Jeffery Deaver - XO

“A week?”

He grimaced. “Okay, I know it’s hard for you to get off, especially after you took some time now. But if there’s any way you could… See, it’s a four-bedroom place. We’d have separate rooms, all of us. You and me too. But still, it’s a good step forward, with the kids, I was thinking. Traveling together but not together together, you know what I mean?”

“A week?” Dance was stammering herself too.

He’d be thinking: I said that, didn’t I?

Oh, God-the move was temporary. Her mother hadn’t gotten all the information.

He sensed her hesitation. And said stoically, “No problem. If that’s too much time, maybe you and the kids could fly down and we could spend a few days together. I mean, you could always come down alone but, I don’t know, I thought it might be nice to take a family vacation.”

Those last two words were like lace trim: flimsy yet hopeful.

“I… hey.” He stumbled back as she threw her arms around him, both euphoric and utterly ashamed of her assumption, which was based on the worst thing a law enforcer can be swayed by-faulty information.

She kissed him energetically. “Yes, yes, yes! We’ll work it out. I’d love to.” Then she frowned. “But a favor?”

“Sure, of course.”

She whispered, “Can you and I get adjoining rooms? Sometimes the kids go to sleep early.”

“That can be arranged.”

She kissed him once more.

Just as her phone chirped. This time, O’Neil had sent a text: Signed the divorce papers. Enjoy the concert. See you soon… I hope.

Oh, brother, she thought.

Oh, brother.

Another ding. She looked down: XO, Michael.

She slipped the phone away and took Boling’s hand.

“A problem?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “No problems at all.”

Then the hulking form of Bishop Towne was approaching. He paused and, ignoring Boling, grunted to Dance, “Guess this is it.” He took a deep breath. “Times like these’re when I really miss a drink. Guess I better go make a slew of people real unhappy.”

He ambled out onstage.

There was, of course, a resounding thunderclap of applause and shouts; this was Mr. Country himself greeting them, about to introduce his even more talented daughter.

He waved.

Pandemonium.

Dance and Boling walked into the wings to see better. As the spotlight found Towne, he looked diminished and old and in pain. He squinted slightly, hesitated and continued to an active microphone.

He scanned the crowd and seemed surprised there were so many people there, though Dance suspected that the savvy businessman would know the exact head count and box office receipts.

He rasped, “Good evening, y’all. I-” His voice caught and he started again. “I surely do ’preciate you coming out tonight.” Bishop, Dance had noted, had no Southern accent when he was engaged in regular conversation. Now, a twang of Appalachia tinted his words.

More whistles and shouts and applause.

“Listen up, listen up. Uhm, I have an announcement I’d like to make.”

There was a beat as the crowd grew silent, expecting something was wrong, perhaps related to Kayleigh’s kidnapping earlier in the day and the other events of the past week.

Collective dismay was starting to brew.

“Again, we ’preciate your being here and appreciate all the support you’ve shown to Kayleigh and the band and her family during this difficult time.”

He cleared his throat once more.

As he said, “I gotta tell you-” The applause began again and kept going and kept going, swelling, swelling, and became a force of its own. Within two or three seconds, the entire crowd was on its feet, howling, clapping, whistling.

Bishop was confused. What was this about?

Dance too didn’t have a clue, until she looked stage left and saw Kayleigh Towne walking forward, carrying a guitar and waving to the crowd.

She paused and blew them a kiss.

More unearthly sounds filled the concert hall, glow sticks waved back and forth, flashes from the prohibited cameras exploded like sunlight on choppy water.

Dance noticed that Suellyn and Mary-Gordon were now standing with Sheri Towne in the wings opposite, watching Kayleigh stride up to her father. They weren’t alone. Art Francesco, from Global Entertainment, was now with them and chatting warmly with Sheri and her stepdaughter.

Onstage, Bishop bent down, hugged his daughter and she kissed him on his cheek. Kayleigh lowered a second microphone to her mouth and waited until the crowd grew silent.

“Thank you all! Thank you!… My daddy was going to tell you we have a big surprise for you tonight. But I decided I couldn’t let him get away with hogging the spotlight, like he usually does.”

Huge laughter.

“Anyway, what we want to do tonight is open the show with something we haven’t done for years. A father-daughter duet.” A bit of South was in her own voice now.

More otherworldly applause.

She handed Bishop the guitar and said, “Y’all probably know my daddy’s a better picker than me so I’m going to let him have the git-fiddle and sing and I’m going to do a bit of harmony. Now, this’s a song that Daddy wrote and used to sing to me when I was a little girl. I think it was probably the first song I ever heard. It’s called ‘I Think You’re Going to Be a Lot Like Me.’”

A glance his way and he nodded, the faintest of smiles curling into his weathered face.

As the surge of applause and hoots settled, Bishop Towne swung the guitar strap over his broad shoulders, strummed to test the tuning and he and Kayleigh adjusted the microphones.

Then he looked behind him toward the band, now in position, noted that they were ready and turned his attention back to the thousands of expectant fans, silent as thought. He started tapping his foot, leaned forward and counted out into the microphone, “One… two… three… four…”

Your Shadow

Is It Love, Is It Less?