Private Screening (42 page)

The screen went dark. She seemed to think, then went on in a clear, quiet voice.

“I guess you know how strange this is for me. But I'm really glad you're here. And I think I'd feel better about
my
being here if we had a moment's silence.”

On the television beside him Lord saw her head bend forward, her eyes close. The audience did the same.

There were still no figures.

Stacy looked up. “A few minutes ago,” she began, “someone told me I made him nervous. I think it was his way of apologizing for not being able to say things quite right and also, in a funny way, to put me more at ease.” She smiled a little. “So one thing I wanted to tell you is that you make me kind of nervous.”

There was a soft, appreciative murmur.

She flicked back her bangs. “Anyhow, backstage, I was trying to figure out how I got here.

“One part was that when I was eleven or so, I had a crush on Paul McCartney. It got pretty convoluted—I even reset my bedroom clock to know what time it was in London.” A second fleeting smile. “And then I decided that Paul would never notice me unless
I
got famous, too. So I started writing songs.”

In front of her, the audience seemed to relax.

“But the part I didn't know,” she told them in a softer voice, “was that I had thoughts and feelings I could only express that way. By hoping someday you'd be here for me.” Walking to the edge of the stage, she added quietly, “And here you are for me, still.

“Only somewhere I stopped seeing your faces. And when that happened, I got afraid you wouldn't come.

“Being afraid like that gets lots of things screwed up. One thing that did was my idea of you.

“So this is kind of my apology.”

She was so exposed, Lord thought, that anything could happen.

On his screen, SNI flashed $400,000, in print beneath her face.

“But a second thing that happened,” Stacy continued, “was that the rest of life passed like shadows at the corner of my eyes—I was hardly looking. I guess that was what brought me here last June, to be part of something bigger. And you were here for me again.”

She paused, looking down at the stage. “You know what happened,” she told them softly, “and while I was trying to come to terms with it, this stuff got started in the media about
my
tragedy. And now someone's found a new way to exploit that.”

Her head snapped up. “Even before this, it really hacked me off. 'Cause it's so obvious that the worst thing about what happened isn't what happened to me.

“So that's another thing I need your help with. If they put me on some magazine cover, and I'm looking sad, don't buy it, okay?” She stopped, grinning suddenly. “Boycott tragedy.”

There was startled laughter, then applause.

Stacy cocked her head. “You know, when I
did
meet Paul McCartney, he was married.”

As the laughter rose, Lord realized he was smiling.

“I don't know what that means exactly, but I think there's a metaphor there somewhere.”

She seemed looser now. “So this concert really is it for me,” she said. “Not to escape what happened here, because you've been great, and I've been luckier than I knew sometimes. But just because I'm old enough to find some other ways of saying what I feel. Maybe something private to be proud of.”

She held the microphone close to her mouth. “But first,” she asked gently, “I'd be proud if you'd help me do one last thing I can't do without you. And that's help save John Damone from whatever
this
thing is.

“He's been my friend for ten years and in our way, we love each other. That's why I'm here.”

On Lord's television, the figure had risen to $675,000.

“Of course it all may sound like hell, but for once I've got some great excuses.” Stacy paused, gaze sweeping the crowd. “Still,” she finished quietly, “I really hope you like it.”

Before they could applaud Stacy turned to the band and then they broke into “Equal Nights.” With a loose swing of her body, she began to sing.

The band had slowed the tempo a bit, Lord noticed; her voice wasn't as strong. But it sounded better now.

On television, she was smiling.

The figure below her face was $1.1 million. Some of the audience began singing with her; when the song ended, $1.5 million flashed on the screen.

Lord wondered how long she could keep it up.

The crowd was cheering. Stacy shook her hair back. “Thanks,” she said. “What's next …”

Lord heard three sharp pops.

There were shrieks; Stacy straightened, then reeled back.

Running down the catwalk, Lord saw her catch her balance. She stood there, staring out.

