Mortal Bonds (A Jason Stafford Novel) by Sears Michael

Author:Sears, Michael [Sears, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2013-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

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If I stood up and leaned over the heads of the motherly chaperone and three teenage girls—all of whom were entirely caught up in the action on stage—I could just see the Kid down in row E, one seat off the aisle. When I sat down, however, I could see only the back of the stage. “Partially Obstructed View.” Last row of the upper balcony. I had a great view of the stagehands attaching the flying harness to the back of the vampire’s costume just before he flew up and scared off all the werewolves.

Ten minutes into Act I and I was lost—thoroughly. The audience must have all read the book—or the whole trilogy. There was no dialogue—the lyrics drove whatever story line existed. The music had been written—if that’s the word—by a pair of aging rockers, one of whom had famously admitted years earlier that he knew only three chords when they started out. I was sure that his musical knowledge had doubled over the years.

But my confusion couldn’t be blamed solely on the play—my mind was elsewhere. I sneaked my cell phone out of my pocket and checked for messages—it was set to vibrate. Still nothing from Virgil—three calls in, none returned. The light from the screen attracted a nasty look from the overweight, balding man to my right. I smiled at him and nodded companionably. I’d caught him nodding sleepily halfway through the overture.

The damn phone shook in my hand. Incoming. Virgil.

I jumped up, and no longer bothering to smile, wiggled my way out of the row. I took a quick look down at the Kid before I dashed for the exit—I could barely see him. About all I could tell was that he was there and not on fire. I would have seen the flames.

“Virgil. Thanks for finally getting back to me.” I stopped just outside the doors, at the top of the stairs.

“I’ve been getting Everett’s reports.” In other words, “Why are you bothering me?”

“I need some answers. There’re way too many players on the field. I’m getting worried that someone is going to get hurt.”

“You are being both cryptic and alarmist. Is this about Mr. Castillo again? I have already said that I do not know the man to be a client of the firm. I know who he is and what he represents. I have asked Everett to go through my father’s phone logs and calendars for any evidence that they did business together. As of yesterday afternoon, when I last spoke with Everett, he had no reason to think they even knew each other.”

“He may have to dig deeper. Tell him to talk to Mrs. Welk.”

The sound of muffled applause came through the doors and I went farther down the stairs.

“Welk? The clerk?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” he said, sounding like I had asked him to eat raw garlic. “Is there anything else?”

“Plenty. Some nasty guys have been threatening people I’ve talked to—and claiming that I sent them.”

“And you didn’t?”

I swallowed the profanities that were about to start rolling off my tongue.

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