Music hath Charms

By

Dawnwind

Chapter 6

Morning did find me back in my own bed, although I had only the vaguest recall of driving home in the wee hours of the A.M. I remembered that I was supposed to be fasting just before bringing a hot cup of coffee to my parched lips. I swore loudly but put the tempting cup back down. Well, Claire had better have a pot brewing in the Keep. She did, sometimes, although, most of the time all she had was yogurt and old cartons of take-away Chinese growing moldy in her refrigerator. On occasion it was difficult to tell the difference between her left overs and her bacterial cultures.

"Are you all right, Darien?" Claire tightened the tourniquet around my bicep, probing for the vein. Traitorous things that they are, my veins usually pop right up, blue and bulgy, like they welcomed that needle's sharp force.

"Just stayed up kinda late…" I fudged, wincing when she stabbed me. "Ow, that's the brachial vein, right?"

"Very good! I guess taking anatomy is rubbing off on you." She congratulated. We both watched the purple topped tube fill with blood and then a green topped one. Claire slipped the needle out, pressing a cotton ball to the inside of my arm. "You didn't eat anything this morning, did you?"

"Ate pistachios last night and nothing since," I vowed, using the already bent arm to cover my heart. "Miles is having a concert at the zoo tomorrow, are you coming?"

"I wouldn't miss it. This is so exciting, getting to hear about his life behind the scenes, but the papers weren't very solicitous to him about the radio interview yesterday."

"Tell me about it." I agreed, "But the riot may have helped us find some leads on who is trying to ruin Amahl's coronation."

"Seems a very backwards way of going about things, by sabotaging Miles' life."

"Well, it's designed to look like someone's after Miles, but in fact most of the attacks are really on Farzimah."

"Poor girl." Claire slapped a Band-Aid over the needle mark.

"Don't you have any with Tweety Bird?" I whined.

"If you want juvenile displays all over your skin, get them yourself," she answered loftily, beginning in on the blood tests.

"By the way, Farzimah is interested in the biology behind the gland and I thought maybe she could talk to you."

"She knows you can…Bloody hell, Darien, how many people did you tell this time?" Claire groaned.

"Just her and Miles. It was kinda important at the time."

"The Official won't be pleased, I must say."

"Can you squeeze her into your busy schedule?" I asked, pronouncing the last word in the British style. "Give her some of the highlights without the top secret stuff?"

"No need to get snippy, I suppose I could explain Quicksilver without giving away too much." Claire transferred some of my blood into a tiny pipette which grossed me out for some reason.

"Anything to eat around here? I'm starving."

"There's a container of lemon yogurt in the fridge, if you're about to keel over in a faint, but don't touch my Jamba juice."

"Just a sip?" I wheedled, giving her the patented big eyes.

"None, get out of here! " She shooed, "Wait, when should I arrive at the zoo?"

"One o'clock would be good, and just tell em you're with me and Bobby. We're on the list." I'd always wanted to say that. Maybe I could get a table at a good restaurant that way. Just mention ol' Miles and me are like this.

"Darien! Glad I ran into you!" Eberts smiled brightly at me, clutching some papers to his chest. As a matter of fact, Eberts always has some papers. I'd hardly recognize him otherwise.

"Whatcha got, Ebes?"

"I was able to print out a membership list for the Kharistani Freedom fighters. Their firewalls were very impressive, especially for a small political group." He handed over the sheet of names. "There are a number of Kims, which is quite a common name in Korea, so I'm not sure you could positively implicate your Mike Kim with any amount of certainty."

Scanning the list, I had to agree with him. Unless Mike Kim had one hell of a lot of brothers, there were a lot of unrelated Kims on the list. And Jones, and Smiths. "This is bogus. They're probably all aliases."

"I presumed that, as well." Eberts agreed, looking dejected.

"Hey, fax this over to Hobbes at Miles' place, anyway," I said, "At least it's a start."

"You won't be seeing him?"

"I got to go to class with Farzimah. We figured only one of us needed higher education." I was actually trying to avoid talking to Hobbes at all, if I could help it. He'd want to know what had weirded me out so much the night before. And Miles would want to talk about it, too. If I could just stay out of their ways until the zoo, then everybody would be so busy there wouldn't be time to talk. That was my plan, anyway, and I was sticking to it.

