The Devil's Graveyard (29 page)

‘Very kind of you to say so,’ the man replied. ‘You know,
you’re
only one facelift away from having a beard of your own.’

‘Well maybe I’ll consider it – when they come back into fashion,’ Powell replied with even heavier sarcasm. ‘Have you got a contract for me, or what?’

‘But of course.’

‘Well, just leave it by the washbasin, please.’ He did not add, as he would have liked to: ‘And then get out.’

The Man in Red reached inside his jacket and pulled out an inch-thick wad of paper. It was good-quality paper, white, standard business-letter size, and densely printed in black ink. He placed it beside the washbasin next to Powell’s left hand.

‘You know, you’re not out of the woods yet, Nigel,’ he said.

‘How’s that?’

‘A man has arrived in the hotel, and he’s trying to ruin your show. The clock is ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.’

‘What man?’ Powell turned around sharply, only to find that the Man in Red had disappeared. He turned back to face the mirror and his visitor’s reflection appeared behind him once more. Grinning. ‘What man?’ he repeated.

‘You know I can’t help you. Those are the rules. But I can tell you that there’s a man out there trying to destroy your show. A man of God. I can’t interfere with that. You had best keep that contract in a safe place. Don’t let it fall into the wrong hands, hmm?’

‘Well, can you at least tell me who it is that’s fucking with my show? Is it this Bourbon Kid guy? Did you send him?’

The Man in Red laughed again. ‘I’m on your side, naturally. I’m not sending anyone to mess up your plans. I like your casino. It’s a fun place. You just have to keep a lookout for someone who’s been sent by the Man Upstairs. That’s who you have to worry about.’

‘So this Bourbon Kid guy works for God?’

‘Ha-ha-ha! No, no, no. Oh dear me, no. The Bourbon Kid, he doesn’t work for either side. Strange fish, that one. You must look closer than that. He’s not the one you have to worry about.’

‘So who is?’

‘Haven’t you figured it out yet?’

‘No. I’m not that clever. Obviously.’

‘Then you’d better wise up fast, my friend. You’re running out of finalists. At the last count, you had only two left.’

Powell was struggling to keep his cool. The arrival of this man with his grinning face had unnerved him, though this was by no means the first time they had met. ‘Why don’t I just get some random nobody to sign the contract this year?’ he suggested.

‘Oh, no, no, no,
no!
That simply wouldn’t do,’ said the Man in Red. ‘This contract has to be earned.
You know that
. I want it to go to someone with talent. Someone desperate for fame and fortune. Someone who will do almost anything for it, no matter what the cost.’

‘You finished?’ Nigel asked impatiently.

The Man in Red smirked. ‘No. There is one other thing, although it may seem trivial in the circumstances.’

‘What is it?’

‘They have run out of ham sandwiches in the casino.’

‘So eat the tuna.’

Without waiting for a response, he looked down at the contract lying on the faux-marble surround of the washbasin. It was the same contract the Man in Red brought him every year. He picked it up and looked back up at the mirror. His visitor had vanished.
Shit.

Powell glanced down at the contract again. According to his now departed visitor, there was someone in the hotel desperate to ruin his show. Who the fuck was it? And why? He only had two finalists left, James Brown and Judy Garland. The only clue he had was that the person trying to fuck up his show was a man of God.

A
man
of God.

Emily had been alone in the dressing room for almost twenty minutes. All five of the finalists were supposed to meet back there after their performances. The other four hadn’t showed, and she was becoming increasingly concerned about their whereabouts. Had there been some sort of change to the schedule that she didn’t know about? Probably not, but she didn’t want to hang around for too long on her own.

Maybe the four guys had decided to go for a drink and had chosen not to invite her? Didn’t they like her? Did she smell? Worse than Cobain? It was unlikely, but all kinds of theories were going through her mind, and all were making her a little paranoid. Better to think about something else for a while, she thought, like whether she was doing everything she could to win the competition.

As she sat at the dressing table, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Should she do something different with her hair for the final? Or stick with the pigtails that the real Judy Garland had worn in the movie
The Wizard of Oz?
Her mother had always said that how you styled your hair was the most important detail, and one that so many other tribute performers overlooked. She was contemplating this and several other matters when there was a knock on the dressing-room door.

‘Miss Shannon ? You in there?’ a man’s voice called from the other side. She recognized the voice straight away. It was Nigel Powell’s.

‘Coming,’ she called out.

She got up and opened the door. Powell was standing outside, flanked by two heavies from his security team. Emily smiled nervously and stepped back to allow them to come in. The two guards made no move to enter the room, but Powell walked in without waiting for a verbal invitation. He was still wearing his bright white suit with the black shirt. His hair was still perfectly in place, but something was definitely amiss. He didn’t look quite as unruffled as usual. It was clear from the look on his face that he was troubled about something.

‘What is it?’ she asked, as he closed the door behind him.

‘Three of the other finalists have gone down with a stomach complaint. I’m worried that someone may have poisoned them.’

‘
What
?’ Emily felt her knees go weak. At once she thought back to the last time she’d eaten. It was at breakfast time, when she’d had a bagel and a cup of coffee. Since then she’d been too nervous to eat. ‘Oh my God! Are they okay? Do you know what they ate?’

