three photos: soccer team, science class, and in
a cafeteria shot, next to a student identified in the caption as Brandon Toth.
Brandon
showed up only in a single senior picture. He had bushy eyebrows and a long
chin. The three-line profile next to his photo listed his interests: Partying, football,
and music.
“So that’s
BrandonX?” Rachel leaned down.
“Maybe. You
know better than I do how easy it is to take over someone’s email account.” I
didn’t want to jump to conclusions.
“Yeah, The
stalking emails didn’t start coming until after his accident. I just wondered
what he looked like.” She tilted her head. “Poor kid.”
“Yeah.”
Whatever else was going on, he’d died too young. “Did you get anything on face
changers?”
“Well, you
know most of it by now.” Rachel leaned back, and I tried to keep my mind on
business as she stretched her arms over her head. “Some shape shifters are just
born that way, but they usually keep a low profile. There are potions that turn
people into monsters, like that thing at the Tiger Club. By the way, do you
ever hear from any of them?” Her hazelnut eyes narrowed waiting for my
response.
Careful,
Tom . . .“Uh, Alexa called me a few months ago to do a background check on
a guy who wanted to invest in her new venue.” Alexa and her girlfriend—now her
wife—were partners in various clubs around Chicago. “That’s it.”
Rachel
smirked. “Anyway, doing a simple face change is easier. In some ways. You don’t
need any hair or bodily fluids, just a good picture. But the illusion doesn’t
last very long, and there are ways to break it up. Like a mirror. You can find
the spells on the internet, but they’re complicated, like high-level algebra.”
Algebra.
I’d almost flunked that subject in high school, but Kirkenstock had mentioned
that Brandon took the class to be close to Allison Gentry. Did that connect?
Rachel
closed her laptop. “I’m hungry. Are we going to eat?”
It was
almost 7:30, and I was starving too. “I’ll make ravioli. Let me call my
client.”
Jamie was calm. “So it’s not Mark? And Brandon is definitely
out of it?”
“That’s how
it seems.” I stirred oregano into the tomato sauce, the earplug from my phone
dangling in my eyes. “I should say that Mark asked me to tell Allison that he
still remembers her kiss.” A little basil . . .
Jamie
giggled. “I’ll tell her. I think she’s sleeping now. I mean, in the suite. I’m
downstairs.” As if she was afraid of starting a lesbian sex scandal for AG.
Another one, anyway.
“So here’s the thing.” I grabbed the garlic. “I
think I need to contact Brandon’s family to ask some questions. And keeping
AG’s name out of it could be . . . complicated. I’ll do my best, but—”
“Yeah.” Jamie
sighed. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask her. And check with the rest of the PR
staff. I mean, I’m sort of in charge right now, but I haven’t ever really
handled something like this. Kaz was so confident, and I’m just . . . scared.”
“Look, I
used to be a reporter.” I’d dealt with PR people all the time. “Just stick to
the facts. If you don’t know what to say, just tell them—”
“Hey, don’t
start mansplaining on me, okay?” Her voice shocked my eardrum. “God, I hate
that. I know what I’m doing!”
“Sorry.” I
backed away from the stove as the sauce bubbled. “I didn’t mean anything. Just tell
me how I should proceed. That’s all.”
“Yeah.” She
sighed again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“No
problem.” Rachel’s fist had caused permanent bruises on my chest. Getting
yelled at by a client? No comparison. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sounds
good.” She hung up.
The newspapers and websites were on fire with Kaz’s murder
the next morning. “Pop star’s assistant found dead in rehearsal facility,” was
the headline on page three of the Chicago Tribune. “AG’s PR guy killed!” was on
the front page of the Sun-Times. And “AG IN SHOCK AS TOP PR FLACK IS STABBED TO
DEATH!” from the Daily Mail, right above a story about Lindsay Lohan cavorting
on a yacht somewhere.
In other
news, the new president was still talking about building his wall. I chugged
some coffee and started hitting numbers on my phone.
I started with Brandon’s parents.
His father answered. He listened to me for a moment, and then handed the phone
over. His mother wept in my ear. “My son is dead! Don’t do this! I can’t . . .”
She hung up.
I felt like garbage. I‘d had to do
it when I was a reporter, but I’ve never liked it. I gulped more coffee, then
gritted my teeth and called the other number I had. Brandon’s sister, Bridget.
She lived
in Cincinnati. I left a message. Then I moved on to another case, an executive
who was possibly embezzling money from his employer. I checked credit records, loans,
real estate purchases, and everything else. Then my phone buzzed.
“This is
Bridget Lane.” She sounded annoyed. “What is this about?”
“Thanks for
calling me back.” I switched screens on my laptop. “Like I said in my message,
I’m—”
“Yeah, I
know.” Her voice was raspy. “My parents just called me about you. What do you
want?”
