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Author’s note:
This fan fic contains audio/visual aids, links to music videos of the fan fic music. Watching most of the videos will take you out of the story, so if you want to just listen while you read that section, right-click the link and hit "open in new window." Then you can let it play and return to this window. Or, if you want, watch the video! I can't stop you. The performance videos might add something to the story, especially if you are not familiar with the band or the music. Hope y'all enjoy it.

Chapter 1

Mrs. Peabody smiled over my right shoulder and said, in her genteel old Mrs. Peabody voice, “Why, hello there.”

I didn’t bother to look around. Mrs. Peabody talked to someone over one of my shoulders almost every time I gave her medications. Thing was, there was never anyone there. Not in this dimension, anyway. I put the last spoonful of applesauce and crushed pills into her toothless mouth, gave her the rest of her Health Shake, and turned quickly, already imagining docking my medicine cart and retiring to the break room for an OJ. Instead I ran into a stone wall, bounced off, and hit the floor on the seat of my tangerine scrubs, something I tried never to do, for a very good reason. I figured if I ever did, I’d crack like Humpty Dumpty. Felt like I had.

I just sat there for a moment, dreading the pain that was to come. I was sore all over all the time, and there was no way my body would forgive this insult. Then the pain did come. My back, my neck, and, oh yeah, my ass. I closed my eyes, and let out a quiet, “Ow.”

A soft touch on my shoulder opened my eyes. Kneeling in front of me in mild distress was the strangest looking man I’d ever seen. Very pale blond hair, combed straight back, adorned a face as white as his suit was black. Silvery gray/blue eyes evaluated me worriedly. His features were so fine and even they were almost feminine, but his countenance was somehow anything but. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as his touch. Something in it reminded me of warm buttered honey overflowing a stack of pancakes. A moderate Southern drawl somewhat different from my own added just a touch of spice. “I’m very sorry; I didn’t mean to be in your way. Are you quite all right?”

“I doubt it.” I moved my legs, drawing them up to rise, and stopped. The floor wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’d just stay down here forever. I might not have a choice.

“Let me help you.” He rose to a rather impressive height, extending a very long, ivory hand. I wondered if he’d played Ichabod Crane in the school play.

I finally got my legs under me and reached up, grasping his cool hand. He pulled me to my feet smoothly. I had a sense of restrained power, much more than his slim, graceful form hinted at. Suddenly the black suit and serious manner made sense. “You must be here for a pick-up. Sorry, but I don’t know where it is. Come with me to the nurses’ station and I’ll find out.” I started again for the door and again was stopped, not by running into him this time, but by the soft touch again, this time at my elbow.

“Are you Katherine Barrett?”

“Yes, Kitty Barrett. Why?”

He inclined his head slightly. “My name is Pendergast, Ms. Barrett. We need to talk.”

A bill collector? Or...for a moment I worried that a fan had somehow bumbled into my other life, then dismissed it. This guy was no fan of mine. I took a closer look at the obviously tailored suit, the expensive shoes. I knew nothing of expensive clothes and shoes but even I could tell these were special. His nails looked buffed, an observation that made my skin crawl just a little bit. I’d grown up around good ole boys with carburetor grease under their nails and monogrammed work shirts on their backs, and try as I might to understand how the other half lived, guys who looked like they wore silk undershorts seemed a little strange to me. No fan of mine. Chamber music, maybe; opera, for sure, but not any kind of rock. But some of these prissy establishment types could get down and dirty once the suits came off. Well, only one way to find out.

“Okay, I was about to take a break. Come on.” We headed for the break room, then stopped in the doorway. It was full of loud-talking nursing assistants, apparently in the middle of some sort of sexual discussion, as usual. I backed out, but not before Lakisha spotted me and the man behind me and hollered, “Hey, where you going, Kitty? Gonna getcha freak on?”

I looked up into Pendergast’s amused silver eyes. “We can go outside for a few minutes. Just let me tell someone where I’ll be.”

***


We settled on stone benches in the shade of a dogwood in back of the nursing facility. Pendergast pulled out a slim leather wallet and flipped it open, revealing a gold badge and his picture on an FBI-ID. I was impressed. It looked just like the ones on “The X-Files.” “I’m afraid you’re in very grave danger, Ms. Barrett.”

How do you respond to something like that? I settled for raised eyebrows and a curious, “I am?”

“I have been informed that you are the next planned target of a serial killer.”

Okay, this had to be a joke. The guys in the band; maybe an early birthday gift from my ex, Jason. You could get FBI badges, along with anything else you wanted, online. I’d even seen them advertised in magazines. I had no idea where the prankster had gotten Pendergast, though. I decided to play along for a while, see how far he would go. “Who informed you of this?”

“The killer.”

“Over tea, perhaps?”

He didn’t blink. “I was having tea when I received the letter, yes.”

“Does this serial killer always let you know what his plans are? I don’t know much, but it doesn’t seem like the best way to go about knocking someone off, informing the FBI of your plans ahead of time.”

