Let the Music Play - 20. The Show Must Go On

Dimitri drove with great care across the rough ground, fearful of jostling their home-made trailer any more than he had to. The trailer, consisting of little more than an old rear axle welded to the yard-square steel bomb case, was not the best design for the barely-drivable trail that led from their isolated compound in the outback. The implosion test device, identical to the planned nuclear devices in design except for the core, had been assembled in their Toowoomba facility before being trucked to the desert compound, where the axle and trailer tongue had been welded into place for its final journey.

Towing a two-ton load that included over a ton of explosives, complete with detonators –detonators, unlike high explosives, being notoriously sensitive things – tended to make Dimitri cautious. The Land Rover chugged, straining against the heavy load as they negotiated a slight rise on the dirt track, thirty miles from the nearest real road and over an hour south of their remote desert compound. Dimitri had, through good fortune, selected the location for the test several days before; an old mine shaft hewn horizontally – technically known as a drift – into the rock of an outcropping, which was in as remote a place as he’d been able to find. He’d spotted the mine shaft while scouting for a sheltered canyon in which to test the device, and decided that an underground test would serve their purposes. He’d removed the rusted bars from the entrance and cleared the tunnel of debris on that prior visit. Scanning the stark, rolling plains of the Australian outback, he felt sure they’d have the isolation they so desperately needed.

Arriving at the shaft mouth, he checked the tunnel he’d cleared of debris. It was, as near as he could tell, still sound. The Scar and the engineer climbed out of the Land Rover and the engineer began his final tests on the device. The engineer plugged in a cable, attaching the other end of the long wire to his laptop. After testing and giving the results a close scrutiny, he looked up from the screen. “It appears that all is ready. The sensors are all working, and they are transmitting as planned to my laptop. You may proceed.”

Fuming at being given what was, for all intents and purposes, an order, Dimitri nodded and began backing the trailer into the narrow shaft. It was more difficult than he’d imagined, requiring numerous stops and minor correction of angle, but ten minutes later he had the trailer as far down the shaft as was practical; just over one hundred feet. Climbing out through the rear door of the Land Rover – the tunnel was narrow enough to prevent him from using the side doors. Aided only by the glow from his flashlight and the Land Rover’s tail lights, Dimitri placed a jack under the trailer tongue, unlatched the ball lock, and began jacking the trailer off the hitch. As soon as it was clear, he climbed back into the vehicle, securing himself once again in the driver’s seat. Glancing in unease at the low roof of the tunnel just inches above the Rover’s roof, he started it up, breathing a sigh of relief: had the vehicle failed to start, he’d have been trapped, at least for a while. Giving the Land Rover a little gas, he eased out the clutch and inched it forward. Soon he was driving through the tunnel at walking speed, which was far faster than he’d entered. Once back in daylight, he parked the Land Rover two hundred yards away and walked back to the tunnel entrance. There, The Scar stood, peering into the tunnel, watching as the engineer laid cable. Dimitri jogged back into the tunnel, flicking on a flashlight to augment the one the engineer held. Without a word, they reached the trailer, and in seconds the engineer had the data cable re-connected.

Their job underground completed, Dimitri and the engineer jogged back out of the tunnel, their haste prompted by a shared dislike of being in an abandoned, and possibly unstable, mineshaft. Once outside, the engineer strung the cable out in the direction of the Land Rover, selecting a spot in a shallow ravine to set up his laptop. Once everything was connected, he repeated his system tests as The Scar and Dimitri stood by. “All is ready,” the engineer announced, with more than a touch of pride.

* * *

Barbra, her tears beginning to flow, switched on the ringer of Helen’s phone, knowing as she did so the futility of the act. Had any of Helen’s charges been trying to get through, they could have called the hotel desk and had someone sent up. It never occurred to either Helen or Barbra that they might not think of that, as indeed, they hadn’t. The ringing of a phone intruded on her thoughts a moment later and it took Barbra a second to realize that it was her cell, and not Helen’s phone, that was noisily demanding attention. She hesitated to answer it, fearing that it was the beginning of an inevitable barrage of media intrusion on their grief, but answer it she did. Recognizing Jon’s voice, she began to try and comfort him, but before she could form words, he words interrupted her. She listened in confusion as he said, “I need to speak to Helen. I’ve been trying to call her, but her phone isn’t answering. Eric’s had an accident...”

