<< Go Back

Storm Song

By Rich Bullock

Order Now!

Chapter 1

“Ten minutes, Miss Van Onweer,” the stage manager’s voice sounded outside the dressing room door.
“Thank you.” Regen van Onweer tilted a bottled water to her lips, but pulled it away without drinking. She’d be running to the bathroom between every song.
The woman staring back in the mirror looked composed, confident. “Pretense, that’s what counts,” Aunt Ruth had always told her. But that had been years ago in Nebraska before Regen van Onweer existed, not here in Rotterdam.
Her cell phone vibrated an excited dance on the dressing table. Unknown Caller ID. Only a few people had her new number. Her hand trembled as she pushed the answer button.
“Hello?”
A voice whispered, “Did you get my giiift?”
Regen’s eyes cut to the trash bin and the hideous flower as she jabbed the disconnect button. How had he gotten this number?
The door clicked, opened inward, and Regen shot to her feet, sending the cell phone to the hard tile floor where it split into its component pieces. They spun to a stop at the feet of the woman in the doorway—Lorna Nairne, her costume and hair expert. Lorna’s smile faded at Regen’s shuddering breath. Bending down, Lorna scooped up the battery, cover, and phone, while Regen worked air into frozen lungs.
“You okay, Ree girl? You look a little spooked.” Lorna’s accent rolled off her tongue like the Jamaican native she was, though Regen had heard her speak flawless King’s English when it benefited her. Lorna deposited the electronic parts into Regen’s cupped hands.
Regen nodded her response. She swiveled toward the dressing table, fingers trembling as she inserted the battery and snapped on its cover. “I’m just nervous, you know.” Her voice sounded as phony as a B-movie actress. Pretense wasn’t up to par. With battery in place, the phone buzzed happily, rebooting and searching for the cellular network, readying itself for the next call. Regen held her breath until the display went dark.
Lorna laughed in lilting tones, moved behind Regen, and watched in the mirror as she tugged Regen’s black wig right and left until satisfied. She gave Regen a calculated once-over in the glass, then nodded.
“Yes, dis is a big night, Regen van Onweer, but you are ready.” She massaged Regen’s shoulders. “You may not think it too much right now, but you are.”
Regen closed her eyes under Lorna’s kneading fingers. The Dutch police still had no leads on the caller, but security at the Ahoy Rotterdam had been beefed up for tonight’s concert. There was even an Interpol inspector onsite. He’d checked in with her earlier.
Lorna had Regen stand and pirouette. The wide, multilayered Victorian skirt dusted the floor on the sides and back, but had a front cutaway to show off black leather knee boots that each sported a dozen silver buckles.
The cell phone buzzed and Regen’s eyes jerked toward the lighted display. A text message from Unknown Sender.
Save your last breath for me.
When the display blinked out, she powered off the device and dropped it into her purse stowed under the counter. She’d have to change the number—again.
A rap rattled the door, and Regen jumped. “Two minutes!”
Lorna shot her a look.
Regen ignored the obvious concern. “Time to go.”
She led the way out of the suddenly claustrophobic room, every cell in her body yearning for the open stage. The stage manager, a petite man with a bad comb-over and thin moustache, danced in front of them, first forward, then backward, punctuating his rapid mix of French and Dutch with his cluttered clipboard. Regen paid little attention and outpaced him with her long strides as she wove between props, light trees, costume racks, ropes and towering draperies. Stagehands parted like the main curtain when they recognized her.
Tonight was the culmination of months of hard work, not to mention a boatload of money. Casting off the doubts, she began layering herself with the persona of Regen van Onweer, queen of Europe’s symphonic metal bands. Her chin came up, her shoulders squared. She marched forward. Authority rang with each strike of her four-inch heels. She stretched her arms wide as she visualized music flowing from her core, down her arms, and exiting her splayed fingers, lightning bolts seeking each member of the audience. Feeling better already, she winked at Lorna over the head of the little man clucking like a frantic fowl.
