Things were pretty tense as we rode to the Big Apple Awards. Anya, looking like a million bucks (or more—literally—with all the diamonds she was wearing) just stared morosely into space. She didn’t seem to notice the fans and paparazzi who swarmed around the red carpet entrance. Even Buzz, Harmony, and Vance seemed nervous. Bomb threats have a way of putting people on edge.
Anya had barely slept or eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. I knew she just wanted to survive the night. Any ideas she’d had about enjoying herself or hobnobbing with the stars were long gone.
At least Stan had contacted the award organizers to get them to quadruple the security. Radio City Music Hall was now harder to get into than the White House. They hadn’t even wanted to let Frank or me in, until Stan had called the organizers to plead our case. He seemed to have seen the light and realized how dangerous it was for Anya to attend the awards. He’d tried all day to convince her to stay at the hotel. But Anya was determined to attend; she thought it was the only way she could keep everyone safe.
As we arrived at Radio City Music Hall, the limo paused in front of the red carpet entrance to let out Harmony, Buzz, and Vance. Frank and I had convinced Anya not to walk the red carpet. After the first three actors got out, the limo pulled around the building and let off Anya, Frank, and me at an out-of-the-way back entrance. Once security checked us out, we were taken backstage to wait until the show began.
Anya perched stiffly on a couch, nibbling on her perfectly manicured nails and looking super nervous.
“Are you okay?” Frank asked, his concern clearly overcoming his awkwardness around pretty girls. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
Anya looked up at him like she’d forgotten we were there. She gave a rueful smile. “Oh, but I do,” she insisted. “Look, Zolo may be crazy about a lot of things, but he got one thing right. I could never live with myself if everyone else got hurt because of me.” Her face fell. “I should’ve quit this stupid movie the minute my trailer was set on fire.”
I moved toward her, offering a nearby tissue box as her eyes started to tear. “Come on, Anya,” I said encouragingly. “What’s happening isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”
She took a tissue, sniffled, and looked up at me. “It isn’t?” she asked. “Look, I’m no actress. Maybe all the fans are right to be mad that I was cast. And I didn’t tell you about the texts from Zolo, even after I knew you guys needed all the clues you could get.” She sighed. “Maybe I brought this on myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Anya,” Frank said, standing up to move toward us. “You’ve done a great job in the role. You’re a victim here, not the instigator.”
“Right,” I agreed. “If Zolo wants to hurt you, that’s nobody’s fault but his own. Don’t blame yourself for some crazy guy’s crazy actions.”
She sniffled again, and tears brimmed in her eyes. “But I was so nice to him,” she said, shaking her head. “All that time I acted like we were great friends, and he was trying to hurt me.”
I frowned. “Don’t blame yourself for being nice, Anya,” I said. “Anyone would have done the same thing in your situation. Nobody knew how wacko Zolo really was—including Frank and me.”
Frank nodded. “That’s right.”
As he spoke, the same harried-looking PA who’d insisted that Anya wear her shoes the day before poked her head into the dressing room. “Oh, Ms. Archer,” she said, looking at Anya with concern. “Are you all right? How’s your ankle?”
“Um, my ankle is fine,” Anya replied. “Still a little tender, though. I had to wear flats tonight.” She lifted up her dress and showed the PA the pair of sparkly ballet flats Venice had insisted on choosing from her hospital bed.
The PA nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. That you’re feeling better, I mean.” She smiled. “Listen, if you’re ready, the show is about to begin. Security can escort you to your seats while the lights are down before the first number.”
Anya looked at Frank and me and took a deep breath. “I guess this is it,” she said anxiously.
“This is it,” I agreed. “Listen, Anya—we’ll do everything we can to keep you safe. You know that. We’ll be sitting right next to you. Okay?”
Anya took a breath and nodded. “Okay.” She got to her feet, picking up the hem of her dress (which had been altered to accommodate for the flats) so she wouldn’t trip. “Let’s get this over with.”
If you could forget the fact that an unhinged admirer was likely getting ready to hurt Anya and potentially blow up Radio City Music Hall, the Big Apple Awards were actually pretty entertaining.
I’m not a big awards-show guy. But the Big Apple Awards seemed a little younger and more irreverent than the established awards shows. The host, a comedian, was really funny; the presenters made fun of themselves; there were lots of fun dance numbers; and the speeches were kept mercifully short.
Frank and I were sitting on one side of Anya, with Harmony and the rest of the cast on the other side. (Vance was smart enough to take the seat farthest from her.) A couple of times, Anya reached over for my hand and squeezed it. I knew better than to think there was any romantic meaning to it; the poor girl was just royally freaked out and needed some reassurance.
Every now and then, the host would make a joke about someone in the audience and the lights would go up while the cameramen scattered around the theater to search out the person and get a reaction shot. Each time, Anya bit her lip and her eyes darted tensely around the theater. I followed her gaze, knowing she was looking for Zolo, and worrying that he had gotten in somehow. But each time, our search revealed nothing unusual. The host would continue his joke, and the object of the joke would smile and laugh good-naturedly, or else shoot a jokey “mad” look at the stage. Then the lights would go back down and the show would continue.
When I checked my watch for the first time, I was stunned to see that an hour had gone by. The cast’s award would be coming up soon. When I turned to look up the aisle, sure enough, a PA was tiptoeing down. She paused at our row and whispered loudly, “Deathstalker cast? We need you backstage.”
We all stood and moved into the aisle, and the PA looked at Frank and me with concern. “Um, sorry. Cast only.”
“Trust me,” I said, striding after the cast as they headed up the aisle. “Security will let us through.”
Once we all got cleared to go backstage, we had a few minutes to wait before the cast would be called out onstage to present the award. Anya was pacing and chewing on her fingernails. Her eyes darted between the stage and the entrances to the backstage area. I knew she was scared. She even lifted her shoes to glance underneath, moving her feet back and forth on the floor to make sure they hadn’t been greased.