“It’s about
your brother Brandon. First, I’m very sorry for your—”
“Yeah,
yeah, yeah.” I heard a flicking sound, if she was lighting up a cigarette. “Get
with the questions.”
I tried to
phrase it carefully. “There have been a series of emails from Brandon’s email address.
Someone else might have sent them after his accident, but—”
“Oh, god, this
is about Allison Gentry, right?” A bitter laugh. “God, he never got over that
bitch.”
Okay, so much for being cautious. “Did
you know her?”
“Sure, I
saw her. I’m—I was two years older than Brandon. And I was a cheerleader too.”
She coughed. “I remember Ally. I tried to tell him to forget her, but he
wouldn’t listen. I even tried to set him up with some of my friends, but . . .”
She slowed down. “That doesn’t
matter. He was doing good, you know? Not great grades, except in math, but
enough to get by. He went to community college for a semester—business
classes?—but then my parents kicked him out.”
“What for?”
Bridget sighed. “Dad wanted him to
take over the business—he ran a hardware store, but Brandon didn’t care about
it. He worked there for six months, and then he dropped out of college. He
packed his clothes in plastic bags and left, and then he got a job in a grocery
store.”
I tried to think through the
timeline. Eight or nine years since they’d graduated from high school. “What
happened after he moved out?”
“He stayed with me for a couple of
weeks until my boyfriend got tired of it, but then Mr. Durr took him in for a
few months.”
Wait—what? Kirkenstock had
mentioned that name: Mr. Durr gave him some breaks. “The math teacher?”
“It wasn’t like that, if that’s
what you’re thinking.” Bridget groaned. “Brandon sucked at math. He only took
the class to be close to her. But Mr. Durr always paid attention to the
kids who weren’t doing so good. Like Brandon. And you, know, Ally Gentry. I
don’t know how she got through any math at all. If you know what I mean.”
“So what
are you saying? That Allison Gentry and Mr. Durr, and maybe some other
teachers—”
“I said it
wasn’t like that!” She sounded ready to hang up on me. “Ally was a slut.
Everyone knew how she was getting it on with half the football team, and there
were rumors about how she got an A in chemistry. Even though the chemistry
teacher was Mrs. Andrews.” She laughed. “But it was more like a father-son
thing. Mr. Durr just let him stay at his place. He helped him get back on his
feet, find a job, set up an email account, and helped Brandon get his own
apartment after a couple of months. I visited Brandon there a few
times—actually, I helped him move in, and I would have noticed if Mr. Durr was
acting strange.”
“How did he
act?”
“Fine. It was
a nice place. Clean, lots of books. Not just Stephen King and crap like that.
Books about math, and magic, some D&D manuals, that sort of stuff. Believe
me, Brandon would have told me if anything weird was happening.”
Books on
magic? I took a breath, but I didn’t want to go there with her. “What about
Allison Gentry? Did Brandon try to keep in touch with her?”
“He was
hard to talk to sometimes. But I went over to his place every few months, and
he did have her posters over her walls, and played her music kind of nonstop
until I told him to turn it off. Her first album, the one she won all the
awards for? And then after she was on the MTV Awards, dancing with a tiger?”
She coughed again. “We didn’t talk about it much. I thought he was starting to
get it together, especially after he got that job bartending. Then . . .” She
halted. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“I’m sorry
to bother you.” I felt bad, but it was part of the job. “You’ve been a big
help.”
“I don’t
want to help.” I heard her cigarette lighter flick. “My brother is dead. You
and Allison Gentry can go to hell.”
You try not
to let it get to you, but it still hurts. Not as much as a dead brother,
though. I made a note to call mine. Then I drank another cup of coffee and
looked at cat pictures on the internet for a while.
Then I
looked up Mr. Durr.
Ryan Durr was retired. He’d taught
math in the high school for 25 years. Divorced, one son. The son lived in Texas.
His ex-wife lived in Arizona. She’d put a restraining order out on him seven
years ago.
No social media profile, but that
made sense for any teacher who wanted to avoid the appearance of impropriety.
But I had to talk to him. So I called Rachel.
Face to Face, Part Three
“You think he’s involved?” Rachel sipped her coffee as I
veered around a huge truck on the highway.
Like I
said, Rachel’s kind of psychic. She can’t predict the lottery, but she can
sense when something’s not exactly right. I needed her to read Durr.
“He knew Brandon, and Brandon’s at
the middle of this.” I hit my horn. “Of course, he’s dead, so I could be
wasting gas. But I think AG can pay for it.”
Rachel leaned back. “Do I get to
meet her at some point?”
“You want
an autograph? I thought you hated her.”
“I don’t
get to meet that many celebrities.” She closed her eyes. “Wake me when we’re
there. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Ryan Durr
lived in a split-level in a cul-de-sac in Orland Park, AG’s home town. The
house was surrounded by a big yard, half covered in damp snow. A blue Miata sat
in the driveway. Rachel and I climbed the front steps to a narrow wooden deck,
and I rang the doorbell.