“He doesn’t always inform me, but sometimes he craves more of a challenge.”

“Why you?”

“We have a...history.”

This guy was good! He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t had to hide a grin or grope for the right words. They must’ve hired a professional. I decided to see how good he was.

“Thanks for the warning, but it’s always been one of my fantasies...being chased by a serial killer, being tied up and ravished by some sexy lunatic. The old woman-seeking-domination thing, you know.” I rubbed my palms together in anticipation. “Any idea when he’ll strike? Just so I can be wearing something sexy.”

His lips thinned minutely. “I assure you, Ms. Barrett, this is not a joke. You would, under no circumstances, wish to meet this man. You would not survive, but neither would you die quickly. I suggest you take my warning seriously.”

Even in the bright autumn sunshine, my skin crawled into goosebumps. Damn, this guy was good. I glanced at my watch. No more time for bullshit. I had to get back to work.

“Okay, thanks for the warning. Tell Jason, or Slash, or Tooty, or whoever put you up to this, thanks for the memories. I gotta get back to work. You can go around that corner,” I pointed, “and get back to the parking lot.”

“I’m not leaving until you do, Ms. Barrett.”

“Well, you can’t stay here. Look, I appreciate the joke, okay? And you’re really good! But just because they hired you for the day doesn’t mean you can follow me around while I do patient care. Confidentially, you know.”

“I have already arranged everything with your administrator. You have been officially off duty for...” He glanced at his watch, a very expensive-looking trinket for a local actor in a relatively small town. “...five minutes now, and will be taking some time off. I suggest you clock out.”

“Sounds like fun, Agent Pendergast, but I really have to get back to work.” I rose and headed for the door. He stayed right behind me. I turned. “Look, I appreciate the joke, really, and you’re a hell of an actor, but you’re going to get me in trouble. I stay in enough trouble as it is; I can’t afford your help, okay? Now scoot.”

I opened the door and entered the facility, almost running into Dan Applewhite, the administrator. He rumbled, “Good, you’re still here. Look, I know you don’t have much time-off accrued. Maybe we can work out some sort of FMLA for this. I’ll look into it and be in touch.”

My mouth fell open. Dan Applewhite possessed all the humor of an artichoke, and about as much personality. No way was he in on some elaborate joke. I turned and gazed at Pendergast, the Real Deal, with my mouth still open. He smiled thinly. “After you, Ms. Barrett. You do what you have to do. Then I’ll take you home.”

***


I reported off to the nursing supervisor and counted narcotics in a daze, still trying to figure out what was going on. Maybe Pendergast had fooled Applewhite. It certainly wouldn’t take a genius to do it. But I couldn’t believe any of the guys would’ve had him go that far. They all knew that I always stayed a whore’s hair away from being fired due to absences anyway. Come to think of it, they wouldn’t have sent some joker to my workplace for the same reason. They would’ve had him visit me at home.

But if it wasn’t a joke...damn.

I finished getting ready to leave and turned to Pendergast. He was decidedly spooky looking. If a serial killer were after me, I’d expect him to look something like Pendergast. I decided it would be better to ask the question in front of potential witnesses than after we got back to my place. I got ready to jump back and asked, “How do I know you’re not the killer?”

But rather than becoming angry, he looked slightly pleased. “You don’t. But you can find out. Call information and get the number for the New Orleans FBI field office. Call them and ask whoever answers to verify my status and describe me.”

“But we’re not in New Orleans.”

He inclined his head. “True. But that is my home office. It will be easier to find someone to verify who I am at that number.”

I did as he said and was rewarded with a succinct description from a Special Agent Hill who didn’t seem at all surprised to receive such a call. I hung up and looked around. My coworkers hovered nearby, casting furtive glances at my visitor. I knew my ears would burn for hours, days maybe, after we left. There was nothing left to do but go with him.

***


He led me to my gold Tacoma without asking which vehicle was mine, took the keys from me, and unlocked the passenger door, seeing me into the vehicle in a way I hadn’t experienced since my senior prom, when my date had pulled out all stops in hopes of getting laid. He slid gracefully behind the wheel and started the engine, then turned to me. “From now until this is over, we must stay together. We must assume the killer is watching and knows I have come. He won’t hesitate to take any opportunity to strike now that he knows you’ve been warned, making his job harder.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe this! Why me? What did I do?”

He drove out of the parking lot and turned the right way without asking where I lived. “You need have done nothing. It’s a game to him. He could’ve selected your name from the phone book, or spotted you in the mall, or seen your band perform.”

So he knew about the band. Probably knew all about me.

“So what are we going to do? Just hole up at my house and wait?”

He flicked those pale eyes in my direction. “What would you suggest?”

“Well, tonight I suggest going to the Paradise Bar. We have a gig there around ten.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Maybe not, but it’s been too late for about a month now. I have to go.”

