XO (26 page)

It was as if the more successful you were at pleasing the populace, the more they felt entitled to suck your soul from your body.

Crystal Stanning took a phone call. Dance paid no attention to her until she noticed the deputy’s shoulders rise and her brow furrow—a configuration often signaling bad, or at least perplexing, news. “You sure?” she asked.

By now the others in the room were watching her.

She disconnected, grimacing. “That was my husband. He took Taylor,
that’s our son, to football practice, the early one before school starts? And, it was weird. I told him about the song the perp’s playing, Kayleigh’s song? And he said somebody got into the PA system at the high school field and rigged the tape player so the third verse played over and over.”

“Oh, hell,” Madigan muttered. “He’s not using the phones.”

Thinking ahead of them once again.

And what were the clues in the lyrics? Dance looked over the sheet that Harutyun had printed.

One night there’s a call, and at first you don’t know

What the troopers are saying from the side of the road.

Then you see in an instant that your whole life has changed.

Everything gone, all the plans rearranged.

Dance did a double take at the verse, which spoke to her personally—thinking about the death of her husband. A trooper’s call was how she’d learned of the accident.

Then she forced the thought away.

Where did the perp have in mind for attacking next? Somewhere by a roadside?

A glance at the map of the Madera-Fresno area revealed what had to be a thousand miles of roads.

Another thought occurred to her: the assault on Bobby Prescott and on the file sharer followed closely on the calls to Kayleigh; they had perhaps an hour or so to identify and save the next victim.

MADIGAN SAID, “REMEMBER,
‘road’ could mean more than just a highway.”

Dance nodded. “Road crew. Like Bobby. Let’s call them. I told them to be careful but we ought to let them know he’s played another song. And Alicia Sessions. At the Cowboy Saloon I could see Edwin didn’t like her any more than he did Bobby.”

She opened her notebook and displayed the numbers she had for everyone in the crew. Dance, Harutyun and Stanning notified them all. Half of the crew were at the convention center; the other half at the luncheon venue, being held at a nice country club in the northern part of town. Kayleigh would be singing a few songs so they’d set up a small performing space. Tye Slocum was en route to the venue, but Dance alerted him about the danger. Alicia, it seemed, had run out of gas on the way to Kayleigh’s luncheon but was safe. She was waiting in a coffee shop for a service truck.

Dance bent toward the screen and was reading through one of Kayleigh’s unofficial sites, which gave details of the luncheon. A lot of posters wished they could have gotten tickets but they’d sold out quickly.

Madigan was speaking into his phone, “Come on, how hard is it? The fucking car is a mile long! And goddamn bright red.” He glanced at the others with a shrug, meaning the snake remained invisible.

Dance called Kayleigh, who’d just arrived at the luncheon, on the singer’s new mobile number and told her of the possible threat.

“No! Not again. Are you sure?”

“Afraid we are. We haven’t said anything to the press about using the song verses as announcements so we have to assume it’s really a threat. Where are your sister and niece?”

“They’re at home with Daddy and Sheri.”

“Darthur’s with you?”

“Yes. And there’re about a dozen people here now. We’re expecting a hundred or so. There’s lots of security. You need a ticket to get in.”

Dance continued to read the screen; an idea occurred to her. “Kayleigh, this fan of the month. Who is it?”

“I think his name’s … hold on. Sam Gerber. Do you think he’s in danger? Oh, Kathryn, what are we going to do?”

“So he’s not there?”

“No, we don’t get started for another forty-five minutes or so. I came early for a sound check. Should we call him?”

“Do you have his number?”

“I’ll find it.”

As she waited, Dance looked down and her eyes caught a series of posts on the fan site. They’d been made just that morning.

Who is this Gerber? Is he worthy of our wonderful Kayleigh? He hasn’t posted much about her, hardly anything. Doesn’t seem fair to some of us that he’s going.

—ESKayleighfan

Just chill Edwin. there’s room for more than one fan.

—Musiqueman3468

yeah come on, he won a contest, whats the big deal? I’m happy for him. he gets to have LUNCH with Kayleigh!!!!!

—Suzi09091

He doesn’t deserve it. Other people do. That’s my point.

—ESKayleighfan

Kayleigh came back on the line with Gerber’s number. Dance jotted it down. “Thanks. We’re doing everything we can. I’ll call you back.”

She called Sam Gerber and got voicemail. It was a local area code and exchange so maybe not a mobile. She left an urgent message.

“He lives in Madera,” Madigan said. “I’ll get a car to his house. If we’re lucky he may not have left yet.”

“The road,” Dance mused. “Let’s assume Edwin’s going to try something on the route from Madera here.”

She realized that, despite Sally Docking’s report and the ambiguous evidence otherwise, she was making the assumption that Edwin was the killer. Still, she couldn’t help herself and she continued to scroll through the fan site, trying to put herself into the young man’s troubled mind.

WHAT SHE WANTED
most was for Kayleigh to love her.

Sheri Towne knew she started from a disadvantage, of course. No, she wasn’t like Wife Number Three—the Child, as Sheri cattily thought of her, or Number Two, the Tarot Card Reader.

Yet Sheri
was
a lot younger than Bishop and in her own opinion didn’t bring a lot to the table. She was insecure and knew she was worlds away from Margaret, the strong woman who was Kayleigh’s and Suellyn’s mother. Sheri knew about her not because anyone in the Towne family talked about Margaret in front of her, least of all Bishop, but because she’d listened to and memorized all of Kayleigh’s songs; many of the early ones were about her mother.

