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Chapter 2

“Used to Love Her” wound down amidst much cheering and guffawing. Time for some kickass rock. We returned to our original playlist with “You Could Be Mine.”

Jason joined me on the chorus. Another verse, another chorus, and an instrumental bridge. I ran to stage left where I’d spotted my friend Marie. My head-on charge seemed to startle Pendergast’s husky pal, back from ejecting the ogre, who made as if to catch me as I leaned out over the crowd to accept the two Darvocet Marie laughingly held out. He scowled at me and I felt a sense of protective purpose emanating from him that reminded me of my dad. Then I was running back to Joe’s drum kit where a fifth of Jack sat hidden near his pumping foot, using it to swallow the pain pills, getting back to my mic just in time.

Right into “Dead Horse.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m beatin a dead horse...I guess some things will never change, ooooh, never change...” A nice long instrumental bridge. Gotta love those long bridges, especially after vocals as strained as these. I ripped out the last word and spun away from the mic, flying in my head, with no worries, no Pendergast, no serial killer, no fibromyalgia, no Mrs. Peabody eternally waiting for her medicines. Then had to return to sing the more sedate last verse.

“Dead Horse” ended and it was time for my break. Tootie stepped to my mic and Joe pounded the opening drumbeats of the Straddlin song “14 Years.”

I heard Mack starting the keyboard track right on schedule, just offstage. I passed him on my way to the dressing room and he made a playful grab at me. I stuck my tongue out at him over my shoulder.

In the dressing room, I opened the miniscule fridge and took an OJ, downing most of it in one pull. I set the bottle down and raised my tee shirt, wiping my face with it. When I dropped it, Pendergast was standing in front of me. I wondered how far up the shirt had come and figured he hadn’t seen more than the lower two-thirds of each lace-covered boob. Damn.

“Want something to drink?” I asked him, to be polite and cover my embarrassment.

He shook his head, watching me closely. “How are you doing, Ms. Barrett?”

“Okay, except I wish you’d lay off the Ms. Barrett and call me Kitty.”

“Very well.”

“You sure shut down the ogre. Thanks.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“That big guy, the one with the loud mouth and the two friends.”

He nodded his head silently, still studying me.

I fidgeted. “Is something wrong?”

This time just one brow went up.

“I mean, you’re looking at me like I just offered you a ride in my spaceship.”

“I’m just wondering what you took with the Jack Daniels. From your eyes, I would guess it was neither a barbiturate nor an amphetamine. You display no lateral nystagmus nor pupil dilation.”

I didn’t blink. After being a nurse for fifteen years, I had perfected a poker face to cover being mad as hell. “Actually, there should be some pupillary constriction, if anything. It was an opioid analgesic. Darvocet. For which I have a prescription.”

He inclined his head.

“And I only sipped enough Jack to get it down. I’m well aware of the dangers of mixing drugs, Agent Pendergast.”

“Of course, Ms. Barrett.”

“I said to call me Kitty, dammit!”

“I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind.”

I had to get back. I started around him and felt the soft touch on my elbow. I couldn’t help contrasting it with the tap on the ogre’s wrist and what that had done. I wouldn’t mind learning that move when I got over being mad at Pendergast. I turned and he said, “My job is to protect you, Kitty, if only from yourself. I really don’t know you or what your proclivities are.”

“Well, they don’t include stupidity of that magnitude, Agent. I may OD on Darvocet but I’m not gonna mix it with alcohol.”

He released my elbow and I hurried back, getting to the stage just as “14 Years” ended and the guys swung into the weird little riff on “Anything Goes.”

The prolonged scream at the beginning was easy now, the sexy lyrics funny as hell. “I was thinking bout, thinking bout sex, I was hungry for something that I hadn’t had yet...” I caught Jason’s eye and we laughed, each remembering actually acting out the song one fine night about four years ago. “Panties round your knees with your ass in the breeze, doing that grind with the push and squeeze...tied up, tied down, up against the wall...” I was surprised to see Pendergast turn and shoot an annoyed look in my direction.

Then, “Think About You.”

I sang directly to Jason: “I said baby you been lookin real good, you know that I remember when we met...funny how it never felt so good, it's a feelin that I know I know I'll never forget...ooh it was the best time I can remember...ooh and the love we shared...lovin that'll last forever...” Another verse. “I think about you...honey, all the time my heart said yes...deep inside I love you best...you know you’re the one I want...” I sang to this man, fourteen years my junior, whom I would always love but could never again live with, then wound up into a scream ending with maniacal laughter, vintage Rose.

