Compact with the Devil: A Novel (39 page)

“Take care of security, Jane,” said Nikki, shaking her head.

“I’m on it,” answered Jane. “You,” she snapped as she snatched a headset off the assistant director, and he jerked to attention. “What are the security codes?”

As Jane walked away, Nikki looked around the backstage area. Jenny was making sure Cano’s gang was well secured, and the director was obliviously stomping among the bodies, shouting directions into his headset. For the moment everything seemed under control. Nikki leaned against a pillar and waited for the next emergency.

Svenka arrived next. Throwing off her scarf and exchanging kisses with Nikki, she looked positively delighted.

“Oh, Nikki, this is marvelous! I saw Camille on the way out—she said she would call Madame Feron and clear everything up. And here you have Cano! You are superb! I rushed to be the first on the scene. I wanted to help!”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to need some help once the police arrive. Can you help with that?” Nikki looked hopefully at Svenka, who beamed.

“Of course! I was a law student before I was Carrie Mae. I know how to handle things!”

“Good,” said Nikki with relief.

“What are we telling the gendarmes?” said Svenka. “They are going to want someone.”

“Feed them Cano. That should keep them busy; just make sure Carrie Mae doesn’t get mentioned. We also haven’t got the linchpin in this whole fiasco: Brandt Dettling.”

“Kit’s manager?” asked Svenka, sounding surprised. It was Nikki’s turn to nod.

“We’ve got his assistant.” Nikki nodded in Angela’s direction. “Brandt hired Cano to kill Kit, so he could sell off his back catalog and save his record company. I’ve got a teammate on him, but I haven’t heard from her yet, so I don’t know his whereabouts at the moment.” Svenka nodded again. “Meanwhile, I want Jenny and Jane”—she pointed to her friends—“to get out of here before the gendarmes show up. If anyone asks, they were groupies the band picked up, and nobody knows where they’ve gone.”

“Nikki, the police are on their way up,” said Jane, appearing beside her.

“May I say that I’m representing Mr. Masters?” asked Svenka, and Nikki shrugged.

“Sure, it can’t hurt, and I’ll tell Kit he’s hired you when he gets offstage.” Svenka blinked and glanced at Jane, who smiled smugly.

“Very well,” said Svenka, stripping off her gloves. “You may leave this to me.”

Jenny arrived to stand next to Jane. Nikki smiled at the two of them. Jenny ran a hand over her hair, smoothing the one flyaway strand, and then dropped her hand to rest on her hip. Jane’s hair was ruffled, her Bettie Page bangs had separated and were sticking up, and her T-shirt was untucked and protruding from under her sweater.

“So the Swedish volleyball team seems to have things under control,” Jenny commented.

“She does,” said Nikki. “Why don’t the two of you split? Find Ellen; regroup and meet me at Kit’s hotel.”

“Will do,” said Jenny, tugging on Jane’s sleeve.

“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate this,” said Nikki.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” said Jenny as they strolled away.

The cops arrived and within seconds had draped everything in yellow tape. Svenka was handling everything with an adroitness that surprised Nikki. Svenka had untapped talents. Cano and his friends were being marched out of the room as Kit began his third song. Nikki sighed and leaned against the pillar again. Things were going to be messy at work. She’d probably be on desk duty for months. Why was everything she touched such an enormous mess? Could she not make things run smoothly, just once?

A French detective arrived on the scene; he was a tall man with a rumpled trench coat and weary eyes over a curving French nose. Nikki watched him watch Svenka verbally muscling the gendarmes around. The gendarmes were demanding to speak with Monsieur Masters, or see Monsieur Masters, or possibly just get Monsieur Masters’s autograph. Whatever they wanted, the “Monsieur Masterses” were flying fast and furious. Nikki watched the tall detective prepare to swoop in on Svenka, and Nikki squared her shoulders, redying herself to help. She marched toward the yellow police tape that surrounded the area. Just as she was about to duck under the tape, the band came running offstage to the sound of thunderous applause. Nikki changed direction and grabbed Kit.

“All right, everyone, get your stories straight,” Nikki hissed to the sweating band. “Jenny was just some groupie you picked up. The blonde over there is Svenka, Kit’s new assistant. You don’t know who attacked you or why. Got it?”

