Compact with the Devil: A Novel (20 page)

“Brandt,” burst out Kit, “I’m sorry about yelling at you like that on the phone. You know, before the accident yesterday. I just don’t think I was wrong to walk out.”

Brandt shrugged. “Forget about it. What’s done is done. On to the next challenge.” He patted Kit on the shoulder and Kit smiled back with relief.

“I just realized that if we’d died in that bus crash, that yelling at you would have been the last time we talked. I don’t want anger to be the last thing to pass between me and my best mate.”

“Sure, your mate,” said Brandt with a smile, “but your manager could be foaming at the mouth and you wouldn’t give a damn.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t foam—you wouldn’t want to mess up that suit!” Kit laughed.

“I’ll remember you said that next time I’m foaming,” answered Brandt easily. “Angela will call you in a couple minutes when the bus gets here.” He nodded to the room in general and walked out. Nikki slid into the room to clear the doorway for him; Brandt swept by without acknowledging her existence.

Nikki surveyed the room. Kit and Duncan looked as if they weren’t planning to move any time soon. Kit smiled, but he looked genuinely pleased to see her.

“Hi,” said Nikki, suddenly shy. “I, uh, came to see if Trista had any makeup information she wanted to share with me.” Trista nodded weakly. For the first time Nikki noticed the dirty yellow and green bruise on her temple and puffed-up eye. Trista had taken a major beating from the bus. She felt another pang of doubt.

“All of my equipment was on the bus, so I’m sure Terry’s packed it up safely. I have a notebook with most of the details on everyone’s allergies and moisturizer requirements.”

Kit shook his head.

“Moisturizer … This sounds like something that will only confuse and confound me. I’m going to pop over to Louis and see how he’s doing.” Trista nodded and waved feebly as Kit stood up to go.

“I’ll see you down on the bus?” he asked, touching Nikki’s hand briefly as he passed, and she nodded in response.

Trista continued as the door closed. “The notebook also has everyone’s show faces detailed. The hardest part will be the backup girls. It would be a good idea if you could get some practice in with the spray brush before the show.”

Nikki looked at Trista in disbelief. The question had been an
opening for her to kick Duncan and Kit out—not actually talk about makeup.

“They can practically do it themselves these days, though,” said Trista reassuringly, mistaking her appalled silence for job-performance anxiety. “Terry has my call sheets for who I see first. Just stick to that order, and everything should come out all right.”

“Right,” said Nikki. “As incredibly fascinating as that is, I would actually like to talk about something slightly more important. I searched everyone’s rooms last night.”

“Searched … why?” asked Trista.

“That semi hit us on purpose, as I’m sure the police reports will show. These accidents are getting more serious. We need to figure out who’s behind it.”

“No one on the tour would want to hurt Kit,” repeated Trista tiredly.

Nikki agreed. “God no. He’s the goose who’s laying the golden eggs. No one would want to hurt him. Maybe just shake him up a little.”

“It’s not like that,” said Trista, looking hurt. “We all love him.”

“Did you know that Richie is packing enough pharmaceutical-grade pot to open his own shop in California?”

“Oh … I thought that was Burg, honestly.”

“Nope. Richie. I think it’s why he packs so many shirts. I don’t think he wants to wear any of the ones that smell like pot around Kit.”

“Well, you see,” said Trista brightly, “he’s only thinking of Kit.”

“Yeah,” said Nikki, “real sweet.” Trista wasn’t going to be easy. “Then there’s Angela, calling ahead to all the interviews to get champagne put in the greenrooms.”

Trista flushed with anger. “I don’t like her! Lord knows I’ve
tried! She’s very efficient, but I just don’t like her. I think she’s mad because we don’t all worship her instead of Kit.”

“Probably. Did you know that Hammond is writing a tell-all book about his life on tour with various rock stars?”

Trista shifted uncomfortably in her bed, tugging at the blanket. “I’m sure he wouldn’t actually include Kit,” she said weakly.

“It’s a retirement book,” said Nikki. “It’s the kind of thing that an author hopes to make a million off of and retire, because he knows once he exposes everyone’s dirty secrets he’ll never work again. As a retirement plan, it’s probably better than Carrie Mae’s.”

“Better than being a makeup lady, you mean?” asked Trista, skewering Nikki with a steel-eyed glare.