I was into the next verse, and turned away from Jason to sing: “Honey now you're my best friend, I wanna stay together to the very end...”

We kept going, working our way up through the GnR albums, saving the best for last. Finally, it was time for my all-time favorite power ballads. I settled myself at the piano at the far right corner of the stage, wanting to make this one as authentic as possible, wishing for orchestral backup that would never be there for Bad Apples. The crowd quieted slightly, sensing what was coming. I adjusted the piano mic and played the opening of “November Rain.” Mack started the symphony backup tape on schedule, thank God.

It was a song I hadn’t been able to listen to for over a year after splitting with Jason. The GnR music had been our favorite stuff, and “November Rain” and “Don’t Cry” our favorite songs. It had taken a long time for me to become able to sing either, and I still teared up regularly, though not too badly to keep going. Jason looked over with an encouraging wink. I winked back and started singing.

“When I look into your eyes, I can see a love restrained...” Then the part that got to me. “Nothing lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change...and it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain...”

My voice betrayed the emotions the song always dredged up and I saw Pendergast turn around. He seemed to study me so intently I felt like a bug under a microscope. Damn, what eyes. There was no such thing as an un-intense look from him. At least it kept me from getting teary eyed, even on the last line, which always got me: “Nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain.”

One good ballad deserves another. “Don’t Cry.”

We warmed back up just a little with “Patience.”

I had to whistle a long, slow verse at the beginning, and prayed Pendergast wouldn’t turn around again. That stare would probably dry up my whistle. He did turn, but only near the end, apparently to see who was whistling. Seemed a little surprised to see it was me.

Warmed up a little more with “Estranged.”

Still contemplative, but a little faster, with “Yesterdays.”

And then the big finish, the fastest, craziest one yet. “Lost in the Garden of Eden.” I figured if Pendergast lived through this one, he had become a rock aficionado for sure.

The crowd yelled their approval. We finally bowed together and left the stage.

In the dressing room, I was both euphoric and sad, as always after a show. Euphoric because I enjoyed it so much and sad because it would be a while before I got to do it again, except along with my CDs at home. Sitting now on the raggedy sofa, I saw Pendergast near the door, talking with the stocky guy from stage left whose name, I had learned when being introduced, was Vincent D’Agosta. Joe walked by with his drumsticks tucked into his back pocket and Pendergast said something to him. They talked for a few minutes, then left together. Vincent stayed put, watching the door like he expected all the devils of hell to come pouring in at any moment, though Mack had already locked up and then Pendergast had searched the whole place.

In the bathroom, I took off my wig and ran cold water over a paper towel, swiping it along my arms and around my neck. Heaven. Through the bathroom door, faintly, I heard someone throwing down on the drums. I opened the door and looked a question at Vincent, who also seemed curious and was happy to follow me as I followed the drum solo to the stage.

Pendergast sat at the drums, working Joe’s Yamaha stage custom kit in a syncopated, somehow quirky beat. Joe stood by, nodding in time and smiling like a proud papa. From the way Pendergast had to concentrate on his sticks and where each drum was, it didn’t seem he’d been playing long. But he was catching on fast, and my feet were tapping. He glanced up, saw me and D’Agosta, and wrecked his rhythm, then, looking only a little embarrassed, immediately started over, this time with a pretty decent rhythm that made me think of the tango. Long limbs flailing, white-blond hair now falling over his forehead, he brought it home. I glance at Vincent, who looked as though he was watching a UFO hovering over the stage.

I started moving a little bit, just a little. I never could stand still when any kind of rhythm was going. My hips swayed, my feet pranced. I ran my hands through my hair to loosen it up from the wig and that’s when Pendergast glanced up and saw me dancing. He glanced down at his sticks, then back at me, down and back, down and back, starting to hit harder and a little faster. One two THREE, one two THREE, one two THREE, ONE TWO THREE FOUR. I laughed at the sight of him, this guy I’d mistaken for a funeral director earlier in the day, now looking more like a kid on Christmas morning. A kid who’d just gotten exactly what he’d asked Santa for and was trying it out and loving it.

