Chapter 18 #2
He glances at the man next to me and snaps, “Franklin! It’s not time for the romance yet. And Noelle.” Dario jerks his chin to the side. “Get over there. And study up on your lines while you’re waiting. Just because I have cue cards doesn’t mean you shouldn’t prepare.”
On trembling legs, I stagger off stage, relieved for the reprieve, but petrified about what comes after.
While I wait by the curtains beside another woman—Hannah, according to her whispered introduction, who went to a casting call in Vancouver only to end up here—I scan the stage, hoping to find something to help me.
There has to be something. A weapon. A prop. I inspect the curtain pulley beside me, hoping to find some part of the mechanism I could use.
But Dario is right there, less than ten feet away, beaming as his actors start to run the scene.
In front of the stage, where the audience would normally be, there’s a single line of empty chairs.
Just behind them, a large TV displays the lines for the actors.
And above that, a professional video camera records everything.
Now it makes sense why Ken and Dario were friends. And it makes even more sense why Dario would kill to keep his secret.
It goes against everything inside me not to do something as the scene progresses.
As I listen to the lines I memorized in college—we had to recite scenes from memory for our weekly quizzes—dread coils in my belly.
A few times, I almost take an involuntary step back onto the stage before Hannah grabs my arm and wrenches me back.
I can’t bear the thought of just standing by and letting this happen. But I’m not sure what else to do.
When the scene reaches the part where Jesse’s supposed to stab Paul, I can’t take it anymore. Before I lose my nerve, I blurt, “Stop! Don’t—”
Dario spins in my direction, anger twisting his features as he levels his gun at me. “Noelle,” he hisses. “I’m the director. Not you. Now shut. Up. Or I’ll be forced to get your understudy, too.”
The woman who cleaned up Hector’s blood yelps in fear. Then she turns a stricken gaze to me, her eyes silently begging me not to do it.
Oh, crap.
Crap.
She’s my understudy. And if something happens to me, she’s the one who’ll die at the end of the play.
With the consequences of my actions taking on new weight, I duck my head as I scuttle back offstage. Tears drip off my chin and make tiny dark splotches on my dress. My vision blurs. My head spins, reminding me to take a breath.
Center stage, the actors’ voices grow louder. Their fear is a palpable thing.
Beside me, Hannah sniffles softly. “I just want to go home,” she whispers. “I’ll join the family business like my parents wanted. Go to church more often. Marry Jeff and have his kids. I just want to go home.”
I want to go home, too.
Not to my old apartment in Portland or my studio in Williston, but wherever Webb is.
Back when I was talking about moving out of the client apartment, there was a moment when I thought Webb might ask me to move in with him. At the time, I told myself it was too soon. That I needed to have my own space. That I needed to learn how to be alone again.
Why didn’t I let him ask?
Why was I so stubbornly set on moving back to Williston?
Why—
“No!”
My attention jerks back to the stage just as Jesse staggers away from Paul, a look of abject horror on his face.
Paul stares at the knife sticking out of his stomach, his eyes widening in disbelief. Blood soaks through his white shirt, turning it crimson. His features contort with pain.
Jesse lets out a broken sob. “I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry.”
Hannah moans quietly.
Franklin and the other actor—I still don’t know his name—stand frozen onstage, their faces shocked and pale.
Dario snaps, “Keep going! The scene isn’t over yet!”
“I need a doctor,” Paul moans. “Please. I don’t want to die.”
Dario flicks a dismissive glance in his direction. “It’s too late for that.” Then he gestures at Franklin. “It’s your line. Go.”
Franklin takes a stumbling step away from him. “I… I…”
“Go!” Dario roars. “Read the fucking line!”
A low, keening sound works its way up my throat.
I want Webb.
Oh, I want him so badly.
As Franklin stammers his way through his lines, my gaze darts across the stage—taking in a still-crying Jesse, a terrified Franklin, and a bleeding Paul, who’s still clutching the knife sticking out of his belly.