Knowing that she was about to break the boy’s heart, Barbra said, as gently as she could, “I’m sorry, honey, but it’s worse than that. He didn’t make it; he died honey, it’s all over the wires.” The silence from the other end of the line nearly broke Barbra’s heart.

Pulling the hospital phone away from his ear, covering the receiver out of habit, Jon stared at it in shock and confusion before glancing down at his brother. “That was Barbra. She said you’re dead.”

Looking up from his wheelchair, feeling a little sorry for himself, Eric grumbled, “Christ, you’d think they’d at least say they were happy I wasn’t hurt worse before threatening to kill me...”

Jon shook his head. “No, dude, they said it’s all over the wire services, you’re dead.”

Eric’s jaw fell open. “Then tell ‘em I’m not, hell, give me the fucking phone, Helen’s probably totally freaked...” Jon took his hand off the phone and handed it to his brother.

Barbra heard the muffled words from the other end, picturing Jon giving Chase and Brandon the bad news. Without warning, a new voice came on the line, one Barbra recognized instantly. In shock, she listened for a few words before gasping into the receiver, “Talk to Helen, she needs to hear you.” Handing the phone to Helen, Barbra smiled. “Hon, it’s Eric; he’s not dead at all...”

After a confused and emotional exchange on the phone, Eric frowned and hung up. “Helen’s on her way. You were right, there’s a news bulletin out that I’m dead. It must have been that fucking reporter. Gotta be. Helen was real upset; I’d like to get even with that creep for putting her through this.”

A nurse came into the room, smiling at the still-shirtless Eric. “Okay, cutie, time for you to see the doctor again.” Waggling his eyebrows at the nurse, Eric spun his wheelchair around, missing his brother’s foot only because Jon managed to jump out of the way. The nurse, per hospital policy, sought to head off any further danger to any innocent bystanders by grabbing the wheelchair from behind and taking over as Eric’s means of locomotion.

Walking into the hospital waiting room, Jon found Brandon and Chase standing with The Shadows. He informed them of the news bulletins, and that Helen was on the way. A crestfallen Steve said again, “Guys, I’m really sorry about this...”

Jon shrugged. “Stop stressing, Steve. It was an accident, and it wouldn’t have happened if Eric wasn’t showing off.”

Steve nodded. “Thanks.”

The nurse wheeled Eric in. Eric, looking slightly perturbed, said, “They need me to do more paperwork down at the front desk in a few, but the doc said I’m going to be in a cast.” Looking down at his leg, which was laid bare due to the paramedics having split the leg of his jeans nearly to the hip, Eric said, “I hope this doesn’t fuck up the next concert.”

Leaping at the chance, Wilde rushed to the wheelchair. “I’ll wheel him there,” Steve’s worried gaze followed them as they left the room. Jon and Brandon exchanged a puzzled look regarding Wilde’s eagerness, but they let it pass as they had far more on their minds.

As soon as he had Eric out of the room and out of earshot of anyone else, Wilde asked, “What were you saying before Steve got to the top of the cliff? You shut up right away when you heard him and then you started your rappel in a hurry. Steve was pretty shaken too, so I know it’s something to do with me.”

Looking straight ahead, Eric chuckled, “Yeah, I figured out most of what’s going on, and why Steve’s so stressed out about Brandon and Chase. For a start, you’re bi.”

After a few moments of silence, Wilde brought the wheelchair to a halt in the deserted hallway and walked to the front. Crouching down so that he was at eye level with Eric, Wilde let his gaze fall to the floor. Fussing with his eyebrow piercings, Wilde said, “Yeah. Kind of. One night at a party I was pretty wasted and I was making out with a guy. No big deal, but Steve walked in on us. Ever since then he’s been acting all paranoid that I’ll be outed. I don’t know what his deal is, I usually go for girls, and being bi isn’t a big deal in the Goth world anyway. But yeah, he freaks out whenever we’re around any guys who might be gay or bi, and watches me like a hawk. I think that’s why he was so freaked out about Brandon and Chase.”

With a chuckle, Eric replied, “I think there’s a little more too it than that. At Chase’s party, Steve and Zeke said something about you guys not wanting to take your shirts off. Then Zeke did, telling Steve he could go sit with you. I’ve never seen you take your shirt off, ever, and Steve and Zeke know why. I’ve got a hunch on that; how bad are your scars?”