To get into the Middle Eastern mood I had falafel for lunch, which could go to the head of the class as one of my current favorite lunches. It's healthy, but fried. Little crispy balls of fried chickpea batter nestled in a bed of lettuce and cucumbers inside a pita pocket drizzled with a tangy yogurt sauce. Satisfying with a frosty mug of root beer. Come to think of it, Claire might like it, too. She always likes anything with a little culture added.

I dozed through a lecture on covalents and sub-atomic particles, then followed Farzimah back to Miles' house for dinner. Nobody was in a chatty mood, which suited me just fine. Miles was totally distracted, working on some new song, Farzimah brought her anatomy tome to the table to study and I just shoveled food into my mouth.

Hobbes showed up at seven so we could go back to the university for the Kharistan Freedom Fighters rally and I let myself be closed into a car with my partner, who was never one to let grass grow under his feet. He launched into his annoy-the-hell-out-of-Darien interrogation technique before we'd even cleared the driveway.

"What was all that last night?"

"Hobbes, just some really old crap from prison. Nothing important."

"Seemed like it was pretty important to me. Scared the shit outta you. You couldn't get out of there faster. What'd ol'braniac brother do?"

"He didn't do anything. I just hadn't known he'd come to visit me."

"The only reason you wouldn't know something like that was if you were in solitary or unconscious. I figure, with your personality, you probably did get solitary once in a while but I'm betting on the latter in this case."

"So," I wasn't about to volunteer anymore information than I had to.

"Fawkes." We'd stopped at a long light and Bobby had time to look over at me. His voice was soft with compassion and it hurt. After all this time I didn't want sympathy for what had happened. I didn't want to remember it, but that had already happened so I guess I had to get the whole treatment. "How bad?" Bobby asked after we'd looked at each other for a few minutes. I turned away, pretending that the McDonald's Super Playland was the most amazing sight in all of San Diego.

"I got hurt. Kevin came to visit me. I wasn't told. End of story, can we get on with what we're supposed to be doing now?" I tried to sound angry but it was really resignation what came out. I knew full well that Hobbes would badger me until I confessed. "I stopped and talked to Eberts about the KFF, and looks like most of the membership list is bogus."

"I concur. I read what he faxed me."

That just struck me as funny. "You concur? When did you go to law school, Barrister?"

"In my spare time, while you were in the clink."

"So, I'm thinkin' that this whole North Korean thing might really be a big threat. Y'know they have nuclear capabilities?"

"You're just avoiding the subject big time, junior."

"Yeah, how'm I doing?" I grinned at him with all my teeth.

"You stink." Hobbes shook his head, "I know you don't wanna talk about that kinda shit, but it helps. Years and years of therapy have taught me that."

"Hobbes, I hadn't even given it much thought in…a while. Spending time with Miles is just bringing up stuff I'd let get buried."

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah."

"How often?"

"Not very," I hedged.

"Last night?"

"No." Okay, that was the truth. I hadn't had the usual dream, not last night anyway.

"Rape?"

That one hit me out of left field and I cringed in spite of myself. "Yeah."

"So bad you were unconscious?" His voice was light, but the tension in the car was as thick as summer humidity in Galveston. I could tell Hobbes was trying not to be angry about something that happened thirteen years ago but it was pushing all his buttons.

"What did you expect, Hobbes? You knew, I told you about other stuff," I came on too strong, the anger and pain suddenly way out of control and it took a lot of effort to drop down into an acceptable range. Taking a slow breath, I tried to lick my lip but my mouth was too dry. "This one was just unexpected cause I didn't know about Kevin and it hit me hard. It's over. It's done and it's way past."

"If you say so," Hobbes said quietly.

"I do. And don't go psychoanalyzing my repressed thoughts and misplaced anger, Dr. Freud, cause you got issues, too."

"No disputing that, my friend, I just wanna make sure you're getting enough sleep at night. I know the seven kinds of hell a person can put themselves through in the long, dark hours."