I close my eyes against the gruesome sight only to see another image superimposed over it. But in this scene, it’s me lying still and silent on stage with a knife embedded deep in my chest.
My heart aches; as if the blade is already in it.
Webb will be devastated if he finds me like that.
Though he has no reason to, he’ll blame himself.
I start crying harder, clapping my hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs.
I want to be brave. I want to come up with some ingenious way to save not just myself, but everyone here. But terror and despair overwhelm everything. All I can think about is how much I want Webb and how desperately I wish he were here.
Onstage, Paul wrenches the knife out of his stomach and pushes himself to his feet. Dario isn’t watching him, so Paul manages to take several wobbly steps unnoticed, the bloody blade held aloft in his shaking hand.
He’ll be killed for sure, the logical voice in my head observes. There’s no way Paul will get the jump on Dario. He’ll just end up shot instead.
Unless…
What if, the moment Dario’s distracted by Paul, I race out there to help?
Could I kick Dario’s legs out from beneath him, like I saw Webb do while he was sparring with Ace?
Could I kick him in the balls just like I learned in the self-defense class I took during freshman year in college? Could I do something? Anything?
“No more!” Paul shouts as he advances on Dario. “No more! You need to die!”
My heart races so quickly I’m lightheaded from it. Fear nearly paralyzes me, but I think of Webb’s courage and push myself past it, yanking free of Hannah’s hand and rushing onstage.
Dario turns towards Paul, his surprise quickly shifting to malice. His gun raises.
“No!” Paul cries. “It ends now!”
The bloodied knife trembles.
The gun holds steady.
As I race across the stage, time seems to slow. With each step, my heart throbs.
I fix my gaze on Dario’s legs, trying to remember exactly how Webb took Ace down.
If I get out of here, I swear to myself, I’m having Webb teach me. Not just the leg-sweeping thing, but all the cool martial arts things I’ve seen him do.
“Help!” Paul shouts. “Franklin! Simon—”
A gunshot explodes.
Paul staggers back, clutching his shoulder. Bright red spreads from beneath his hand.
“So stupid,” Dario sneers. “And a terrible actor. You never would have gotten a real acting role. You’re lucky—”
I’m just about to lunge for Dario when another shot rings out.
A large, red hole appears in Dario’s arm. A second later, the gun falls to the floor.
“Noelle! Get down!”
The familiar voice has me spinning around, and when I spot Webb at the back of the theater, my legs go weak with relief.
Webb.
He’s here.
“Noelle!” he orders. “Down! Now!”
The urgency in his voice—no, not just urgency, fear—breaks through my shock and sends me dropping to the floor. I flatten myself against the smooth boards just in time for another shot to ring out. This time, Dario howls.
“NO!” Dario shrieks. “No! This isn’t how the play ends!”
A storm of footsteps comes pounding towards me, and even though logic tells me it’s just Webb and his friends, I can’t stop a yelp of fear from escaping. Instinctively, I hunch into a protective ball, wrapping my arms around my legs as I tremble in fear.
“Get the gun!” someone else orders. From the deep rumble of his voice, I think it might be Ace.
“Are there any other weapons?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Check for explosives,” Webb barks.
“On it,” Ace replies crisply.
“My knee!” Dario screeches. “My KNEE!”
“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the fucking head,” Webb snarls. Coldly, he adds, “I still might.”
Then a hand lands on my shoulder.
Though my eyes are still squinched shut, I know who it is.
Beneath the salty tang of sweat, I catch the scent of lemon and soap.
“Noelle,” Webb croons. “Ah, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” As he gathers me into his arms and hugs me against his chest, his lips press briefly to the top of my head. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
The relief is so overwhelming, I burst into tears.
Burying my face in his neck, I cling to Webb as he carries me offstage. He jogs a short distance before stopping, then lowers me to the floor. He touches my cheek, the gentle rasp of his fingers achingly familiar. “Noelle, gorgeous, can you open your eyes for me?”
From behind us, Ace says, “Memphis. We need medical attention in here. Now. We’ve got at least two victims badly injured.”
