License Invoked

Chapter 8

Liz and Boo pushed their way into the mob of people crowding the barrier set up by the firefighters across the rear entrance to the Superdome. Three fire trucks, surrounded by miles of unreeled hose, flashed their revolving lights weakly in the oppressive New Orleans sunshine. An equal number of chunky white vans bearing parabolic dishes on top announced the arrival of the media. Reporters were clustered to one side by a police officer, but it was clear the cordon wouldn't last long.

Liz and Boo showed their backstage passes to the sweating security guard at the door. Very reluctantly, he let them crawl underneath the barrier, while shouldering aside a couple of rabid fans with cameras who tried to follow. After the press of the crowd, the soaring, concrete room seemed cavernously empty, all the better to pick up the noises coming from far down the passage. The roar of voices behind them grew louder. Liz spun on her heel.

"Oh, no," Liz groaned, as the media came jogging toward the entrance, turning the cameras their way. "We don't need this."

"Cheer up," Boo said, waving to the reporters over the security guards' heads. "You can tell your mama you were on American television."

"My super told me not to attract any attention!" Liz said.

"He's not here; how will he know?"

"They have cameras!" Liz said. "Our images will be on the evening news all around the world... never mind."

Boo seemed utterly unconcerned about security. He was even enjoying the attentions of the press. He waved to an attractive, blonde woman holding out a microphone. She shouted something at him, but he held his hand behind his ear, pretending he couldn't hear her. With a sigh Liz reached into her pocket for the strands of yarn she carried there, and twisted them together. The cantrip should fuzz her image sufficiently so it would be difficult to identify her. Ringwall still wouldn't be happy, but at least the damage was under control. Now to see what had caused all the to-do. She grabbed Boo's arm to turn him.

The steel-and-glass doors were pinned wide by dumpsters rolled up from the nearby loading dock. Boo hopped over lengths of hose flung everywhere in the corridor. Liz followed him, wishing she had worn lower-heeled shoes. A couple of people hung out of the dressing room doors, gawking at the two agents as they ran by. Everyone was yelling over the alarms, sirens, and crackling radios.

"Where'd it happen?" Liz called to Boo. He skipped nimbly over a twisting section of hose fifty feet ahead of her. Watching him, she stumbled on the same length and cursed her high-heeled shoes.

"Just follow the trail, I'd say," Boo said, stopping to wait for her. He grabbed her arm, and pointed ahead toward the double stage doors, braced open with crates. Half a dozen firefighters in yellow rubber coats, shouting to each other, rushed past them with extinguishers and axes. The two agents ran to catch up.

When she reached the stage, Liz stopped beside Boo to stare.

"What happened?" she asked. "With all the equipment they've brought in I thought the entire Superdome was coming down!"

After the round-shouldered cramping of the hotel and the restaurant in the Quarter, the chamber before Liz was vast. It engulfed the forty people on the raised stage at its heart like gnats in a multicolored bathtub. Yellow-skinned insects dragged long strands of hose behind them here and there through glistening puddles and heaps of overturned equipment. A bright yellow fire engine a third the size of the ones on the street sat beside the stage, its emergency lights rotating while men in coats and boots scrambled all over it. At the center of all the hubbub stood a single, tiny, forlorn, dripping figure. Two of the firefighters dragged a still writhing hose away from him. It was Thomas Fitzgibbon, the costumer, drenched to the skin. He saw the two agents and waved a hand weakly toward them, dribbling a stream of water from his sleeve.

"I can't explain it," the costumer said, when they reached him. He moved locks of his curly hair out of his eyes, and plucked at his wet shirt. He looked close to tears as he held out a scorched wisp of green cloth. "I brought Fee's dress out here on stage to see how it looked under the lights. The sleeves are gauze, like dragonfly wings. They would be so beautiful. Then suddenly, poof! Flames everywhere! It happened so quickly I didn't have time to move. I thought I'd be burned to death." The thin man's eyes were huge with fear, but he appeared to be uninjured. "And then someone pulled the fire alarm."

"Was anyone hurt?" Boo asked, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to the man. Fitzgibbon looked at the grimy square and shuddered.

"No, but the dress is ruined. I can't stand it." He turned woefully to face Patrick Jones, the publicist, who was jogging toward them up the main aisle of the theater. Fionna, dogged by a grim Preston, strode behind him. Jones started to speak, but Preston pushed by him and shook a fist in Liz's face.

