Beauray's fair eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Never thought of that, ma'am. She might be just what you say, but I'd doubt whether she'd be interested. You have to admit our wage structure don't sound as appealin' when you know what these people are paid."
Liz nodded. If it weren't for the call of patriotism she'd have been sorely tempted by the pay scales she saw listed on the FYI document in her briefing packet. She prided herself on her competence; she would probably do very well at one of these jobs—if it hadn't meant dealing with egos like her old school chum's.
The drummer struck a downbeat, and the rehearsal resumed. The band managed to get through a couple of numbers unhindered, for which everyone looked grateful. Protective spells at the ready, Liz maintained her vigilance, but she would have had to be lying to say she didn't enjoy having a rock concert virtually to herself. A small part of her missed the camaraderie of the crowds. In spite of the pushing and the occasionally impaired view, the people who attended an event like this one shared in a special kind of symbiotic energy. It came from the performers, but it was amplified a millionfold by the audience and given back again. At a really good concert, the transfer back and forth lifted the performance from enjoyable to stellar. Fionna and her players were certainly capable of lighting that kind of fire in their fans. They exalted, they comforted, they challenged, all at the same time. Liz stood rocking to the beat, watching Fee and Michael dance toward one another in the center of the stage, then whirl outward again, like a pair of electrons in a very active molecule. Michael, all in black, dignified, powerful, stepped backwards toward the north end of the stage, watching his fingers stirring the strings of his guitar. Fee, feminine, excitable, vibrant, reached the south end and turned in a wide circle. The flying fringes on her dress caught the lights in slashing sprays of white. She halted, standing straight as a candle. With the air of a priestess of a long-ago culture, she pointed down at a crystal formation the size of a pumpkin. And waited. She stopped singing.
"Hold it!" she shouted. "Right now!" As the music died, Liz felt a sense of loss equal to that of someone snatching her teddy bear away. Fionna clapped her hands to her hips and glared up at the control room booth.
"When I am standing here and singing the cue line," Fionna shouted in a rising tone that threatened to end in a banshee shriek, "I expect to have the green lasers meet at me feet and light up that bloody crystal that is sitting right here. It is not a tiny little rock. It is a monstrous, great chunk of rock. I should think," her voice reaching to every corner of the Superdome, "that even up there you might be able to see it! Excu-use me!"
The technical director's soothing voice came over the loudspeaker. "Sorry, Fee, darling. Robbie was just a little behind on her cues. Other than that it was perfect. Wasn't it, loves? Can we try it again? From the last mark."
Moodily, Michael Scott took up his station at the north end of the round stage, nodded his head at the other musicians. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head. One, two, three, and the band began to play. Fionna, who had withdrawn with her arms crossed over her chest, listened, waiting. There was a feeling of anticipation, not happy. Liz would like to have enjoyed herself, reminded herself that this was a job, a still-unsolved mystery. The two dancers made their way toward one another, body language seducing, drawing inward toward one another and out again. Michael withdrew toward his dark fastness. Fionna stepped, whirled, and glided toward the gleaming crystal.
The laser beat her there. Green fire shot down from the overhead grid and sent knives of rainbow glory streaking outward to strike the farthest walls of the arena. Fionna stood bathed in the green light, rigid, with her hands by her sides.
"I have had more than enough," she screamed. "Is me whole performance to be made a mockery because one incompetent little bint can't keep her fokkin' mind on her bleedin' job?"
"Now, Fionna," Nigel said, hurrying toward her, in full placatory mode. Fionna was in no mood to listen. She shouldered past him and kept going, right off the stage, down the steps and out of the arena. Nigel trotted along behind, almost wringing his hands as he tried to reason with her. He might as well have tried dealing with a hurricane in full blow.
"I am goin' to tear her stupid head off her stupid shoulders and put it on me mantelpiece!" Fee raged, flinging her arms in grand gestures. "I am goin' to bake her in a pie and serve her to Shakespeare repertory audiences!" Even though she was wearing six-inch stiletto heels, anger helped her outpace everyone except Lloyd Preston. His long legs had no trouble closing the distance to bring him to her side, and he kept the rest of them at bay.
Liz and Boo hurried at their heels like a pair of terriers. In all their years of school, Liz had seen Fee Kendale go off like this only once. It had also been on the occasion of a matter of incompetence, but it showed how stretched the other woman's nerves were that she was reacting like a spoiled schoolgirl. The cacophony they made clattering through the hallway surprised a tour group on its way around the Superdome. A couple of the tourists recognized Fionna. One of them reached for a camera, but one glare from the ever-vigilant Lloyd distracted her from taking a picture until it was too late.
Not having had time to scope out the passage before Fionna set foot in it, Liz employed a little Earth power to sense around them, making certain there were no booby traps planted in their path. Luckily, the unseen enemy would have no reason to expect Fionna to come tearing out of the arena in that direction. Or would he?
Emotions were already high in the control room when Fionna burst in. The object of her fury cowered in the station behind the complex special effects board, eyeglasses gleaming owlishly in the fluorescent lights. Liz guessed from her red cheeks that Robbie had already been dressed down by Gary Lowe. Fionna marched up and glared down at her.
"Did you get up this mornin' and say, `Today I think I'll screw up everythin' I touch'?" Fionna asked, in a tone so saccharine that it made Liz's teeth hurt. "Here we are, with only hours before the biggest crowd we've seen in a year comes marchin' in here, and you're behavin' as if you've only seen the equipment for the very first time!"
"I'm sorry," Robbie began, but she didn't stand a chance against the might of Hurricane Fee.
"There's a lot of people you're inconveniencing here, most of whom are pretendin' they're not as annoyed as they are. I've given you a lot of chances. You've broken the rhythm of the rehearsal. Do you know what that does to the band? To me? No, you haven't a clue, have you? How did you ever hold down a responsible job before this?"
Someone snickered.
"And the rest of you needn't think I'm forgettin' about you," Fionna said, spinning on her heel. She was right, Liz observed. Sheila Parker, at the sound desk, had a half smile curling up one side of her mouth that vanished when Fee glared at her. It was only human nature to be thankful at the discomfiture of others, as opposed to suffering it oneself. It was only a small step from there to enjoying the process. Fee was determined that no one was going to enjoy the lecture. "I know you're tryin', but it isn't enough. You're all professionals. We've got no time for screwin' up. There's a show in less than four hours! I'm countin' on you all. This is a grand opportunity for the lot of us. A whole new audience, seein' us live for the first time. Maybe for some this is the first concert that they've ever seen. Doesn't that mean a thing to you? We want this to be right. We want to dazzle them; make it an event they'll never forget."