I spun around and grabbed Vincent’s hand and his expression changed from UFO to oh, shit. Obviously not a dancer. Oh, well. I grinned at Pendergast and kept going, noticing a subtle change beginning in his rhythm. I went with it, seeing Jason watching at the edge of the stage. The rhythm kept morphing. I tried to figure out where it was going, then decided to just enjoy it. I whirled and stomped and shook my ass, loving this little encore that was all I’d have until we played again, probably not for a few months. Suddenly the beat slowed a tad and changed to something that very much resembled a burlesque back up. BAM, bam ba BAM, bam ba BAM BAM BAM. Pendergast’s lips were scrunched down at the corners, resisting a grin, but his eyes were laughing a challenge too clear to ignore. Slash walked by with a towel around his neck and I whipped it off and used it for a half-assed veil, bumping and grinding to the beat. Slash just shook his head and kept going.

Pendergast finally wound down and I stopped shimmying and we regarded one another happily across the stage. Two peas in a pod. Would wonders never cease. I guess, if you looked hard enough, you could find something in common with just about anybody.

Pendergast stood up and handed the drumsticks to Joe, bowed slightly, and, with a rather sad farewell glance, bade the drums good-bye. He came to us, his expression saying he expected a certain amount of noise from Vincent. It wasn’t long in coming. “Soooo, Aloysius. Does Charlie Watts know you’re after his job?”

Pendergast looked pained. “Now, Vincent, what did I tell you about using my first name in public?”

“We’re not in public. Whatsa matter, paparazzi already after you?”

Pendergast thinned his lips in D’Agosta’s direction, then turned to me. “Congratulations on a successful performance, Mi...Kitty. Your audience seemed quite pleased.” He inclined his head and it had the effect of a bow.

“Well, congratulations to you, Agent Pendergast, for keeping me safe, and for banishing the ogre, and for your ass-kicking performance on the drums.” I dropped the towel to my hips and used it as a skirt to curtsey with.

“Actually it was my first experience with real drums. I couldn’t resist. Hopefully, my performance will become more ass-kicking as time goes by.” He smoothed his hair back, then noticed the return of Vincent’s UFO stare. “Vincent, I experienced a bit of unplanned percussive entertainment during my short stay at that Federal hotel. Another guest taught me that drumming is good for the soul. I fear I have missed certain...experiences and lessons in life. Perhaps it is time I reconnoitered.”

Vincent stared, shaking his head slowly, like a man watching something he simply could not get his head around. Clearly, these two had an interesting history, one in which impromptu Pendergastrian drum solos had not figured prominently.

Pendergast put a hand on the small of my back, urging me across the stage toward the back door. “Let’s go. Our ride should be waiting.” He stopped for a moment, taking D’Agosta’s hand. “My dear Vincent, thank you so very much for your help. I do hope your headache resolves tout de suite.”

“Sure thing. Stay in touch, okay?”

“By all means.” We walked passed the piano, sitting at far stage right, and he stopped there, seemed to ponder a moment, then leaned over and played the opening bars of “November Rain” perfectly, his long ivory fingers nearly as white as the keys. He stopped, somewhat reluctantly, I thought, where the drums should kick in, and continued on his way. I walked beside him, thinking I’d seen frustrated musicians in my day, but damn.

Outside, a huge fancy silver thing pulled up in front of us. It looked like something the queen would ride in for a parade. Pendergast opened the back door and ushered me into creamy white leather. He turned, spoke to D’Agosta, and followed me in. The driver pulled away from the curb without asking where or which way and we headed for my house.

I sat in a pleased silence, remembering the music. Pendergast glanced at me from time to time. I did not see him do this, but felt his gaze. Finally, as we neared the house, he spoke. “This is Proctor.” He nodded toward the silent driver. “He will be watching the house from a good vantage point tonight.” He turned toward me, giving me the full impact of those eyes. “And I will be inside with you.” He paused, then said, very seriously, “No harm shall come to you this night.”

Wow. Nobody had ever made a statement like that to me before. A simple “thanks” didn’t seem to cut it. I looked at him as seriously as he had looked at me. “I feel safe with you, Agent Pendergast.”

A faint smile touched his lips and he turned to look out his window. I noticed a slight, rhythmic movement of his fingers and realized he was still playing either the drums or piano in his head. I knew that feeling perfectly well, having a tune playing in mine most of the time, whether I wanted it there or not.