"You should be writing Irish poetry, you know that? A bottle of whiskey and a pint of Guinness and you'd be all set." I was never so glad to see the cluster of buildings making up the university come into view. We could go onto more acceptable topics of conversation, like the take-over of the Kharistan royal family. Religion might be good, too. Then we could hit all the big three--Sex, politics, and God. Whenever I get my singing career going, that'll be the title of my first CD.

I slipped out of the car while going Quicksilver and sidled up to the nondescript building where people were gathering. I think it had been a 'portable' in its former life but had acquired a cement base and fairly permanent looking stairs, no longer earning the sobriquet portable. But, stuck out on the edge of the parking lot it didn't make for a very elegant meeting hall. The people began to file into the room, pouring themselves cups of coffee before sitting down in a mismatched assortment of chairs. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but tonight's meeting was something of a disappointment. There were maybe thirty people there all total, a large number of Asian, it's true, although I couldn't have reliably told a Korean from a Japanese from a Chinese, but there were almost as many Caucasian and African-Americans with a smattering of Arabs thrown in for good measure. A diverse group of political war mongerers. Unfortunately, nobody plotted the overthrow of the current regime or even discussed bomb-making 101. Of course, these days, anyone can look up how to make a bomb on the Internet. All in all, they just talked, like all these types do, to hear their own rhetoric and agree with themselves.

I slipped out to give Hobbes a heads up and let him decide if I needed to stay and be tortured into unconsciousness by all the pretentious filibustering wannabes. I, naturally, was of the opinion that this was all a great big waste of time, when I spotted two men getting out of a red late model Acura. Hobbes must have parked Golda somewhere else and found himself a hiding place, because I couldn't see him anywhere. He couldn't see me, either, I suppose, since I was still Quicksilvered. I just waited by the door of the portable, watching the two men approach. They were almost within arms length of me before I could accurately confirm what I'd suspected from the minute I saw them. One was Mike Kim. The other looked enough like him to be a brother. Ah, the plot thickens and gels, since this certainly went a long way to proving Kim's duplicity.

I hoped their arrival would liven up the meeting, and it did. Kim immediately called for volunteers to picket the zoo on Saturday and went over further plans for another protest march for the following Friday at the hotel where Amahl's dinner was being held. Nothing juicy or illegal in the least. Discussion of what to write on their placards occupied the rest of the meeting until a pretty young girl with a heart shaped face and thick black dreads like Whoopi Goldberg passed around a tin of homemade fudge. The fudge went quickly and so did the freedom fighters, running off to their dorm rooms and beds while visions of anarchy danced in their heads. But I wanted proof. Mike Kim was a worm and I wanted his ass in jail. He'd gotten Melissa Beatten murdered. That could get him manslaughter, and there were probably a whole host of other charges we could throw at him. I just hoped he ended up in Soledad in the same block as some of my old acquaintances.

I let the Quicksilver flake off in the shadow of a eucalyptus, the sinus-clearing scent of the leaves overpowered by the smell of leaking oil when Golda pulled up beside me.

"Where were you, man? I never saw you," I complained.

"The mark of a good spook, Fawkes. Don't need the gland to be invisible, you see?"

"I see said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw."

"That's funny," Hobbes said blandly, driving off the university property. "What did Kim say?"

"You saw him?"

"I saw him, Kim."

"And Kim's twin?"

"You sure it was a twin?"

"Or maybe a clone, Dr. Seuss."

"If the North Koreans had that kind of technology, that would be news." Hobbes nodded.

I outlined what was said. "Can't we just go in and grab Kim now? We know he's plotting a coup. That's grounds for arrest in my book."

"Don't go putting down any wagers on Kim just yet. Tonight sounds like it was small potatoes. We need the brass--there's probably somebody above Kim and I wanna get 'em all from the top down. At least we know to watch out for him, keep our eyes open and our ears to the ground."

"In case the Indians attack, Lone Ranger?"

"Always worked before, Kemosabe," Hobbes chuffed a laugh when he let me off at my place.

