Джеффри Дивер - Nothing Good Happens After Midnight - A Suspense Magazine Anthology

“I’m looking forward to working with a normal partner again.”

Vail led the way toward the theater. Its Greek Revival portico was lit up brightly, the vertical art-deco PARAMOUNT blade sign drawing attention to the false brick façade, which provided the illusion of height and importance.

Harkening back to its roots as a 1930s movie venue, an elaborate landmark marquis extended out from the building, rows of light bulbs hanging from its belly and illuminating the grand entrance — where Vail and Bledsoe now stood.

“What do you think?” Bledsoe asked.

Vail advanced on the six French doors ahead of them. “He probably forced one open. We go in the way he did.”

“There are other ways in. Box office. Or the ‘blacks-only’ doors on the Third Street side used back when segregation was still a thing in the south.”

“I’m not gonna try every freakin’ door. None of these are open, I’m breaking the glass and going in.”

“Quietly.”

Vail looked at him. “How do you break glass quietly?”

They pulled on the various handles — until one gave way.

“No need.” Bledsoe gestured at the lock. “Looks jimmied. Let’s go.”

Only a few accent lights were on in the dark theater, so Vail used her phone for illumination. But its carrying distance was limited. “Split up?”

“Works for me.”

“Hang on. Let’s be smart about this. He’s come here for a reason — other than to hide or hopefully escape. He knows the place. And my guess is he had a good relationship with his father.”

“Who just happened to be executed tonight.”

“Exactly,” Vail said. “That could’ve been a trigger. I overlooked that earlier. My bad.”

“But now that we thought of it, what does it mean?”

“Comfort. He came here to remember him. In fact, if Debra Mead is his first kill — or hopefully attempted kill — it might be because it’s the day his father was going to be executed.”

“Shit or get off the pot?”

Vail scrunched her face. “Not the way I’d put it, but yeah.”

“Makes sense. So... where to?”

“They control stage lighting from specific rooms in theaters, right?”

“Do I look like a guy who goes to the theater? Other than the movie theater, I mean.”

“I knew what you meant,” Vail said. “I’ve never gone behind the scenes, but there are always lights mounted above the stage and also in the back, above the balcony. I know there are sound boards for sound engineers, so I’m guessing there’s something like that for lighting engineers. Or technicians. Or operators. Whatever they’re called.”

“Again, makes sense.”

“Head to the stage, give me a global view. In case I flush him out, you’ll be able to see where he goes.”

“What about you?”

“I’m betting there’s a room above the balcony, dead central, where both the sound and lighting techs work during the show. That’s where Harrison will be. I’m gonna find my way there.”

“How sure are you that’s where Harrison will be?”

“Not sure at all. Why?”

“How about I go find the lighting room and you go to the stage?”

“Because I’m a woman?”

Bledsoe hesitated. “Because of your knee.”

“Nice save. But I can handle myself.”

Someday I’ll have to tell him about my badass work with OPSIG Team Black. But then I’d have to kill him.

“Still. Be careful, Karen. Robby’ll be real pissed at me if you get killed.”

Moments later, Bledsoe stood behind the orchestra pit, in the center of the stage, looking out at the empty, octagonal theater. Dim lights demarcated the end of each row of seats. Best he could tell in the near darkness the audience chamber was grand, with gold leaf moldings, ornate woodwork carved into the ceiling, and two humongous near floor-to-ceiling paintings on each side.

Bledsoe strained to see across the room, above the balcony level, where there were four large windows and a rig of hefty spotlight-style fixtures trained on the stage.

He canted his head ceiling-ward, and — as Vail had surmised — an array of luminaires hung there, too.

He continued moving his gaze left to right, looking for Vail... or better yet, Harrison Vaughn.

Vail climbed a few steps and came to a closed door. It was dark and she wanted her eyes to acclimate, so she was no longer using her phone light.

Glock in hand, she cautiously turned the knob, then pushed slowly. Fortunately, the hinges did not creak.

She slipped inside, careful not to trip on a box of unseen equipment. The room was about twenty-five feet wide but only eight or so deep.

Power flowed through what she surmised were control boards. Small lights poked out from the blackness, along with cabling, sliding dimmers, instrumentation, and controllers of various types.

The hum and white noise of electrical gear and their fans droned in the background, serving as a buffer to any noise she might make.

I hope.

A wall of equipment switches and sliders stood to her left, two Duracell PROCELL batteries serving as some sort of backup.

Directly ahead of her were four large panes of windows, which she figured looked out onto the seating and stage. Somewhere beyond that stood Bledsoe, though it was too dark to make him out — which meant Harrison could not see him, either.

The faint glow from the instrumentation provided too little illumination for Vail to see well. If Harrison was like his father, he was a hefty guy — so going toe to toe with him was likely not to her advantage.

Right now, brains — and her 9mm pistol — will have to beat brawn.

She could have pulled back and waited, but she did not relish the thought of being so close — and having to retreat. She wanted Harrison Vaughn in handcuffs, on the way to the Adult Detention Center for booking. Tonight. Or — rather, this morning.

Enough groping around in the dark. Vail had no idea where the wall switch was — ironic, given that she was in the room that controlled thousands? Hundreds of thousands? of watts of lighting.

And she couldn’t even find a single bulb to turn on.

Fumbling with her phone was not an option. She wanted both hands free for her Glock.

She figured there had to be a small, focused lamp of some kind by the technicians’ workstations. How else would they be able to see what they were doing during the performance?

Vail moved her left hand in a circle and her index finger brushed against something that telescoped vertically. She followed it down to a base — and flipped a rocker switch. It flooded the desktop with a small, but powerful halogen light.

Sitting ten feet to her right was Harrison Vaughn.

He yelled.

She yelled.

But they were saying different things.

Harrison: “Ahhh!”

Vail: “Don’t move. FBI!”

Harrison made like most criminals — and ignored Vail’s admonition.

He scrambled away on his knees to the right, around a bend and, as she learned, out the side door.

Vail followed — and heard Bledsoe calling out instructions to their fleeing suspect.

Man, the acoustics in here are great.

“Get down! The theater’s surrounded. There’s no place to run.”

Have the deputies arrived? Or is he bluffing?

Vail emerged behind Harrison. Bledsoe was advancing on him, coming up the left aisle, his SIG steady and menacing.

“Down on the ground,” Vail added, letting Harrison know she was there — and that he had no viable way out.

Rather than getting on his knees, he decided to protest. “What’s this about? I didn’t do anything.”

“Debra Mead may have something to say about that,” Vail said. “If you haven’t killed her yet.”