To the right of the stage, the crowd had caved in on something. There was fighting, pulling; then police pushed through and extracted a skinny young blond man. “Free El Salvador,” he yelled.

One cop held up a silver object. There were scattered cries of “Cap gun …”

Like Chinatown, Lord thought.

She was utterly still, head turned toward the blond man. The audience seemed stunned, afraid of how she'd react.

Climbing the catwalk, Lord saw her face on SNI.

Her eyes flashed with anger as they dragged the man away. “El Salvador's one thing,” she said to the retreating figure. “But
you're
something else.”

There was a nervous ripple of laughter.

On the screen, the total jumped to $2.3 million.

Stacy turned to the crowd. “Let me find something to sing, okay? Kind of get me back in the mood.”

She said a few words to Leon, and then the band began playing “Love Me Right.”

The tempo was an easier, swaying rhythm, and she sang without frenzy or artifice. After a while, her body caught the music, swirling her hair. On the television, Lord saw her smile again.

Her voice slowed for the end:

“You know the fire

Lives through lovers

This night the fire

Burns in
us
.”

The Arena echoed with applause and whistles, the reactions of a normal crowd.

Suddenly, the figure jumped to $4.1 million.

It startled Lord. One more song, and she could get off. He leaned over the railing.

“So what do
you
want?” Stacy asked the crowd.

A man called, “‘Desperado.'”

With a mock grimace, she turned to Leon. “Can
we
do that?”

“
I
can.”

Quit screwing around, Lord thought. Leon played the first few notes, and then she began singing it as a soft, smoky love song:

“Desperado

You know you ain't getting younger

Your pain and your hunger

Are driving you home.…”

She missed some notes, a little unsure. Her only backup was Leon on the keyboard.

Five million dollars flashed on the television.

As Lord waited for her to finish, her voice became stronger. On the final slow stanza, it was high and clear and beautiful. The last notes seemed to float there.

Applause came rolling over her. She bowed her head, then turned to look up at him.

Lord raised one hand.

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. The crowd kept applauding.

Stacy waited them out. “Okay.” She smiled. “So what's next?”

Lord stared in disbelief. “‘My Funny Valentine,'” a woman cried out.

“
That
was nine years ago.” Shading her eyes, she found the caller. “Were you there?”

“
Yes
.”

“You know,” Stacy said slowly, “I'm really flattered you remember.”

She looked back to Leon, and began.

Her version gave the lyrics an upbeat, comic lilt. Tensely searching the audience, Lord realized that Johnny Moore was watching him.

As Stacy continued, he saw, a benign feeling seemed to spread over the Arena. It was only at the end that her voice lost a little.

She touched her throat. “I'd better make this one the last,” she said with a quick smile. “'cause I never promised I wouldn't cut a record.”

The crowd laughed in response, and then her smile vanished.

“A while ago,” she went on, “someone signaled that we've done what we set out to do. I can't thank you enough for that, for me and for John Damone.” She looked at the camera. “Really, I'd like to thank everyone.”

Pausing, her voice became cooler. “It's time now,” she said, “for John and Alexis to come back.”

There was total silence.

She looked back at the crowd. “Okay,” she said, “I used to do slow, sad songs to close, 'cause they seemed to work better. But I don't want to finish tonight with one. So I've come up with a familiar song that isn't, and maybe you can sing it with me.”

There was a drum riff, and then Stacy launched into a jaunty version of “That'll Be the Day”:

“That'll be the day

When you make me cry

You say you're gonna leave me

You know it's a lie

'Cause that'll be the da-a-ay

When I die.…”

Stacy grinned.

There was laughter and applause, and then the whole place was moving. The band tore loose, cymbals crashing and drum pounding as the crowd sang with her to the final line:

“That'll be the da-a-ay

When I die.”

When the audience began calling her name, she didn't move.

It went on for minutes. When it ended, Stacy was still standing there.

“I love you,” she said, and it was over.

