Trust Me

  Juliet made a face. “It probably wants to give you the latest weather report.”

  “Or the final score of the Mariners' game.” Desdemona reached into the jacket pocket and removed the PDA.

  “Neither of which are of any great interest to you. Be honest with me, Desdemona, are you really sure you want to marry a man whose idea of a birthday present is a miniature computer?”

  “It's the thought that counts. Don't forget, if it hadn't been for Stark's gift, I'd have been stuck in that freezer with poor Vernon for Lord knows how long.”

  “True.” Juliet smiled. “Well, I'll let you deal with the fancy high-tech stuff by yourself. I've got an acting career to pursue. See you.”

  “Bye.” Desdemona put the personal digital assistant on her desk.

  Juliet waved farewell and disappeared. The front door of Right Touch closed behind her a moment later.

  Silence filled the kitchen and Desdemona's office. It was broken only by the insistent beep-beep-beep of the PDA. Desdemona hoped she could figure out how to turn it off.

  She read the message on the screen.

  NEW MAIL

  Someone had sent her a message via computer. Tony perhaps. Or maybe Stark had had a change of plans. Desdemona pressed the enter key. A tiny message addressed to her appeared on the screen.

  Desdemona—Let's hope this thing works. Henry says he's got fabulous news. He and Ian have found a way to achieve financial stability for the Limelight. They want us to meet them there ASAP. Meet you in a few minutes, Kirsten.

  Desdemona briefly considered sending an e-mail message back to Kirsten and then decided it was easier to pick up the telephone. She reached for the receiver and dialed the number of Exotica Erotica.

  There was no answer. Desdemona glanced at her watch. It was after five-thirty. Kirsten had already closed the shop and left for the Limelight.

  Perhaps Henry and Ian actually had figured out a way to persuade an angel to back the Limelight for another season.

  Desdemona replaced the PDA in her jacket pocket. She collected her purse, locked her office, and walked through Right Touch one last time to make certain everything was shipshape for the night.

  As always, the sight of the gleaming counters and sparkling tiles filled her with a great sense of satisfaction. She stood in the center of the kitchen and turned slowly in a circle to examine her private, personal stage. Everything was back to normal, ready for the next performance.

  Desdemona smiled to herself and went out the door. She paused to lock up carefully.

  The balmy warmth of a long summer evening had settled over Pioneer Square. The last wave of shoppers was emerging from the boutiques and galleries that lined the streets. The taverns and clubs were still quiescent. They would not come to life until much later in the evening.

  Desdemona walked down a side street toward the water, went around the corner underneath the viaduct, and down a row of dark, sullen, old warehouses until she came to the Limelight. There were no cars parked in front of the loading dock that served as an entrance. Henry and Kirsten had probably walked, just as she had. There was no one hanging around in front. The background roar of the traffic on the elevated highway was the only sign of life.

  Desdemona knocked loudly on the black and white door. There was no response. Kirsten and Henry were probably already inside. It was too noisy to wait outside.

  Desdemona opened the door and stepped into the gloom-filled lobby of the tiny theater. A single dimly glowing lamp lit the passageway that led into the seating area.

  “Kirsten? Henry?”

  She closed the door to cut off the roar of traffic. The soundproofing insulation that Ian had installed was surprisingly effective. Silence settled on the lobby.

  “Ian?” A disturbing sense of uneasiness coursed along Desdemona's nerve endings. Wainwright intuition. She recalled the short conversation she'd had with Stark yesterday as he was leaving her apartment.

  You're thinking about Ian?

  Well, the thought did cross my mind.

  Trust me. It's not Ian Ivers.

  Stark knew about that sort of thing, Desdemona reminded herself. He would be the first one to harbor a suspicion of Ian if there were grounds. In any event, it wasn't Ian who had summoned her here. It was Kirsten who had sent the e-mail message.

  Desdemona took a grip on her nerves and on the heavy black curtain that separated the lobby from the small auditorium. She lifted the curtain aside.