“You don’t have to do anything except stay alive. That is a prerequisite for any other plans you may have.”

“Look, Agent Pendergast, it’s not my choice. This gig has been advertised for a month. The guys are counting on the money. I’m in a band, it’s not just about me.”

“Can’t someone else do your part?”

I thought of Tooty or Slash singing “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and shuddered. “No.”

“A replacement, perhaps?”

“Not this late. Probably not if they had another month.”

“How big is this Paradise?”

“It’s a bar. Seats about a hundred. Aerosmith we ain’t.”

He sighed. “We must get there early. I will have to examine the spectators as they arrive.”

“Good! I’m not eager to get a toe tag. I just have commitments, like anyone else.”

After a silent twenty minutes or so, Pendergast turned onto the gravel drive that led to my secluded place. We drove through a patch of huge oaks, the sun flickering through their flaming orange and red branches like a strobe light and, sneaking a furtive glance at him, I noticed several thin, white scars, like dotted semicircles, on his face and hands. They were almost invisible. Someone had done very good work. But when they did show up, only in the brightest sunlight, they looked like...bites. Their appearance, so unexpected and harsh on his smooth ivory skin, made me uncomfortable, as though I could feel the teeth in my own flesh.

The old white frame house came into view, nestled in its jungle of shrubs and red maples and late-blooming flowers. He parked behind the house where I usually did, and, carrying a backpack, followed me to the door, then took my key and unlocked it himself, preceding me into the living room.

“Please stay here.”

I stood by the door feeling invaded, glad I had cleaned this year. He made a quick search of the house and returned. “It seems we are alone.” I didn’t move. He smiled grimly and gestured like a butler inviting me in. “I suggest you just do whatever you normally do upon returning home from work. Try to pretend I’m not here.”

I imagined myself in my panties, or less, heating up soup while banging way more than my head to classic rock or Guns n Roses. Or plopping on the sofa to give myself a B12 injection in the thigh. Or having a romp with the vibrator that resided in my bedside drawer. Oh, yeah, just act normal. I had a feeling that, if G&R suddenly broke the silence, Pendergast would whip out a cannon and blow my stereo to hell before the first syllable of “Paradise City” left Axl’s lips.

“I usually have a shower.” I headed for the bedroom, setting down my bag and pulling off my jacket on the way, beginning to unbutton my scrub top the second I passed through the door. Turned to close it and yelped. He was right behind me, close enough to touch, and I hadn’t heard so much as a whisper on the hardwood floors.

“I am sorry,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “But we really must stay together.”

“We’re in the same house.”

He pointed. “Is there a window in that bathroom?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll have to ask you to leave the door open.”

My shamefully quick temper flared. “Sure you don’t want to shower with me? The tub’s plenty big enough for two. You can play with my rubber duckie.”

He looked pained. “Ms. Barrett, I assure you, it is not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. Quite the contrary; I am trying to keep you alive. I am sorry that, in order to do so, I must invade your privacy to a certain degree. I will do so no more, and for no longer, than is absolutely necessary.”

Now I felt bad. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t mean to be such a b—”

“Please.” He held up a palm. “Don’t use that word.”

My eyes widened. Every man I knew used that word and, in recent culture, it had become a pet name. His dislike of it struck me as both old-fashioned and classy.

“Okay.” I smiled at him and may have received a slight head tilt in return. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be...so hard to get along with.”

“Quite understandable. The circumstances.”

I was tired suddenly, the way it hits me sometimes, just numb tired. I felt myself flop and knew I’d have to try to get a nap before tonight, though I couldn’t imagine sleeping. A rest, maybe. I drooped to a chair and sank onto it, taking off my shoes and socks as an excuse for the move. Suddenly I didn’t care if he undressed me himself. I just wanted to get the damn shower over with so I could lay down.

“Tell you what, Agent Pendergast. I’m going to do what I would normally do, just like you said. At least as far as taking a shower goes. You can do whatever you have to do, be wherever you have to be, look wherever you have to look. I don’t care.” I headed for the bathroom, losing my scrub top as I went, working on the pants, which came down still wearing the panties inside. All this went into the hamper and I hit the front hook of my bra, popping it off. It joined them. I turned on the water in the shower and stood waiting for it to warm up, not looking back through the open door to see where he was. If he were as much a gentleman as he seemed, he had his back to the door. If not, I didn’t want to know.

I stepped into the shower, shampooed my short hair quickly, and soaped myself as fast as I could, rinsing it all off and stepping back out in about three minutes, having forgotten to get a towel from the closet. This time I did glance at the door. I saw the edge of a black jacket arm. He was standing just outside and to the right of the door, as though in ambush. But he wasn’t peeping in. I smiled and dried off, realizing I hadn’t brought anything in to put on. Wrapping the towel around me, I padded back into the bedroom to get something and the last of my energy seemed to run out my big toe. I made for the bed instead and rolled onto it, deciding the towel was cover and comfort enough. But what if Pendergast thought I was staying in the towel to send a message, like c’mere big boy, and be sure you bring your big gun with you? Sighing, I sat back up, intending to try for the closet again.

