Read Online Bone Song by John Meaney - Free Book Online Page B

the auditorium. Donal rubbed his hand across his face and realized he had been aware only of her for the past several minutes as the aria proceeded.
    Minutes that could have been a lifetime.
    Just keep focused.
    It wasn't only the danger to the diva. If bullets started flying through the audience, if his own people opened fire, he would be held accountable. And if someone important died and their relatives claimed blood money, it was Donal, not Commissioner Vilnar, who would be served up as payment.
    But during the next solo from the diva, Donal—though he kept pushing himself to look elsewhere—kept returning his gaze to her, like an exhausted man whose chin keeps falling to his chest no matter how often he jerks it back upright, trying to maintain wakefulness.
    So much for security.
    During the intermission, Donal faded out of the box. He went downstairs and made his way backstage, past two hulking uniforms he knew well: the Brodowski Brothers. In the weight-lifting room, their fellow officers called them the Barbarians.
    â€œAll clear, guys?”
    â€œSure, but I think Al cried during the last song.”
    â€œLike you didn't.”
    Hades, they were as bad as him. Donal climbed up a flight of wooden steps and stepped through the heavy overlapping curtains.
    Men in brown coveralls were pushing heavy facades—castle battlements—on industrial-size casters. Cast members who had not spent much time onstage were murmuring to one another; the others would be sitting down and rehydrating in the changing rooms.
    A lithe young woman walked past, half naked, pulling on a peasant's blouse. Donal swallowed before forcing out a long exhalation.
    â€œCan I help you?” asked a stagehand.
    â€œNo . . . Yeah. You see anyone here that doesn't belong?”
    â€œEr, don't think so.” The stagehand glanced at the young actress straightening her blouse, then back at Donal. “Apart from you, Officer. The rest of us are used to this.”
    â€œMust be a hard life.”
    â€œDon't talk so much about
hard.
” The stagehand winked. “Some of the boys might get excited.”
    Hades . . .
    Donal took a last look around the stage. Up top, beyond the overhead spotlights, a gantry allowed objects to be lowered on near-invisible cables. There was a heavy man up there, script in hand, ready to call down: he was to be the ghost's voice in the next act.
    There were also two plainclothes officers, one of whom waved Donal a half salute, which Donal returned.
    All clear.
    Donal went back out to the Brodowski Brothers. “Guys, it's a good job you're holding the fort out here. It's hell backstage.”
    â€œWhy's that, Lieutenant?”
    â€œAll those naked actresses getting changed. Bosoms bouncing everywhere. My blood pressure's gone through the roof.”
    â€œAw, man . . .”
    Third act.
    The plot was beyond Donal's comprehension, but he wasn't being paid to follow the story. Still, he kept glancing down at the stage.
    Commissioner Vilnar was equally entranced. The diva—whether singing solo or as now, part of an intricate duet as she called out the prince for his impetuous treatment of the populace—had captivated Donal along with everyone else in the theater.
    Fourth and final act.
    The entire company was onstage, enacting the battle scene and then the coming together of both sides to mourn. When the diva sang that heartrending farewell to the slain prince, Donal felt his nerves hooked out of his body, his soul dragged out by talons.
    Tears ran in silent floods down his cheekbones.
    No shots rang out. No one sprinted onto the stage and ran a dagger through the diva's heart. It was just as well, because neither Donal nor any of the officers, not even the spellbound snipers in the opposite box, could have processed the danger or made a move while that pure sublime sound continued to emanate from the diva's perfect mouth.
    And then the aria was ended.
    Donal bowed his head in