[Cavan] Standalone; Don't Rain On My Parade
Lynzie Austin
Don’t Rain On My Parade
“Death is the final form of art… the purest form of art, truly. The only art that no one can ever take away from you,” Abbas moved his hand from the left side of his face to the right. Like every night, the spotlight followed in turn. “It cannot be faked. Nor can it be undone by time… with that my esteemed brethren… I bid you, adieu.”
He pulled the bottle from his pocket. The clear liquid that tastes of orange liquor, because that’s exactly what it is— with an extra zing of a neuro-paralyzer that’d keep him out until curtains close. It’s what the people longed to see. Death on parade.
Putting his lips to the bottle with a tear staining his stage makeup, the effect was nearly instantaneous, dropping to the floor with a resounding thud. The red velvet curtain followed suit with thunderous applause.
Naamah clad in all black, rushed to his side and pushed the hypospray to Abbas’ neck. As she did every night. Yet…
Nothing.
He didn’t stir. Nor did shaking him result in the usual sputtering of ‘Hey now, that’s a bit much’ ; Naamah felt her pulse in her ears as blood began to dribble out of his nose. A pool of merlot gathered on his cupid’s bow before dropping onto the floor in a pitter patter.
That’s when she finally screamed.
*****
Cigarette smoke curled in the air. Abbas, patted his stage makeup on wearily. Naamah watched him completely entranced. Her large brown eyes sparkled as she sat rapt. “My dear Naamah, this is the catch,” Abbas tapped the foundation up his neck. “The masses call for realism. They cry out for blood, whomever’s they can acquire, they’ll take, they desire it. They don’t care who it is. It is the nature of the beast.”
“Why is that?” She crossed her legs, passing him the rouge. “I thought we were more evolved than that.”
“We’re never more evolved than that.”
“Isn’t that a bit… bleak?” Naamah pulled her tousled curls into a sock bun and covered it with her black hand stage cap.
“Nature is as nature does. People crave death to rapturous applause. It pays your bills, it pays mine,” he dotted a bit of rouge to his lips and cheeks with his fingertip, blending it in with a soft practiced motion. “The art is from our side my dear, Naamah. Watch the hunger in their eyes. The lust in their traitorous faces. That, Naamah, is where they betray themselves at the filthy snakes they are. They come in claiming they aren’t who they claim… but by the end, they cheer for my demise with bared teeth.”
Abbas’s voice was low, almost hypnotic, as he leaned closer to the vanity mirror, the dim bulb casting long shadows across his sharp features. The rouge on his cheeks gave him a feverish glow, like a man already halfway to the grave.
Naamah shivered, though the dressing room was stifling. “But we give them tragedy, not just blood. There’s poetry in it. Meaning.”
“Ah, my sweet, deluded Naamah.” He chuckled, dark and velvety. “Poetry is for us. For you. For the poor fools backstage who still believe in beauty.” He turned to her, his eyes two smoldering coals beneath the thick makeup. “The crowd? They don’t weep for Ophelia. They lean forward, breath held, waiting for the splash.”
She swallowed. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He reached out, tilting her chin up with a single, stained fingertip. “Then why do the matinees sell out when the posters scream ‘A Death Most Grievous!’ in letters taller than the title?”
Outside, the murmur of the gathering audience swelled like a tide. A stagehand knocked twice. Five minutes.
Abbas smiled, all teeth. “The curtain rises soon, my friend. Let’s go feed the beast.”
*****
Lucien exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke into the cavernous dark of the empty theater, watching it curl and dissipate like the ghost of applause. The stage lay bare before him, stripped of its illusions, its bloodstains mopped up, its shattered props swept away. Only the lingering scent of sweat and greasepaint remained, clinging to the velvet curtains like a stubborn memory.
His cigarette hissed as he crushed it into the porcelain dish, another small rebellion in an age that had scrubbed away all the interesting vices. Let the “talent” complain. Let Abbas choke on it, if he dared. The man had turned his theater into a slaughterhouse night after night, painting the boards with garish, gasping spectacle. And yet… the seats had been full. The audience shrieked with applause.
Lucien’s mouth twisted. He lit another cigarette. The flame trembled, just slightly, in the silence. The cigarette had barely touched his lips when the shadow moved in the wings. "You should charge extra for the ambiance," Abbas purred, stepping into the ghost-light of the stage. His shirt was still untucked from the final bow, the cuffs stiff with corn syrup blood. "Or do I have to bleed harder to justify the price of admission?"