The demons let loose that night, tap dancing their nasty images across my brain pan while I was paralyzed in the deepest depths of sleep. At least I got a little sleep before the nightmare cause I got none afterwards. I wasn't about to give the nightmare prison bullies any more leverage over me than they already had in real life. So, I watched TV the rest of the night, dozing over reruns on Nickelodeon. 'Cheers', 'All in the Family'…nothing with any prison scenes or monsters. Had enough of them in my life right now, thank you very much.

The morning found me groggy and barely functioning. Coffee the ordinary way left me with enough cognitive functions to drive over to Miles'. I kind of wondered if injecting the caffeine straight into my veins would have been more effective. Except, after two years of needles nearly every day, there's no way I could have given myself a shot. Lucky for me I wasn't diabetic.

The oceanside house was in a state of only half-controlled chaos. The zoo officials called hourly wanting assurances that there would not be a repeat of the 'riot' from Thursday afternoon and all of us agreed on that point. Miles drank tea; singing scales and riffs by the piano with a slight frown when he didn't like the sound he was producing. Farzimah had packed up several boxes of the photos Miles had signed to be presented to the concertgoers. Special T-shirts with a lion and the zoo's logo along with a smaller version of the 'Sandstorm tour '02' graphic were handed out to all the crew, including Hobbes and me. I was beginning to have quite a collection of Miles Verbage t-shirts and wondered how much I could expand my wardrobe before this gig was over and I had to go back to being a Federal agent. Maybe if I got Miles to sign one I could sell it on E-bay.

Mike Kim was in his element, running around with a clipboard in one hand and a cell phone in the other, assigning jobs, putting out fires and talking non-stop. As usual he was a worrywart, constantly reminding everyone of what they already knew they were supposed to be doing.

Joe Lincoln, a reporter Rolling Stone, was now following Miles around, jotting down notes and asking questions. The problem was he was constantly in the way, always standing in front of a box Farzimah wanted or blocking the door when a roadie was carrying equipment out to the car. Hobbes finally made Lincoln park it in an overstuffed chair near the piano and told him to shut up. Luckily, he hadn't brought a photographer with him, since he said he preferred studio shots but Sherida was there to get those candid shots for the teen magazines. She took pictures of Miles from every single angle imaginable. It seemed like hours before everyone managed to pile into limos for the less than half-hour drive to the zoo. I nearly fell asleep on the short ride, that's how tired I was. This did not bode well for the rest of the day.

Letting the techs and roadies do their jobs and unload the band equipment, I patrolled the outer limits of the area cordoned off for the concert, trying to think like Bobby Hobbes. Where would a sniper want to hole up? Which direction would be the best for a guerrilla attack? Up and around the lion enclosure and past a wooded area, then down a path and back to the temporary stage I slogged, trying to walk off my sleepiness. Hopefully we would have the rent-a-cops that Bobby was currently grilling into shape in position so that no one without a ticket slipped by one of us.

"You're security with Verbage's group?" A portly black man looked at me speculatively as if assessing whether he trusted me or not.

"Darien Fawkes, with the Department of Fish and Game," I flashed my badge with a slight smile of triumph. Usually I felt kind of stupid admitting it, since people often greeted me with even more skepticism after they heard where I worked. Today, however, there was a legitimate reason for Fish and Game to be involved. Who knew what kind of noise pollution and stress levels a rock concert would cause to the caged animals? Maybe they weren't even rock fans.

"Yeah, I knew you guys might get involved," the man scratched his Elvis-style mutton chop whiskers with a sage nod. "M'bassa Muanga. Head of security for the zoo."

"Mr. Muanga," I shook his had with careful solemnity. He seemed the sort who went by the book, all manners and protocol.

"Already had intensive studies done on the noise levels--just the cars going by outside the park generate a considerable amount, but since this concert's only about two hours, the expert concluded that there wouldn't be much harm," he shook his head with a smile. "I'm not really sure how they figured that out, but anyway…"

"Any concerns about the security from your end, Mr. Muanga?" I asked.

"I've had it from on high that there will absolutely not be any riots or protesting."