"What I want to know is, you think you call this taking care of the problem?"

"Shush, Lloyd," said Jones, patiently. "Can anyone tell us what happened? You, sir?" He snagged the arm of a passing firefighter, dressed in rubber coat and boots. "Are we in any more danger? Can we stay here?"

"The fire seemed to be localized right here," the man said. His dark-skinned face gleamed with sweat, and Liz empathized with him for having to wear a heavy costume like that in the middle of the hellish heat of the city, let alone a conflagration. "We're examining the rest of the scene right now."

"Well, can't you speed it up?" Jones asked. He looked peeved, but was trying to remain reasonable. "We've got a show to do."

"Sorry, sir. These things have got to be done in the right order," the firefighter said, patiently. "You don't want hot spots to break out. Burn the place right down."

"Oh, marvelous," Jones said, throwing his hands in the air. The fireman walked in an ever-increasing circle around the center of the stage, studying the floor, and occasionally stooping to touch the wooden boards. Jones watched him go with an expression of worry. Liz felt sorry for him. This would be a very public public-relations nightmare.

Other firefighters searched around in the outer reaches of the Superdome, clambering up into the tiers of multicolored seats. Liz spotted the ant-sized figures in their yellow protective gear, and marveled at how large the arena was. Without figures to compare for scale, it seemed no larger than a circus tent, but it was fully as big as a football stadium. Which, she recalled wryly, it was.

A few of the band members and some of the security staff were following the firefighters around, asking questions. The rest were frozen in a huddle on one side of the stage, staring at the sodden costumer.

Liz surveyed the scene, puzzled by the lack of evidence. When the accident, or attack, or whatever it was had occurred, there had been a blast of some kind. Fitzgibbon stood in the center of a ring of ash. It was marked by footprints of every size, left by firefighters, the members of the band, and now her and Boo. The pattern radiated outward from the costume itself in a complete circle, interrupted only where the costumer's body had blocked the burst. But it must have been a remarkably mild explosion. Fitzgibbon was unhurt, though badly frightened, and she couldn't say she blamed him.

"Who was near you when it caught fire?" Liz asked.

"No one!" Fitzgibbon exclaimed. He was still clutching the soggy remains of the dress. "I was standing here, holding up the gown for the lights. Robbie can back me up on that. Can't you, sweetheart?" he called to the special effects coordinator, who was sitting on a folding chair at the stage rim with her hands and knees together and ankles apart like a little girl.

The special effects coordinator nodded her head solemnly. She looked puzzled and worried.

"Take me through it," Liz said briskly to Fitzgibbon. "Just what happened?"

The costumer threw up his hands. "Nothing! I came out of the dressing room with the green number for the ballad at the end of the first set. The crew can tell you. Some of the spotlights were moving up and down, and I saw some laser lights flashing. Fionna's key light was pointed down onto the center of the stage. I went into the beam to see how her costume would look. That's all. Then, whoosh! Look at it! Those perfect, filmy sleeves, reduced to ashes. I don't want everyone blaming me. I didn't do anything!" His eyes filled with tears. "It was supposed to match her hair."

"Now, now," Boo-Boo said soothingly, patting the costumer on the back. "No one's callin' you names. Could anyone have booby-trapped that dress?"

Fitzgibbon looked indignant. "Certainly not. I had just finished tacking the hem. I had the whole thing inside out on my cutting table. If there had been any... infernal devices, I would have seen them. There was nothing there!"

"I told you all this was real," Fionna spat, striding up with Nigel Peters trotting behind her. She glared at the publicist. "Now do you fokkin' believe me?" Jones held up his hands to fend off her fury. "Things like this have been goin' on again and again. I'm at me wits' end!" Fionna turned to Liz and Boo-Boo. "Yer supposed to prevent this, right? Why didn't yer fancy machines tell you this was happenin'? Didn't you bug everythin' I own in the world?"

Liz marveled that Fionna's accent stayed intact even under stress. "You weren't injured, Fee—Fionna," she said, stumbling deliberately over the name. The look of suspicion in her old schoolmate's eyes verified that there would be no more hysterics, or Liz might let her secret out.

"This dress didn't exist until an hour ago, sweetheart," Peters said, soothingly. "Fitzy's only just finished it."

"I haven't even been here yet, and they're already trying to kill me!" Fionna shrilled. "And you've done nothing!"