“Ms. Barrett, I realize you are tired. I know you have fibromyalgia and I have educated myself a bit about it. Please don’t feel you have to go to extra trouble because of me. If you need to rest a while before getting up again, I understand.” He settled himself gracefully into the wing chair near the window and crossed one leg fastidiously over the other.

I lay there looking at him, fascinated. It was appropriate that he look different. He was different. Certainly different from any man I’d ever met, and in unexpected ways. “I’m not sure I have fibromyalgia, or even what it is. That’s just the latest label they’ve assigned me.”

“From what I understand, fibromyalgia is more of a syndrome than a disease. A collection of symptoms, primarily muscle pain and extreme fatigue, for which doctors have no known cause nor cure.”

“Want to know a secret, Agent Pendergast? They don’t know what causes much of anything, and they can’t cure much of anything, either.”

“That is no secret, Ms. Barrett. I find doctors come in most handy when one has sustained trauma of some sort, preferably trauma that can be mended surgically. Otherwise, I think it best to stay away. Although I do believe most doctors really want to help, their education and modalities are limited, for the most part, to the allopathic approach. I do not think that is the best approach for purely medical maladies.”

“What is the best approach?” I found myself really wanting his opinion. He spoke as though he knew what he was talking about.

“Alternative, or natural, complementary methods. And nutrition, of course.”

“I’ve tried several alternative methods. Acupuncture, for instance, and other, lesser known approaches.” I wasn’t going to list them and get into an argument about controversial concepts.

A smile touched his eyes. “And how did they work for you?”

I smiled back. “Better than being doped up to the eyeballs ever did. It’s taken twenty years and two back injuries to get me as far down as I am now.”

He nodded. I had the feeling he somehow knew my history, what I’d tried, and how it had worked.

I felt comfortable with him now, strangely comfortable given the circumstances and the short time we’d been together. “You know everything about me, don’t you?”

“I wanted to make sure I knew everything about you that he would know, so I used the same data bases and hacked the same information. It was important to see what he’d seen.”

Lying there with plenty of time to think about it now, it finally hit me. There was someone out there, someone who, without even knowing me, wanted to hurt me. Wanted to kill me. This was so far from my own perspective and experience that I couldn’t really comprehend it, but it was beginning to sink in. “It’s hard to get my head around all this, but I’m beginning to get a little scared.”

“Good, you should be scared. It will make you more careful.” He leaned forward, strange, silvery eyes intent on mine. “Please know that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

It was a promise, a promise I believed. I sighed, closed my eyes, and was instantly asleep.

***


When I awoke it was to a dim, silent room, and I had the impression that dusk was hovering over the house, about to envelope it in the arms of darkness. I consulted my inner clock and figured maybe seven p.m. Glanced at the clock. Seven-ten. Not bad.

I felt uneasy for some reason, and it took a moment to remember why. When I did, my eyes flew all the way open and I looked at the wing chair. He was sitting there, as immobile as the Sphinx, watching me, and, seeing me awake, spoke. “I do hope you’re feeling better.”

I stretched. “I am.”

“Good. In that case, will you accompany me to the kitchen? I would like very much to have something to drink.”

He’d sat there and let me sleep when he could’ve been to the kitchen and back in less than half a minute. It wasn’t like I lived in the Taj Mahal. I moved to get up and he said, “If you’d like to get dressed first, please feel free.”

The towel came to my knees and probably covered more than my short robe did. It was no big deal. “That’s okay, I think you’ve waited long enough for a drink.”

“After you, then.”

In the dim kitchen, he didn’t turn on the overhead light, making do with the light over the stove. He closed the curtains while I opened the fridge and said, “I have ice water, orange-pineapple juice, and organic V8. Sorry, no soft drinks or anything.”

“Actually, I was thinking of brewing some tea.” He removed a packet from his suit jacket. “Green tea. Have you tried it?”

“Yes, I usually keep some here, but I’m out at the moment.”

He nodded. “I believe you’ll find this acceptable. You have well water here, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” He looked around and I handed him the teakettle and watched him fill it, then set it on the electric stove and turn the burner on. I wondered if I hadn’t fallen down the rabbit hole. If you’d told me this morning that I’d be standing in my kitchen in a towel, watching an FBI agent in a funeral suit brewing green tea, I would’ve...well, I probably would’ve believed you, come to think of it. Life had been decidedly strange thus far, after all.

He pulled a chair from under the dining table and held it. “Have a seat?”

I sat gingerly, mindful of my sore tail, and he did the same. We contemplated one another in the growing darkness. I spoke first. “Tell me about this killer who’s after me.”