After thirty seconds, the door
pulled back and Durr peered through the screen. “Hello. Who are you?”
“Mr. Durr?”
I held out my business card. “I’m Tom Jurgen. We talked on the phone? This is
my associate Rachel. May we come in?”
Rachel waved her fingers at him and
smiled. She was wearing her leather jacket and boots. That usually turned most
men to mush. Including me.
He just
glanced between the two of us. A big man with white hair, taller than me. Durr
was soft in the belly, but his arms were probably still strong enough to throw
me over the rail.
He shook his head. “No, you can’t
come in.” He stepped through the door and let it slam behind him as stepped out
onto the deck. “What’s this all about?”
Okay. “Like I said on the phone, I’m working
on a case involving some students at the high school where you used to teach.
Could we talk for a few minutes?”
He yanked my
card and stared at it. “Which students?”
“Could I
show you some pictures?” I pulled my phone from my windbreaker.
A picture of Brandon Toth might
have spooked him. So I showed him an image of Mark Kirkenstock.
Durr leaned forward. “Maybe. He
looks familiar.”
Then I showed him a picture of Kaz
Peters.
His eyes flickered registered a
mixture of surprise and recognition. “Who’s this?”
“Someone else involved in the case.
How about . . .” I tapped for a photo of Brandon Toth.
Durr looked past the phone at me.
“I know what this is about. Allison Gentry.”
“She is sort of famous.” I didn’t
want to confirm or deny that AG was involved, but we’d all agreed on a quick
call this morning that we probably couldn’t keep her name completely out of it.
“She was in some of your classes, right?”
“Of course I remember her.” He
laughed bitterly. “All the boys had a crush on her. Hell, some of the teachers,
too. She did just enough to get by in
class, but was always out in front at the basketball and football games,
shaking her butt at everyone. Now she’s the biggest singer in the world.” He
glared at me. “What is this about?”
“Do you know if Brandon was
stalking her on the internet? Do you know whether—”
“Listen, Brandon was a good kid.” Durr
leaned forward, looming over me. “I liked all my kids. Not just the straight A
students. But Ally just ignored him, like she ignored everyone except the jocks
and the wrestlers and . . . everyone else. And now he’s dead!” His voice shook.
“It shouldn’t have happened to him.”
I nodded. “I get that.”
“Good. Now get out.” He turned and
yanked the screen door. I heard the lock click inside.
Walking down the steps, I glanced
at Rachel. “So?”
“Oh yeah. It’s him.” She shivered
in her jacket. “That first look at Kaz did it. The rest was all ‘I hate Allison
Gentry.’ I was ready to get out my pepper spray.” She nudged my arm. “Nobody
hits you but me.”
That was the second nicest thing
she’d ever said to me. “So what about Brandon?”
“That’s . . . I don’t know.” She
opened the door on my Honda. “Strong feelings, but you don’t actually have to
be psychic to get that. But I don’t think there was anything pervy about it.
More like fatherly—times ten.”
“Teachers have their favorites, I
guess.” I clicked my seatbelt and shifted to reverse, looking up at the house.
Durr was watching us from his
kitchen window.
Rachel got to meet Allison Gentry at dinner at 9:30 that
night in a corner of the Signature Room, high in the John Hancock Center. The window
looked out over Lake Michigan, and I could see lights from a few boats bouncing
on the water. Jamie sat with us, and a big African-American bodyguard named
Raymond sat a few tables away.
AG poked at
her salad. “So it’s Mr. Durr? He always was a little creepy. Rubbing your
shoulders and stuff. Some of the girls complained, but nothing ever happened.”
She gulped some sparkling water. “Jerk.”
“This just
sounds like science fiction.” Jamie stabbed a knife into her filet mignon.
“Face changers and body shifters? How can he do that?”
“Different
ways.” I was eating tilapia with just enough cilantro. “Rachel and I have some
experience with this sort of thing. She’s sort of psychic.”
“Really?”
AG leaned forward. “Hey, I had an aunt like that. She always knew who was on
the phone before she answered it, and she never got caller ID.”
“It’s something like that.” Rachel kicked me
under the table. “But Tom’s right. About the face-changing, anyway.”
I was going
to get punished later. For now, I stopped talking because Raymond was coming up
behind Jamie. Except it wasn’t Raymond. Because Raymond was still at his table,
sipping water.
“Uh, AG?”
He leaned down. “You got a minute?”
I waved a
hand. “Hang on—”
AG scooted
her chair back. “What’s the upgrade, Ray?”
“What?” The
other Raymond—the real Raymond, sitting at his table—shot to his feet. “Hey!
You!”
AG jumped
up. “Get away from me. Right now.”
“Not a
chance.” Raymond—not Raymond—pulled his lips back in a demonic smile. “Time for
you to sing, bitch.”