Despite the tension, though, Sheri liked Kayleigh a lot, independent of being her stepmother, and she liked Suellyn and her husband, Roberto, and Mary-Gordon too. Oh, what a cute kid! Just the sort of child she wished she’d had, whom she
would
have had, if life had gone just a bit differently.

Sheri wanted badly to fit in. She loved Bishop, loved the odd mix of his power and his neediness, loved his talent—brilliant in the past and still glimmering now. (And maybe it would blossom again in the future; he talked sometimes about returning to performing. This was a secret that he’d shared with no one but her.)

Still, her connection with her new husband wouldn’t be complete if she couldn’t form a real relationship with Kayleigh. And not that superficial cordiality.

Hey there, Sheri, how ya doing? You have a good day now. Take care.

Hell. To Kayleigh, I’m like the most anonymous fan she sees at a concert.

She finally turned off the long drive from their house on the route to the highway. The car bounded along; the road, though paved, wasn’t much better than gravel.

And yet, maybe, just maybe, things could change. There’d been crumbs of hope. Kayleigh’s sending Sheri the occasional greeting card. A present on her birthday. And then a half hour ago she’d gotten an email from Kayleigh saying when she came to the luncheon, could she bring a couple of dozen of her CDs from Bishop’s house as giveaways to fans? Kayleigh’d forgotten them.

Thanks, Sheri. You’re a star!

The woman had been hurt that Kayleigh hadn’t even asked her to the event, which she herself had helped put together. But she’d noted the word “
when
” she came to the luncheon. So the girl hadn’t snubbed her at all. Maybe she’d assumed Alicia had asked her. Or maybe Kayleigh had just assumed all along Sheri would be attending.

Or was the invitation a backhanded apology, reflecting the girl’s cooling anger? The two had had an embarrassing fight at the show in Bakersfield not long ago. It had been minor, stupid, really. But some asshole had recorded a minute or two of their harsh words and the video had gone viral. Sheri had been mortified—even if, in her opinion, Kayleigh had started the fight.

All might be forgiven, though. Maybe Sheri wasn’t doomed to be the Evil Stepmother forever.

The condition of the road improved and she pressed the accelerator of the Mercedes down further, speeding along the deserted highway, groves of trees on either side.

Maybe she should get Kayleigh a present, thanking her. She—

The flat happened so fast she couldn’t respond before the car was careening along the shoulder. Sheri gave a faint scream and struggled to control the heavy vehicle, swerving perilously close to the trees, streaking by at seventy miles an hour.

But Sheri Marshal Towne had grown up in the Midwest and started driving at fourteen. Snow and powerful engines conspired to teach her how to handle skids. She now steered into the swerve, easing off the gas but never touching the brake.

Slower, slower … the car fishtailed, went straight, fishtailed some more, spewing gravel and leaves and twigs from the tires. But she managed to keep it from flying over the thirty-foot cliff to the right or slamming into the row of pines close by the opposite side.

Fifty miles an hour, forty …

In the end, though, the ground was too slippery—gravel and pebbles on hardpack—and she couldn’t quite prevent the crash as the big Merc slid off the road toward the trees, wedging itself into a ditch, and shuddered to a stop.

Her hands sweaty, her heart thudding, Sheri rested her head against the steering wheel.

“Lord, Lord, Lord,” she whispered, thankful she’d been to church that Sunday.

God had looked out for her.

She was thinking about Him when there was a loud crack and the windshield spiderwebbed; fragments of glass hit her in the head.

She blinked, more startled than hurt, and touched the small wound.

How would a rock—

Then again, a crack and flying glass—and this time she heard a loud bang outside.

Oh, God, no … Somebody was shooting at her! These were
bullets
!

She saw motion from the shadows between a tall stand of trees. Another flash. And the car resounded with a ringing thud. He’d missed the windshield this time.

Hunters?

Or was it that crazy man obsessed with Kayleigh?

Sheri popped the seat belt and slithered down to the floor as best she could, searching for her phone. Where, where, where?

One more shot. This wasn’t aimed for the windows either, but, like the other, for the rear of the car. A resonating bang as it hit.

Why would somebody shoot there? Sheri wondered manically.

And then realized: Shit. He was aiming for the gas tank! The stalker, Edwin Sharp—it had to be him! Why was he doing this? She hadn’t done anything!

She tried to roll down the side window of the passenger seat but the power was off. And the doors were wedged closed by the ditch.

Then the sweet, rich smell of gasoline grew thicker, reminding her of
spending hot hours at the wannabe NASCAR track where her first husband raced every Saturday.

And as she sobbed, kicking futilely at the windshield, another thought occurred to her: the email about the luncheon hadn’t been from Kayleigh after all. It was Edwin Sharp who’d created an email address with Kayleigh’s name in it and sent the message to Sheri through the girl’s website, to lure her here.

Kayleigh hadn’t wanted her at the luncheon after all.

KATHRYN DANCE HAD
left the sheriff’s office fifteen minutes earlier.

After word that “Your Shadow” had been played at the football stadium during practice, the task force had split into three groups: one was trying to intercept Sam Gerber. Others were at the luncheon at the country club in northern Fresno, thinking that Edwin might try to find Gerber or maybe another victim there. And yet others were trying to find Edwin and his car, coordinating with Highway Patrol. Harutyun had also alerted medical teams that there might be an assault in progress. A burns center had been put on notice too; fire seemed to be one of the perp’s preferred weapons—inspired, perhaps, by Kayleigh herself.