I jog up the closest backstage ramp, which is tricky in the cowboy boots. It’s dim back here, and the glare from the lights out front is blinding. I push up my glasses and wait till my eyes adjust. Stacks of gear and equipment cases sharpen into focus amid the scaffolding. Shadows flit past in the gloom. None of them wear a tan coat or a purple-and-gold scarf. They’re roadies and tech workers: Aiden Tween shows have a lot of special effects and stage and costume changes. I remember a clip I saw on TV where he’s somehow beamed down to the stage from a spaceship or something. I look up. The spaceship sways on cables overhead.
I move forward. My guess is, she’ll want to be as close as possible to watch Aiden Tween die. Out front, the lights change to cool blues and greens. I hear Aiden Tween oohing over the music. Back here, dancers huddle around a heater, their costumes barely reflecting the stage lights. A guitar tech stands at a rack of instruments, a little meter flashing red and green in the gloom as he plucks strings.
I slip past him, stumbling on a bundled snake of power cables, peering into the depths as I go. The stage lights shift, oranges and blues now. Ahead, they silhouette a stubby figure that would be Sumo, then a blocky, medium-sized one standing in the arms-folded-hip-cocked pose Deb goes for when she’s going to disagree with something you say, then another mountain range of security guys. I pause by some kind of hydraulic thing that begins to rise as the song ends. A roar washes in from the crowd.
The light switches to a dazzling white that gleams off the top of Sumo’s head. The other silhouettes all reach up and tug down the bills of their caps. I’m guessing the blocky silhouette is a woman, but she’s too stocky for Dusan. A “hockey girl,” as Jer calls Deb. Beyond them, I glimpse the stage. Aiden Tween is out there, all alone in the lights, in a sequined red matador jacket. The transmitter for his headset microphone pokes out beneath it, from where it’s clipped to the back of his electric-blue leather pants. He raises a gloved hand.
Time is running out. I change tactics. I scuttle forward, as close to the stage as I can get, and duck into the gloom behind a riser. Staying in the shadows, I turn to face backstage. Glare from the stage lights might pick out Dusan’s face if she’s close enough. Behind me, Aiden Tween’s speaking voice floats out over the crowd, his accent flattened out again.
“My life is about music, and sharing it with you.” Another wave of cheering rolls in. “But there are places in the world where people can’t hear music, not just my music, but any music. One of those places is called Pianvia. People are fighting for freedom there, the freedom to listen to music and to do other things too.”
There’s a stab of motion to my left. Two security mountains spring to life and tackle someone in a flurry of very large arms and legs. A second later they’re strong-arming Toby and the flag past where I’m hiding. “You don’t understand,” Toby is pleading. “They’re going to…”
I let them go. There’s no time to wonder where AmberLea has got to; it’s down to Dusan and me. I scan shapes and faces, shadows and glare. The lights shift. And there she is, way over to my right, by a bank of speakers and behind a chest-high equipment box, biting her lip, cell phone to her ear, waiting for Aiden Tween to die. Instantly, I’m running, stumbling through the dimness in a broad arc to come in behind her.
Onstage Aiden Tween says, “Tonight I have the honor of singing the national anthem of those brave folks, a song that has never been heard before. We’re streaming it around the world to show we’re standing up with them.”
I lose Dusan for a second as I push through some dancers. I’m willing time to stop, running to beat the gunfire, the screams and pandemonium of Aiden Tween going down in front of thousands of people. I swing around a forklift and there she is, maybe fifteen meters ahead. Her coat and the messenger bag are beside her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the national anthem of Pianvia Free.”
In the second of silence that follows, I watch her jab angrily at her cell phone, then smash it down. Aiden Tween starts to sing.
Love you tender, love you true,
Pianvia, I will
Pungent pasture, splotnik too
And pigs have much to swill
I start toward her. She bends, pulls something from her coat. A gun.
Pianvia, Pianvia, fleever, blotz and yill
Oh my country, I love you and I mostly will
Springtime blizzard, summer rain, landslides in the fall…
She doesn’t see me coming. She steadies her arms on the equipment box, taking aim. I’m six meters away. There’s no time for anything but this. I pull the Colt out of my sweater, flick off the safety and swing it level with both hands. Grandpa. Bunny. Me. Maybe it runs in families. “JENNIFER,” I yell.
I pull the trigger.
Click. Nothing. Click.
Too late, I remember I never checked to see if the Colt was loaded. I throw the gun at her and miss. It bashes the equipment box and falls to the ground. Jennifer Blum swings to face me, levels her gun and everything goes into slow, silent motion. I watch the knuckle on her trigger finger start to whiten.
And that’s when AmberLea tackles her at the knees. The gun goes off. Something crashes above me, there’s a yell, and they’re down, wrestling. The gun hand gets free, clubbing wildly at AmberLea. I dive on them too, grabbing at that arm, pushing it to the ground. Everyone is writhing. I feel my glasses come off. The gun fires again. A knee rams into my stomach. I gasp, and my grip loosens.
From out of nowhere a foot in a scuffed Blundstone boot slams down on the gun hand. There’s a nasty cracking noise, then a yell, and the hand goes limp. I look up. My mom is pointing a Glock pistol at Jennifer Blum’s head. “Make my day,” she says. She hasn’t even seen the movie.