Casey Crais ceased talking, and a momentary, awkward silence fell over the group, until several people began to applaud their odd playwright. He tried to downplay it, but the cheers grew in volume, and soon he was surrounded by the entire gang. Jimmy thought it a strange moment, but clearly this was a tight-knit company. Tonight’s performance was the culmination of a dream, and if Casey Crais had inserted the idea of fatalism into his winded speech, perhaps it was his way of getting the best out of the performers. In just a few hours, they would give his words life on this stage and try to convey them to an unsuspecting, paying audience.

  The meeting over, Jimmy took this moment to escape, walking toward the lip of the stage. He wanted to get back on his turf.

  “Excuse me, young man?”

  Turning around, Jimmy found himself facing an older man, one with a sweep of flowing white hair and matching beard and mustache. He had a distinguished look about him, except for a dark, stern expression lining his face. He looked like a man who’d known defeat in his life.

  “Sir?” Jimmy asked. He didn’t know who this man was, producer, actor, set designer.

  “Gareth Fitzroy,” he said, extending a hand.

  The gesture was suddenly friendly, even if his expression remained stone-like.

  Jimmy reintroduced himself, in case his name hadn’t sunk in. “Something I can do for you, Mr. Fitzroy?”

  “Jimmy, yes. Please, call me Gareth.”

  Jimmy did. The name didn’t fall off the tongue easily. Made Jimmy sound like he had a lisp. He repeated his question. “Something I can do for you, Gareth?”

  “Security?”

  “Is there a question in there? All I heard was a word.”

  “Just seems strange is all,” he said with a haughty tone. “Welly says we shouldn’t worry and yet here you are. Which to my mind says we should. You have to read between the lines.”

  “You a psychiatrist of sorts, Gareth?”

  He chuckled, an unkind one. This man shifted moods faster than a method actor. “No, but I do play one on stage. I lead the twelve other characters through their journeys into the world of phobias. This set is my home, my character’s brownstone, a basement office where a night-long therapy session awaits twelve tortured souls. In mere hours, I will slip into the role of Dr. Florian Dell’Aquila.”

  “Casey Crais isn’t one for easy names. Triskaidekaphobia…whatever you just said.”

  “He likes to play with words. That’s what makes him such a great writer.”

  Jimmy nodded, still wondering if this conversation had a point.

  “Is that all, Gareth?”

  “Greatness is often misinterpreted as arrogance,” Gareth said, not exactly a non-sequitur but not an unnatural transition either. It’s as if he was playing with words himself, manipulating his intent of double negatives to get a rise out of Jimmy. Or a confession.

  “Mr. Crais doesn’t strike me as the arrogant kind. More insecure…nervous,” Jimmy said.

  “Does he have reason to be nervous?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Why would you ask me why I think that?”

  Jimmy shook his head at the man’s relentless, probing questions. “I’ll give you credit for having embraced your stage role, Doctor. Have a great first show. I’ll be watching…” He paused. “From somewhere.”

  “Yes, so it’s been said.”

  The cold-as-a-fish Gareth Fitzroy spun around, only to stop in his tracks when he heard a scream cry out from above the stage. In an instant Jimmy looked up just in time to watch something fall from the rafters and come crashing down upon the wingback chair he’d been sitting on just a few minutes ago. The object then rolled onto to the stage, the sound of glass shattering filling the hollow space. Jimmy ran past a stunned Gareth, making his way over to the now broken chair, the fabric torn, the wood of one arm scarred. He cleared away a couple of curious onlookers who had appeared from the wings.

  He gazed upward, where he saw a stage hand up on one of the catwalks.

  “Jimmy, that you?”

  “Yeah, Craig, what the hell happened?” he yelled back up. “Did it slip from your fingers?”

  “No. I was stage left when I noticed one of the leako lights looked…off kilter. By the time I got to it…hell, Jimmy, that thing could have done some serious damage. Everyone okay?”