AG jumped
back, pressing her body against the window. “No . . . no . . .”
I looked at Rachel. She had her
hands over her ears as if trying to hear something far, far away.
“Raymond” grabbed Jamie’s steak
knife and waved it at AG’s face. “You will do it, you little whore! You will!”
Then the
real Raymond came charging across the floor. Durr—it had to be him—ducked down
and twisted around. His arm swept up, jabbing the knife into Raymond’s stomach.
Raymond
dropped back, clutching his gut. Durr lurched up and pointed the knife at AG.
“You will sing for me, bitch! You’ll do it!”
AG lurched
forward off the thick glass, her legs trembling. “Any time, asshole. Just stop
doing this!”
I heard
Jamie under the table, squawking into her phone: “Yeah, there’s a stalker, and
he’s trying to kill Allison Gentry. Send a SWAT team! Come fast!”
“Ryan!” I stood
up, standing back, trying to stay between him and Rachel. “Stop this! You don’t
have to do this!”
Durr glared
at me. “You don’t know anything, Jurgen. You and your stupid whore girlfriend
should just stay out of this.”
What?
I stood up, kicking my chair back. “Yeah, I know a lot about you, Ryan.” I was
scared to death, but just angry enough to get into trouble. “Like who you are,
where you live, and by the way, calling Rachel names is just about the worst
thing you could have done—”
Rachel
clutched my arm. “Don’t . . . Jesus Christ, don’t do anything dumb, okay?” She
squeezed my hand. “Please?”
“Just stay away!” Durr waved the
blood-streaked knife as Raymond rolled on the floor, clutching his bleeding
stomach. “This is the lesson for today! Allison Gentry! She will screw you over
and over again—”
“Shut up!” Jamie lunged to her feet.
“You can’t say that! You’re just a coward! You can’t do this!””
Durr whirled
around. “Oh, you slut. Yes, I can. Watch me.”
Jamie slid
back and raised an arm. “Oh, no. No—”
Allison screamed as Durr drove the knife into Jamie’s chest.
Allison screamed as Durr drove the knife into Jamie’s chest.
Face to Face, Part Four
Allison Gentry slouched at my kitchen table next to Rachel. Her
face was red and blotchy, and her shoulders were still shaking as she tried to
lift her coffee. “I don’t believe this. I just can’t . . .”
Raymond was
alive, after surgery. But Jamie was dead.
Hours with
the cops. Phone calls to Jamie’s family, and Raymond’s boyfriend. And none of
us were ready to sleep yet. Maybe never.
Allison
didn’t want to go back to her hotel. She didn’t trust anyone, she said, except
me. I didn’t point out that I might not be as safe as she wanted to think,
since I’d been there during both of the stalker’s attacks—which the cops
noticed and quizzed me about aggressively before apparently deciding I was too
helpless to be any kind of threat.
I kind of
agreed with them.
“I just
can’t do it.” Allison gulped at her coffee. “I can’t do a concert after this.
How could I do that now?” She grabbed at the tissue box in the middle of the
table.
Rachel looked across the table at
me as AG sobbed. “Why did you do that?”
I shrugged. My heart was still on
overdrive, but at least Rachel didn’t seem too mad at me. “No one gets to say
things like that to you. No one.”
Rachel kissed my cheek. “Okay.
You’re an idiot, but . . .” She shrugged, “Can you not do anything like that
ever again?”
“Well . . .” We’d been through this
before. I’m basically a coward, but I have my limits. Rachel’s safety was at
the top of the list, even though we’d argued about it way too much for my
comfort. “Maybe.”
After a moment, Rachel scowled and
gulped some coffee. ”What did the cops say about the lookalike?”
I’d told
them everything. Naturally they looked at me as if I’d been quoting Shakespeare
in the original Klingon. “I think they’ll talk to Durr. If they can find him.”
I desperately wanted a beer, but AG had been in and out of rehab at least
twice, so I didn’t plan on putting one in front of her right now.
But I
needed to ask her some questions. “Ms. Gentry? I’m sorry, but—”
“Oh, for god’s sake, I’m just
Ally.” She rubbed her eyes. “At least right now. What is it?”
“So what song do you think he was
talking about?”
“Huh?” She shoved
her chair back, angry. “How would I know? I do 18 songs in my act, I’ve
recorded probably a hundred, maybe more. It could be ‘Happy Birthday’ for all I
know. God, this is a nightmare.”
She stood
up and began to pace the floor, every step careful and measured, as if she were
practicing her moves on stage. One-two-three, one-two-three . . .
I took out
my phone and looked at the calendar. “You said the emails from BrandonX started
three months ago? He was already dead by then—”
“So what?”
She spun around on one heel.
“So I’m
just wondering if anything happened around then that might have triggered
Durr?”
“I don’t .
