The Meridian Theater
Proudly Presents …

“Is this it?” the driver asked.

I leaned forward and read the sign: PARKING FOR EMPLOYEES AND GUESTS OF THE MERIDIAN. ALL UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S RISK AND EXPENSE. Was I a guest of the Meridian? What was the Meridian? Damn Lucas. I’d left a message on his cell, asking him to call me back with more information, but obviously court was running late today.

The directions he’d provided had taken the cab on a convoluted path through an industrial area when, according to my new Miami map, I could have accessed the same street off a major thoroughfare. Of course, the driver hadn’t suggested a shorter route, though I had caught him smiling at the meter once or twice.

The address Lucas gave me was right here. The parking lot. What exactly had he said? There’d be a rear door. To my left was a block-long wall dotted with air vents and barred windows, plus two entrances: a loading dock, and a double set of gray-painted metal doors.

I asked the driver to wait, got out, and walked to the doors. They were indeed solid, with no handles or locks. Beside them was a doorbell marked DELIVERIES. I double-checked the address, and rang the bell.

Thirty seconds later, the door swung open, letting out a blast of shouting voices, rock music, and power tools. A young woman squinted out into the sunlight. She wore cat’s-eye glasses, red leather pants, and an ID badge with an obscenity in the name space.

“Hi, I’m—” I raised my voice. “I’m Paige Winterbourne. I was supposed to meet—”

The woman shrieked over her shoulder. “J.D!” She looked back at me. “Well, come in, girl. You’re letting out all our air-conditioning.”

I excused myself while I paid the cab driver, then hurried back to the building. As I stepped inside, a fresh song started, volume cranked. At first wail, I winced.

“Isn’t that god-awful?” the young woman said, slamming the door behind me. “It’s Jaime’s warm-up song. ‘My Way.’ ”

“Tell me that’s not Frank Sinatra.”

“Nah, some dead Brit.”

“Recorded as he was dying a long, painful death.”

The woman laughed. “You got that right, girl.”

A fortyish man appeared, slight, balding, carrying a clipboard, and looking harried to the point of exhaustion. “Oh, thank God. I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

He grabbed me by the elbow, tugged me into the room, and propelled me through a mob of drill-wielding men working on what looked like a scaffold.

“You are Paige, right?” he asked, moving us along at warp speed.

“Uh, right.”

“J.D. I’m Jaime’s production manager. They didn’t send you around the front, did they?”

I shook my head.

“Thank God. It is a zoo out there. We’ve been sold out since last week, but some moron at WKLT has been announcing all day that we still have seats available, and now we have a line from here to Cuba of very unhappy folks.”

A pink-haired woman appeared from behind a heavy velvet curtain. “J.D., there’s a problem with the sound levels. The acoustics in here are shit, and—”

“Just do your best, Kat. We’ll take it up with the booking agent later.”

He pushed me past the woman, then through the curtain. We stepped out onto a side stage, in front of a rapidly filling auditorium. I stopped to gape, but J.D. tugged me along, crossing the stage to the opposite side.

“What kind of—” I began.

J.D. stopped in mid-stride and I nearly bashed into him.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. “I don’t fucking believe it. Tara! Tara!”

A woman scurried up the steps. She could have been J.D.’s twin, carrying a matching clipboard, just as slight and harried, not balding but looking ready to tear out her own hair.

“Front row,” J.D. said. “Second seat right of the aisle. Is that not reserved for Jaime’s guest?”

Tara consulted her clipboard. “A Ms. Winterbourne. Paige Winterbourne.”

“This is Ms. Winterbourne,” J.D. said, jerking a finger at me. Then he jabbed the same finger at the sixty-year-old platinum blond in the second seat. “That is not Ms. Winterbourne.”

“I’ll get security.”

Tara disappeared behind the curtain. J.D. surveyed the theater, now nearly three-quarters full, with a steady stream flowing in.

“I hope they didn’t overbook. Houston overbooked and it was an absolute nightmare.” He stopped. “Oh, my god. Take a look at what’s coming through the door now. Do you see what she’s wearing? I didn’t think those came in purple. Some people will do anything to catch Jaime’s attention. In Buffalo last month—Oh, good. Your seat is clear. Follow me.”

He kept his hand on my elbow, as if I might otherwise be swallowed by the crowd. A security guard escorted the platinum-haired grandmother down the aisle. She turned and shot a lethal glare at me. J.D. quick-marched us down the steps.

“Is front row okay? Not too close for you?”