Lucien didn’t turn. "Your contract stipulates fifteen percent."
"Fifteen percent of a whisper," Abbas corrected, circling the prompt table like a panther. "You saw them tonight. They didn’t just watch. I had someone vomit in the lobby. That’s art, Lucien. That’s money." His knuckles rapped the ledger where Lucien had tallied the receipts. "I want twenty-five."
The furnace in the basement groaned. Lucien finally turned. "You forget who keeps the lights on. Who scrubs the vomit out of the lobby, Abbas.”
Abbas leaned in, close enough for Lucien to smell the iron and brandy reek of him. "No. You forget who makes them turn on in the first place.”
The silence pooled between them, thick as stage fog.
Then Lucien flicked ash onto Abbas’s boot. "Twenty. And next time you improvise a death rattle, you’ll do it on mark and not make a mess.”
Abbas threw back his head and laughed dramatically. "Oh, Lucien," he sighed, already sauntering toward the exit. "When will you learn? The best deaths are always…" A pause at the door, his grin slicing through the dark. "...unscripted."
*****
Lucien’s fountain pen scratched across the bank draft, the sum obscenely neat. For services rendered. Not that there were any services. Not that either of them would ever say it aloud. The envelope was thick cream stock, the kind used for wedding invitations. He slipped it between the pages of Le Monde just as the dressing room door creaked open.
"Paying your debts?" Abbas loomed in the doorway, still in his undershirt. His eyes dropped to the newspaper, to the edge of gilt stationery peeking out like a guilty secret.
Lucien didn’t flinch. "Rent. Unlike some, I honor my contracts."
Abbas plucked the paper up. The envelope fluttered to the floor between them, landing address-side up.
Madame al-Taji.
The furnace kicked on, rattling the pipes. Abbas began to laugh. It wasn’t the roar Lucien expected, but a low, delighted chuckle, as if he’d just solved a particularly nasty riddle. "So that’s why she stopped throwing knives at my head." He toed the envelope, smearing it with stage grime. "How much does it cost to buy a man’s peace?"
"Not nearly enough, apparently." Lucien adjusted his cuffs. "She wanted the house in Provence. You’d know if you ever answered her letters."
Abbas’s grin turned feral. "Careful, Lucien. You’re starting to sound like a husband." He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey and iron clinging to him. "Tell me, do you watch her read them? Those pretty bank notes of yours? Do you imagine it’s you she’s undressing—"
The punch came faster than Lucien intended.
Abbas staggered back, thumbing the split in his lip. He examined the blood with something like pride. "Ah. There’s the man who pays for my wife."
*****
Naamah held the back alley dermal regenerator in her hand, but it wasn’t working as intended. It kept splitting Abbas’ lip a little wider. She cringed. “So, who finally punched you?” She asked as she gingerly pressed a piece of gauze into the bloody wound. “Was it Tahir for never washing the costumes?”
“Would you believe me if I said I walked into a door?” Abbas winced as Naamah finally got the wound to close, even though the bruising left a lot to be desired. She shook her head, her round face framed with dark curls. He let out a long sigh. “Lucien.”
“Really? Stick up his ass Lucien? Please don’t eat or drink in the theater while I smoke like a chimney Lucien?” She looked mildly impressed.
“His jab is better than his book-keeping, I’ll give him that much,” Abbas said as he covered up the bruising with greasepaint.
“Well, what did you do?” Naamah perched herself on the arm of the sofa as she watched him paint.
“Why are you assuming that I did something?”
“Because you’re the one with a split lip,” Naamah made a rolling motion with her hand as she grabbed her cup of sugary drink.
“I may have implied certain things about his relationship with my wife,” Abbas turned a conspiratorial eyebrow to her.
“Your WIFE?!” Naamah nearly spilled her soda, her jaw completely slack.
“Technically, yes, what happens on Risa in your twenties should stay there, right?” Abbas winced as he tried to color correct the bruising more. “Turns out our Lucien has been paying her rent. Quite the patron of the arts, wouldn’t you agree?”
Naamah put her cup down. “Oh my gods. Does he love her or is he, you know?” She put her fingers into each other, a very archaic crude gesture.
“I asked him if she moans his name while spending his money,” Abbas spun around with a laugh, then mimed the punch. “I’ll never forget it for as long as I live.”