. .” She shook her head started pacing faster. “That was November, right? I did
a couple of talk shows. I could maybe look up my tweets. I think that’s when I
dropped a new song . . .”
“Oh, wait!”
Rachel jumped up and grabbed her phone. “I remember that! It was . . . wait a
minute . . .” She punched up iTunes. “Siri, search ‘AG, teacher, song.’”
Huh? When
did Rachel get Siri on her phone? More important, when did she start following
AG? “Wait, I thought you hated—” I shut up.
“Here it
is.” She hit the speaker function on her phone:
It’s been a
long long road
From the first year to the last
And I’ve been waiting
To make it to the end of the path
It’s all I wanted, you know it’s
just what I want
Because you know, you have to know,
It’s just what I want
It’s all over soon
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
And I just I know, I bet
I get to be the teacher’s pet
Teacher’s pet
Teacher’s pet, teacher’s pet
I want to be the teacher’s pet,
teacher’s pet . . .
“Turn it off!” For a moment I thought Allison was going to
leap over my couch and grab the phone and hurl it throw the window. “It’s just
a song! It’s not about—anything! Someone else wrote it, and I just sang it—”
“But I heard it in his head.” Rachel
muted her phone. “It was like someone was playing on repeat, over and over
again. I couldn’t do anything, I just . . .” She shuddered.
Allison sank down at the table, her
head in her hands. “But I never did any of that! They all thought I was
screwing all the teachers and the whole football team, but all I ever wanted to
do was sing! I had a few boyfriends, but . . . but . . . why does everyone hate
me?”
She sobbed. Rachel grabbed my hand
and placed it on Allison’s arm. Then she held Allison’s hand as she cried.
We waited. Finally Allison sat up,
wiping her eyes and grabbing for the last of the tissues. “I wanted to be a
folk singer. Like Joan Baez, you know? Then I was on that stupid TV show, and
then everything got out of control.” She slammed her hand on the table. “And I
can’t even have a glass of wine anymore. Is that fair?”
“Of course not.” I’m not a
psychologist, but sometimes in this job I have to act like one. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “Right.”
“So . . .” I stood up and started
pacing myself. Maybe it was contagious. “Whether it was sexual or not, Ryan
Durr had strong feelings for Brandon Toth. So maybe when Brandon died and the
song came out, he snapped. Maybe he had a crush on you, and that was—confusing.”
“And he figured out how to change
his face?” Allison frowned, puzzled. “I mean, I’m sorry, but how could he do
that?”
I remembered my conversation with
Brandon’s sister Bridget earlier today. Dungeons and Dragons books, which
didn’t necessarily mean anything—I mean, I played some D&D in college. But
also . . . “Brandon’s sister said Durr had books on magic at his house.”
“And some spells work like
mathematical formulas.” Rachel reached again for her phone. “I’ll make some
calls.” She looked at the time. 2:34 a.m. “Oops. Tomorrow, I guess.”
“And I should do the concert.”
Allison looked across the table at the two of us. “Maybe we can draw him out. If
I sing the song?”
My stomach flipped over a few
times. “That could be dangerous for you.” And for other people. Like me. But I
didn’t want to sound like a coward in front of her. And Rachel.
“And the rest of us. I know.” She
stood up, crossed her arms, and started pacing some more. Suddenly she was AG
again, tall and confident and, yeah, pretty hot. “But I can’t let him get away
with this. And I can’t live like this! It’s on.” She pulled her phone out of
her back pocket. Not that I was paying any attention to her butt. “Got to send
some messages.”
Rachel and I looked at each other. She rolled her eyes. “At least I finally get to see an AG concert.”
Rachel and I looked at each other. She rolled her eyes. “At least I finally get to see an AG concert.”
Face to Face, Part Five
The “Coming Home” concert was scheduled to start at 8:30. Rachel
and I got to the United Center at 4:00.
We had to
run a gauntlet of security checkpoints, one outside at the back doors with CPD
cops, and then another just inside. We showed our IDs and let UC security through
Rachel’s briefcase, and walked through a metal detector. Past that AG’s private
security gave us the latest passwords—“Data” for ID purposes, and “Hacker” for
emergencies—and took our cell phone numbers so they could text us new passwords
when they changed.
AG had
spent the day pulling off one final rehearsal while dealing with media
interviews, the police, and the Twitterstorm that erupted after she announced
that the concert was on. Most of her fans applauded (virtually), especially the
ones who’d bought tickets; a sizable number of Twitter trolls lashed out at her
for making money on the backs of two murdered employees. Whoever was left on
her PR staff handled that mess.
The cops
had tried to contact Ryan Durr. He didn’t answer any of his phones, he wasn’t
at his house, and neither was his car. They were still skeptical, of course. I
didn’t exactly blame them, but I was worried.