  “Seems to be. The chair took the brunt. Whyn’t you come down, take a look at the light.”

  “Right, sure.”

  While Jimmy waited for the house electrician to make his way down, he noticed that Gareth Fitzroy had just taken up beside him. His arms were wrapped around his shaking body, telling Jimmy all he needed to know. He’d gone inward, in self-preservation mode.

  “My God, that chair is where I spend most of the show,” he said. “It could have killed me.”

  “Looks like you’re going to need a new one.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Just a fact. Curtain time is hours away.”

  Then Jimmy sized up the shattered light that lay in pieces on the stage, then the damaged chair. His eyes took in the entire set, realized something seemed off. He said to Gareth, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor, but this can’t be where the chair is positioned during the show, all the way stage right. Am I right?”

  Gareth Fitzroy waited to answer, considering the stage, his finger to his lips as if he’d gone all therapist. “Actually, it’s usually center stage. I am the star.”

  Jimmy told him not to worry, it was no doubt an accident. Except he didn’t believe it and neither did Fitzroy. But by then, a couple of the stage hands had arrived and were inspecting the damage. They decided they needed to check all the lights, and soon there was a hive of activity swirling around the stage. A still shaken Gareth was embraced by his fellow actors and taken upstairs to the dressing rooms, leaving Jimmy to his own thoughts. Gareth had no reason to worry, he’d never been in danger. Jimmy had been the one who was leaning against the chair during the meeting.

  Shaking off what might have been, Jimmy took his escape, leaping off the stage, thankful to be in familiar territory on one of the center aisles of the theatre. It was dark now in the house, and he watched as his shadow beat him to the top of the aisle. How long he stood there watching the stagehands repair the damage, he couldn’t be sure. His heart had stopped racing but his mind was swirling. Soon enough, lunch was called and the stage hands disappeared, leaving the empty stage with just one, lone light lit positioned upstage. They called it a ghost-light, an old superstition. No house should ever be completely in the dark.

  Yet Jimmy felt like that’s exactly where he was. In the dark, about this show and the real reason he’d been hired. He’d have to keep his wits about him. But at least he had his first insight. The show might be fiction, but its topic wasn’t. Fear was all too real, Casey’s, now Fitzroy’s, even his own. Not for the first time did Jimmy wonder who the intended victim was here.

  § § §

  There were no further incidents that afternoon. The rehearsal went on as planned, and so did the first preview.

  Jimmy had to give Devon Havers, the director, and design team credit. The opening sequence of the show elicited just the kind of reaction that would put the audience on the edge of their seat. In place of the burgundy curtain which the Calloway often used for classic plays, T13’s set was hidden behind a scrim, and once the house lights went down, an image appeared of a high rise building, the view from its rooftop. The audience was directed to focus in on a pair of men’s shoes inching toward the edge. Suddenly a body was hurtling through the air, the audience taken along for the plummeting trip of terror. Then the scrim went black and a thundering crash was heard. Impact.

  Jimmy stood in the back of the house, thankful he didn’t suffer from a fear of heights.

  For someone who did, the sense of vertigo might have induced fainting. His darkened eyes scanned the crowd, looking for any early casualties. He did hear several cries of surprise, of shock, most of them coming from the mezzanine and balcony levels. Triskaidekaphobia was not for the faint of heart. At last, the scrim rose into the rafters of the theatre, exposing a tastefully decorated brownstone, complete with an upstairs living room, as well as an office, a desk, bookcases, sofa and a different chair than the one Jimmy had leaned against earlier today. Gareth Fitzroy, as the erudite Dr. Florian Dell’Aquila, sat there in his high-back wing chair, making notes, while a young man in a business suit lay stretched out on the leather sofa.

  “Dr. Florian, it’s all I can think about. Ending it all.”

  “You think, Roger, that the way to cure your fear of heights is to jump off a building and kill yourself?”

  “I didn’t say it was rational. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Perhaps forging a life in Manhattan wasn’t the smartest of choices.”