He sighed as though taking up a heavy burden. “He is very good at what he does, and very prolific. His IQ is far above genius level. He has devoted his entire life to the pursuit of instruments of torture and death. It is all he cares about, all he does.” He studied my face and seemed to come to a decision. “I feel it is only fair to tell you some things I hadn’t planned on revealing. First, I have not informed the local FBI that I am here, or that I know of this man’s plans. They would undoubtedly underestimate him, and I am afraid their interference would not be conducive to a desirable outcome.”

So he thought he was better alone than with an entire battalion of agents? I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to let him indulge his ego at what might well turn out to be my expense. I tried to find a tactful way of saying it. “Wouldn’t it be better to have some help? I mean, you can’t stay here all the time, right? Don’t you need to get home to your family sometimes?”

“No.” He didn’t qualify it.

“Well, maybe I’d feel safer with more agents watching the place.”

He looked at me levelly. “Ms. Barrett, I assure you, there is no other agent who will work harder to protect you than I will.”

“But there’s safety in numbers.”

“Not always. Sometimes numbers just make it easier to slip in unnoticed, a principle this man knows very well.”

“But—”

“I understand your point of view. Now let me be sure you understand mine. I have some friends on the way to help watch the crowd at the bar tonight. That will be our most vulnerable time, and he will know that.” He leaned toward me, his silvery eyes intense enough to be scary, sitting alone with him in the small, dim kitchen. I imagined that the man he spoke of might have eyes like that. “There will be others working with me throughout this case. I will not take unnecessary risks out of some misplaced sense of self-importance or duty, Ms. Barrett. I will do whatever it takes to protect you and to capture this man, because I have personal reasons for doing so. This case is not just another job to me, which brings me to the second bit of information I hadn’t planned to divulge. The reason I take such a personal interest in this case, the reason I will give my life, if necessary, to save yours, is because I feel responsible for every one of this man’s victims, due to the history I mentioned earlier. He is my brother.”

“I’m...I’m sorry.” It was all I could think of to say, and, seeing the depth of his anguish when he spoke of his guilt, it was true.

“So am I.” The teakettle whistled and he rose from the table.

I blinked, really beginning to hate the strange, apprehensive feeling that had permeated my life since Pendergast showed up. I needed to do something, to move around. I also needed to get with some sort of program. I had a show to do in three hours. “I’ll just get dressed now.” I started to get up.

“You really should drink this first. Green tea is best consumed immediately after brewing, while still piping hot.” His voice was even and pleasant, like he hadn’t just bared his soul and pledged his life. “The flavor is best then, as well as the antioxidant properties.” He handed me a cup, reached into his jacket again, and produced a small tube of honey, raised his eyebrows. I accepted a squirt and he fell lightly back into his chair, sweetened and sipped from his own.

I tried it. Not bad. Not bad to be served by a man, either. I could count the times I’d been served anything by a man...well, anything to eat...well, anything to swallow...well, dammit, anything like food, on one hand and have maybe four fingers left over. This Pendergast was something else. Seemed a little dainty for fighting serial killers, though. I hoped he was more formidable than he looked. His resolve certainly seemed formidable.

Suddenly his head came up like a bloodhound catching a scent, and he rose from the chair and was at the kitchen doorway before I was sure I’d seen him move, a gun seeming to sprout in his hand like an instant mushroom.

“What is it?” I hissed.

“A vehicle is approaching. Please come with me.”

“It’s probably my husband. I just remembered I’m expecting him.”

“Husband?” His eyes, beginning to appear slightly luminous in the steadily darkening room, speared me.

“I mean my ex-husband.”

“Let us hope so. I would not expect our nemesis to introduce himself so blatantly, in any case, but it’s better to be prepared.”

In the dim living room, he glided over to stand beside the window. I headed for it and he showed me a palm. “Please do not come near the window.”

I stopped and peeped out past him. Headlights approached the house. When the vehicle stopped and the lights were doused, I could make out Jason’s slim silhouette getting out of his Camaro, his long blond hair in its usual ponytail. “That’s him.”

Pendergast relaxed somewhat, but moved between me and the door. A moment later the door was thrown open. My ex-husband put one foot in and stopped, catching sight of Pendergast in his dead black suit and me in the background, still in my towel. He recovered quickly, in true Jason fashion, and made a whoa gesture. “Oh, sorry, Kit. Should I not come in right now?”

“It’s okay, come on in,” I told him, knowing that, whatever I told him, I’d never hear the end of his version of this little scene. Humor mixed with concern in his slate-colored eyes, confirming it.

He stepped in, leaving the door open behind him, and stuck out a hand toward Pendergast. “Hi.”

Pendergast inclined his head, then, when the hand didn’t disappear, finally acquiesced. His long, white fingers clasped Jason’s shorter, normal-colored ones for a split second. He said nothing. Jason’s open face turned toward me like a neon question mark.

“This is Agent Pendergast from the FBI,” I said. “He’s here because...someone’s after me.”

“Wha...?” Jason’s eyebrows hit the stratosphere at the same moment Pendergast stepped past him, presumably to close the front door.