If only she had not left him so off-balance, Phoenix thought.

When the picture changed, he saw Alexis's face change with it.

On the screen, Parnell sat like a wax dummy between five tense supplicants, three men and two women. Alexis seemed transfixed.

Her husband's voice was halting. “The choice you've given me—it's too hard.” His eyes fell to a notecard. “Too hard—”

Phoenix began to smile at his confusion.

“Ah, this is Valencia Cruz of Taos, New Mexico.” Belatedly, Parnell's head twitched toward the wiry, olive-skinned woman closest to him. “She's the mother of six children,” he read on, “whose husband has lost his job and health insurance. Now she needs a costly bone marrow transplant in order to live—”

As the woman stared at him, Alexis reddened.

“Beside her is the Reverend Howell—” Stopping, Parnell squinted at the card; a black man in a dashiki leaned closer to correct him. “
Harlell
Cleveland,” Parnell amended, “of Washington, DC. Mr.… the Reverend Cleveland runs a successful drug rehabilitation program for teenagers which has lost its federal funding.”

For a moment, Parnell spoke faster. “To my left is Theresa Licavoli of Saint Louis, Missouri. Ah—Theresa has the problem of trying to house elderly people without families—” Interrupting, an intense, sharp-featured woman said something in his ear. Giving her a cornered look, Parnell murmured, “Uh—Ms. Licavoli tells me this problem affects thousands across the country.…”

So far, Phoenix thought, SNI had chosen beautifully.

“To my right,” Parnell struggled on, “is David Feldstein of here—San Francisco. David is director of a food program for low-income families which was recently defunded.” Parnell stopped at something in the card. “Mr. Feldstein would like to make a statement.…”

“It's shocking,” the bearded man said over him, “when we can spend billions on some so-called Russian threat and starve our own people.”

Parnell nodded dumbly, to indicate sympathy or perhaps to cut him off. When there was silence, he looked back at the card.

He stared at it for several seconds.

“Last,” he read haltingly, “is Jon Gustafson of Bemidji, Minnesota.…”

His mouth kept moving, speechless, then murmuring, “Head of ‘Parents without Children.'…”

Distractedly, he wiped his forehead. In her husband's silence, Phoenix realized that Alexis's face was pinched.

“Ah, this is composed of parents whose children were abducted.…”

Phoenix began laughing.

The sound made Alexis start. She turned to him, tears welling.

“Three years ago,” Parnell said woodenly, “Mr. Gustafson's four-year-old son was … kidnapped by his former wife. So far he has spent $110,000 in an effort to find Matthew.…”

Suddenly and completely, his voice broke. Tears ran down Alexis's face.

Someone at SNI, Phoenix knew, was a genius.

“So,” Parnell went on abruptly, “he founded—ah, PWC to computerize all information which might assist recovery of kidnapped children.…”

The stolid, brown-haired man bent forward. “Marie,” he said to the camera, “if you're watching, please, bring Matt home and I won't do anything. I just want to see him again.…”

Parnell gaped at him, then turned as if at a voice in the studio, gripping the card in front of him. “Ah—I've been deeply moved by meeting these four—five fine people.” He glanced at Gustafson. “It's hard to choose—”

Turning, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I've decided … to give them each two hundred thousand dollars.…”

Alexis had stopped crying; suddenly, Phoenix felt the explosive mix of her captivity with what she saw and heard.

“I also would like to do something—ah, personal.” Belatedly, Parnell remembered to face Gustafson. “Jon, I'd like to pledge an additional two hundred thousand in the name of my own lost son, Robert.…”

She was pale, Phoenix realized, trembling.

Abruptly, Alexis stood, mouth tight with anger and emotion. It twisted as she turned to him, struggling to form the word “Please.…”

Instinctively, he put the microphone around her neck, and stepped behind the camera, to let her speak.

Something about the first kidnapping, he sensed with rising excitement, had divided her from Parnell. Something he might open like a wound.