“Uh, no. It’s fine. This, uh, Jamey, is it? Is he around? Maybe I could—”

J.D. didn’t seem to hear me. His gaze was darting over the crowd, like a sheepdog surveying an unruly mob of ewes.

“We needed more ushers. Ten minutes to show time. I told Jaime—” A watch check. “Oh, God, make that eight minutes. How the hell are they going to get everyone in here in eight minutes? Go ahead, sit down and get comfortable. I’ll be out to see you at intermission. Enjoy the show.”

He darted into a group of people and disappeared.

“Okay,” I muttered. “Enjoy the show … whatever it is.”

As I sat, I glanced at the people on either side of me, hoping one of them might be this Jaime guy, who I assumed was the necromancer I’d come to meet. To my left was a teenage girl with piercings in every imaginable location … and a few I would have preferred not to imagine. On my other side was an elderly woman in widow’s weeds with her head bowed over a rosary. Talk about audience diversity. Now I was stumped. I couldn’t imagine what kind of show would interest both of these people.

I looked around, trying to pick up some clues about the show from the theater, but the walls were covered in plain black velvet. Whatever the show was, I hoped I wasn’t expected to sit through it before I spoke to this Jaime. Maybe after it started, he’d come out and get me. I guessed he was the theater owner or manager. Someone important, from what J.D. said. An odd profession for a necromancer. Unless this Jaime wasn’t the necromancer. Maybe he was only the guy who would take me to the necromancer. Damn it! I didn’t have time for this. I pulled out my cell phone, called Lucas’s number again, but only got his voice mail.

I left a message. “I’m sitting in a theater right now, with absolutely no idea why I’m here, what’s going on, or who I’m supposed to talk to. This better be good, Cortez, or I’m going to need a necromancer to contact you.”

I hung up, and glanced at my neighbors again. Not about to disturb the rosary-widow, I turned to the teen and offered my brightest smile.

“Packed house tonight, huh?” I said.

She glowered at me.

“Should be a great show,” I said. “Are you a … fan?”

“Listen, bitch, if you raise your hand and get picked instead of me, I’ll pop out your eyeballs.”

I turned my endangered orbs back to the stage and inched closer to the rosary-widow. She glared at me and said something in what sounded like Portuguese. Now, I don’t know a single word of Portuguese, but something in her voice made me suspect that, whatever she said, the translation would sound roughly like what pierced-girl beside me had said. I sunk into my seat and vowed to avoid eye contact for the rest of the show.

Music started, a soft, symphonic tune, far removed from the caterwauling rock backstage. The lights dimmed as the music swelled. A scuffle of activity as the last people scurried to their seats. The lights continued to fade until the auditorium was immersed in darkness.

More sounds of activity, this time coming from the aisle beside me. The music ebbed. A few lights appeared, tiny, twinkling lights on the walls and ceiling, followed by more, then more, until the room was lit with thousands, all casting the soft glow of starlight against the inky velvet.

A choral murmur of oohs and ahhs surged, and fell to silence. Absolute silence. No music. No chatter. Not so much as a throat-clearing cough.

Then, a woman’s voice, in a microphone-amplified whisper.

“This is their world. A world of peace, and beauty, and joy. A world we all wish to enter.”

The rosary-widow beside me murmured an “Amen,” her voice joining a quiet wave of others. In the near-dark, I noticed a dim figure appear on stage. It glided out to the edge, and kept going, as if levitating down the center aisle. When I squinted, I could detect the dark form of a catwalk that had been quickly erected in the aisle while the lights were out. The woman’s voice continued, barely above a whisper, as soothing as a lullaby.

“Between our world and theirs is a heavy veil. A veil most cannot lift. But I can. Come with me now and let me take you into their world. The world of the spirits.”

The lights flickered and went bright. Standing midway down the raised catwalk was a red-haired woman, her back to those of us in the front rows.

The woman turned. Late thirties. Gorgeous. Bright red hair pinned up, with tendrils tumbling down around her neck. A shimmery emerald green silk dress, modestly cut, but tight enough not to leave any curve to the imagination. Dowdy wire-rimmed glasses completed the faux-professional ensemble. The old Hollywood “sex-goddess disguised as Miss Prim-and-Proper” routine. As the thought pinged through my brain, it triggered a wave of déjà vu. I’d seen this woman before, and thought exactly the same thing. Where …?

A sonorous male voice filled the room.

“The Meridian Theater proudly presents, for one night only, Jaime Vegas.”

Jaime Vegas. Savannah’s favorite television spiritualist.

Well, I’d found my necromancer.