"We couldn't prevent an attack until we knew where it was coming from," Liz said, looking at Boo-Boo for support. The American was on his knees, scooping ashes from the floor into his hand.

"And where is it coming from?" Fionna demanded.

"It's coming from... beyond," the costumer said, clutching himself. His eyes were wide with horror. "Oh, my God, what if all the green silk is cursed? Couldn't we, you know, call in a priest to bless it and make it benign? Otherwise, I refuse to work with it. Heaven knows what it'll do to my sewing machines."

"Will you calm down?" Peters snapped. "The fabric is not cursed. There's a perfectly sane explanation for what just happened. Right, Liz?"

"What are these things?" Boo-Boo asked, standing up with wires trailing from his hand.

"They're from the LEDs. They were arranged in mystical symbols sewn into the cloth. They light up on stage. There's no power source, though," the costumer said, suddenly looking worried. "We hook Fionna up with a battery pack before she goes on."

"We've done it a thousand times," Fionna said, her eyes wild. "There's no earthly reason why the dress should have gone up in flames. Someone's trying to kill me!" She turned and, finding herself in Lloyd Preston's arms, allowed herself to shiver. Robbie Unterburger glared at her from the sidelines.

"Could the dress have been exposed to any flammable substances? Or high temperatures?" Liz asked. "Could the spotlight have set it off?"

"We're in that spotlight now," Robbie said, pointing upward. Liz stared up into the blinding glare. It focused into a single point, far in the back of the amphitheater. "It's no more harsh than strong sunshine."

"It don't look like these two busybodies can do a thing," Preston said, hulking over them all as usual. Liz turned a high-power glare towards him, then dismissed him. "I'll look this place over myself. Fionna's security is my business." He stalked off to confront one of the firefighters.

"What about those laser lights?" Boo-Boo asked. "Could that ignite the fabric?"

"You couldn't even light a cigarette with them," Robbie said, scornfully. "There's stronger lasers in a food store checkout. Besides, the laser never touched this stage. I was testing it on the far wall."

"All right," Liz said. "I'd like to talk to everyone who was here when it happened. One at a time, please." She turned to the publicist, who looked as if his ulcer was kicking up again. "Can we use one of the dressing rooms?"

Everyone protested at once. "We've got work to do, lady!" Robbie Unterburger said. "Tomorrow's the show!"

"That's enough," Nigel Peters said, wearily. "There'll be no show if there's any danger to Fionna, so we have to let these people ask their questions, right? A little cooperation, please? God, I could murder a cup of tea."

"Could you make us all some tea?" Liz asked the costumer. "It'll give you a chance to calm down."

"I'm a highly paid professional, with respect throughout the entire music industry," Fitzgibbon protested, head high, but Liz thought he looked grateful for something ordinary to do. He threw up his hands. "All right. Tea."

"I'd rather have a whisky," Fionna said, crossly.

"You had four drinks at lunch," Liz said.

"Well, I need one now! And how the hell did you know that? Have you got a bug on me now?" Fionna demanded.

"She's already got one up her..." Robbie muttered to one of the other stagehands. Fionna couldn't hear her, but Liz could. Tactfully, she pretended she hadn't. She didn't want to revisit the matter anyhow. Fee would have had furious hysterics all over again if Liz had explained the psychic monitor she'd planted on her for security.

"Come on, sweetheart," Laura Manning, the makeup artist, said, putting an arm around Fionna's narrow shoulders and leading her away. "I've got a bottle in your dressing room. We can wait for the tea there." She glanced back at the two investigators. "That's where you'll find me. I've got things to arrange for tomorrow."

"We all have," Michael Scott complained, his blue eyes flashing with indignation. The other members of the band added their voices to his.

"This won't take but a short time," Boo-Boo promised him. "We just want to know where everybody was when the dress went up. We don't even have to go down to a dressing room. We can talk right here."

Eddie Vincent frowned. "I don't like this. You're accusing us? Us? We've been with Fionna for yonks, mate." He planted a finger in Boo-Boo's chest and poked it a few times for emphasis. "Now, she may not be the world's easiest broad to live with, but we back her up in more ways than one. Got it?"

"Everybody's gettin' so bothered," Boo-Boo said mildly, but Liz saw the glints in his eyes. He walked back to the instrument setup. Almost involuntarily, half the crowd of roadies and musicians followed him. He stopped beside the open square of keyboards. "You was here when Fitz came out? Rehearsing?"