“Which is another fifteen,” Naamah said, giggling looking at the time. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
*****
Le Grand Théâtre du Côté Lac was practically packed to the rafters with voracious spectators. Through the bit of stage fog surrounding him, Abbas al-Taji’s sole spotlight cut through to him, center stage as he pontificated. The crowd ate each word as though they had been starving for every single syllable. Every single joke landed on time. Every single tearful moment hitting with rapt gasps and awe. Naamah watched with glee from the plush velvet curtains.
At intermission he jogged to the curtains for his sip of water and powder touch ups. Sweat mixing with the makeup had formed a paste along his eyebrow. “Oh that’s really attractive,” Naamah joked as she toweled off his forehead and began the very non-methodical process of quick reapply.
“Okay, don’t forget,” he stopped her hand, mid-sponging. “Let them hear my skull crack when I fall.”
“You’re mad,” Naamah shook his hand off with a small smile and finished dabbing his forehead. “Absolute madman.”
“All the best are, my friend, all the best are!” He beamed at her. His smile would dazzle even the toughest critic as he ran back out to center stage to continue the piece.
On cue, he went limp like a marionette with all the strings cut at once. The roar of the audience never failed to astound her. If there was something Abbas was always right about, these people were absolutely thirsting for death night after night.
She ran out there at the curtains to administer the hypospray, pressing the plunger to his neck. With a sleepy yawn Abbas stretched. “Were they pleased with my death?”
“Just like last night and the night before,” Naamah nodded.
“You know something funny about this show?” He said groggily as she helped him to sit.
“What’s that?”
“No one is allowed to see it twice,” he ran his fingers through his hair. “These people just went home secure in the knowledge that they watched a man die and not one of them did a damned thing about it.”
“Well I did,” Naamah said in a half-hearted attempt at a joke. “Just like last night and the night before that, I might add.”
“That you did, my dear Naamah, that you did.”
*****
The Hole reeked of the faux lemon scent that Brennan insisted covered the lingering fragrance of death. To Ellie, it smelled like tossing rotting lemons down a garbage disposal and hoping for the best, but how was she supposed to work in any other conditions at this point?
She measured out the body methodically, as she always did. Her black ponytail bounced off her neck as she worked. Every single day she regretted getting her haircut, it was much more practical when she could put it in a bun. This was distracting and unmanageable. She sighed as she pushed her enhancement spectacles up the bridge of her nose.
“Our victim is Abbas al-Taji, he seems to have passed at 2100 this evening. Approximately five hours ago. Although, with all this makeup, it is hard to judge the lividity until I get it off,” Ellie spoke aloud, she did not bother looking up when the door hissed open. “Touch my scalpel and I will be inventorying your organs tonight.”
“Glad to see you’re in a good mood Raven,” Reynie beamed at her, poking around her station. “What is this? Whiskey?”
“Preservation solution,” Ellie replied as she scanned. “By all means, take a swig.”
Reynie chuckled, but his gold-flecked eyes locked onto the Y-incision. Ellie prodded at Abbas's liver, the holographic display flashed toxicology results. “So our thespian found himself in quite the pickle, eh? Couldn’t act himself out of this one?”
“Well, there is a Starfleet neurotoxin in there, which these civilians should not have,” Ellie said with a little shrug. “Plus, he is completely blotto on what looks to be… orange liqueur… Listen, I try not to judge.”
“Think someone poisoned his nightcap?” Reynie speculated with a bit of jest.
“That would be too easy,” she replied as she started the languorous process of wrapping up the autopsy. “We have a video of the guy showing his death though.”
“Oh great, I thought I wasn’t getting enough trauma in my diet.”
*****
Ellie watched the view-screen with a yawn, licking cheese dust off her fingertips. On a loop, Abbas would die over and over. Next to her, Reynie, the lanky clad auburn haired menace was clad in a rumpled black velvet coat, drinking from a suspiciously large container that smelled absolutely heinous.
“That’s got to violate at least three artist’s union contracts,” Reynie offered her the container. “You know how much they charge for tickets for this show? It’s unholy.”
She sniffed it and shook her head. “Spotlight is off.”
“Darling, everything about this is off.”
He snatched the controller to freeze the frame where Abbas’ tear fell. Zoomed in. The “tear” glinted oddly. “Ooooh ho ho!” Reynie clapped with delight. “Is that glycerin or lubricant?”