I’d spent
the day looking for Durr as well, probably harder than the cops, but I’d come
up empty. I actually toyed with the idea of breaking into his house, just like
a real—I mean fictional—private eye, looking for any kind of evidence that he
was involved in this: a shrine to Allison Gentry, or a shelf of books with
titles like How to Transform Yourself Into Anybody—For Dummies. Then I
remembered problems like alarm systems and nosy neighbors calling the police, which
forced me to rethink that particular tactic before getting thrown in jail. I’m
kind of picky about who I take my showers with.
So there we were, backstage at the
UC with 4-plus hours to kill before the concert began—and even longer to wait
to see if our plan worked.
Rachel had talked
to some of her friends about shifting faces. “Ingrid says you can’t do it
without something personal and fairly disgusting, like their hair or spit. But
Carrie is pretty sure you can do it from a photograph—”
“Carrie?
Wait a minute, doesn’t she hate me?”
Rachel
slugged my arm. “She’s getting used to you. Anyway, I have an idea.”
We walked
down a narrow hallway of white brick walls with security cameras mounted every
10 feet in the ceiling until we found the dressing room. Two large security
guards in Kevlar vests checked out our IDs—and checked out Rachel’s leather
jacket and boots—as we gave them the password. Then one of them called AG’s
phone before unlocking the door.
AG was in red
shorts and a black sportsbra. I tried not to stare too much at her body, but I
still got a punch from Rachel. AG was getting her hair done as she talked to a
short Hispanic woman in glasses and jeans while drinking a Red Bull. “—and make
sure the kids know we have to be quick, and try not to scare them with the
security. Hi!” She waved. “This is Samantha, my latest PR person. I told her
she didn’t have to do it, but—”
“I
insisted.” Samantha shook our hands. “I just wish they’d let me keep my pepper
spray.”
“Just be
careful.” I tried to stay light-hearted. “And like they say on the X-Files,
trust no one.”
She laughed
and left.
AG sighed.
“Did you find anything?”
I shook my
head. “Durr is gone. Rachel’s got some stuff on transformations, but—”
“That’s
what I was about to tell you.” Rachel opened her briefcase. “Here’s what we can
do.”
At 8:52 the lights went down and darkness spread throughout
the auditorium. Then 20,000 cell phones started glowed in the murk.
Out of
habit, I expected the loudspeaker to announce the starting lineup for the
Chicago Bulls. Instead an announcer called out: “And now, Chicago, the United
Center is proud to present . . . Ms. . . . Allison . . . GENTRY!”
Fortunately AG’s staff had handed
out earplugs. Rachel and I looked at each other and shrugged as the crowd screamed,
shouted, and cheered loud enough to shake the floor under the stage, and the
music suddenly rose to a hurricane roar as if to push back the tsunami of
applause.
We watched
from behind the stage as white smoke rose up from the fog machines, finally
fading to reveal ten male dancers in tight speedos and black capes, poised like
statues on the stage. Then AG marched out, arms high, legs pumping, in fishnet
stockings and a tight white corset.
“Are you
staring at her ass?” Rachel had to shout into my face.
“Are you staring
at their washboard abs?” The dancers started pulsing their muscular hips in
time with the music.
She raised
an elbow to jab my ribs. Then she stopped. “Okay, amnesty for now.”
“Fine.”
AG launched
into her latest hit single. I couldn’t hear the words, but I don’t think lyrics
were the point. She swung around on her long legs, then got lifted up and carried
by her dancers, her high-pitched voice reverberating off the dome overhead as
lights flashed in a laser light show designed to trigger seizures in anyone who
wasn’t on medication for epilepsy.
Finally AG
rose up to stand on the strong shoulders of two muscular dancers as she belted
out the last chorus of her opening song. Then she jumped high, got caught in
their sweaty arms, and stood up, spinning around and around on her toes. I
caught a glimpse of her smile, wide and ecstatic. I knew her image was
plastered on the big Jumbotrons over the stage and around the arena, but she seemed
genuinely happy. As if the only time she could let herself go was in front of a
wild crowd who loved her. For a moment I felt sorry for her.
She bowed
deep, crossing her legs as the shouts and screams rolled across the arena. Then
the next song started.
Two
costumes changed in the first act. She ducked behind a screen while three
assistants stripped her down and re-assembled her in moments. Rachel dug her
fingers into my arm like claws. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’ve got
to keep an eye on my client, don’t I?”
She was
watching two young dancers tie short kilts around their hips. “I’m going to
want to check their IDs later.”
Intermission
came. AG plunged off down the hallway to her dressing room, her two guards on
either side. The dancers huddled around the water jugs. Rachel and I got
coffee.
One of the
dancers sauntered over in tight leather pants and no shirt. “Hi. I’m Javier.
Enjoying the show?”
Rachel
tried and failed to keep her eyes on his face and not gaze his muscular sweaty chest.
“You’re all very, uh . . . athletic.” At least she didn’t lick her lips.