“Wait, if our story is that we don’t know anything, does that mean I actually do know something?” asked Burg.

“Trust me, Burg, you know nothing,” said Hammond.

“Great. That’s settled, off you go,” said Nikki, and shoved them in Svenka’s general direction. Nikki made as if to follow, but Kit grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

“Don’t go out there!” he whispered, peering around the pillar. “I’ve heard my name six times in the last minute. I may not know French, but I know that’s not good.”

“Well, between the gunfight and the escaped Basque convict I think they want to ask you what the hell is going on.”

“You know very well that I don’t know what the hell is going on,” said Kit. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Pulling her by the hand, Kit wove through the throngs of confused backup girls, celebrities, and crew. He paused briefly at the refreshments table, running his fingers over the bottles until he found one he liked.

“It’s not champagne,” he said, tossing the bottle to Nikki, who caught it neatly, “but it’ll have to do.”

“Where are we going?” asked Nikki, holding up the bottle to read the label. It was nonalcoholic sparkling cider.

“We’re going to do what everyone else in Paris is doing,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “We’re going to see the fireworks!”

Nikki checked her watch. It was twenty minutes till midnight.

“We’ll never make it,” she said as he tossed open the front doors of the opera house.

“We’re just a few metro stops away,” he yelled, bounding down the stairs. “We’ll make it if we run!” Nikki followed after him. They dashed up the street to the nearest turnstiles. The Metro, free all night long on New Year’s, was still nearly full of last-minute travelers. They scrambled into a car as the doors slid closed and joined a giddy crowd that was singing along to an accordion
player’s catchy tune. Kit’s face pulled into a puzzled expression and then he turned to Nikki, who laughed, recognizing “Devil May Care” set to an accordion and being mangled by French teenagers. One of the teenagers ripped open a bag of noisemakers that unrolled in flickering foil tongues.

“Bonne année!”
yelled the girl, and the car answered back. She shoved noisemakers at Kit and Nikki. The car filled with the hollow frog voices of the noisemakers, and the accordion player matched the beat with a new song, something zydeco-ish that Nikki didn’t recognize. The train pulled to a stop and the party moved up the stairs and out into the streets.

“Come on,” Kit yelled over the din of the crowd. “We’re going to miss it.” Reaching back, he grabbed Nikki’s hand and began to run. He dodged people with a ruthless determination, leaving a trail of squished toes and jostled elbows in their wake. He came to a stop almost directly under the enormous Ferris wheel. Nikki skidded to a stop, laughing breathlessly and clutching their bottle of sparkling cider. Around them, people milled with alternating moods of disinterest and drunken revelry. Somebody had a small radio that was cranking out tinny French pop.

“Would you look at that?” he asked, looking back the way they had come and wrapping an arm around her waist, hugging her close.

Nikki looked up the Champs-Elysées to Napoleon’s glowing arch of triumph and understood the awe in Kit’s voice. The six-lane road divided by a generous median was usually crowded with zooming cars, and the sidewalks, wide as most roads, were normally sprinkled with shoppers. But tonight, the entire street was a sea of humanity, swaying and twisting, warming the air with their presence—nothing but people as far as the eye could see.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” said Kit.

“It is kind of unbelievable,” answered Nikki, watching as a circle of Australian backpackers began to bounce, chanting something catchy and probably rugby related.

“No, I mean me. I can’t believe that I’m here. I should be dead.” Nikki looked into Kit’s face, seeing more seriousness than she was used to. “I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“It wasn’t exactly single-handed,” said Nikki, trying to joke him out of his mood; she wasn’t very good at seriousness. “I had a little help from Duncan and the girls.”

“Right, from my uncle. That’s a hell of a thing.”

“A good thing?”

“I … yes.” Kit nodded. “But talk about a total shocker. I just feel like … I’m not at all who I thought I was. No wonder Mum wanted me to be an accountant. And no wonder I always wanted all the thrill-seeking crap—with my genes they’re lucky I didn’t become a soldier of fortune. So much stuff makes so much more sense now! Like no wonder Nan always seemed so fond of Duncan. She kept knitting him socks.” He shook his head, still seeming perplexed.

“You’re still the same person,” said Nikki.

“Yeah, I guess, but I just wish I’d known before. I feel like I would have done stuff differently. It’s a total shift of perspective on my own life.”