"I've heard that one, too," I agreed, "And to that end, I have a list for you." I handed over the license plate numbers of each car I'd seen in the university parking lot the night before. Every one of them belonged to a member of the Kharistan Freedom Fighters. "Keep your eyes peeled for these cars. This is the group who picketed the radio station and we are aware that they have plans to picket the zoo, as well. Keep them off the property and there won't be any trouble at all."

"Impressive," Muanga scanned the list. "Where'd you get this?"

"Field work," was all I told him before I walked away.

By the time I got back to the arena, Miles was prowling around the small stage, getting a feel for the place. He pantomimed a few dance moves, keeping out of the way of the band members plugging their electric guitars and assembling drum sets. The guy I'd seen at the first concert, Randy, the stage manager, adjusted one of the mics and handed it over to Miles, encouraging him to sing so the sound engineer could do a sound check.

I headed over to where Hobbes was standing with his hands on his hips like he wasn't quite sure he'd remembered to go over every contingency.

"Don't sweat it so much, Hobbesy."

"What? We know there's a death threat out on the princess and probably Verbage as well!" he retorted.

"Hobbes, there's gonna be enough cops and security guards here to qualify for a law enforcement convention. Frankly, it's making me sweat an' it's been years since I had any outstanding warrants."

I got Hobbes to laugh, even though he acted like he didn't think what I said was funny.

On the stage Miles warbled, "Oobie abba nabba, noobie abba nabba, early morning singin' song…" Nonsense lyrics filled the arena, his voice rich, melodic and clear.

"Who got paid to write stuff like that?" I asked rhetorically, not quite recognizing the origin of the tune.

"Good morning, sunshine…" Miles crooned, throwing his head back so his long blond hair glinted in the noon light. It was a spectacular day for an outdoor concert.

"Neil Sedaka," Hobbes squinted into the sun.

"Neil Sedaka didn't write that, it's from 'Hair'." The showtune came to me with a sudden clear memory of seeing Miles strut his stuff in a prison talent show singing the same song.

"No, but he got paid for writin' similar drivel," Hobbes started to sing. "Down dobie do down down, comma comma, down dobie do down down…" I couldn't help myself, I nearly busted a gut laughing at Bobby's singing.

"Breakin' up is hard to do…" Farzimah finished the song, giggling. She hopped from bleacher to bleacher like I used to in high school when I was trying to ditch P.E. "I know one. Bibbiti, bobbeti boo!"

"Aw, now that's a classic," I nodded. "The fairy Godmother in 'Cinderella'."

"How do you know that?" Hobbes questioned.

"Hobbes, I said, it's a classic, must be a little before your time, though."

"Huh, a lot you know." Hobbes pretended to give me the evil eye, catching sight of Claire at the security barricade, "Zippity do dah."

"He's sweet on her, isn't he?" Farzimah observed, watching Hobbes escort Claire inside and giving her a backstage lanyard like we were all wearing.

"Sweet on her? Farzimah, you've been watching too much fifties TV," I climbed up to the top of the rank of bleachers because I had just realized that the parking lot and entrance to the zoo could be seen that way.

"Oh, I love staying up and watching the oldies." She grinned, fingers entwined in the long purple lanyard which made the plastic pass with Miles' picture dance up and down like a puppet. "I can't miss 'The Donna Reed Show'."

"You like Donna? Me I'm a Beaver Cleaver man, myself," I said, still watching the lines of fans waiting in an orderly fashion outside the zoo entrance. The regular zoo goers were being directed through one gate and the ones with concert tickets were being held until one o'clock for the three o'clock concert. Everything seemed to be going so smoothly I felt antsy, and I couldn't relax. That old superstition that if you wish somebody good luck or say things were going well, everything would suddenly go to hell in a handbasket kept bothering me. Our track record had been so bad lately; I had reason for concern. But Muanga's men must have been doing good work cause I didn't even see any of the KFF out on the street in front of the zoo. What I did see were news vans from every local TV station in the San Diego area sitting like vultures waiting for the war. Well, it wasn't going to happen. I'd made promises to the zoo officials.

"I can see you being Beaver when you were younger," Farzimah climbed up next to me, but she only had eyes for the blond strutting his stuff on the stage.

