Japandroids started playing again, drowning out whistles that were as sharp as knives. The throbbing guitars of the song growled like a monster in his head. He checked his watch and did another slow survey of the hall. The exits. The balconies. The cautious gazes of the security guards. If they were looking for him, if the alert had come down, they didn’t show it.
And yet his sixth sense tingled. That was the one that saved you in the prison yard. Someone was watching him.
Rudy was casual about trying to figure out who it was. He pretended to be into the music. He pumped the air with one fist and shouted into the echo chamber. No one could hear him. Fresh fog spilled from machines in the ceiling like a damp cloud, giving him cover. He turned slowly, with his stare sweeping the faces behind him. They went in and out of focus in the haze.
There she was.
A stranger, not even ten feet away. Her eyes drilled into him.
She had blond hair and was probably twenty-five years old. She was dressed to party, in a gold dress bare up to her thighs, with stiletto heels. A threaded chain adorned her neck, and matching earrings dangled from her ears. She had blue eyes, and the only way to describe them now was arctic blue. Cold as ice.
He watched two words form on her lips, as if she were talking to herself. Rudy Cutter.
He didn’t see any fear in her expression, and he knew why. She had a date with her who loomed head and shoulders above the crowd, at least six foot five, built like a fullback. She tugged on his arm, and the man leaned down. As she spoke, his eyes darted among the people in front of him until they landed on Rudy. Then they stopped dead, and his face hardened.
There was no doubt. The giant recognized him, too.
Rudy turned away from them. He focused on the stage again, as if he were in no hurry. Two couples danced near him, and he sidled between them and used them as a screen. Glancing back, he could see the giant’s head. The giant was on the move, coming after him. Rudy pushed faster, swimming against the current in an ocean of bodies. Deliberately, as he passed a cocktail waitress, he used an elbow to nudge her tray, causing drinks to fly. Shouts and shoving ensued, and the disturbance made a wall. The giant was cut off.
He worked his way toward red curtains draping the fringe of the hall. It was darker back here; the hot lights focused on the stage. The fog covered his escape, too; it wafted through the crowd like a ghost. The music roared on; the noise and dancing and drinking went on. No one noticed him. Carefully, he peered over his shoulder to study the seething mass of people around him, but he was invisible now, one face among hundreds, and the giant was nowhere to be seen.
The main doors beckoned him from twenty feet away. He was almost free. It was time to go.
That was when he turned his face upward toward the balconies over his head and saw a man scanning the crowd on the floor below. He recognized the swept-back brown hair and beard.
It was Frost Easton.
Rudy shrank backward among the bodies. The crowd and the smoke weren’t enough to hide him. The cop looked down as Rudy looked up, like two flashlight beams connecting and growing brighter.
Their eyes met.
“That’s him,” Frost said to the security guard next to him. “Three o’clock, gray turtleneck, blond hair.”
“I’ve got him,” the guard replied.
“He’s heading for the doors. Ask your men to hold him until I get there. Don’t let him leave.”
Frost fought through the knot of people on the balcony and broke free into the cocktail lounge. A handful of customers stood around lonely tables, amid walls filled with hundreds of rock band posters. The music from the stage made the entire room vibrate. He bolted for the stairs and ran to the concert floor. Downstairs, the ushers waited for him at the theater doors, but there was no sign of Rudy Cutter.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
The two men shook their heads. “He didn’t come this way.”
Frost waded into the crowd. His head bobbed back and forth, hunting among the faces. He made his way to the red curtains where he’d spotted Cutter, but the killer had already backtracked and disappeared. Cutter was nowhere to be seen. He turned around, saw that the head of security had followed him downstairs, and shouted in the man’s ear, “He’s heading for one of the other exits. Do you have a man on each door?”
“Always.”
“Make sure they’re watching for him,” Frost said. “Tell them to be polite but firm. Keep him inside.”
Frost cast his eyes around the crowded concert floor and saw the nearest exit behind the stage. He texted a quick update to Jess — Cutter’s here, he’s on the move — and headed toward the rear of the theater. The security guard trailed behind him. The dense crowd, tangled with bodies, slowed his progress. It was like hacking through a rainforest. He heard the wail of the band, the screams of the fans, and then, almost like a whisper, someone nearby called out a name.
“Cutter.”
He froze and spun around, but he didn’t know where the voice had come from, and he didn’t see the killer in the crowd. He looked for someone looking back at him, but there was no one.
Then it happened again. Another voice.
“Rudy Cutter.”
And again.
“He’s here. Cutter’s here.”
“The killer?”
“Cutter.”
“That guy, the killer.”
“Rudy Cutter.”
“Cutter.”
The voices were everywhere, an odd underground chorus. Cutter’s name was on everyone’s lips, blowing through the hall like rumors of a fire. A killer was here. A madman was on the floor. One by one, in fragments, the edge of the crowd flaked away. They headed for the main doors; they headed for the rear doors; they snaked along the curtains and shoved toward every exit. Dozens of them. It was fear, rippling from friend to friend and stranger to stranger.
Don’t take chances.
Let’s get out of here.
Rudy Cutter.
The exodus trapped Frost where he was, winding around him as tightly as a knotted rope. He couldn’t move. Beyond the stage, he could see doors opening and closing beneath the red exit sign. Over and over. Again and again. People wanted out. The same was true at every exit in the hall. The guards couldn’t do a thing except stand helplessly by as streams of nervous concertgoers flooded onto Geary and into the alley and into the lounge and the lobby. The hall was still packed, but the damage was already done.
Somewhere in the parade of people fleeing the scene, losing himself in the crowd, was Rudy Cutter.
Frost knew he’d lost him. Cutter was gone.
25
Dozens of people milled on the sidewalk outside the Fillmore.
Frost followed the narrow curb to the Geary Boulevard overpass, watching Uber drivers do pickups at the theater. Buses came and went. The coffee shop around the corner was doing a brisk late-night business. He saw men, women, and couples dispersing into the neighborhoods, some holding colorful umbrellas against the rain. The ones who weren’t done partying crossed the pedestrian bridge to the Boom Boom Room.
It was midnight. He was wasting his time. Cutter wasn’t here.
He tracked down Jess, who was sitting behind the wheel of her Audi a block north of the theater. He was soaking wet as he sat in the passenger seat. The windows were steamed, and she had to wipe them with her elbow.
“Anything?” he asked her.
“No. Sorry. If he was in the crowd that bolted, I couldn’t pick him out.”
“I counted about fifty brunettes in little black dresses,” Frost said. “Any one of them could have been the girl he was with. He was alone when I saw him, so he may have ditched her when he made his escape.”