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Kaira’s hairdresser, Rosemary, walked into the bedroom and screamed.
34
Amid the chaos of police, doctors, ambulance workers, TV news crew, Kaira’s hysterical mother, and other people from the tour all trying to figure out what was happening, Armpit managed to retrieve Kaira’s letter from the bar and toss it into the fireplace.
The last he saw of Kaira and Fred, they were being taken out on stretchers. Kaira was unconscious. She had passed out right after pulling over the lamp.
Too dizzy to walk, Kaira’s stepfather had to be held up by a couple of police officers as he was led out in handcuffs.
Fred was able to speak just enough to confirm Armpit’s innocence, although that really wasn’t much of an issue. Armpit would have thought that with him caught in the act of beating up Kaira’s stepfather, everyone would have assumed he was the attacker, but nobody doubted his story. Maybe it was his demeanor, or the latex gloves on Jerome Paisley’s hands, or the fact that he was the one who had shouted at Rosemary to call the police.
The next twelve hours were a whirling blur of confusion. There was nobody in charge. It was actually Duncan, the bass player, who finally called the Berkeley Auditorium and informed them that there’d be no concert. That wasn’t until after eight o’clock.
Twenty thousand people were stamping their feet and shouting, “We want Kaira!” when a man came out and mistakenly announced that Kaira DeLeon had just been murdered. Some people cried, while others were desperately looking for their ticket stubs.
Armpit was questioned four times by the police: first in Kaira’s suite, then on the way to the emergency room, where his broken arm was set, then twice more at the police station. He signed a ten-page statement.
He didn’t return to the hotel until well after midnight. In the morning he tried to find out if anyone knew anything about Kaira, but nobody did.
The people associated with the tour didn’t know what they were supposed to do or where they were supposed to go. Nobody knew who would pay the enormous hotel bill. Aileen, the woman who normally would have been in charge, couldn’t be found. She had flown ahead to Portland but never checked into the hotel.
Nancy Young suggested, only somewhat tongue-in-cheek, that Armpit might want to leave now, before he got stuck with the bill. He took a cab to the airport, where he was able to exchange his ticket for the next flight, but there were no first-class seats available. Not that he cared. He slept the whole way home, much to the dismay of the passenger sitting next to him, who kept having to nudge him awake.
“W-were you scared?” asked Ginny.
“It all happened so fast. I just reacted. When I think about it now, I get scared.”
“Me too,” said Ginny. Her eyes moistened, and she dabbed them with her Golden Gate Bridge scarf.
It felt oddly normal to be back in Austin. “You want to sign my cast?” he asked Ginny.
“Yes.”
It was Sunday. They were sitting in his half of the duplex. It was impossible for them to take their usual walk. The street was filled with news vans and camera crews.
Armpit’s mother had had to shoo away a number of reporters, local and national.
“He doesn’t want to be interviewed!” he’d heard her say. “Why won’t you respect his wishes?”
It was nice to hear his mother use the word “respect” when talking about him. But then again, it wasn’t every mother’s son whose picture was on the front page of nearly every newspaper in the country, usually with the word “hero” somewhere in the headline.
Most of the articles had their facts wrong. According to the Austin paper, Kaira had given him a key to her room, and he had come up for a romantic rendezvous when he discovered she was under attack. An all-news network reported that he was in bed with Kaira when the attack occurred.
What must have happened, he came to realize, was that Fred had left the door to her suite open when he rushed in to save her after returning from his wild-goose chase.
“Does Kaira know you saved her life?” asked Ginny.
“I guess somebody must have told her,” Armpit said. “And it’s on the news.”
“She should call you.”
“She will when she gets better. She’s in bad shape.”
The doorbell rang.
His mother threw up her hands. “Why won’t they leave you alone?” She sounded exasperated, but Armpit could tell she loved every minute of it.
“I told you people— Oh.” She turned to Armpit and told him a police officer wanted to speak to him.