  The weak glow of the dimmed footlights lit the tiny stage. The light illuminated the prone body of a man. He lay unmoving, his face turned toward the back of the stage. But Desdemona recognized the ponytail and the gold earring.

  “Ian? My God, Ian.” Desdemona ran down the narrow center aisle. Dread rose within her. The thought of encountering another dead body was too much to bear.

  She jumped up onto the stage, stepped over the footlights, and hurried to Ian's still body.

  To her enormous relief, Ian groaned just as she reached him. He was alive.

  “Don't move.” Desdemona crouched beside him. “Let me see if you're bleeding. Then I'll call 911.”

  She leaned over him to check for a wound of some kind and nearly screamed when she saw that his eyes were open and filled with an urgent warning. It was a warning he could not verbalize because his mouth was sealed with duct tape.

  “Oh, my God.” Desdemona saw that his hands were bound. With trembling fingers she ripped the tape from his mouth.

  Ian's chest heaved as he gasped for breath. “Get out of here, Mona. Now. The cops. Call the cops.”

  “I'll get them.” Desdemona staggered to her feet.

  A brilliant white spotlight struck the stage with the intensity of a star gone nova. Desdemona froze, trapped by the light.

  “I'm afraid it's too late for heroics.” The voice that boomed down toward the stage was disembodied and severely distorted by a deliberately abused microphone and sound system. It was the voice of a robot. Mechanical and completely unidentifiable. “We are gathered here this evening to perform a short play in one act. No one leaves until the final curtain.”

  “Shit,” Ian muttered. His head fell back onto the stage in silent defeat. “I was afraid that he was still up there.”

  “Who?” Desdemona whispered.

  “Don't know. Never saw him. Came up behind me.”

  Desdemona raised her hand in a futile attempt to shield her eyes from the blinding whiteness of the spotlight. She looked toward the control booth. The glare of the spot was so intense it hurt her eyes. It was impossible to see anything behind it.

  “I don't know who you are,” she said very loudly, “but you had better get out of here while you can. Other people are on their way.”

  “Your cousin Henry and his wife, Kirsten? Don't hold your breath, Miss Wainwright. I sent the e-mail message that brought you here. Your relatives know nothing about it.”

  Desdemona fought the fear that twisted her insides into a knot. “What do you want? If it's money, you picked the wrong people. Neither Ian nor I have very much cash. The Limelight is on the verge of bankruptcy, and everything I've got is invested in my business.”

  Ian stirred briefly. “Not bankrupt. The Limelight is going to make it,” he muttered. “Got a new plan.”

  Desdemona ignored him.

  The amplified voice thundered down from the lighting booth. “It's not your money I'm after, Miss Wainwright. And I do not give a damn about Ivers's impending bankruptcy, either. Unfortunately, he was in the way when I got here. It was you I needed. And now I have you.”

  “I don't understand,” Desdemona said.

  “I know you don't.” The robotic voice seemed to grow even more metallic. “But Stark will.”

  “Stark?” Desdemona's heart thudded. “What has this got to do with him?”

  “Everything.”

  “This is about ARCANE, isn't it?”

  “Yes, Miss Wainwright,” the distorted voice said. “It's about ARCANE. It was
always about ARCANE.”

  “What happens next?”

  “We wait.”

  “For what?” Desdemona demanded.

  “For Stark to bring ARCANE to me.”

  “Are you crazy?” Desdemona said. “He'll never do that.”

  “You're wrong, Miss Wainwright. He'll hand over ARCANE quite willingly in exchange for you.”

  Desdemona swallowed. “That's why I'm here? I'm a hostage?”

  “You may as well sit down on the stage, Miss Wainwright. I just sent the e-mail message to Stark. It will take him a while to get here.”

  “He'll probably have the cops with him when he arrives,” Desdemona warned.

  “I don't think so,” the mechanical voice said. “I told him what would happen to you if he brought the police. He likes to think that he's the star of the show, but this time I'm the director. This time I give the orders.”