Back home, I stayed with Proctor while Pendergast searched the house. The post-show pain was setting in big time. I fished two more Darvocet out of my purse and chewed them up to make them work faster, washing them down with the last of an OJ from the bar, then added one more, wanting at least four but afraid for my liver; Darvocet contains acetaminophen. I needed something stronger for pain but couldn’t afford to go to the doctor to get the script, and so far I had resisted stealing from my patients. These three, on top of what I’d taken earlier, would give me a nice buzz and take away the worst of the pain.

I wanted to take the opportunity to ask a question of Proctor, who seemed to know Pendergast well, but my decibel-numbed brain refused to cooperate. Finally one occurred to me.

“Mr. Proctor, is this his car?”

The shadow in the front seat spoke. “Yea, ma’am. He required some deliveries, so the car was brought down also.”

“Deliveries,” I mused, and tapped the window glass. “Mr. Proctor, this glass looks really thick. Is it bullet proof?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wow. The FBI must pay well.”

Silence.

I had one more question, the one I’d meant to ask all along but had dreaded the answer to. “Mr. Proctor?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can he really protect me from his brother?”

A long pause. Then: “Miss Barrett, I once watched him resuscitate a Vietnamese baby while being whipped repeatedly by a Cambodian general. The whip kept coming, and he kept covering the baby with his body, breathing for it, beating its heart. This went on until blood flowed from at least fifty slashes on his back and shoulders. The ground around him was red with it. But that baby lived. At least as far as we know, it lived.”

I couldn’t breathe. I’d never heard something like that about someone I had actually met.

“When the baby finally cried, he handed it to its mother, who was hovering nearby in hysteria, and turned to face the general who was screaming at him to stop, to drop the worthless baby or die. He just looked at him. There was no fear in his face. Nothing in his face. The whip kept coming, dealing lashes to his torso. He staggered with the force, but did not back down or try to move away. He looked the general in the eyes, and very soon the man raised his arm but could no longer wield the whip. He dropped the whip. Pendergast walked away.” He paused. “He was nineteen years old.”

Silence in the car. I saw Pendergast step out the front door and motion me inside. We had turned on no lights, but the moonlight reflected off his very blond hair, and his eyes, when he turned his head suddenly, gleamed a momentary shiny, reflective silver, like an animal’s eyes gleam when a beam of light catches them just right in the dark.

I sat still for a moment, unable to move, then asked an unplanned question that just slipped out. “What is he, Proctor?”

Proctor did not seem surprised at the question. “He is many things, ma’am. First and foremost, he is a good man. You will be safe.”

I sensed that Proctor had made a very unaccustomed speech. I touched his shoulder, whispered thanks, and exited the car. Pendergast held out a hand and I went to him. He took hold of my elbow and steered me toward the door. He was not rough, but there was no question that I would go, and quickly. I stepped inside, turned, and saw the flowers, trees, and Pendergast himself bathed in full-moon light for a second before he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. I gasped softly at the sight. For the first time in my life, I wished for the talent to paint what I’d just seen...an elf, or perhaps a wraith, gliding through strange daylight on another planet, might’ve looked like that.

He heard the gasp and said, “Are you all right, Kitty?”

For a moment, I remained speechless and shocked by what I’d just heard and seen. Then I nodded and whispered, “Yes, just tired.”

He was at my side instantly, hand back on my elbow. “Do you need to lie down?”

“No need. I won’t be able to sleep tonight. After a gig, I usually hang out in here and play games with Jason, or watch a movie.”

“I am not Jason, but I am at your disposal. I believe we will be safe tonight, with Proctor in the vicinity. Still, we will maintain caution at all times.” I didn’t move or say anything, so he continued. “Why don’t I brew some more tea. Then you can decide what to do.”

“Okay.” I felt so shy in front of him suddenly. He had gone from being an already-impressive ass-kicking FBI agent (and not a bad fledgling drummer) to the role of savior, or hero, in my eyes, and I was totally discombobulated. Because my own constant pain was so hard to bear, I could glimpse what he’d gone through to save that baby, and because my own reserves of power were getting so low, I revered him for it.

My eyes must have changed. He looked at me curiously and intently, his black pupils wide in the dimly lit house. Their dilation and darkness, ringed with silver, made his eyes appear huge. And so very lovely. How could I have thought him scary looking?

Looking back now, I realize that was when I started to care for him.

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