  A few titters of laughter permeated the crowd; but there was also an unsettling sense that washed out over the crowded rows. Jimmy again noted how invested in the play the audience was. If early reactions were any indication, the show would be a smash hit. But the detective in him had to wonder: was someone in the audience more invested in seeing it flop? Did a member of the audience hold a grudge against Casey Crais? Could there be another idea Jimmy hadn’t thought of yet?

  As the performance continued, Jimmy moved around. He stood to the side of the orchestra, walked up the mezzanine steps, and finally the balcony, which is where he stood as the scrim came down on intermission. The house lights came up and the audience immediately started buzzing. Jimmy wandered around, listening, catching snippets of conversation, most of the comments positive, some still talking about the “creepy” opening sequence, some others opening up about their own phobias. The discussion was rampant, healthy, a good indication for strong word-of-mouth. What Jimmy didn’t hear was anything suspicious, and while he wasn’t disappointed by not uncovering anything, he felt like the night was just getting started. What kind of ending did the show have in store? Was it a happy ending for the characters? What emotions would it rile up?

  Would fear win in the long run, or was Dr. Florian hailed a hero?

  He returned to the orchestra level, just as his mother was urging the last of the patrons to return to their seats; they ignored her, still talking in little groups or playing with their cell phones. Such was life in the theatre, some people just didn’t respect it. The world was still all about them, not the fact the show must go on. Finally the lights dimmed and those delinquent patrons rushed back to their seats, climbing through the rows and past annoyed people who were already settled. Again, the haunting scrim came to life, and the image was of the ocean, rolling waves. A woman’s toes could be seen as they stepped out into the water, a wave washing over them, pulling her in, crashing over her. Muffled screams could be heard through the house, and on the screen the scene continued to play out until the only the woman’s hands were swaying about, just before the water claimed her for good. Another crashing wave, and then came utter silence.

  The scrim rose, and the set revealed Gareth again, sitting in his chair.

  But rather than a man on a sofa, twelve chairs had been set up in the office.

  His character was on the phone.

  “You say she drowned?” A dramatic pause. “You identified the body? Sarah Hennessey?” Another long pause. “I see.”

  He replaced the phone and shook his head. Then he stared at the assembled chairs. He made his way to them, began to fold up one of them when he suddenly stopped, his mind lost in thought. Silence filled the house, the audience again unnerved by the twist in the storytelling. Jimmy had to admit he didn’t know what was coming next. Dr. Florian, as his patients called him, reached for the phone again, dialed, waited before saying, “Yes, Mr. Henry, there’s been an opening in our Phobia Support Group. Tonight at seven. Shall I expect you?”

  As much as Jimmy wanted to see how the show ended, he was here to investigate. He stole a look at the standing room area behind the back row, where Casey Crais paced back and forth, an assistant beside him, along with Devon Havers and a couple of yes-men types. Jimmy watched them for a bit, even as on stage more and more of the characters began to arrive at Dr. Florian’s office for the group therapy session which the script had been building to all night. All seemed right in the front of the house, so Jimmy slipped out through the back curtain, which gained him access to the lobby. He went out into the night, pressed the button for backstage access and went through after the gate was unlatched. He checked in with the burly stage door man, Reno, who reported nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, that’s how the rest of the night went, and while he was grateful to see the scrim come down safely after the curtain call and see the exhilarated faces of the actors as they retreated back to their dressing rooms, Jimmy still wasn’t satisfied. Not because he hadn’t gotten to see the end of the play, but because he was still thinking about the light that fell from above.

  There was an after-party scheduled immediately following the performance, upstairs in the Calloway Apartment above the theatre, which at one time had been Harold’s home. Jimmy hoped to find some answers, and with such determination fueling him, he went back out into the alley, where he followed a few of the stage hands and other staff up the rear stairs to the balcony level, and then to the usually locked access door to the apartment. It had been years since Jimmy had seen the inside of it; it hadn’t been lived in for years, and was used only by the Calloway family for special occasions. He supposed a first preview of a show they were producing counted as one. Welly was already entertaining the early arrivals, who included Casey Crais, Devon, and others. They had champagne in their hands, sipping from clear glasses. Jimmy skipped the bar area, and instead went over to the group of stage hands.