“Over here, Miss Van Onweer,” a stage tech beckoned and checked his watch. He took her gloved hand and helped her onto a four-foot square of stage floor. A small railing of black pipe at the back edge of the platform provided the only handhold, and she steadied herself while Lorna tucked the voluminous skirts of ruffled red taffeta between Regen’s legs.
“Now you hold these with your knees so your dress won’t snag when you pass through the main level.” Lorna gave Regen a wide grin. “Wouldn’t want the queen to arrive onstage skirtless now would we?”
Regen concentrated on the muted roar of the audience. The warm-up group had exited the stage and the fans were impatient for the main act. Elusive Hope. Their band. Her band. She strained for breath against the stiff black leather corset, wishing it a little looser. Above, a bass drum began a slow, steady kick, quickly echoed by at least seven thousand pairs of stomping feet. After a few measures, the string ensemble played a long, extended note, slowly building intensity.
The tech handed Regen the in-ear monitors, which she deftly inserted. The custom-made IEMs were hideously expensive—a treat after last year’s tour—but they muted the band enough to protect her hearing while providing a clear monitor mix. The tech inspected her cheek microphone and hooked everything up, then stuffed the transmitter/receiver pack down the back of her corset, cinching the garment tighter still.
Regen closed her eyes, visualizing the stage above. A single blue spot would illuminate drummer Danny Haynes, with soft amber bathing the string players. More spots as Hans Vicker’s fuzzy lead guitar and Eva Wolf’s bass joined Danny. Then everything went silent, and Regen counted the beats: two, three, four…Pieter Rademaker’s electronic keyboard filled the hall with the glorious sound of a Baroque pipe organ. The plywood beneath Regen’s boots vibrated as huge subwoofers reproduced the organ’s heart-stopping bass, and she couldn’t help grinning at Lorna. Ever since they’d all attended an organ festival at Basilica St. James in Prague, Pieter had tried to mimic the magnificent three hundred year-old instrument, but he’d never before had use of the fantastic sound system here at the Ahoy. As the organ backed off to a more moderate volume, Regen pictured, as much as heard, the woodwinds, chimes, and the other more subtle instruments of the twenty-five-piece orchestra unite from stage left.
Lorna leaned close. “Do good, baby girl.” With Regen’s ear monitors in place, Lorna sounded as if she spoke through a pillow. Four ornate gold rings adorned her hand as she teased one wayward curl away from Regen’s face.
Regen caught a whiff of cinnamon and grinned at Lorna. “Are we having cinnamon rolls after the show?” The Jamaican’s baking talents kept all the band members on her good side. “Be a nice reward—Thomas said we sold 7,500 tickets.”
Lorna stepped away from the platform and shouted over the music. “I heard him say close to nine thousand a bit ago. You brought ’em out of the woodwork, girl.”
Regen relaxed a little. Maybe the money wouldn’t be a problem after all.
Each thump of Danny’s bass drum vibrated the railing beneath her hand, and Hans let loose on a long guitar solo intro for their first song.
“Five seconds,” the tech barked, reading a cue sheet. Regen didn’t need one—she’d written the production outline herself. He moved to a control box. “Up you go.” He pushed a green button, and the platform started upward.
At twelve feet, she rose through the main stage, and the sound increased dramatically. She continued upwards beneath the massive staircase that sloped toward the front of the stage. Her very bones hummed in response to the music, and her breathing increased as she continued rising. Music swelled in her IEMs as the sound tech brought them up to the predetermined volume, and her heart beat faster in response to the familiar strains.
Through the cracks in the scaffolding, bright light flashed as the first of the pyrotechnics exploded on each side of the platform, eliciting cheers in the auditorium. The orchestra and band picked up the tempo, and she threw her head back and shook her curls, grinning in spite of lingering nerves. This was so cool!
She stared at the underside of the forty-foot wide staircase. Red-illuminated fog erupted from twin volcanoes and poured down through the opening above like molten lava.