I force my eyes open, even as my body resists. Webb’s worried gaze meets mine, and he asks, “Where are you hurt, sweetheart? Did he touch you? The gun—” His hands move across my body, searching for injury.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “He didn’t—” I risk a glance at the stage.
On it, Tyler is crouched beside Paul, holding a wad of gauze against his stomach.
Ace has a gun trained on Dario, who’s now restrained with his ankles and wrists hog-tied together.
Dario’s clothes are soaked with blood, and he’s moaning, “You shot me. You fucking shot me. My leg. My arm. Ah, fuck, I’m going to lose my leg. ”
“We can only hope,” Ace snaps. Then he glances to his left, where another man is tending to Hector. “Owl. How’s he look?”
Owl—whoever he is—shakes his head grimly. “Not great. He needs to get to a hospital right away.”
“Webb,” Ace calls over. “How’s Noelle? Is she hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Webb replies. Fear strains his voice. “I don’t see anything, but—” His gaze moves to my forehead. Alarm flares in his eyes. “Fuck. She has a bruise on her head. Possible concussion.”
“It’s not a concussion,” I tell him. “I just bumped my head.”
Webb brushes his finger across my forehead. “There’s a mark, sweetheart. If he hit you—”
Now that I know Dario can’t hurt me, the worst of my fear is fading. “He didn’t hit me. I was dizzy from the drug he gave me, and I bumped my head on the wall.”
Rage suffuses Webb’s face. “The drugs—” The muscles in his jaw work while he tries to contain his anger. “Did he touch you? When you were—”
“I don’t think so.” A shudder shakes my body. “I woke up in the trunk of his car, first. Then in a room down here. My clothes were still on. It didn’t feel like he’d done anything.”
“Where are your clothes, then?” Webb asks.
“He made me change,” I reply. “Into my costume. For the performance. But he didn’t hurt me. Not yet. He threatened to shoot me, though. If I didn’t act the role. And at the end—” My voice cracks.
“The role? And what about the end?”
I shudder again. “The play. He was putting on a performance. But he kidnapped everyone. Said he’d kill us if we didn’t play along. And…”
Webb hugs me closer. “And?”
“It was supposed to be a tragedy. And if your character dies in the play, then… that’s it. You die. That’s why Hector got shot. He refused to stab Paul. But then Jesse had to do it instead, since he was the understudy. And my role… I was supposed to die at the end. If you hadn’t gotten here…”
A low growl sounds in Webb’s chest. His expression is murderous as he glances in Dario’s direction. “He was going to kill you?”
“He was going to make me do it,” I correct. “Since that’s how the play ends. But if I refused… yes, I think he would have. And then my understudy would have to take over.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Webb grits through a clenched jaw. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Memphis is on his way in,” Tyler calls over. “He’s got the medi-kit. And the paramedics and police are en route. Not sure how long it’ll take for them to get here, though.”
Anger darkens Webb’s gaze. “Long enough for me to get some private time with that fucker, I’d bet.”
“We need to question him,” Tyler says in a pacifying tone. “We can’t just kill him straight off. As much as we’d like to.”
While the idea of killing Dario doesn’t bother me much, I don’t want Webb putting himself in a situation where he could get into trouble. So I tug on his arm to get his attention. “Don’t leave me.” A wobble shakes my voice. “Please?”
The anger in his expression shifts to concern in a blink. “Of course I won’t, sweetheart.” His gaze moves over me again. “But are you sure you’re not hurt? We have a medi-kit, and Memphis—he flew us here—was a medic. So we—”
“I’m not hurt,” I interrupt. “I just… I need you. I was so scared…”
His face crumples. “Noelle.” Then he hugs me to him again. “I’m so sorry. I should never have left you.”
“It’s not your fault.” Closing my eyes, I press my lips to his neck, feeling the fresh prick of tears behind my eyes at the sheer relief of his nearness. “I just want to go home. With you.”
His arms tighten around me. A heavy breath rustles my hair. “We’ll be home soon. I promise.”