“Better than being dead,” said Nikki, and Trista sank back into the pillows.

“Dead or makeup. Hell of a choice.”

“I thought you liked this job,” said Nikki.

“I do,” said Trista, but her eyes slid away, and she looked down.

“Do you really?” Nikki pressed her, and once again, she caught the restless flash of anger in Trista’s gaze.

“I love Kit,” Trista said at last. “The job is…” She raised her hand and fluttered it on a horizontal axis. “I thought it would give me the excitement. You know, the buzz, like Carrie Mae. But it’s a lot of routine and late nights.” Trista sighed. “It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t know what it’s like. You’re still in. But there’s going to come a time … You’re going to want kids, or maybe you’ll just get tired of wondering who’s on the other side of the door when someone knocks and calls your name. But once you quit … What are you supposed to do? There aren’t many places for a retired secret agent who only has Carrie Mae on her résumé. It’s not like the CIA, where you just have to show your future employer a
résumé with a bunch of blacked-out bars and they hire you on the spot. And God forbid you actually have to sell makeup. Have you ever tried to do that? That’s … that’s scary.”

“Yes,” said Nikki, remembering the evening she’d tried to force-feed an unruly client a tube of lipstick. “But while you may all love Kit, you all have lives outside of Kit. Forces that drive you.”

“I just don’t think anyone would hurt him…,” Trista said weakly.

“I searched your luggage too,” said Nikki quietly, and Trista blanched. It wasn’t ever going to be admissible in court, but for Nikki, it was all the confirmation she needed.

“Why would you do that?” asked Trista with a brittle laugh.

“Well, I started to wonder just what was driving you. I found your tool kit. And under the lining of your bag was the manual for the stage assembly. The flat on the bus—that was you too. Too bad you hadn’t investigated bus braking technology since 1970. You might have actually succeeded with that one. And the helicopter—you must have bribed someone, right?”

Trista was breathing in rapid, shallow breaths.

“I might not have bought it even then, because unlike everyone else, you really do put Kit first. But then there were those text messages from Camille. She put you up to it, didn’t she?”

“No!” exclaimed Trista, but she was unable to make eye contact.

“That’s how she knew about the accidents. She was so certain they were just accidents. What was she thinking? That Kit would just get scared and quit?”

“I told her it wouldn’t work,” said Trista with a sob. “But she kept insisting. She visited him in rehab and he was so … wiped. She said if he kept going he was going to die. She didn’t think he could stay sober and be a rock star. She said I had to scare him into
taking time off, that I’d be saving his life.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt him.”

“And it didn’t occur to either of you that maybe he could stay sober?” asked Nikki incredulously.

“Do you know what the odds are on that?” asked Trista.

“What about the semitruck?”

“Semi?” asked Trista, confused, then her eyes widened in apprehension. “I swear, that wasn’t me,” she said earnestly. “I’m not crazy; someone could have been killed! I know I haven’t got a leg to stand on, but honestly, I didn’t arrange that. It really was an accident!”

“I was sitting behind the bus driver,” said Nikki. “The semi hit us on purpose. I mean, what? None of your plans worked, so you thought you’d call in Cano? Don’t you think that’s a bit like using a nuclear weapon to hammer a nail?”

Trista gaped speechlessly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Trista.

“Oh, come on,” said Nikki. “It was you in the café. You were the one who met with Cano. I thought your sweats were gray, but they were really just your faded old Carrie Mae set. I chased you back to the stadium. The security guard wouldn’t stop you, but he would stop me. And then while I was dealing with him, you changed out of your sweats and threw yourself on the floor as though you’d been knocked unconscious.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Trista, her eyes wide, her breath coming in gasps. The beeping of her heart-rate monitor began to speed up. “You have to believe me! I would never … I didn’t know Cano had escaped! I would never…,” Trista sputtered, lost among a morass of half-sentences. “Cano would kill Kit in a heartbeat. I would never collaborate with him. That’s why I wanted you to stay with the tour. I wanted you to protect Kit!”

“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” said Nikki, sitting back with a frustrated sigh.

“I don’t know,” said Trista. “I really don’t. Killing Kit doesn’t help anyone.”

“What about Duncan?” asked Nikki, and Trista shook her head.