“We keep in
shape.” He leaned in. “Hey, there’s a party after the show, you know?” He
smirked. “You could come and—”
I smiled.
“Hi, Tom Jurgen. I work for AG. Password?”
He glared.
“Data.”
“Just
checking.” The lights flickered, indicating that intermission was almost over.
Rachel
pouted as Javier walked away. “Aww, are you jealous?”
“Of a young
guy like him with a six-pack that could stop bullets? Hell, yeah.” I gulped my
coffee. Lukewarm. “Although from this angle I can sort of see—”
“Jerk.” She
jabbed my arm. “Would I be here if—”
The lights
dropped again, and act two’s opening song throbbed in our ears.
More
flashing lights and gray fog. Fireworks overhead. Three costume changes, and
one time the screen fell over and I sort of saw—well, I have maintain client
confidentiality, don’t I?
Then the
encores. Another costume change. The screens stayed up this time, and AG
pranced out in her second-skimpiest outfit of the night, a red bikini, more fishnet
stockings, boots up to her thighs, and long black gloves. She didn’t seem tired
at all after close to 90 minutes of dancing, singing, jumping, and twirling
around. Her voice was a little raspy, but her legs looked as strong and poised
as ever.
Yeah, I
checked out her legs. I’m a guy.
She did two
encore songs, than paused, legs crossed, arms down, head bowed. Her dancers
stepped away.
AG lifted
her head. “I want to sing this song for one person. You know who—who you are.”
Then she
leaned back and went into “Teacher’s Pet.”
All at once
every cell phone backstage buzzed or vibrated with the new password. Entry:
Banana. Emergency: Pineapple. Confirmation: Red beets.
Rachel and
I looked around. Everyone we saw was checking their phones and confirming
receipt of the message. If Durr had somehow gotten in—well, maybe he could have
knocked someone out and stolen a phone. It was a night of risks. For all of us.
AG sang:
I know I’m not ready
No, I’m not ready yet
But I know you’ve been watching me
Waiting for end of it
Oh yeah . . .
It’s been a long long road
From the first year to the last
And I’ve been waiting
To make it to the end of the path
It’s all I wanted, you know it’s
just what I want
Because you know, you have to know,
it’s just what I want
It’s all over soon
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
And I just I know, I bet
I get to be the teacher’s pet
Teacher’s pet
Teacher’s pet, teacher’s pet
I want to be the teacher’s pet,
teacher’s pet
I’m ready now, now that it’s all
over
I waited too long for this party to
be over
You know you wanted me, wanted me
Now we’re ready to be free, to be
free
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
Teacher’s pet!
Teacher’s pet!
I will be
Teacher’s pet!
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
The arena erupted in riotous applause. Phones flashed,
flowers and banners soared up on the edge of the stage, and AG managed one last
spin on her heels before kneeling down on the stage, her toned arms spread like
wings. “Thank you.” Her voice thundered through the air. “Thank you so much,
Chicago! I’ll see you again soon!”
Then the
lights came up as AG stalked down the steps to the backstage area, stripping
off her gloves. “I am never singing that goddamn song again. Never.”
Her two
bodyguards escorted her out and down the hall. Rachel and I followed at a safe
distance.
Dancers
charged through the hallway, hollering and, well, dancing, on the way to their
locker room. AG’s security was quick to usher them in the right direction
before things could get too confusing. The locker room got closed off—not
locked—and three guards stood at the door.
Down the
hallway, one door was left unguarded. Inside and out.
So this was
the gamble. Would Durr show up? Was he even in the arena? Would he take a
chance on getting through? Or were we just setting a trap that wouldn’t snare
anything at all?
AG slammed
her door. The two guards turned and looked at us, big black batons swinging on
their hips. The bigger one asked: “Password?”
“Banana.”
“Banana,”
Rachel repeated. “Of course, he just said it.”
“It’s
okay.” He crossed his thick arms. “I had my eye on you all through the concert.
I’m Blair.” He winked.
First the
dancers, now the security guards. Did everyone have to hit on my girlfriend
right in front of me? “Hi. Tom Jurgen.”
“Yeah, I
remember you.” The other guard was
shorter, but he looked like Bruce Lee on steroids. “I’m Roger. Did you guys
like the concert?”
Rachel
shrugged. “I don’t know. U2 was better.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Roger grinned. “U2 is lots better.”
Blair shook
his head. “Dude, no one’s as good as Taylor Swift.”
Then the
door down the hall opened.
The two
guards swung around. My spine went stiff. Rachel reached into her back pocket
as . . .
As Allison
Gentry walked down the hall in loose jeans and a gray jacket.
“Hi, guys! I got a little lost! I’m
so stupid!” A titter. “Which way to my dressing room?”
“Pineapple,”
I whispered. My throat was dry.
“We know,” Roger
growled.
Their
batons bounced against their hips as the three of us walked forward—me a little
further behind. I don’t know about Blair and Roger, but my heart was pounding
like a stampeding elephant.