  “And just what will happen to me?” she shot back recklessly.

  “I will kill you, Miss Wainwright.” The voice was chillingly hollow as it echoed off the walls. “Just as I killed Tate. I will also put a bullet through Ian Ivers while I'm at it. Now sit.”

  The final words were a shattering blast of sound. Desdemona cringed and put her hands over her ears. She crouched down beside Ian.

  Together they waited in the pool of hot, dazzling light.

  Desdemona spent the time concocting a dozen different methods of escape. There were two basic problems with each scenario. They all depended on whether or not she could leap out of the spotlight and into the shadows before the man in the lighting control booth pulled the trigger. And they all required that she leave Ian behind to face the killer alone. She could not do that.

  Desdemona drew her jeaned legs up and rested her forehead on her folded arms. It was the only way to gain some relief from the intense light.

  She did not know that Stark had arrived until she heard his voice from the far end of the auditorium.

  “Are you all right, Desdemona?”

  “Stark.” She scrambled to her feet and instinctively started toward the edge of the stage.

  “Stop,” the mechanical voice boomed. “Don't move, Miss Wainwright. Not another step.”

  Desdemona stumbled to a halt at the outer rim of the circle of light. She tried to see Stark, but it was impossible. “I'm okay.”

  “Good.” Stark's voice was closer now. His large frame came into view. He walked down the center aisle.

  “Get on the stage,” the amplified voice ordered. “Move into the light. Hurry. I don't have a lot of time.”

  Stark stepped over the footlights and walked into the ring of light. His face was no longer in shadow. Desdemona smiled tremulously at him. He looked solid and reassuringly familiar in his rumpled corduroy jacket, jeans, and running shoes. He carried a briefcase-sized computer in one big hand. Desdemona suddenly felt much calmer than she had a few minutes ago.

  “I'm sorry,” Desdemona said quietly. “I got an e-mail message, and I walked right into this.”

  “I see.” Stark swept her with an intent, searching gaze, as if making certain that she really was all right. Then he looked down at Ian. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Ian grimaced. “I walked into the mess a few minutes ahead of her. The bastard was waiting behind a curtain. Hit me on the head. Didn't knock me out, but I was dazed for a while. He tied me up, gagged me, and dragged me out here onto the stage.”

  “You two have been busy,” Stark said mildly.

  “Stark.” The mechanical voice boomed once more from the lighting booth. “Did you bring ARCANE?”

  Stark held up the small computer. “I loaded it onto this laptop.”

  “I have to be certain that this is not another one of your clever little tricks. Switch on the computer and punch up ARCANE. Turn the screen toward me.”

  “Whatever you say.” Stark walked to the edge of the light and went down on one knee.

  He set the laptop on the stage, opened it, and tapped out a series of commands.

  Desdemona could not see the screen from where she was standing, but she heard the harsh sound of a quickly indrawn breath filtered through the speakers. The screen had obviously lit up.

  There was movement at the back of the theater. Desdemona turned her head, startled. She realized that the man with the robot's voice had left the lighting booth. He was walking down the center aisle, microphone in hand. The white glare of the spot behind him made it impossible to see anything more than his dark, shadowed shape.

  “Very good,” the robot said with great satisfaction. “I didn't think that you would play games with me. Not when her life was at stake.”

  “You were right,” Stark said.

  “I've always understood what makes people tick. I know what motivates them. You were never any good at that kind of thing.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Slide the computer to the edge of the stage and then stand back.” The voice still blared from the speakers even though the faceless gunman loomed in the aisle between the first two rows of seats.

  Stark placed the laptop at the very edge of the stage, outside the ring of light. Then he moved back to join Desdemona and Ian.

  “I appreciate your cooperation,” the amplified voice said.

  A black-gloved hand stretched out of the shadows to close the lid of the laptop.

  The instant that the robot's fingers touched the metal case a scream of anguish screeched horribly through the loud-speakers.