"No, I was dancing on the ceiling with Fred Astaire," Eddie said, sneering. "'Course I was. Len saw me."

"Yeah," Len, one of the lighting crew, stepped forward. "I was fixing everyone's key lights."

"Good!" Boo-Boo beamed. "See how easy this is?"

Liz admired the way his easygoing manner helped to soothe the ruffled feathers of Fionna's entourage. After a surprisingly short time, their voices softened. Several people began to add their accounts, interrupting each other, helping to reconstruct the moment of the attack now nearly two hours past. Boo caught Liz's eye over the shoulders of the others, and she nodded back, understanding him. While he was charming everyone, Liz sauntered casually over to the keyboard setup, and sent a tiny tendril of Earth power through the floor where Eddie Vincent must have been standing.

Everyone's backs were turned when the glitter came to life on the dusty boards, showing pairs of footsteps overlaid on one another again and again, when Vincent was playing, turning from electric piano to organ to multi-synthesizer and back again. It looked like some bizarre Arthur Murray quickstep pattern. The air around them was empty of even a single spark of magic. Whatever had happened, the musician was innocent of the attack. Liz had just enough time to wipe the glamour away when Vincent broke out of the pack and came over to see what she was doing.

"Quite some instruments," she said, idly. She started to run a finger along the top of the synthesizer console. He reached over to slap her wrist. She snatched her hand away, staring at him in astonishment.

"Never touch my stuff again," he said, flatly. He aimed a finger at her nose. "Never handle anyone's instruments, do you hear? Anybody could tell you've never been within a mile of a band."

"Why would I need to?" Liz asked sweetly. "Anybody could hear you playing from a mile away. I'd never need a ticket." She was surprised at herself. Being peevish was not what the office expected of its agents. She ought to be acting like an adult in this crisis. "I'm sorry," she said. "We're all under a bit of a strain."

Vincent grunted wordlessly. Apology accepted. Liz turned and walked back to join Boo-Boo, who was standing with Voe Lockney. The drummer was explaining his drum set with enthusiasm, picking out rhythms with quick dabs of brush and stick.

"Anything?" Boo-Boo asked her out of the side of his mouth.

"Not a thing," she said.

"Do me now," Michael Scott said, coming over to loom over them. He was the tallest of the band members, and his blue eyes burned into Liz's like Green Fire's lasers. "I've plenty to get on with."

For a moment Liz was reduced to a quivering blob of adoring teenage fan. Here was the Guitarchangel, close enough to touch, and twice as handsome as any photo she had ever seen. Those sharp cheekbones, and that long, black hair! But her Departmental training shoved the adolescent firmly into a mental cupboard and locked the door.

"We are sorry for the inconvenience," she said, briskly.

"You sound like a sign on the London Underground," Scott said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Could that be the hint of a smile? "Get on with it. I was playing at that edge of the stage." He pointed. Liz and Boo turned to look. Liz noticed the blast pattern, much attenuated. It outlined a semicircle in ash where the guitarist had been standing when the dress went up. "I didn't see the fire start. I had my back to the center. I was starting my solo."

"Right," said Jones, joining in. "The lights are down at first. Fee comes on in the darkness. Her dress starts flashing the symbols, then all lights come up at once. The musicians whirl around to see her. The spotlights start wigwagging across the stage. Lasers! Smoke! It's smashing. You'll love it at the concert."

A brass fire hose nozzle slid noisily behind his feet, and Jones jumped.

"If we ever get to the damned concert," Robbie Unterburger complained.

Green Fire's dressing rooms were under the stage beyond a security door that was held ajar with a rubber wedge. Nearby was a reception room that must be used for parties and interviews. At the moment it was full of equipment in and out of battered, black travel cases. Most of the gear was unfamiliar to Liz. She assumed a good deal of it was special-effects equipment, under the direction of Roberta Unterburger. An angry young woman, that. Every time Fee reached out for Lloyd Preston, Robbie flared up as if she could light the show without benefit of laser beams. Liz was sorry for her. Unrequited love might have been nice in poetry, but it was hell in practice. She wondered why the woman didn't quit her job, if she couldn't stand the realities of the situation. Then she thought about it—who wouldn't want to work for a world-famous rock band, no matter how hard it was on your heart? On Robbie's side, though, Kenneth Lewis kept staring at her the same way she did at Preston. He watched her when he thought she couldn't see, and turned his head away when she glanced his way. There was a neat little triangle going on, or quadrangle. All it needed was Fionna having unreturned feelings for Kenneth to really make a mess of the situation.