“Lube is too cheap for that crowd,” Ellie snorted, her mouth full of popcorn. “It is synthetic amnio fluid, the faaaancy shit. Expires fast too.”
“A time sensitive murder? How novel of them,” Reynie feigned clutching his pearls with a gasp. Ellie threw popcorn into his open mouth with a little laugh as he chewed.
“I guess we will have to actually go there to talk to these people,” Ellie yawned.
“Generally speaking, we could just have them all hauled in. Cut out the middleman.’
Ellie made a little face as if she was seriously considering it. “Probably a bad idea.”
“That’s the spirit, Rave.”
*****
It could not be understated how odd it was to have the crime scene lit up on a stage of this magnitude. Ellie had her fancy new forensic drone lighting up the area like an absolute star, but it also took all the magic and mystery out of the stage, turning it into a sterile wooden deck. She and Reynie stepped over cables, meticulously inspecting every square inch of where Abbas performed night after night. A small glinting piece of something caught Ellie’s eye.
“Glass, not from a vial,” she muttered.
“Perhaps our killer forgot to sweep up after their dramatic exit,” Reynie speculated quietly.
“No…” she replied, equally as quiet, giving the glass a sniff. “This is from a lens of some kind.”
“So, the spotlight was in on it after all, sorry for dismissing it,” Reynie said with a wink.
“Shut up.”
“Yes ma’am.”
*****
Questioning of Naamah Vicario:
(Stardate: 40450.22831050228)
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Did you check the hypospray before using it?
Naamah Vicario: I–I never had to before! It was always the same…
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Until that night…
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Do not mind him; who handled the hypospray before you?
Naamah Vicario: The, uhm, stage manager Lucien. He always sets it up.
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Anything else about that night or before you want us to know?
Naamah Vicario: Abbas didn’t want to perform. He said it was becoming, um, contrived and that people were greedy pigs.
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Was that uncommon?
Naamah Vicario: He didn’t think highly of his audience… but…
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Yes?
Naamah Vicario: [crying] I don’t think he ever wanted to die, he was an artist, you know? He was a genius. He may have been my boss, but he was my best friend.
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: We are just trying to find out what happened Miss Vicario.
Naamah Vicario: He hated improvisation, sure in the dialogue, but not in the actual performance. Abbas said he would wing it, but he never did. There was always a formula to it. He stuck to the script, you know?
Investigator Aralim Reynard: What was off script?
Naamah Vicario: His eyes were open when I went to put the hypo to his neck… Abbas always did the overly dramatic closed eye thing. Good-bye cruel world?
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: I understand— Thank you, Miss Vicario. We will let you know if we have more questions.
Naamah Vicario: Can I ask something?
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Go for it.
Naamah Vicario: Why are you here… how did Starfleet get involved?
Investigator Aralim Reynard: How do these things ever happen? Abbas al Taji was Commodore al Taji’s son. We’re sorry for your loss Miss Vicario.
Naamah Vicario: Abbas would’ve loved this. Drama, you know. He loved a terrible third act.
*****
Questioning of Lucien Wallace:
(Stardate: 41453.7795992714)
Investigator Aralim Reynard: You were leaving the theater in an awful hurry Mr. Wallace.
Lucien Wallace: I had a prior engagement.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: A prior engagement, when a lead actor at your theater just died? That seems highly unlikely and your ship’s co-ordinates were set for the neutral zone? What kind of engagement would that be Mister Wallace?
Lucien Wallace: I didn’t know he was actually dead, that morose show was what it was and I was off scouting for venues. You can check my events calendar.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Interesting that you’d have that scheduled out, but were there to hand the hypospray to Naamah and just skedaddle off to check for new venues like that.
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: When I tested the hypospray, there was enough neurotoxin to drop a whole fleet of Klingons.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: The hypospray that you hand over to the stage hand every night… Why is that?
Lucien Wallace: If I wanted Abbas dead I would have done it quietly off stage.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: That wasn’t my question.
Lucien Wallace: Compliance, I have the licence to handle the hypospray.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: But Miss Vicario can administer it?
Lucien Wallace: Err… yes, as I have given it to her. She hasn’t passed her certification process yet for first aid, but…
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: You are not supposed to leave the building then, if she is administering said hypospray if you are an instructor.
Lucien Wallace: R-right.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: We’re not going to slap you on the wrist for handing a trainee a hypospray and going to have a joyride, we need to know why it was loaded with neurotoxin Lucien.