  “Craig, George, Amos,” he said, “Seems everything went off without a hitch tonight.”

  “Hey, Jimmy. Thank goodness,” said Amos, the long-term prop master at the Calloway.

  “You guys know what happened earlier?”

  “What, you mean the light?” Craig asked.

  Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, the light, Craig. You were up there.”

  “Like I said, I was checking them all, just routine stuff. I hadn’t gotten to house right yet. It must not have been attached right. I saw some scratch marks around the clasp, but that’s probably from when it fell. Lucky us, it didn’t hit anyone, either in rehearsal or during the show.”

  Jimmy nodded again. “Lucky indeed. So that’s it, a simple explanation?”

  George Alley, the youngest of the three, a meathead of a guy who had a thing about gays, eyed Jimmy with suspicion. “Should there be another?”

  “Just asking, George. I wanted your professional opinion. That’s all.”

  He started off when Craig called him back. “Jimmy, just security, huh?”

  “Everyone’s safety is my concern,” he said, and then moved on. He liked to ask questions. Answering them wasn’t one of his favorite things. Bet Julie Andrews didn’t have a song for that. And speaking of favorites, one person who long ago fit that description was standing by the bar, waiting in line with what Jimmy noticed was a nearly full drink. He observed him creeping ever closer to the front of the line, and by the time that first drink—assuming it was his first—was empty, and he was ordering another. A healthy pour of vodka along with a spritz of cranberry gave it color, like blood mixing with water. The man stepped off the line, took a strong pull, looked like he was savoring the taste, or its effect. Reluctantly, Jimmy went over to the man.

  “Thought you were going to quit,” he said. “Thought you quit everything. Including New York.”

  Remy St. Claire turned to face Jimmy McSwain, and the effect was more powerful than any drink could induce, both intoxicating and damaging. Jimmy felt swept into a painful nexus of time, he and Remy suddenly existing in their own dimension. While waiting for a response which seemed to take forever in coming, Jimmy assessed the only man who had staked a deep claim to his heart. Remy was still gorgeous, his skin tanned but unblemished, his chestnut colored hair as feathery as he remembered it. His teeth so white, despite the lack of a smile. He was slim, trim, more muscled than before, a perfect specimen of beauty. Jimmy’s mind flashed back to nights in bed, with their bodies writhing in complete desire, satisfaction their goal. His kiss, the heat of his body…how Jimmy thrust into him. How they would cling to each other afterward, like no one else mattered. Like no one else existed.

  How quickly that feeling returned, how dizzying it made him feel. Like Jimmy himself was standing on the edge of a tall building, his fears found so many floors below.

  “Some things change, some don’t,” Remy finally said, his voice tender. He’d always been soft-spoken, sometimes to devastating effect. Jimmy remembered soft whispers while darkness claimed the city outside their walls, while their bodies indulged each other. He then sipped at his drink, as if to prove he didn’t need to knock it back. Because so many nights he had, to ill effect. Jimmy tried to push those memories away, too. They had good ones, sure, but they had bad ones. The bad ones had finally won. Remy had moved on, Jimmy left behind to pick up the pieces. “Can I get you a drink, Jimmy?”

  He shook his head. “I’m on duty.”

  “Of course you are. So responsible.”

  “You really want to do this...the attitude?”

  “Fine. Sorry. You look good. You were always so…masculine.”

  Jimmy nodded non-committedly. “You look good, too.”

  He had nothing else to say and soon silence took command of them, almost forcing their throats closed. As though the words that would heal them hadn’t been invented yet. What washed over Jimmy went so far beyond regret, he felt his heart falling down a bottomless pit. There was nowhere for his emotions to land.