"Miles been telling stories about me?" I asked, not willing to look at her. He wouldn't have told her, would he?

"Only that he really liked you and couldn't figure out why somebody like you ended up a thief."

"Speak for himself." It was hot in the direct noon sunlight up that high and I started to climb down, feeling sorry for anybody who had tickets for those seats. There was little shade there.

"Mmm," she considered this. "He did it for the adrenaline high. I think he gets that on the stage now."

"Something to be said for adrenaline." I let out a pent up breath; glad she wasn't going to ask me about my behavior from the other night. "That instant when you have the merchandise in your hand, nothing's better. What a rush. There's a whole different rush when the police catch up to you."

"I'll bet," She flipped her badge once more before tripping lightly down the bleachers after me, "I'm just glad you've both taken a different line of work, cause I never would have met you if you'd gone to prison."

I considered what she said as the arena began to fill up. I had gone to prison, but I'd gotten that deus-ex-machina reprieve and became a free man. And I'd met a lot of good people because of it. Sometimes I missed the rush of being a thief, but on days like today, with the sun in my eyes and Miles' back up band warming up with a few riffs, I kind of liked where I was right then. My weariness from the sleepless night had vanished with the excitement of the concert and I was really starting to have a great time.

Back stage was a rush all it's own. Miles had changed into his rock star clothing; skin tight black leather pants, a silver t-shirt so tight it looked sprayed on and once again sported a ring on almost every finger. He bounced around on his toes sipping bottled water and mouthing the lyrics to his songs like he'd forget a word once on stage. Farzimah sat on the couch giving him supportive encouragement and eating handfuls of M and M's. Not just the purple ones this time, these were multi-colored, more different hues than I'd ever seen before and I had to eat a few just to convince myself that they really did all taste the same. Mike Kim was going over a list of the reporters he'd promised an 'exclusive' interview with Miles, which in reality meant five minutes each with 'The Star' but I don't think Miles was paying much attention. The guy from 'Rolling Stone' had apparently learned his lesson and was staying out of the way, but Miles did finally come down from what ever cloud he was on to give Joe a few quotes. I'd gotten so used to Sherida snapping pictures I barely noticed her anymore, but once when Hobbes came in to give me a sit rep he glared at her until she lowered the camera rather than take his picture.

Miles was literally minutes from going onstage when Muanga found me in the crush of techies, beckoning me over. "Fawkes, Verbage got a delivery--some flowers, but with security so tight we're not letting anybody past the loading dock, so I thought I'd get one of these guys to go over and pick it up. That okay?"

"Flowers?" my heart rate sped up so fast I had to do some quick Lamaze style breathing to stop the flow of Quicksilver. Even so I felt that telltale tingling in my fingers and hid my hand in my pants pocket. "What'd they look like?"

"Unusual, long stemmed black roses with a big black ribbon tied around," He answered. I'd known I could trust the man, he knew better than to let anyone in carrying a long florist box. In every Mafia movie I'd ever seen the assassin carries his rifle in a florist box. At least we didn't have that to worry about, but the roses didn't make me very happy.

"Crap," I whispered, hoping neither Miles nor Farzimah saw me. "You stay here, watch for anybody who looks even remotely suspicious. I'll go check out the delivery. And if you see my partner Hobbes, send him my way."

"Will do." Muanga nodded, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. Nobody dared get past him or there'd be hell to pay.

I took off as quickly as possible considering the amount of people I had to maneuver around, hearing Miles' voice boom out over the sound system. "Hello, San Diego!" he shouted, and the audience loved him, roaring their approval. With that wave of sound the lions roared out too. It was too loud and my nerves were suddenly close to snapping. I barely managed to slip behind the cover of some eucalyptus before the Quicksilver came out in an overwhelming gush. Damn, I wish I could manage better control, but at least I was able to slip past guards and TV reporters with more ease.