That was also the moment that Maddie, my five-year-old collie-shepherd mix, nosed open the screen and barreled through, having spent the day with “daddy.” She had never met a stranger, and she made for Pendergast like an eager puppy, throwing herself against him. The effect was instantaneous and astonishing.

Pendergast seemed to make some sort of martial arts move and recognize the situation at the same time. The result was Maddie on the floor, penned down by a knee, a serrated blade aimed at her neck, then just as quickly disappearing back into the black suit. He stood up quickly and Maddie, oblivious, jumped up to continue the game, going for him again. Then Pendergast’s second reaction, to get the hell away from the overeager fur ball, kicked in, and he backed up quickly, his pale face about three shades paler than usual. He held his hands down, trying to fend her off. Maddie took this as an invitation to play and went for his ankle, doing one of her pretend-bite things. Pendergast, realizing he couldn’t get away without hurting the dog, stopped dead still and just stood there, his eyes fixed on me and glowing in the dim room like a vampire’s in an old movie.

“Maddie!” I yelled, and the dog whirled and came to me, panting and grinning and dancing like she hadn’t just sent my FBI protector into catatonia. I put a hand on her head. “Sit! Be still.”

Maddie sat. All was quiet. Jason and I stared at Pendergast, who stared back like a zombie. A moment later, he seemed to get his breath back. His shoulders slumped a little, and he sank into a chair that was, luckily, right behind him. Had it not been there, I’m not sure he wouldn’t have hit the floor. “Forgive me,” he said, his usually soft voice almost a whisper. “I had...an unfortunate episode with a pack of dogs in Italy recently.”

I remembered the faint bite scars on his face and hands and my heart went out to him. I made it across the room in three steps, fell to my knees beside him, and grasped his hand. I’d always had an overpowering urge to touch my patients, or anyone in distress, and he certainly qualified. The strong fingers trembled slightly in mine.

My touch registered in his eyes as surprise, maybe almost shock, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably. I let go of his hand, hurt somehow, though it made no sense for me to feel that way, and he noticed my expression and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Er...someone’s after you?” Jason asked from behind me.

“Yes, a serial killer.” I turned to face him. “Do you believe this shit?”

“Do you?” His eyes went to Pendergast. “Sorry, but are you sure this guy’s who he says he is?”

“Yes, I’m sure, and yes, I believe him,” I said. “My question was rhetorical.”

“Okay, okay,” Jason held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. “So I guess you’re not doing the show?”

“Of course I am. The guys are counting on me.”

“Look, I’m no FBI agent, but it seems to me that up on a stage in a bar is one of the worst places to be if you want to lay low.”

“He’s right,” Pendergast put in, his voice almost back to normal. “You should reconsider.”

I looked from one to the other. “I have to get ready to go. I don’t want to be one of those scary-movie twits who refuses to do what is obviously best for her in a situation like this, but I have to do this one thing. Then I’ll lay low. Okay?”

“No use arguing with her, man,” Jason told Pendergast. “When she gets a bee in her bonnet, you might as well give it up.”

Pendergast nodded gravely. I guess he figured Jason should know what he was talking about. I headed for the bedroom to get dressed, but not for the stage. I would wait until we got to the Paradise for that. Once again, Pendergast was right behind me. He took up position outside the bathroom door again. I saw Jason stick his head into the bedroom, obviously wondering what the dressing arrangements were. He grinned at me from across the room and I gave him the finger. Just like old times.

When I came out of the bathroom wearing a long denim skirt and camisole, Pendergast asked that I stay in the bedroom while he took his turn. He carried his backpack in with him. When he came out, he was dressed in the most generic way possible for the Paradise crowd, in worn jeans, white running shoes, a white tee shirt, and an open, long-sleeved, blue chambray overshirt. A blue Tarheels cap adorned his head, hiding most of his white-blond hair. If no one looked too directly at his intense eyes, he would fit in like a fly on the wall.

***


The bar was packed by 9:30. I figured standing-room-only was exceeded by about fifty percent. I paced as best I could in the broom closet that passed for a dressing room while Jason, Slash, and Tooty lolled around in various stages of boredom. They had another band and traveled up and down the east coast playing clubs almost every weekend. This was old hat to them, but would never be to me. It was my one thrill, and I was as excited as Maddie got when we went for a ride. Pendergast was somewhere near the bar’s front door, eyeballing the crowd as people filed in, apparently comfortable leaving me hidden in the dressing room in the company of three grown men armed with guitars.

Fiasco finished their set and things quieted down. We could hear the patrons, most of whom were apparently already well-lubricated, whistling and clapping and yelling. I wondered how Pendergast was liking the scene. I’d watched him screw a pair of earplugs in when we’d reached the bar and he’d seen me watching and said, “My hearing is very acute, and the noise level in places like this is actually quite painful to me. I’ll still be able to hear you sing.” He said the last as though afraid I’d be offended.

I had laughed. “That’ll probably be quite painful, too. Maybe you should put in two pair.”