***

Raoul Kloepper faded into the folds of a curtain as Regen van Onweer’s assistant hurried by on her way to the stage-right observation area where a small group of production people consulted clipboards, spoke into radios, and sent stagehands scurrying on the endless errands necessary to pull off the concert production. They had no idea how big tonight would be. He chuckled to himself. It was time to move.
His black clothes and knitted cap matched the other workers, and several nodded to him as he made his way through the backstage maze of props, smoke machines, curtains, and miles of electrical cords. It always amazed him how accepting people were if he looked and acted like he belonged. And he did belong in this world—at least enough to know his way around. Theater and concert venue jobs in Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands had prepared him. It had taken months of diligent training, but now he was part of their world, her world.
He stepped into a hallway that led to the empty upper dressing rooms used by larger productions. Illuminated by a single fixture at the far end, the worn, gray tile reflected minimal light.
The red fire hose cabinet sat recessed into the white wall, probably unopened since its last inspection. Well, that’s what everyone assumed, if they thought about it at all. He freed the latch and swung the door open. Tucked under the hose reel lay a long black leather pouch. Right where he’d hidden it four days ago.

***

The choir, orchestra, and band swelled, measure by measure, and the audience exploded to new heights of applause as Regen’s head emerged from the billowing crimson cloud. The platform jolted to a stop, and she stepped cautiously forward, blinded by over two hundred white and colored lights. Odors of sulfur, make-up, plywood and sweat tickled her nostrils. As her eyes adjusted, she made out the steps sloping down to stage level, lit on each side by flickering electric torches. Deep purple and magenta gauze draped the set creating a rich, gothic aura.
Regen spread her arms high, raised her face to the lights, and sang the opening song, “Red Rain,” as lava-like smoke cascaded down the stairway and spread among her bandmates.
Her clear soprano sounded strong, even in the tiny ear monitors, and her voice lifted as she crafted the story of a young girl, Marielle—her happy life interrupted. While the music’s base was the heavy metal rock of her band, the story and entire performance were pure opera, including costumes, dramatic staging, and heart-rending emotion. Regen’s vocals tied it all together.
The audience quieted as, in the third verse, misery and pain rained down, transforming Marielle’s idyllic childhood into despair and darkness. Regen offered only a glimpse of hope woven subtly in these first lyrics. Those who followed the band relived the girl’s pain, but waited for the finale.
The microphone pack dug into Regen’s back with each breath, and soon sweat trickled down her neck from under the thick wig, but she ignored the discomfort and descended the stairs. She stopped three-quarters of the way down, where the steps divided around Danny’s huge drum kit. Polished brass and chrome glittered like jewels, and Danny’s shaved head sparkled with sweat as his colorfully tattooed arms marked a commanding rhythm for the rest to follow. A two-story shimmering curtain of tinsel danced in the air, simulating rain, and lightning flashed, spilling a million reflections off the metal as massive subwoofers thundered. The audience cheered, obviously not minding the dark message—they knew Marielle’s journey had only begun.

***

Raoul noted the small plaque beside the door—E31—and today was the thirty-first of the month.
“Yes, it’s meant to be,” he proclaimed to the empty passageway.
The small room contained an electrical sub panel and was perched one floor up from the main control room at the back of the theater. His hand shook as he twisted the unlocked knob and opened the door. Music blared through a one-foot square opening in the far wall. Abandoned bolt holes in the floor indicated this had once housed projection equipment. He crossed to the opening and dropped to his knees. He could have set up back stage, but it had been far too crowded with stagehands and theater people. Sharing Marielle wasn’t part of his plan. This room was perfect.
The aperture gave a limited view of the balcony, mezzanine, and main floor of the auditorium. Those weren’t important to him. Only the view of the stage mattered—a clear shot, so to speak.
Sixty meters away, Regen van Onweer stood center stage, one arm raised as she sang. Several songs into the concert now, she had changed into a beautiful, formfitting, black leather dress and wine boots with black laces. The skirt had slits up each side, held together by ten short, red belts and buckles—he’d counted them in her dressing room. A jeweled collar sparkled around her throat, sending shafts of red and amber over the seats, and the curls of her burgundy wig brushed her shoulders as she raised her eyes, staring straight at him. A sigh escaped his lips.
Marielle. So beautiful.
With clumsy fingers, he pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his pocket and carefully smoothed it on the window ledge, the original of the copy he’d slipped into the pocket of the very dress Regen van Onweer wore now. Had she found his note? Had she brushed her fingers along the paper as the words teased her ruby lips?
Music burst from the stage as Elusive Hope transitioned to a new song, and he whispered Marielle’s poem for no one except himself and Marielle as he watched Regen van Onweer.
“Save your last breath for me, my lovely white dove,
Don’t sing too loud or long.
Yellow fades and black overwhelms, like cold fog.
I will release air from your lungs,
Embrace my gift of freedom.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back