  Desdemona winced. Instinctively she covered her ears with her hands to deaden the metallic shriek that bounced off the walls.

  “What the hell…” Ian whispered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Desdemona saw Stark move. He launched himself toward the faceless shadow as it recoiled from the laptop and fell back against the seats.

  Stark dove off the stage and crashed into the reeling figure. Something clattered on the floor.

  “The gun.” Desdemona ran forward.

  Once past the ring of fierce white light she was plunged into a swampy blackness. She stopped, blinking quickly in an attempt to adjust to the darkness.

  The crashing sounds of the battle taking place in the front row made her whirl toward the right.

  She could just make out the violently heaving shadows of Stark and the gunman. They reared up, toppled, and collapsed into the second row. She heard dull, sickening thuds and savage grunts.

  Desdemona took another step and halted abruptly when her toe struck an object on the floor.

  She bent down and groped around on the cold concrete. Her fingers closed over a gun. She picked it up carefully, startled by the weight of it.

  She could see more clearly with each passing second. Stark's head and shoulders surged up above the first row of seats. She saw his fist raised.

  He struck.

  With a soundless sigh, the man with the voice of a robot collapsed between the first and second rows.

  A sharp, piercing quiet settled on the theater.

  “Stark, are you okay?”

  “Get the lights.” He stood upright and gazed down at the man on the floor. “Hurry.”

  Desdemona glanced at Ian. “Where's the control panel for the house lights?”

  “In the light booth,” Ian said quickly.

  Desdemona put the gun down on a front-row seat and dashed up the short aisle. She found the flight of stairs to the lighting booth, went inside, and stared at the panel of switches arrayed in front of her.

  She worked quickly, flipping switches at random until she had doused the bright spot and turned up the houselights. Then she peered through the opening of the booth.

  Stark hoisted his victim up into an aisle seat. The man flopped there like a stunned fish. Desdemona could only see the back of his head and shoulders. She frowned. There was something familiar about him.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  Stark looked up at the booth. His brows rose in surprise. “I thought you kne
w.”

  “No. Ian and I never saw his face.”

  “Probably because he didn't want you to be able to identify him,” Stark said. He looked down at the man in the seat. “You were hoping you wouldn't have to kill again, weren't you, McCallum? It wasn't easy the first time, was it?”

  “The bastard tried to blackmail me after he screwed up the job.” Dane's voice, no longer disguised by mechanical amplification, was barely audible. “He sent one last message through the anonymous server. Told me he knew who I was. He was lying, but I didn't realize it at the time.”

  “Tate tracked you as far as Stark Security Systems,” Stark said. “The same way I did. Then he smoked you out with a bluff.”

  “I panicked. Told him I'd meet him at Right Touch to make the first payoff. I disguised myself in case I was seen.”

  “You killed Tate. Then you tried to cast Tony Wainwright in the role of murderer and would-be thief. You knew I was already suspicious of him.”

  “He was the obvious fall guy,” Dane said wearily. “I needed him in case you got too close to the truth.”

  “You were on your way out of Right Touch when Desdemona arrived.”

  “I didn't want to kill her. Just scare her. I knew she couldn't recognize me. I figured I was safe if I just kept my head. But everything started to come apart after that. This afternoon when I saw the e-mail message waiting for me, I knew something else had gone wrong. I figured it was a trap.”

  “You were right,” Stark said. “So why the second attempt to get hold of ARCANE tonight? Why didn't you just disappear? You could have been out of the country by now.”

  Dane lifted his head. “I couldn't leave without ARCANE. I made a deal with some people.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  Dane was silent for a moment. “Kilburn.”

  “Kilburn? That traitor from the Rosetta Institute? You were a fool, McCallum. If you were dealing with Kilburn, you were in over your head from the start.”

  “Damn it, it was my idea, not his.” Dane's voice was unexpectedly violent, almost anguished. “I'm the one who worked out the plan. I contacted Kilburn. Arranged to find Vernon Tate and get him on Desdemona's staff. I set everything up. It was brilliant.”