Wilde shivered slightly, pausing for a moment to think. Giving a slight shrug, deciding to level with Eric, he twisted around, pulling his shirt up to his shoulder blades as he did so, revealing a series of long, faint scars on his back. “It was my stepdad, when I was seven. Mom found out and called the cops, but the scars never healed.”

His voice lowering, taking on a compassionate note, Eric told Wilde, “You avoid looking at them, don’t you? They aren’t that noticeable. If you got a tan, they wouldn’t be noticeable at all. Steve and Zeke know, and that’s why they’re so protective. They know you don’t like to talk about it, too. Steve, though, there’s something else there too. He’s a lot more possessive and protective since he caught you with that guy, isn’t he? I don’t think even Steve knows all of why he’s acting the way he is... Think it through, man, how does the way he’s acting sound? Take a guess why that might be.”

Wilde’s face went blank for a few moments. Looking up to meet Eric’s eyes, a puzzled smile grew on Wilde’s face as he said, “Like, he’s jealous? Yeah, maybe, we’ve always been pretty tight, so maybe... but it doesn’t fit. He seems okay if I go after a girl, and he always goes for girls.”

“Yeah, because a girl isn’t something he can be, so he doesn’t feel rejected. Besides, we’re talking groupies here, right? Nothing permanent. Dude, I don’t think he knows this himself so you’ll have to be careful, but if you want my advice, get him really drunk and alone one night, and talk to him.”

Standing up, Wilde began to push Eric the remainder of the way down the hall. Finally he said, “Dude, that kinda fits, and it would explain a lot. Damn, what are you? Psychic?”

Eric laughed. “I’ve been accused of that before, but I’m just real good at reading people”

As they approached the hospital’s main desk, Wilde chuckled. “So, you think I should get a tan, huh? Not exactly my image, but maybe its time for a change, in a lot of ways.”

After a very frantic taxi ride to the hospital on the western fringe of Las Vegas, Helen stormed through the Emergency Room door. Entering the waiting room, she spotted some of her charges and blurted, “Where’s Eric?”

Jon rushed to her side. “He’s fine except his ankle’s broke. He’s just doing some paperwork. He’s okay, honest.”

Giving Brandon, Chase, and Jon a hug, Helen began to fret. “I thought he was dead. I just want to see him...”

Turning at the sound of the door, Helen saw Wilde wheeling a very much alive Eric into the room. Running forward, she latched onto Eric with a big hug. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said, holding him tight. Standing up again, she asked, “Any idea why the wire services are running your obituary?”

Blushing because he had a pretty good idea, Eric replied, “It must have been that fucking paparazzi. We went climbing and we thought we were alone. I rappelled down a cliff and got a little too ambitious. I caught my foot between some rocks, lost my hold on the rope, and went crashing down the cliff. I’m lucky the thing was only twenty feet high, so I only fell like six feet. Anyway, I landed in a heap, and Wilde looked over the edge of the cliff and saw me there. He must have thought I’d fallen the whole way, because he shrieked, ‘Oh my god, he’s dead. Eric’s dead!’”

A chagrined Wilde interrupted to object. “I didn’t shriek.”

Eric chuckled. “Yeah you did, you shrieked like a girl. Anyway, I didn’t think I was hurt too bad until I tried to move. Brandon said I shouldn’t be moved so Jon called for an ambulance and by the time he was done, Steve and Wilde had climbed down. I was hurting so I started to tease Wilde for saying I was dead, just to take my mind off the pain, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Helen mumbled. “Sure, because of the pain. I know you too well to believe that. Go on...”

Eric nodded, looking down at his splint-encased leg. “There must have been an ambulance nearby because they got there right after the paramedics. They put me on a stretcher, and because I was still ribbing Wilde, I pulled a towel up over my head while they carried me to the ambulance. It was just for a few seconds, but while they were loading me into the ambulance I heard Brandon swearing about paparazzi. He told me later that the creep was parked nearby and was taking pictures. Based on the description that Jon gave me, I'm pretty sure it was the guy I hosed at the hotel back in Phoenix. I wish I’d have known sooner; I’d have gone and sabotaged his car instead of climbing. I’m guessing the creep heard Wilde yell, than saw me with the sheet over me, and phoned in his scoop. I guess we should get the word out that I’m still breathing, huh?”