Fionna's dressing room was the largest and best appointed. The concrete floor had been carpeted over with a rich green plush, a compliment to her band and her hair. Instead of the acid fluorescent lights, she had floor lamps with restful low-watt bulbs. The singer herself was enthroned in a big armchair with Laura Manning on one side and Nigel Peters on the other offering her drinks and cigarettes. Someone had unpacked Fionna's possessions and arranged them around the room. Costumes of garish silks or black lace and tulle hung along the walls. The lighted mirror in the wall over the dressing table was supplemented by a double-ended magnifying mirror and a folding mirror, plus enough amulets arrayed along the rear of the table to open a shop. A couple of them did have the sniff of magic about them. They glowed feebly, to Liz's experienced eye, like a child's nightlights.

Enjoying an audience with Her Majesty was a plump man with a dapper summer-weight jacket slung over his shoulder by one finger.

"And there you are at last!" Fionna carolled. Her voice was a relaxed trill. The promised whiskey had obviously met a few friends on its way down her throat. "Meet Mr. Winslow. He's a true darling."

"Building management, ma'am, er... sir," the man in the white suit said, turning to offer a hand. "When I heard about this... regrettable accident I just had to come down and offer my support. Are you... with the show?" he asked, looking Boo-Boo's attire up and down.

"No, sir," Boo said. "I'm with the Department." He patted down several of his tattered pockets and came up with a shiny leather billfold. He flipped it open. "My credentials, sir."

Winslow's eyes widened as he examined the card and badge. "I see. I'm glad to see Miss Fionna has some... strong protectors. The fire marshall is upstairs now. They had to break in through the front doors, which will be replaced this afternoon, Mr. Peters," Winslow added, turning an eye to look over his shoulder.

"I'm glad to hear it," Peters said. "My people will offer every cooperation."

"Was there anyone strange in the building when the dress caught fire?" Boo-Boo asked the manager.

"God only knows. This place is the size of a palace, but everything was locked up. The rear doors were locked from the outside only. We had a grip stationed there to let our people in, but no one else. I suppose someone could have slipped in, and planted a booby trap."

"Which your Mr. Fitzgibbon... didn't see," Winslow pointed out. Peters looked disconcerted.

"Er, yes."

"I don't think it's too likely that what caused the trouble was in the dress itself," Boo-Boo said.

"It came from a distance, then?" Peters asked, uncomfortable. "Something was shot at him?" Fionna sat bolt upright in her chair with her lips pressed together. Liz wondered what Boo was thinking, but he gestured to her not to speak. He looked amiably at the building manager.

"Well, no. All that flash powder hovering in the air, and those laser lights, there could have been a little accident."

"Good!" Winslow exclaimed, then looked guilty. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Well, apart from Mr. Fitzgibbon having to make another dress."

Laura Manning waved the idea away. "Oh, don't worry about Tommy. He's probably in there at this moment inventing a new confection in silk and lace. He lives to suffer. Ask him. Why, he's even accused me of ruining his dresses with my nasty foundations and rouges. Greasepaint isn't up in that lofty sphere with haute couture."

"Excuse me, Mr. Winslow?" A man in firefighter's rig with a clipboard appeared at the door. "Fire marshall. Everything seems to be under control. The building's all right. The crews are withdrawing. You've got a mess up there, Mr. Winslow. Sorry about that, sir."

Winslow was gracious. "You're doing your very worthy job, Marshall. My thanks. My maintenance people... will already be on the job, Miss Fionna." He offered her a courtly little bow.

In sharp contrast to the courtesy of the building manager, Lloyd Preston pushed his way in, a scowl on his face. He stood over Fionna, who reached out a thin and, Liz thought, dramatically trembling hand to him. "Everything's okay. We can get right back to work."

"But," Liz began to protest. Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

"But what?" Lloyd demanded. Fionna sat bolt upright in her armchair, ready to flee the scene at the sound of a threat.

"But," Boo said loudly, drowning her out, "we'll be keeping an eye on things." He nodded knowingly to Fionna, who shot them a look of relief. "We'll get right on it." He took Liz's arm and hustled her out of the dressing room.