Lucien Wallace: I don’t know! I don’t make the damned sprays. I just pull them from the box and hand them to the girl. I’m being honest here, ask me anything else.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: So, you won’t mind me asking about Mary al-Taji?
Lucien Wallace: W-what do you want to know about Madame al-Taji?
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Why is it that you had a massive transfer in credits to Abbas’ wife right after his departure from our mortal realm?
Lucien Wallace: Look, Abbas was a right bastard. He was going to burn my theater to the ground. He threatened to rig the gas lines and burn all the people in it. That’s why I left. He was a shit husband too to poor Mary. Left her high and dry, someone had to take care of her…
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Mister Wallace— Is this a confession?
Lucien Wallace: Nothing could be further from a confession.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Let me catch up here, you were fleeing the scene of a death you claim you 'didn't know about'... Violating medical protocol 451 by delegating hypospray administration and then you transferred 85,000 credits to the victim's wife hours after his death and you admit to all of this and none of this could be ‘further from a confession’?
Lucien Wallace: I told you Abbas was threatening the theater!
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Then why not call security? Why the transfer of funds to Mary? Why the escape route Mister Wallace?
Lucien Wallace: It wasn’t an escape route! I swear!
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Curious timeline though. Our forensics show the hypospray was tampered with during your exclusive custody period. The neurotoxin wasn't in the original cartridge.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Did you swap out the cartridge?
Lucien Wallace: No! I don’t know anything about it! I swear—
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Did you have a spotlight break recently?
Lucien Wallace: W-Wait… what? The spotlight? No? Not that I’m aware of.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Thanks for your time Mister Wallace. No day trips to the neutral zone. You have to stay here.
Lucien Wallace: Yes sir.
*****
Questioning of Mary al-Taji:
(Stardate: 41457.536429872496)
Investigator Aralim Reynard: We’re sorry for your loss Madame al-Taji.
Mary al-Taji: Ze last zing one eggs-pecks eez to be a weedow zey turn twenty-seex, no?
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: One would hope not. Tell us about your husband, we understand that this is a painful time.
Mary al-Taji: He was my ev-ree-zing. I was at ev-ree show, ‘e leet up ze stage. Très charismatic. Smile to bring ze sheep in from a storm… Een eef ‘ees act was gar-eesh. I under-stood ze seem-bol-eesm, ‘e was très deep.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Every show?
Mary al-Taji: Oui. Ev-ree show. I nev-air meesed a single pair-for-mahnce. Abbas would alwayz poynt at me een ze ow-dee-ahnce too. Ev-ree neet.
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: You were there…
Mary al-Taji: Oui, I was zere during ze tragédie. Eet was terreebluh. We were all clapping when we ‘eard zat gurl screem.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: I have questions about your payouts from the stage manager.
Mary al-Taji: Lucien? ‘E pays for ze rent on our ‘ouse. I deed not sink much of eet, since Abbas was pair-forming so… ‘ow you say? Often.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: I was under the impression that Abbas was not living with you at the time of his death.
Mary al-Taji: ‘E works so much zat ‘e stays at ze ah-pahr-teh-mohn next to ze théâtre. ‘E told me eet was… comment dit-on?… common for acteurs to stay near ze stage and come ‘ome on les jours de repos. Eez eet not so? You do not sink ‘e ‘ad… mon Dieu, ‘ow you say… floozies?
Investigator Aralim Reynard: We do have him staying at the apartment next to the theater, so he was coming to the house in Provence on his days off?
Mary al-Taji: Oui.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Is there anything you can tell us that could shed some light on this investigation?
Mary al-Taji: Zat stage ‘and of ‘ees? Obsédée! ‘E complained about eet… constamment! She’s folle—- completely dingue! ‘E was this close to firing ‘er! Beztween you and me? Une vraie cinglée.
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: I have one last question Madam al-Taji, what was your husband’s preferred Apéritif before a show?
Mary al-Taji: Abbas… jamais he drank alcohol. Not a drop. ‘E ‘ad… how you say?… le cancer du foie as a child. Ze doctors told ‘im—‘One sip, mon garçon, and pfft! Your liver, eet is fini.’
Investigator Aralim Reynard: So... you never saw him take a little... drink? Maybe after a show? Nothing at all?
Mary al-Taji: Non, non, jamais! 'E was professional! 'E only drink... uh... on ze stage!