Now he slipped through the door and the guys all stood up. They had been apprised of the situation but hadn’t met my protector yet, and obviously wanted a good look at him. “No one else will be allowed in,” he told us. “Where is the best place for me to watch the room during the performance?”

Slash rose and grabbed his top hat from the handle of his guitar where it stood against the wall. He affected the dress and mannerisms of his namesake, down to the cigarette that hung constantly on his bottom lip while he played. “Not onstage, bro. You’ll be blinded by the light, as the song says.”

“I guess right down in front, like where security would stand, if we had any,” Jason put in. “You can face the crowd but the lights won’t be hitting you.”

“Very well. I shall take up position at center stage, with flankers at stage left and right, and others behind and above the crowd.” He looked at me, taking in the long, dirty-blond wig with its wrap-around bandana, the torn tee shirt and black spandex pants. “Break a leg, Ms. Barrett.” With a trace of a smile, he was gone.

“What a spook!” Tooty exclaimed. He didn’t have to try to look like anyone, already bearing a striking resemblance to Izzy Stradlin. A trace of white powder under one nostril showed how he’d gotten his nickname. I wiped my own nose pointedly and he followed suit, getting almost all of it.

Our last band member, Joe, straggled in, carrying his usual drumsticks, and we were ready to go. Jason gave the word to Mack, the bar owner, and he introduced us with our tribute-group name, Bad Apples. We hit the stage and I felt my pulse pounding, my adrenaline pumping, a high that most people achieved with sex. Since I wasn’t having sex, and hadn’t for some time, this was the next best thing for me. The crowd yelled and I spotted a few regulars who showed up at all our infrequent shows.

I saw Pendergast almost directly in front of me. He turned from perusing the crowd and a husky, dark-haired man at stage left caught his eye, then turned to glance at me. One of Santa’s helpers, I presumed. I looked for the one on the right but didn’t see anyone suspicious. Slash’s guitar rang with the crisp opening notes of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and Pendergast flinched. I felt sorry for him. We hadn’t even gotten to chords yet. Tooty came in on bass, Jason on rhythm, Joe on drums, and the beauty of the timing and combination of sounds hit me and I started moving.

As always, I promised myself to take it easy, but by the time the guys hit the beat with “Sweet Child O’ Mine” I was dancing.

It’s just always been impossible for me to stand still if there’s any kind of rhythm going. I kept it to a minimum, doing the trademark Axl Rose snake dance, which the crowd preferred anyway, rather than the foot-stomping high-energy romp I yearned for. I made my voice harder and a little more nasal, but not much deeper, and sang the first verse, loving the way the words and music came together, the way Tooty came in for the higher-pitched harmony on cue, the way Slash’s guitar backed me up on the short chorus. Started the second verse and Pendergast turned to look at me and I found myself singing “She’s got eyes of the silver skies” when it should’ve been “bluest skies.” He smiled. Maybe he knew the song. I found myself singing the next line to him: “I’d hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain.” Our eyes held for a moment; then he returned to his survey of the room.

We hit the instrumental bridge and Jason turned up at my mic and came in with deeper harmony as we crooned with it, our lips about an inch apart on the “oooooooh.” Another verse, following Axl’s vocals as closely as I could, the strain already making my voice huskier. That would come in handy in the following songs. The next bridge. I loved it. I was floating, levitating to my favorite guitar solo. Fuck the snake dance. My feet started flying with the beat and I was free suddenly, just free with the music.

Sudden stop to the “where do we go” part, Jason’s sexy voice alone and then backing up my own, which suddenly turned strident, then trailed off into a demonic knife edge with the last note. I was not Axl Rose by a long shot, but the crowd was happy with the unreasonable facsimile they had, and I was just happy to be one with my all-time favorite music for a while. I wouldn’t have cared had I never seen a stage, but it was the only way I could sing with the band. They did this for a living and weren’t about to rehearse with me just for my own pleasure.

Right into “Paradise City,” getting the biggest hits out of the way first.

Started off slow and rather sedate, then the chords kicked in, purring in my solar plexus. Slash doing his thing, winding up to the real thing. I pulled out my whistle and blasted it into the mic and Pendergast whirled as though looking for the fire. I managed to start singing on time, swallowing a snort of laughter. The music picked up and my feet started flying. I needed to take it easy but it was just fucking impossible. Slash stepped up beside me, playing accompaniment in and around my voice, and we rocked together, facing each other, til the last note broke the spell.

We swung into “Welcome to the Jungle,” and the hoarseness from “Sweet Child” paid off, especially in the beginning. I began the scream with the first chord, climbing up and up as the music built. Pendergast turned to stare at me and I almost laughed, which would’ve blown the sinister aspect of the song.