Powell tugged uneasily at his shirt collar. ‘No. There’s a suspicious character in the hotel somewhere who we suspect is responsible. We’re trying to track him down now.’

Emily cast her mind back to a couple of earlier incidents that day. ‘I saw a creepy guy at the side of the stage, watching the show. He said he knew it was rigged. He was dressed all in black. Was it him?’

‘It just might be. Don’t you worry, though. I’m moving you to somewhere safe where he won’t be able to get to you.’

Emily felt not only relieved but also (although she wouldn’t admit it) excited about the fact that three of her closest rivals were out of the final.

‘Which three were poisoned?’ she asked.

‘It may be four. I can’t find the James Brown guy at the moment. The other three are definitely out of the running.’

‘Oh dear. Poor souls,’ Emily said, with as much sincerity as she could muster.

‘Quite. Anyway, would you be so kind as to pack up your stuff and come with me. A bellhop will bring everything from your room. And my apologies for the inconvenience, of course.’ He sounded anything but apologetic. But he did sound distracted.

Emily did as he asked, grabbing a few personal belongings from the dressing table and following Powell and the two security guards to the elevator, and from there to a room on the ninth floor. They walked very briskly, and it wasn’t hard to pick up on a distinct sense of urgency about the way they eyed with suspicion everyone they passed.

Room 904 was a large and comfortable double room. Emily sat herself down on the king-size bed in the middle and waited for further instruction from Powell. Initially he stayed outside the room, muttering quietly into the ears of his security staff. Emily considered her new surroundings and decided that they were actually much better than the crappy dressing room she had been sharing with the four guys or the single room she had been assigned for her overnight stay. She was still busy admiring the size of her new room when Powell stepped in and approached her.

‘I’ve set two of my security guards to stand outside in the corridor,’ he said. ‘They won’t let anyone in here but me. But that also means you can’t leave this room until the security people tell you it’s okay. When the finalists are due to be announced they’ll escort you downstairs.’

‘Okay.’

‘Are you okay, Miss Shannon?’

‘I’m fine, thanks – uh – Nigel.’ This was the first time she had used his name, and she wondered if that was acceptable. He held so much power, after all.

‘Good. I just have to go and work out who my new finalists are going to be, and then we’re ready to go.’ He leaned down and stroked Emily’s bare left arm. There was a light in his eyes that made her feel a little uncomfortable. Where he had been reassuring and gentlemanly before, for a moment he seemed creepy and untrustworthy. He winked, then fixed her with a piercing gaze from his hypnotic blue eyes.

‘I think you have a great chance of winning this competition, Emily. You’ve been the best contestant so far. I’ve a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. So unless you lose your voice or –’ he gave a surprisingly high-pitched giggle – ‘get struck by lightning, you should be planning to stick around for a while.’

He stopped stroking her arm and stepped back. She felt excited at the thought of winning the competition, but also slightly repulsed by this new sleazy side to Nigel Powell. She shrugged it off. After all, he probably hadn’t intended to be creepy. He was just trying to be reassuring, surely? She watched as with a pleasant ‘See you at the final,’ he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Increasingly, it dawned on her that she now had a good chance of winning the show. In spite of her natural caution, her mind filled with the thought of seeing the joy on her sick mother’s face when she returned home victorious with a winner’s cheque for a million dollars. That money would pay for all the care her mother needed, and it was now so close. It was as good as hers for the taking.

After Powell had left, the two security guards opened the door with a master key and poked their heads into the room, nodding at Emily as if to reassure her that they were outside. They were both pretty bulky nightclub-bouncer types, and she felt a fair degree of reassurance as a result. And, with her closest rivals now out of the picture, she was more and more optimistic about her chances in the final. She longed to call her mother and tell her how she was doing in the show, but she was equally excited at the thought of surprising her by returning home with the winner’s cheque. And a big fat contract to perform at the Pasadena.

For half an hour, she sat on the large double bed in the middle of the room. There was no television to watch and no radio to listen to. No two ways about it, the Hotel Pasadena really was a strange place. With no television or radio, it was impossible to keep up with current affairs. Iran might have flattened Rhode Island with an A-bomb, for all she knew.

With nothing to do but sit and consider her situation, Emily began to think a little more deeply about things. She had no way of contacting her mother to tell her how she was doing in the show. What if she had wanted to call to find out how her mother was? She had absolutely no way of contacting anyone outside of the Devil’s Graveyard. The telephones in the hotel rooms could only be used to make internal calls, and cell phones couldn’t pick up a signal, and so were equally useless. It was kind of creepy, really. Then, as she thought about the three other singers who had allegedly been struck down by a stomach ailment, she began to ask herself more probing questions. Like, how would an ambulance or the police get to this place in an emergency? How could they be contacted? If she were to suffer some kind of poisoning, would help arrive in time?

Then something far more serious struck her. Something she should have thought about before. Why had Nigel Powell moved her to another room? He had said it was for her own safety. Safety from what?
Food poisoning?
Surely that should have meant simply that she would be warned not to eat anything? It shouldn’t have meant that she had to move to another room, provided she avoided ordering meals from room service. If there was poisoned food in the hotel, it wouldn’t be hunting her down. But the person doing the poisoning just might. Maybe Nigel Powell hadn’t briefed her fully about how much danger she was in? And if that was the case, why hadn’t he?