“Well,” said Nikki, quoting him back to himself, “where you’re going can’t be half as hard as where you are now.”

“I’ll drink to that!” he laughed, reaching for the bottle of cider. He barely had the wire cap and paper off when the plastic cork exploded from the bottle in a cider-propelled arc. They watched in awe as the cork went up and then ducked as it came down on
a man a few feet in front of them. Still ducking, they shuffled to the left.

“I think it’s OK,” she said, poking her head up cautiously.

“That’s all we need tonight,” said Kit, popping up next to her like a prairie dog. “‘Kit Masters Blinds French Man with Cider Cork.’” He read off the imaginary headline; Nikki grinned.

“You know, I take it back,” he said. “I think you’re the biggest surprise of the week. I didn’t know there was anyone like you. Actually, I don’t think there is anyone like you. You’re pretty amazing.”

“I could say the same about you,” answered Nikki.

Behind them the
BONNE ANNÉE
sign lit up, and the crowd began to cheer.

“Happy New Year, Nikki,” said Kit warmly, and leaned in for a New Year’s kiss that became something more. Nikki was dimly aware of flashing lights, and when she looked around again the sky was awash in fireworks.

“It’s not the same, is it?”

Nikki looked at Kit, knowing that he was talking about Z’ev.

“Cider,” he said, holding up the bottle and taking a drink. “It’s not the same as champagne.”

“We can’t have champagne,” answered Nikki.

“You could.”

“I’m happy with cider.”

“But you’re thinking of champagne.”

Nikki opened her mouth to deny it but found she couldn’t. Kit shrugged and looked back up at the fireworks. Nikki sighed and took his hand, leaning against his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she said, knowing it was inadequate.

“I have an actual family for the first time in my life. I’m sober
for the first time in ten years, and I’ve written a new song. I think maybe I can live without champagne.”

“You’re going to be fine,” said Nikki, and Kit looked at her as if he were going to say something and then laughed instead.

“Happy New Year!” he shouted to the passing crowd.

“
Bonne année!”
shouted Nikki, not to be outdone, and the crowd roared back.

“I suppose we should go around back or something,” said Nikki as they reached the hotel. There were mobs of people in front, but Nikki couldn’t tell if they were fans or homeward-bound partiers.

“Screw it,” said Kit. “I’m not in the mood. I want to go in the front for once.” He forged a path to the door, and the doorman opened it as they approached.

“Mr. Masters,” murmured the doorman, identifying them with the superhuman skills of recognition that only doormen possess.

“Maybe not the wisest choice,” whispered Nikki as the sound of Kit’s name brought a screech of identification from two fans on the sidewalk.

“Since when has wisdom been on my résumé?” asked Kit, grinning. “I pay other people for that.” Nikki laughed again as the doorman hastily closed the doors behind them.

“I don’t suppose you still have my room key?” asked Kit, and Nikki shook her head.

“I left in a bit of a hurry,” she explained.

“Front desk it is then,” he said with a shrug.

“Ah, Monsieur Masters,” said the concierge, his face lighting up when he saw them. Nikki saw him take in their interlocked fingers with a flickering glance that betrayed no emotion. “I am glad to see you. There seems to have been some upset at the
Bonne Année
show?”

“Er, yes,” said Kit with a glance at Nikki. “Lost my room key in the process. Don’t suppose you can give us a spare?”

“Of course,” said the concierge, sliding a key-card across the desk. “But I believe your band is there, waiting for you.” He paused slightly and cleared his throat. “You may have known this already, but I did not wish you to be surprised.”

“Uh, OK, thanks,” said Kit, taking the key with a shrug. “That’s fine. We probably need to talk to the band anyway,” he said, turning to Nikki, who nodded. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the primly mustached concierge watching them with a kind of paternal glow. She wondered if Kit really failed to notice such things or if he was just used to it.

“After we talk to the band, let’s go to the hospital and find Mum and Duncan,” he said as they got in the elevator. “Or my uncle, or whatever.” She watched his eyebrow twitch as he tried to come to grips with the idea of family.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, and he looked over, surprised.

“Will I?”

“Reality shifts, and it takes the mind a day or two to catch up, but it does eventually. It’s like jet lag for your brain.”