A huge bearded ogre near center stage was waving his beer bottle and yelling, something about me coming down there and sucking on something. I noticed Pendergast’s plugged ears perk up. He moved a step closer to the ogre, who probably outweighed him by 200 pounds or so, the beef divided equally into slabs of fat and bulges of muscle. The other fans closed up on Pendergast when he moved and I wondered what they would think if they knew they were snuggling up to the FBI. They probably thought the guys peering over the crowd from stageside were our security, which wasn’t too far off, but only for tonight.

The ogre yelled something about a certain body part that I tuned out. It was easy with all the racket we were making, but he was pretty good at timing it between lyrics, and he was almost right in my face, after all, probably about six feet away. The Paradise didn’t boast a very big stage. The ogre raised his beer bottle as if to throw it. Pendergast stepped into the ogre’s space and said something. His profile was toward me and I could see a slight, cold smile playing about his lips.

The ogre didn’t like the smile, or whatever Pendergast said, one little bit. The ogre didn’t like the smile, or whatever Pendergast said, one little bit. As I sang, “I wanna watch you bleed,” and faster than I would’ve believed possible for his size and inebriated state, he swung the beer bottle at Pendergast’s head, but Pendergast was faster still. He ducked the swing and his own right hand shot out and just seemed to tap the ogre’s wrist. The beer bottle fell from the ogre’s hand. He looked down as though surprised to see his fingers open and his weapon in pieces on the floor, then snarled at Pendergast and made a grab at him, again moving much faster than he looked. Pendergast danced lightly back out of reach. One of his long white hands gently beckoned the ogre and I was reminded of the “Come to poppa” gesture Lawrence and Keanu favored in “The Matrix.” The people around the combatants moved back, allowing them a big enough circle to make it a good fight.

I was singing on autopilot and knew the guys were playing the same way. We’d seen some interesting stuff from the stage, including more than one episode of frenzied, clumsy sex, but nothing as good as this version of David and Goliath. I wondered if Pendergast would whip out a slingshot and topple the ogre, and blew a lyric laughing.

The ogre had friends. Two guys almost as big as he was stepped from the crowd and lined up with him, facing Pendergast. I could see Pendergast’s husky friend fighting his way desperately through the mob but there was no way he would get there in time. The ogre and his friends waded in and I was debating doing a little stage diving when Pendergast moved. His left foot left the floor, then his right foot shot out and up, connecting with the chin of the closest assailant. He landed, spun, and his right leg shot out again, this time to the side, where the ogre’s other friend just happened to be standing. His foot hit the friend in the chest and he flew backward as though shot out of a cannon. Then Pendergast motioned to the ogre again to come to poppa.

The ogre roared and ran at Pendergast, who sidestepped neatly and whacked the ogre a good one on the ass as he went by. I thought Pendergast must really dislike the ogre. He was torturing the poor slob.

The ogre ran at him again, but he had now apparently tired of his game. It happened so fast that I’m not sure what he did, but I think he hit the ogre in the throat. The ogre’s eyes bugged out and both his massive hands grabbed at his throat. His tongue popped out. He looked like a cartoon. Pendergast spun him around and wrenched an arm up behind his back. Over the music, I heard the ogre make a sound like a rusty wheel. Pendergast nodded curtly to his husky friend, who had finally reached the fray. The friend took over Pendergast’s hold on the ogre’s arm and frog-marched him through the crowd toward the entrance as I sang the final line: “It’s gonna bring you down...hah!” Seemed appropriate enough.

All this happened so fast and so quietly that most of the spectators were not aware that anything was going on. Those in the circle around the fight applauded Pendergast, who turned obliviously to check out the stage and the area vacated by his husky friend. Jason and I looked a “whew” at one another.

Thinking the crowd could use some comic relief at this point, I signaled for “Used to Love Her.”

I loved this song with it's funny lyrics and rather countrified sound. I sang, “I used to love her, but I had to kill her...” Pendergast turned and raised an eyebrow. I thought, wait til I get to the part where she's buried in the backyard.

***


Diogenes Pendergast had watched the big man’s unceremonious exit from the Paradise Bar from his vantage point in a nondescript white utility van parked across the street. Diogenes had been killing time, had had no intention of making a move when his brother would be most expecting one, and had been happy with this unexpected turn of events. He knew it was D’Agosta who threw the big man out, but from his obvious extremity of discomfort he guessed, correctly, that it was Aloysius who had really ruined the fellow’s evening.

Diogenes had watched the guy stagger around on the sidewalk for a few minutes, alternately walking in quick, jerky circles, then bending and retching, until he’d seemed to get his wind back. Then he’d started the van and made a sedate U-turn, pulling up beside him. The window hummed down. The guy turned to see who was messing with him now. Diogenes, ever the jokester, said, “Pardon me, boy, I think I know the chap who screwed you.”

The big man didn’t appreciate the pun. Diogenes thought he may have gotten the joke if he’d actually sung the words, then got a good look at the dullard’s eyes and decided that Glenn Miller’s entire band wouldn’t have made any difference. He sighed and tried again. “I thought perhaps you’d like his address.”

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