Jeffery Deaver - XO

The drummer was new to the group. Alonzo Santiago had come out of the barrio in Bakersfield and could make rhythm with anything he could pick up or touch. This too was magical to Kayleigh, who could perfectly follow a beat but relied on others to create and sustain it. Santiago was one of those crazy parents who’d actually given his young children drum sets, only to be disappointed to learn his daughter dreamed of being a NASCAR driver and his son a comic book artist.

The other band member, a sturdy, round-faced redhead in her forties, was the “orchestra.” Sharon Bascowitz was one of those people who could pick up an instrument, even one she’d never seen, and play it like a virtuoso. Sousaphone, cello, harpsichord, marimba, Native American flute… anything. Sharon could get it to sing. Always decked out in three or four colorful layers of tie-dye and lace, and dangling with glittering fake jewels, the woman was as brash as Emma Sue was shy.

The rehearsal was informal; they’d performed most of the material so often, it probably wasn’t even necessary, but there was a new song order and Kayleigh had added Patsy Cline and Alison Krauss/Robert Plant covers and had written two new songs, which she’d faxed to the band last night. One was dedicated to Bobby; Alicia would not be mentioned, Kayleigh had decided.

They finished the raucous and fun “I’m in the Mood (for Rock ’n’ Roll)” and she looked toward Barry at the mixing board. He gave her a thumbs-up. He was satisfied. She was satisfied. Kayleigh announced to the band and crew, “Okay, I think that’s it for now; reconvene at six for the final sound check.”

According to the God of Performances, Bishop Towne, you could never rehearse too frequently but you could rehearse too much. They needed a break now, to let the new ideas bake.

She handed off her Martin to Tye Slocum to fit with the new saddle, slugged down another iced tea and picked up her phone. Debating a moment, then a moment longer. Finally she did something she couldn’t have imagined until today.

Kayleigh Towne called Edwin Sharp.

“Hello?” He still sounded a bit groggy.

“Hey, it’s Kayleigh.”

“Well, hi.”

“Are you in the hospital still?”

He laughed. “Didn’t think I’d really hear from you. No. I got sprung.”

“How you feeling?”

“Sore, sore, sore.”

“Well, I hope you’re well enough to come to the show,” she said firmly. “I got you a ticket.”

There was silence and she wondered if he was going to refuse. But he said, “Okay. Thanks.”

“I’ve got it now. Meet you for lunch?”

She could have left it at the will-call window but that seemed petty, considering what he’d done for her. She’d reconciled with Sheri; she could do the same with Edwin.

He said, “I’m supposed to go see Deputy Madigan to give them a statement, but that’s not till two. I guess. Sure.”

He suggested a diner he’d been to. She agreed and they disconnected. Kayleigh headed for the stage door, glancing at Tye Slocum, who had already destrung her Martin and was filing away on the new bone saddle, as lost in his task as a sculptor completing his masterwork.

Her eyes then rose and looked into the murky heaven of the convention center. Kayleigh had wakened that morning at her father’s house, thinking that the concert was the last thing she wanted. She’d even considered using the smoke from the fire at her house as an excuse to cancel, reporting that her throat still stung, even though it was fine. But once she’d arrived here, greeted the band members, tuned up and walked out onstage, her attitude changed completely.

Now she couldn’t wait for the concert. Nothing was going to stop her from giving the audience the best show they’d ever seen.

THE CASE WAS over.

But one consequence of that resolution for Kathryn Dance was that a greater problem loomed.

One she’d have to face soon and she’d decided today was the day.

She’d had a decadent brunch of huevos rancheros and was now back in her Mountain View Motel room, on the phone with her website partner, Martine, discussing the songs she’d recorded of Los Trabajadores. She’d emailed them to the woman and they’d spent hours deciding which of the two dozen they’d make available on their site.

The decisions were hard; they were all so good.

But from time to time, as the women spoke, that Greater Problem intruded, the one Dance was now resolved to deal with: the question about the men in her life. No, that’s not correct, she reminded herself. There was only one man in her life-in that way. Jon Boling. That he was close to ending the relationship was irrelevant. She had to keep Michael O’Neil out of the equation for the time being. This was between her and Boling.

So what’m I going to do?

“Hey, you there?” Martine’s voice nudged her from her thoughts.

“Sorry.” They returned to the task and finished the Los Trabajadores song list. Then she disconnected the call, flopped down on the bed and told herself: Call Jon. Have it out.

Dance stared out the window, eyes on what might have been a true mountain view had the day been exceedingly clear, which it definitely wasn’t, not in this dead end of summer.

She then scrutinized her mobile, which she turned over and over in her hand.

The photo skin on the back depicted two children with giddy smiles, and two dogs in the oblivious joy of dogness.

The other side was her phone’s address book window, Jon Boling’s number highlighted and ready to be dialed.

Back to the pictures.

Eyes on a bad painting on the wall, of a harbor. Did the interior designer think all Californians owned sailboats, even those three hours from the coast?

Flip… the phone’s address book. Her French braid tickled her left ear. She absently flicked the strands aside.

Call or not, call or not?

Her intent was to ask bluntly why he was moving to San Diego without talking to her first. Odd, she reflected, she had no problem slipping on her predator specs, sitting down across from snarling Salinas gangbanger Manuel Martinez to learn where he’d buried a portion of the remains of Hector Alonzo, specifically the head. But asking a simple question about her lover’s intentions was paralyzing.

Then a wind shear of anger. What the hell was he thinking? Becoming friendly with the children, easing into their lives, making himself a part of the family, fitting in so seamlessly.

She grew analytical. Maybe this was the answer: on the surface Jon Boling had been perfect for her, fit, funny, kind, sexy. They’d had no harsh words, no fights, no fundamental collisions of any kind-unlike, for instance, as with Michael O’Neil… Wait, she reminded herself. O’Neil did not exist for the purposes of this equation.

With Boling did the absence of friction mean the gears of love weren’t truly engaging?

Could there be more love in sweat than in laughter?

That just didn’t seem right.

Clutching the phone, turning it over, over, over…

Call, not call?

Children screen children screen children screen…

Maybe I’ll flip it like a coin on the bed and let fate take charge.

Children screen children screen…

KAYLEIGH MET A slow-moving Edwin Sharp in the front of the diner.

She liked the choice of restaurant; it was in a quiet part of town and she suspected she wouldn’t have to deal with autograph hounds. That was something even minor celebrities like her always had to consider.

He greeted her at the door with a smile and let her precede him into the air-conditioned, brightly lit restaurant, which was nearly empty. The waitress grinned, noting their famous patron, but Kayleigh was an expert at categorizing fans. She knew the woman would be efficient and cheerful but far too nervous to utter a word beyond order taking and comments about the heat.