The Liar’s Lullaby. Meg Gardiner

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      REZ POUNDED ON THE PLATE-GLASS DOOR. “TASIA, OPEN IT. FOR God’s sake, nobody’s after you.”

      In his ear Andreyev shouted at him. “…a gun. Rez, stop her.”

      Rez put his hand over his earpiece. Tasia turned around. In her right hand she held a pistol.

      “What are you doing with that?” he said.

      The gun was a big mutha. It was a goddamned Colt .45 automatic.

      “Is that from Props?”

      “It’s from the department of authenticity,” she said. “With a grand finale, it always comes down to a gun.”

      “On-screen, not in real life. Put it down.”

      “You keep thinking this is a show. So call this a solo with high-caliber backup.”

      “That thing drops on somebody’s head and we’re sued up the wazoo. Don’t get me fired.” He rattled the door again. “You can’t take a weapon out there.”

      She smiled angrily. “Everybody else involved in this stunt has a gun.”

      “But theirs are fake.”

      “Exactly.” She held up the pistol. “Fame can’t protect me. Just Samuel Colt. And my music, ‘cause the voice is mightier than the sword. Melody, harmony, counterpoint, lyrics. Remember that—if they get me, remember. The truth is in my music. Number one with a bullet, glory, halle-lu-jah.”

      “Nothing’s going to happen, Tasia.” Rez raised his hands placatingly. “Please put it down.”

      “Do you think I’m an asshole? I won’t drop it.” Her eyes swam with a feverish heat. “God, you actually think it’s loaded.”

      For a moment her swirling hair took on the look of snakes. But the snakes were only in her head.

      From the chopper, Andreyev said, “Is the gun a prop? Rez?”

      “I don’t know.”

      Tasia’s voice hit him low and sharp, like a blade. “No, you don’t. You have no idea what’s out there. What’s waiting. I’m talking about violence. I’m talking about propaganda of the deed. I’m talkin’ ‘bout a revolution—yeah, you know, we all want to change the world.”

      In his ear, Rez heard the director. “What’s happening? Shirazi, for the love of Christ, what’s she doing?”

      “Tasia, put down the weapon.”

      She shook her head. “I put it down, and he gets me. Then it’s open season. Car bombs in cities. Death squads cutting down women and children.” She held the gun up, and turned it, seemingly checking that it had all its working pieces. “I used to think they wouldn’t dare. But I was naïve. I was a child. A freaking child, playing around. Round, round, get around.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Martyrdom.”

      Rez felt faint.

      “It ain’t always religious. Sometimes it’s ungodly, and sometimes it’s at the hands of the angels, not the devil. And this gun is from the source, the alpha and omega.”

      She grabbed her carabiner and clipped it to the trolley cable that hung from the zip line.

      Into his radio, Rez said, “Get security. Send them through the luxury suites on either side of us and grab her.”

      Tasia turned abruptly and stared at him. “I told him. Warned him. So he’s heard me. But he’s going to hear me again, right now, a whole lot louder.”

      Jesus. “Come on, T—”

      She waved the gun haphazardly in his direction. He flinched. She turned back to the crowd.

      “Secret Service would have scoped it out beforehand.”

       Oh, crap.

      “But they won’t protect me. Au contraire. Loose cannon, loose lips, loose woman. I am on my own and in their sights. So it’s just me and my music and the peacemaker here.”

      Onstage, the band segued into the intro to “Bull’s-eye.” On cue, the CO₂ canisters rigged around the balcony began discharging. Clouds of white smoke swirled around Tasia.

      Shirazi stared at the barrel of the Colt. He had no way to determine whether the gun was loaded.

      “Tasia, if there’s a problem, come inside and let security handle it. You can’t take a gun onstage. You’ll terrify the crowd.”

      “No, I won’t.” She smiled again, darkly. “Watch me.”

      The director shouted in his ear. “Grab her.”

      “I’m trying. Did you call security?” Rez shook the plate-glass door one last time. He ran across the suite, opened the main door, and leaned into the hall. The corridor was crowded. A guard was loitering nearby.

      Rez waved at him. “Tasia’s locked on the balcony, freaking out. Go through the suite next door and grab her.”

      Behind him, she called, “Rez, you idiot. He’ll get in.”

      The security guard hustled to the adjoining suite and pounded on the door. Rez ran back to the plate-glass windows. Tasia looked manic and distraught, her face blurred by the swirling CO₂.

      “I can’t let this happen.” She turned on her headset mike and began gesturing to the people sitting along the balcony in the adjoining suites. “Hey, everybody. Join the party.”

      People looked up, surprised. As if she were hosting a street party, she waved everybody toward her. They held back, unsure.

      “Come on!”

      “What the hell?” the director said.

      First one person, then another, stood up and climbed over the low barriers from the balconies of adjoining boxes. Then they all came. They swarmed over the barriers and mobbed her.

      “Damn,” Rez shouted into his radio. “She’s surrounding herself with people so the security guards can’t get to her.”

      More CO₂ canisters lit off. Dozens of fans, hundreds, crowded around Tasia before they were lost in the white mist of carbon dioxide.

      And СКАЧАТЬ