“Anya,” Frank said gently, touching her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
She sighed. “I wish I believed you,” she said quietly, her face tense.
“Come on, Anya,” said Harmony, taking her friend’s hand. “We’ll all be out there with you.”
“Right,” Buzz agreed. “Nobody will get to you if we have anything to say about it.”
Vance looked uncomfortable, but he nodded too. “We’ll protect you, Anya,” he said. “That’s a promise.”
Anya looked at her costars gratefully, but I could tell she still felt nervous. “Thanks, guys,” she said, and sighed. “I just want this to be over.”
One of the PAs came over and told the cast to arrange themselves in the correct order and get ready to go out. The host headed to the podium to introduce them. I glanced at Frank; I knew we were both hoping that nothing would happen.
“And from the upcoming film Deathstalker,” the host intoned, “please welcome Deathstalker herself, Anya Archer, along with her costars Harmony Caldwell, Vance Bainbridge, and Buzz Byers!”
Anya cast one quick glance back at Frank and me, and we both nodded encouragingly. She pasted on a bright smile and followed her costars onto the stage. I think Frank and I were both a little on edge watching her descend the same stairs where she’d hurt herself the day before, but the entire cast made it without incident. They all surrounded the podium as the audience cheered enthusiastically.
“Anya!”
I jumped at the voice that rose over the cheers. It sounded like it was coming from backstage, and it sounded like . . . Zolo!
“Did you hear that?” I asked Frank.
He nodded, and I could see from the look in his eyes that it had rattled him as much as it had rattled me. “Yeah,” he said. “You don’t think . . . ?”
I looked out onto the stage. Anya’s face was frozen in a tense smile, and I could see that she had heard the shout too.
“Action movies,” Vance began, reading off the teleprompter, “make us all feel more alive. . . .”
The cast took turns reading their lines, each leaning into the podium to introduce one of the four action movie nominees. Then they announced the winner, a movie called Apocalypse, and stood back while the cast and crew came up on the stage. Anya looked incredibly relieved. As the producer of Apocalypse began his speech, I could see a PA across the stage gesturing for the cast to exit stage left.
“That’s it,” I said, turning to my brother. “They did it! Nothing happened.”
Frank frowned. “Well, except for that weird shout that sounded like Zolo.”
I shrugged. “Nobody tried anything, though,” I said. “We can ask security to sweep the theater looking for him. You and I can start searching backstage right now. But maybe we were just being paranoid—maybe it was just a fan cheering for his favorite new actress.”
A few minutes later, Frank and I had done a complete search of the backstage area and found nothing out of the ordinary. We spoke briefly to a security guard, asking him to keep searching the theater for Zolo, then headed back to the audience to be near Anya just as the cast was sitting back down in their seats.
“Did you see that?” Anya asked with a smile as we sat down. “I did it! Nothing happened!”
I smiled back. “Sure did,” I said, electing not to bring up the Zolo-esque shout. I knew she’d heard it. But since nothing had happened, it seemed more than likely it was just a fluke. Some teenager in the balcony who happened to sound a lot like our least favorite actor . . .
We turned back to the show, and after about twenty minutes the security guard we’d spoken to came down the aisle and whispered something to Frank. Frank nodded, then turned to me.
“They haven’t seen any sign of Zolo,” he whispered to me. “None of the guards on the doors have seen any suspicious activity.”
I nodded. “Sounds like it wasn’t really him we heard, then.”
Frank nodded back. “Sounds that way,” he agreed, with a little smile.
After a few minutes, it was time for Buzz to head backstage for his performance with Fabula. Harmony rose with him. She looked at Anya.
“We’re almost two hours into the show,” she whispered. “The whole thing ends in fifteen minutes! Maybe we’ll really get through this, Anya.”
Anya smiled. “I’m starting to think so,” she agreed. “Maybe Zolo’s big plan failed.”
Harmony smiled back. “I’m going to go get a soda from the lobby bar. Want anything?”
Anya shook her head, and Harmony and Buzz filed out. Within seconds of their leaving, a well-dressed man and woman came down the aisle and gently poked Frank.
“Excuse me,” the man said with a smooth smile. “We’re the seat-fillers for Harmony Caldwell and Buzz Byers. May we get by?”
Frank frowned, looking at me. “Seat-what?” he asked.
But what the man was saying jogged a memory for me. I’d seen a special once on the making of the Oscar telecast. (Aunt Trudy was watching it, okay? And I had just made a big bowl of popcorn. I had to eat it in front of something.) When a star gets up—to present or accept an award, to use the restroom, or to get a drink—a “seat-filler” is sent to sit in their seat. That way, when the audience is shown on television, the theater always looks full.
“Seat-fillers,” I whispered back to Frank. “It’s cool—I know what they are. Let them in.”
Frank, Anya, and I all rose to let the seat-fillers squeeze past. There were two awards left before Buzz’s big number. The last two awards would be after that, then we’d be done. I felt a warm sense of relief settle into my chest. Maybe Zolo wasn’t the all-powerful baddie we’d feared he was. Maybe the insane security Stan had put in place had thwarted him.
I watched as the cast of the Best New Romantic Comedy winner, Men Are Martians, made their speeches and headed offstage. The lights began to dim for the Fabula number. I sat forward eagerly. I wouldn’t admit this to many people—but man, I enjoy a big, splashy production number.
But just as the lights were completely going out, Frank leaped up beside me. “HEY! What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
I jumped up and followed his gaze over to Harmony’s seat-filler—who had risen from his seat. Frank and I watched, openmouthed, as he pulled a long dagger from inside his jacket and lunged at Anya!