“I just tried to use him to keep you away from me. He loves Kit, and he would never work with Cano.”

“Hm,” said Nikki. “Well, maybe you can explain why Duncan has a picture of Camille in his room. It’s a picture of Camille and her husband, back when they were still IRA.”

“I … I think you’re going to have to ask him.”

“Trista,” said Nikki dangerously, “do not mess with me. The pieces fit—it could have been you with Cano. I’m trying to believe you, but since my first partner with Carrie Mae turned traitor, let’s just say I’m not exactly buying this story hook, line, and sinker.”

“I had to rig the accidents,” protested Trista. “Camille said it was the right thing to do. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought … I thought I was helping. But Cano, the bus accident, that wasn’t me. I wouldn’t ever do that, not in a million years!”

Kit poked his head into the room. “Angela just phoned up. Time to get a wiggle on. I hope you’ve got all of her secrets out of her!”

“The route’s been cleared,” murmured Duncan, pushing open the door all the way. “We need to go now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Kit, entering the room. “Bye, Trista,” he said, leaning down to kiss her. “We’ll see you when you’re better?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she answered with a smile, looking at Nikki hopefully.

“I’m sure she’ll be back to her old self in no time,” said Nikki.
“I’m sure there won’t be any more accidents.” She raised an eyebrow at Trista, who gulped.

“Better than my old self,” promised Trista, and Kit smiled.

“That’s what I like to hear! I don’t like to be without you,” he said. “And I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around to look after me.”

“Well, you’ve got Nikki till I get back,” said Trista. “She’ll take care of you.”

Kit beamed and Duncan glowered. Nikki wasn’t sure what to make of either look.

Nikki followed Kit and Duncan out to the waiting bus. It was slow going; Kit stopped every few feet for autograph-seekers.

“Can you sign this for me?” asked one girl, presenting a
Hotel Hell
CD. She was a blushing seventeen with a wrist full of bangles and too much eye makeup.

“Sure,” he replied easily. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my little sister … Rochelle.”

“Uh-huh,” said Kit, and Nikki could see he didn’t believe her. He signed the CD with a flourish and handed it over. “Here you are, Rochelle.”

“
Merci
,” she said, and then her face froze as she realized she’d been caught. Kit moved on and Nikki smothered a laugh. Kit looked back over his shoulder and winked.

“Is Burg OK?” asked a boy holding out a CD for signing. “He’s my favorite.”

“Yeah,” said Kit, a look of pleased surprise on his face. “He just got a couple of bumps and bruises. I’ll tell him you asked.”

“I made this for you,” said a girl of about fifteen, thrusting a teddy bear at Kit. Nikki saw that its fur had been clipped and colored to match Kit’s tattoos. Kit solemnly took the bear without comment.

“I’ve seen you in concert three times. I really love you.”

“Thank you,” he said, and kept moving.

“I love you!” she called after him, starting to cry. Nikki couldn’t tell what emotion the tears sprang from: love, disappointment, hysteria. It all seemed jumbled together in one sobbing teenage face. Nikki wondered if she’d ever been like that.

The crowd in front of the bus was massive, and Duncan was using a fair amount of muscle just to bully a path through the press of bodies. Nikki tried her best to keep the path clear, but she was no six-foot security dude. Lacking mountainous bulk, she resorted to the pointed use of elbows.

“Thanks for coming out, everyone,” said Kit, climbing onto the bus stairs. “I appreciate your-well wishes and I know my band and crew do too.” There was a cheer from the crowd and a wave of flashes from a few press members. “I would also like to thank the doctors and staff at the St. Denis hospital for their patience and expert care.” This got another cheer from the hometown crowd. “Thanks again and I hope to see you in Paris!” Kit waved and let the bus driver close the door. “All right,” he said, tossing the teddy bear to Nikki. “Who’s for whist?”

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” she asked. “It didn’t go very well last time.”

“I’m stubborn,” he said, flashing a smile. “I keep trying till I get it right.”

“Actually,” said Angela, her clear voice sounding suspiciously parental, “we need to go over a few things before Paris.”

“Fine,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m sitting just here,” she said, pointing to a seat near the front, and turned her back to Nikki, effectively blocking her from joining in. “I don’t know why you got a single-story bus,” she said peevishly. “It’s like working in a madhouse.”