As he pressed through the lobby doors and into the theater proper, North breathed more easily. The darkness was deeper here, swallowing everything but the bat-like outlines of the curtains, the slope of the seats, and the open jaws of the boxes on either side. But that was good. Darkness, as far as North was concerned, was so much better than what he had feared finding: a cleaning crew, or a diva planning her next performance, or a homeless kid who had found a safe place to sleep. Maybe it would have been all right to come in the side door after all.

North hauled himself onto the stage and paused. Something had clicked off in the darkness. His heartbeat pounded a tattoo in his ears. His hands tingled. He closed his fingers around the CZ, not quite ready to remove it from the holster. Not yet. Don’t draw your gun unless you mean to use it; that had been drilled into North when he had gotten his concealed carry permit. And standing there, his blood storming in his ears, North had a half-conceived fear of shooting blindly and hitting a rent boy who had snuck in here to sleep or to hide.

After North counted off two minutes, he still heard nothing but his own pulse, and he started backstage. He moved slowly now; part of that was because of the sound—imagined? real?—and part of it was the series of obstacles: the thick velour curtains; an ancient gas oven that seemed to be part of a set, although Christ only knew what kind of drag show required a gas oven; two long aluminum poles that lay on their sides, obviously intended for some sort of dance routine; a flying saucer on rope lines, obviously intended to be flown in from the loft during a performance. North bumped into this last piece, the glitter rough against his hand, and the noise was so loud that he wanted to swear. He stopped again. Listened.

Nothing.

He shuffled around the flying saucer, rubbing his fingers to work the grit of the glitter free, and still heard nothing. So why were the hairs on the back of his neck standing up? Standing up—hell, that didn’t even come close. They were practically arcing lines of electricity. He took another step. And then another.

And then he froze. He had an idea of where Mark might have hidden the recordings. He had a guess. It made sense. But fear made North pause. Instinct, more than anything else, made North veer away from his goal. He would come back. He would talk to Shaw, and they would do this together. Or if Shaw still didn’t want anything to do with him, North would go to Barr and Reck and explain his idea, see if they’d listen. But this, right here, this was stupid, and North didn’t need to be any stupider than he’d already been. He turned stage left and took quick steps toward the door that led out into the alley. An outline of daylight showed ahead where the stage door fit imperfectly in its frame. North hurried his pace. He just needed to get clear of this place, and then he’d call Shaw and—