“You gotta
get out of here.” Roger planted his feet on the floor like a Roman statue.
“Whoever you are.”
“What? You’re silly. You know who I
am.” The sight was eerie. Allison’s face and high-pitched voice, yeah, but the
body was wrong on all the wrong places. And I’d watched them all. “Come on, you
guys! I need to get back to my room and—”
Then the dressing room door opened,
and Allison—the real AG—stepped out into the hallway in sweatpants and a loose
black T-shirt. “Are you looking for me, bitch?”
“We’ve got this, ma’am.” Blair waved
an arm. “You can stay back.”
But AG stomped down the hall like
she was marching in a music video. “No. I want to see . . .”
She froze, confronted by her own
face on a different body. Tilting her head, AG touched her fingers to her
check, as if looking in a mirror for errors. Then she shook her head and
reached into a pocket. “The hell with it. I’m done with you. You want to look
like me? Work for it, bitch!”
She held up a mirror.
Rachel and I held out ours too, like
we were thrusting crosses at a vampire.
Durr backed away, confused, until I
got close enough to force him to see his face—or rather, AG’s face—in the
reflection.
And that
broke the spell.
The face
morphed. It seemed to unfold and then refold itself back into its original
shape. Then Ryan Durr stood in front of us, sweaty, unshaven, his face shaking
with anger.
“You bitch!”
He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket. “It’s your fault he’s dead! You whore,
all you ever do is—”
A big heavy
pistol rose in his hand.
“Whoa.” I
stared at the wobbling barrel, my heart thudding like one of AG’s drum machines.
“C-come on, Ryan, you don’t want to do this.”
“Fuck you!”
His hand trembled. “All of you can go to hell!”
His finger jerked
the trigger.
I tried to
fling my body in front of Rachel as the boom of the gunshot pounded across the
white brick walls. Part of me was amazed that I wasn’t peeing my pants in
terror and trying to flatten my body on the floor. The other part was annoyed
that Rachel was pulling me back while I was desperately pretending to be brave.
“Don’t—you idiot . . .”
Roger
doubled over, grunting and clutching his chest where the lead met the Kevlar. “Goddamn
it!”
Blair swung
his baton at Durr’s arm. The handgun fell to the floor, and Roger managed to
kick it away as Durr yelped.
Durr tried to jump back, but Blair
slammed the baton across his stomach. Durr howled and staggered sideways. “You slut!
I hope you die! I hope you get raped in hell!”
Before Blair could swing again AG
somehow got around him and slapped Durr hard enough to welt his face. “Asshole.
That was for Jamie.” She slapped him again, leaving another red blotch on the
opposite cheek. “And this is for—”
I lunged forward and grabbed her
arm. Even unarmed and gasping for breath, he was still on his feet. That could
still be dangerous. “Allison? I think they’ve got this.”
“Damn right we do.” Blair hit Durr
across the neck, and he collapsed to the floor, squirming and weeping. “I hope
you get raped in prison, asshole.” Blair looked over his shoulder. “Any of you
guys want a shot?”
“Let’s just call the police.” I
managed to pull AG back, with Rachel’s hand on her arm.
“You two, take her back to the
room, okay?” Roger had his phone out. “Yeah, we’ve got that stalker here, and
you’re not going to believe this . . .”
It was another long night.
Durr wasn’t
smart enough to keep his mouth shut. And Blair and Roger had seen the whole
thing, including the transformation. Oh, and a security camera in the ceiling caught Durr firing his
pistol.
I didn’t
envy his defense lawyer. But I didn’t care much, either.
Rachel and
I got back to our building at dawn. We had a beer and some chips at my table.
My phone buzzed. “It’s AG. Do you
want to talk?”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure.”
“Hi, it’s
Allison.” She sounded out of breath. “I just wanted to say, you know, thanks? I
didn’t have a chance—it got a little crazy with all the police. Is Rachel
there?”
“Hi,
Allison!” Rachel leaned forward. “It’s Rachel. Are you all right?”
“Okay.
Tired.” She yawned. “And I have to do another show tomorrow night. Or tonight,
I guess. Hey, do you two want to come? You could see it for real this time. I
can get you two seats in a skybox. Or right out on the floor?”
I looked at
Rachel.
She leaned
forward in her chair. “Are you kidding? Yes! And not just because your dancers
are hot! Well, okay, I mean, maybe . . .” She winked at me. “Tom likes you
too.”
For once in
my life I wanted to—well, not exactly slug her, so I shot her a dirty look.
Rachel blew me a kiss.
“Okay. Two
tickets at the door. And you can come backstage after it’s over. I want to see
you. Oops, I’ve got to go. Bye!”
The phone
went dark.
“So now
you’re an AG fan?” I finished my beer.
Rachel
kissed me. “See you tomorrow. Don’t call too early.”
# # #
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