Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

It was Frost Easton.

Rudy shrank backward among the bodies. The crowd and the smoke weren’t enough to hide him. The cop looked down as Rudy looked up, like two flashlight beams connecting and growing brighter.

Their eyes met.

“That’s him,” Frost said to the security guard next to him. “Three o’clock, gray turtleneck, blond hair.”

“I’ve got him,” the guard replied.

“He’s heading for the doors. Ask your men to hold him until I get there. Don’t let him leave.”

Frost fought through the knot of people on the balcony and broke free into the cocktail lounge. A handful of customers stood around lonely tables, amid walls filled with hundreds of rock band posters. The music from the stage made the entire room vibrate. He bolted for the stairs and ran to the concert floor. Downstairs, the ushers waited for him at the theater doors, but there was no sign of Rudy Cutter.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

The two men shook their heads. “He didn’t come this way.”

Frost waded into the crowd. His head bobbed back and forth, hunting among the faces. He made his way to the red curtains where he’d spotted Cutter, but the killer had already backtracked and disappeared. Cutter was nowhere to be seen. He turned around, saw that the head of security had followed him downstairs, and shouted in the man’s ear, “He’s heading for one of the other exits. Do you have a man on each door?”

“Always.”

“Make sure they’re watching for him,” Frost said. “Tell them to be polite but firm. Keep him inside.”

Frost cast his eyes around the crowded concert floor and saw the nearest exit behind the stage. He texted a quick update to Jess — Cutter’s here, he’s on the move— and headed toward the rear of the theater. The security guard trailed behind him. The dense crowd, tangled with bodies, slowed his progress. It was like hacking through a rainforest. He heard the wail of the band, the screams of the fans, and then, almost like a whisper, someone nearby called out a name.

“Cutter.”

He froze and spun around, but he didn’t know where the voice had come from, and he didn’t see the killer in the crowd. He looked for someone looking back at him, but there was no one.

Then it happened again. Another voice.

“Rudy Cutter.”

And again.

“He’s here. Cutter’s here.”

“The killer?”

“Cutter.”

“That guy, the killer.”

“Rudy Cutter.”

“Cutter.”

The voices were everywhere, an odd underground chorus. Cutter’s name was on everyone’s lips, blowing through the hall like rumors of a fire. A killer was here. A madman was on the floor. One by one, in fragments, the edge of the crowd flaked away. They headed for the main doors; they headed for the rear doors; they snaked along the curtains and shoved toward every exit. Dozens of them. It was fear, rippling from friend to friend and stranger to stranger.

Don’t take chances.

Let’s get out of here.

Rudy Cutter.

The exodus trapped Frost where he was, winding around him as tightly as a knotted rope. He couldn’t move. Beyond the stage, he could see doors opening and closing beneath the red exit sign. Over and over. Again and again. People wanted out. The same was true at every exit in the hall. The guards couldn’t do a thing except stand helplessly by as streams of nervous concertgoers flooded onto Geary and into the alley and into the lounge and the lobby. The hall was still packed, but the damage was already done.

Somewhere in the parade of people fleeing the scene, losing himself in the crowd, was Rudy Cutter.

Frost knew he’d lost him. Cutter was gone.

Dozens of people milled on the sidewalk outside the Fillmore.

Frost followed the narrow curb to the Geary Boulevard overpass, watching Uber drivers do pickups at the theater. Buses came and went. The coffee shop around the corner was doing a brisk late-night business. He saw men, women, and couples dispersing into the neighborhoods, some holding colorful umbrellas against the rain. The ones who weren’t done partying crossed the pedestrian bridge to the Boom Boom Room.

It was midnight. He was wasting his time. Cutter wasn’t here.

He tracked down Jess, who was sitting behind the wheel of her Audi a block north of the theater. He was soaking wet as he sat in the passenger seat. The windows were steamed, and she had to wipe them with her elbow.

“Anything?” he asked her.

“No. Sorry. If he was in the crowd that bolted, I couldn’t pick him out.”

“I counted about fifty brunettes in little black dresses,” Frost said. “Any one of them could have been the girl he was with. He was alone when I saw him, so he may have ditched her when he made his escape.”

Jess shrugged. “Well, that’s one good thing. You got in the way of his plans by spotting him.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not. Cutter’s smart. He led us here for a reason. We’ve been playing his game tonight. I’d feel better if we knew what this was really about.”

“Don’t overthink Cutter,” Jess replied. “After getting out of prison, his ego’s only gotten bigger. He thinks he can tell us exactly what he’s going to do and still get away with it.”

Frost frowned. “I’m not sure he’s wrong.”

“Well, I’m counting tonight as a win. You spooked him.”

“Maybe,” Frost said again.

Jess put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for doing this off the books, Frost. You know, not calling Hayden and letting me stick around here. Cutter made this personal by having the bartender call me. I hate being on the sidelines.”

“No problem, Jess.”

Frost felt the warmth of her hand, which she left where it was. She didn’t have to say anything; the invitation was in her face again. He could slide across the seat, and they’d kiss, and then they’d drive to her place, and they’d have sex. Herb had told him that Jess wasn’t his Jane Doe — his one-of-a-kind mystery girl — but Frost wasn’t sure that he had a Jane Doe waiting for him at all. The only thing that mattered was right now.

But he waited too long, the way he usually did. The moment passed. Right now was already gone, and it wasn’t coming back. Jess peeled away her hand and dug her keys from her pocket. She switched on the sedan.

“Anyway,” she said.

“Yeah, anyway.”

“Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“I will. I’ll keep you posted.”

Frost got out of the car onto the sidewalk on Fillmore and shut the door. The Audi lurched from the curb, sending up spray. Her wheels skidded. Jess always drove fast, but he thought she wanted to put as much distance as she could, as quickly as she could, between the two of them.

His own Suburban was two blocks away. He headed toward Geary past the late walkers leaving the theater. In the rain and darkness, he turned left, and the dirty asphalt glistened. He walked past an old brick post office building to the end of the block, where his SUV was parked next to a fenced soccer field.

He started the truck and did a U-turn. The red light at Geary stopped him, and he waited impatiently for a couple of drunk Japandroids fans to stagger across the street hand in hand. He was tired and wanted to get home. When the intersection was clear, he turned right into an underpass, but as his headlights swung through the crosswalk on the other side of Geary, he spotted a woman coming down the walkway from the street’s pedestrian bridge. He only glimpsed her for a second before she disappeared behind the concrete columns, but something about her made him hesitate.

She was one more brunette wearing a little black dress — but she was wearing a hat, too. The hat had a jaunty angle, pushed low on her forehead. It was a man’s hat. A fedora.