Behind me I could hear the band launch into the first number. I knew the song order for this concert by heart, having heard Miles rehearse several times over the last few days. 'Ode to the Old Time Rockers' wasn't as popular as 'Sandstorm' but it was a rousing rock and roll anthem with nods to half a dozen of the past greats like the Beatles, Stones, Dobie Brothers and more. I wished I could stay and listen but by the time I'd made it to the loading dock only the thrumming backbeat was still audible. I shed my silver skin behind a dumpster before walking inside the supply warehouse. A long white florist box lay on the foreman's desk and he looked mighty glad to have someone come to take it off his hands.

"You with that rock and roll geek?" The beer-bellied man gave the box a little push. "Take this thing away, gives me the creeps."

Opening the box I had to agree with him. The roses were a weird shade; not really black but darker than any rose I'd ever seen before. Draped over the flowers was a banner inscribed with the words 'So sorry for your loss' in gold letters. "Don't like funeral arrangements?" I asked rhetorically.

"Who died?" he grunted.

"Nobody, yet." I gathered up the box. Just touching it gave me the heebie-jeebies. I really wanted to run back to the arena and pull Miles off the stage immediately. Luckily, Farzimah was sitting with Mountain Man. I'd insisted on it. Where could I stash the flowers so that Miles and Farzimah never had to see them? And who had ordered the flowers now that Mohammed was behind bars? Had Kim done the dirty work himself? Not likely, he probably had dozens of stooges in the ranks.

"Another one?" Hobbes came up behind me and peered in the box. The foreman had gone out to help unload a shipment of monkey chow, leaving us alone in the warehouse.

"Hobbes, we gotta warn Miles and end the concert now. This maniac just won't stop. Mike probably arraigned to have these sent over beforehand to freak everybody out and they got here late,"

"Not stopping the concert now, Fawkes," Hobbes didn't touch the banner, but it was doubtful there was any incriminating fingerprints there unless the poor schmuck who worked in the back of some local florist was a member of the Kharistan Freedom Fighters. "The press would be all over this in a New York second."

"Hobbes, they could be gunning for Farzimah right now!"

"I don't think so, The flowers are warnings," Hobbes pointed out. "It's the times there are no flowers that stuff happens."

"Yeah, I guess so," I conceded.

"But you're right about one thing, Kim--and whoever he's working with, is getting more dangerous each time. First they just broke into Farzimah's car, then they tried to shoot her…"

"What next?" I asked, not really wanting to know.

"Something bad, my friend, something really bad."

"You sure it's not gonna happen today?"

"Sure as I can be about something that important." He frowned, obviously concerned despite his words.

I'd never forgive myself if there were a shooting while we stood talking about contingencies, but I could still hear the throbbing bass guitar and thump of the drums, so the concert was in full swing and nothing seemed amiss.

"Well, Miles is leaving for New York in the morning for a whole bunch of interviews," I rubbed the back of my neck feeling the ridge of the scar there. "How're we gonna keep him safe?"

"Got a quarter?"

"You wanna make a phone call? I got my cell."

"No, Einstein, we can flip for who goes to New York."

"I call tails," I said, producing a quarter from my pocket. It was one of the new shiny state quarters. Just out of curiosity I checked what state was on the backside. Weirdly, it represented New York.

Hobbes flipped the coin up and caught it in one hand, slapping it down on the back of his wrist. "Heads it is, I go," he grinned. "Maybe I'll have enough time to get a dog at Nathan's."

"That was rigged somehow, I just haven't quite figured it out yet," I grabbed for the money but he'd pocketed it before I had a chance to see whether it really had been George Washington's head on the winning side. "I'll stay so close to Farzimah she'll think we're Siamese Twins."

"The term is conjoined now, don't you ever watch Discovery channel?" Hobbes corrected, taking the long white box containing the roses. "Got the name of the place that sent these?"

"Luckily the zoo requires all deliveries to be logged in," I pulled the manifest list towards me, "Petal Pretty Posies on San Luis Ave."

"Then I think I'll pay them a little visit while you hang with the roadies and watch out for over enthusiastic fans tearing off Verbage's clothes." Hobbes tipped an imaginary hat.

"What are we gonna do about Kim?" I persisted, not entirely comfortable with the whole situation. There was barely a week to go until Amahl's birthday and we still didn't really have enough evidence to arrest the guy. "Can't we get a search warrant for his house? Roust some of these freedom fighters? What if he makes a move before you guys get back from the East Coast?"