Dr Elinor Fa Cavan: Unfortunately, toxicology says otherwise.
Investigator Aralim Reynard: We have records of a bottle being sent back. This bottle I’m showing you was found in his dressing room, records indicate that you sent it to him.
Mary al-Taji: Zat? Oh! Zat eez... uh... prop! Fake liquor! I got it for ‘im for ze acting!
Investigator Aralim Reynard: So he didn’t drink from that bottle?
Mary al-Taji: FINE! Yes, I geev 'eem ze bottle! But I did not poison eet! Lucien deed eet! 'E was obsédé with me!
Investigator Aralim Reynard: Lucien? The same man paying your rent?
Mary al-Taji: Oui! 'E wanted Abbas gone so 'e could... how you say... swoop in!
Investigator Aralim Reynard: So let me get this straight. You took money from Lucien, gave your husband a bottle you didn’t check, and now you’re shocked he’s dead?
Mary al-Taji: ..Eet soundz worse when you say eet like zat.
*****
“I’ve seen smarter tribbles Rave… Liver cancer?” Reynie rocked back on his heels, his hands in his hair. “You’d think literally anything would’ve mentioned childhood cancer.”
“You think his bio-scans would have turned that one out,” Ellie shook her head.
“You think Daddy dearest covered that up?” Reynie began to pace up and down the aisles of the empty theater. “He wouldn’t have a reason to, but at this point–”
Ellie’s mobile desk setup was less than desirable. She muttered to herself as she pulled up a holo-projection. She stared intently at Abbas laying there, eyes open with his pupils dilated. Everything as it was when he passed that night. “So, Holmes, who dunnit?”
“The merry widow says it was the stage manager who’s bank receipts line up with her shopping trips,” Reynie stared at Abbas’ holographic form on the ground. “He doesn’t have an alibi to stand on.’
“Not a damned one of them does, Aralim,” Ellie looked up at him. “We need to question his father and back track with the first two.”
“Here’s the thing,” Reynie knelt next to the holographic body, staring at Abbas’ perfectly painted facade. “There’s no way our boy here didn’t know about Lucien and Mary, right?”
“There is no universe where that woman is pulling the wool over someone,” Ellie agreed. “The pair of them are about as discreet as bricks being thrown through a window. Plus, he genuinely didn’t know about the spotlight, Reynie.”
“Care to fill me in on that now?” Reynie sat at the edge of the stage, dangling his long legs with a little knock of his boots.
“Halifrudial, it smells like oranges and when mixed with most liquors, makes them taste like cotton candy,” Ellie took a seat next to him. “Makes the pupils dilate to the size of dinner plates. Makes Jim Morrison jealous. Now, the thing is—”
“Photosensitivity,” Reynie turned to her as he finished her sentence.
“Bingo,” she booped the end of his nose. “Now, the thing is that Halifrudial does not appear on tox screens when it is mixed with alcohol because of the way it mixes with sugar in the bloodstream.”
“So, we’re dealing with a genius?” Reynie looked at her skeptically. “That nixes tweedle dee and tweedle dumbass. Those two couldn’t conspire their way out of a paper bag. The guy kept a ledger for fucksake.”
Ellie inhaled slowly. “You thinking what I am?”
“It is a terrible third act.”
*****
A single bulb flickers above the vanity, casting jagged shadows across Abbas’ beautiful face as he thumbs through a battered script, Lucien’s "masterpiece." He flicks a page, then another, each more insipid than the last. The title, barely legible under his smudged fingerprints: Recueil de Cantiques du Boucher. A name so banal that even the paper was bored of it.
“Direction, Stage Left, Enter the romantic brute, he has grown wounded,” Abbas put his palm across his forehead. “My heart, a wounded bird, falls—’ Christ. Who let Lucien near the pen?”
Naamah snorted with laughter as she began to slick back his hair with pomade. “He doesn’t have your vision.”
He pulled her hand into his, taking the brush from her hand. Staring into her eyes intently. “Death is the only art they can’t critique. Can’t revise. Can’t ruin. You see it, don’t you.”
“They’ll call it murder, Abbas,” Naamah swallowed.
“They’ll call it genius. They’ll call it art. They’ll be speaking of it for a hundred years,” he pulled the little vial from his pocket as he got to his feet, his aura radiating around him.
Naamah sniffed and looked at the floor, “Break a leg.”
He winked at her before jogging to the curtain to thunderous applause.
END OF DOCUMENT