"He can't, Fawkes. This whole thing is designed to take down the royal family. Since he hasn't been able to stop them ahead of time, I think Kim is gonna wait until Friday and hit hard then, right when it can do the most damage."

"At the dinner where there'll be one hundred people. Crap, Hobbes, what if he succeeds?"

"It's our job to see that he doesn't. We can't tip our hand too soon that we suspect Kim, though. Don't act any different around him, but I'm still gonna have Eberts diggin' into his past. He's only been Verbage's manager for about a year."

"Yeah, exactly when his career took off. Miles is right, the guy put him on the right track."

"But maybe for a reason. Did Wonderboy know Amahl before that?"

"I think so."

"So, maybe this whole thing has been goin' on longer than any of us realize. You notice the KFF's got someone on both the princess and that kid Amin? Wonder if there's anybody in Amahl's circle of friends who shouldn't be trusted, capiche?"

"I'll see if Farzimah has any ideas." I nodded soberly.

Miles ended the show with the new single 'Empty Rooms' to much applause but when he started to leave the stage, the crowd roared for an encore. Smiling sheepishly, Miles plunked himself down on the edge of the stage and picked up the lead guitarist's discarded wooden instrument. As the audience silenced, he started to sing 'Sandstorm', strumming the guitar with a gentle hand. As if he'd waved a magic wand over the people they started to join in, softly at first, then with more enthusiasm as he encouraged the singing. By the end, everyone was singing the mournful lyrics. Bending his head down, Miles placed his fingers over the neck of the guitar, playing the first of the weird atonal chords he'd added to the special edition. The rest was swept away in a thunder of clapping that set off the lions again. Even the monkeys added their howls to Miles' acclaim.

The concert was a resounding success. The zoo was happy, having made a mint for their new animal habitat and the mayor of San Diego even came up on stage to give Miles a key to the city. The press, showing just how fickle they can be, gushed at Miles' good looks, talent and philanthropic endeavors. Mike Kim was even happy, since there hadn't been one word spoken about a certain country adjacent to Uzbekistan.

Afterglow is a marvelous thing. It was like romance was in the air back at Miles' house. He and Farzimah were curled up in their favorite spot smooching and even Hobbes took the opportunity to show Claire the terrace by moonlight. That left me in the room with half a dozen drunken roadies, and Joe Lincoln trying to make time with Sherida. What is it with her? Every guy, except me, was chasin' her skirt.

"Hey, Fawkes, wanna another beer?" Randy-the-stage-manager grinned lewdly as he held up a local brew called 'Naked Ass'. Okay, this was getting entirely out of hand. Mountain Man, being a Muslim, had abstained from the boozing and had the door, so I was out of there fast. I wasn't at all ready for a replay of Darien does Soledad.

The air was crisp and so clear there was even a sprinkling of stars that managed to vie for brightness with the lights of downtown San Diego. I wanted sleep, but my mind kept going over what we'd learned today. Just as Hobbes and I had suspected, the flowers had been purchased ultimately by the Kharistan Freedom Fighters. A woman with the pretty name of Jade Song owned the credit card used to buy the flowers. Eberts tracked her down by checking out her credit history and then her driver's license. And then her rap sheet--she'd been arrested four times, all for resisting arrest after police tried to break up protest rallies. I recognized her picture cuz she'd been at the at the on-campus meeting Friday night. Armed with this info, we also backtracked Mohammed Hassem, the guy who'd killed Melissa, and discovered he was with the KFF as well.

We'd finally gotten word from Dr. Div's studio engineer that they had no record of the threatening caller's name, so we just had his voice to go on. Even with a voiceprint, without the actual voice to compare it with, he could be any one of the thousands of people within range of KTIT's signal. The thing is, I had a feeling he was with the KFF, too.

'Curiouser and curiouser' as my friend Alice in Wonderland once said.

Sleep is the great equalizer and I finally succumbed. I was tired enough that I didn't even dream and that in itself was a great relief.