Breaking into an evil grin, Helen replied, “No, my dear Elvis, not at this time. We’ll let the buzz spread for a few hours and give that sleazy paparazzi enough rope, then we’ll make an announcement. I want that creep discredited. Until now, I didn’t hate the paparazzi like you do, but after today, that’s changed, and looking back I can see how much they’ve affected you guys. Mark my words: I’ll be more proactive in keeping those scum away from you boys in your private lives.” Pausing to glance out the door, she added, “So far the press seems in the dark. They won’t expect you to be in a hospital if you’re dead. I’ll tell the hospital to refuse to give any information if they’re asked about you, and hopefully it will be a while before they figure out you’re here. Now, for the other part of this: Eric, I can see your leg is splinted and not in a cast. How bad is your leg, and how long will you be in a wheelchair?”

Looking down at his leg, and the bag of ice on his ankle, Eric replied, “The doc said it was a minor hairline fracture of one of the bones in my ankle. If it doesn’t swell, he’s going to put me in a permanent cast tonight but just from the shin down. He said I was looking at four to six weeks in the cast, be he wants me to keep the leg elevated for at least two days and get it looked at in a few days, too. After that, I should be okay to use crutches. What’s this going to do to the tour?”

Helen looked at her injured charge, seeing the worry in his face. “I’ll check with the doctor, but for everything except the Salt Lake City concert the day after tomorrow you should be okay. As they say, the show must go on. Now, for Salt Lake City, we’ll either cancel or figure out some way for you to play in your wheelchair. Actually, I hadn’t better let the stories of your death go much further as it might hit ticket sales hard. Too bad, I’d have loved to have really shafted that damn paparazzi. I’ll have the hospital put out a press release in a couple of hours that you have a broken ankle and were never in any danger, and we have no idea why the press reported otherwise. That should at least cause the paparazzi some flack. It’ll also help teach the wire services not to trust those guys. The bright side of all this is it will be loads of free publicity.”

Eric looked at Helen warily. “Does this mean you’ll hurt me enough to put me in a hospital whenever we need some press?” he asked, breaking into a cheeky smirk.

“After what you put me through today, I just might,” Helen replied and before giving Eric another hug, murmured in his ear, “I’m glad you’re okay Eric, I really am.”

“We all are,” Jon interjected, “you had us worried, bro.” Eric looked into the faces of those gathered around; his bothers, Brandon, Helen, and The Shadows, and could see that they all agreed with Jon. He replied with a heartfelt smile which, really, said it all.

Standing up again, Helen said, “One other thing: You should be out of the cast in time for Australia, so we’ll make some of our time there a real vacation. No damn press, and sure as hell no paparazzi, even if we have to play dirty. I’m going to call the agency in Australia that set up the tour dates there and the video shoots, and make sure they understand: no press, and the location we’ll be staying is to be a secret. I’ll even see if I can juggle the later tour dates a bit and give us some more time there.”

Eric nodded happily, with an innocent smile on his face. He’d heard from an Australian date what the drinking age was down under, and then there was the issue that he’d never yet had a professionally made Tequila Sunrise. Deciding for the sake of his health not to mention the fact that in Australia, he was old enough to drink in bars and was very much looking forward to doing so, Eric maintained his guiltless smile, trying his level best to look angelic.

* * *

“Proceed, Vladimir,” grunted The Scar as he crouched down beside his men, just over a hundred yards from the shaft.

The engineer tapped a few keys on the laptop. “It will take ten seconds for the capacitors to charge, and then it will fire.” In silence, the three men waited, their eyes riveted to the tunnel mouth. Inside the bomb case, the capacitors emitted their high-pitched whine as they charged. For Dimitri and The Scar, the remaining seconds passed with exquisite slowness.

After what seemed like far too long, though indeed it was not, Dimitri felt a sharp jolt from the ground, just before the tunnel mouth erupted, spitting forth a tongue of rubble and smoke. Amidst a brief roar, the ground shock radiating out from the blast raised a cloud of dust from both the hill above and the flat ground upon which they stood. Coughing, trying to shield his face from the choking cloud, The Scar asked, “That was a ton of high explosive. I was expecting a larger blast. Did it work?”

The engineer replied, “Much of the explosive’s power was directed to the implosion, and the energy spent on compressing the test core. Thus, it does not seem as powerful as one would expect. I will know soon if it performed as expected, but I must review the data, so be quiet.”

Stalking away, The Scar was struggling to keep his temper when Dimitri caught up to him. Together, through the settling dust, they approached the mouth of the tunnel. Peering in, they could see that it was filled with debris from a roof collapse, as they had expected. Dimitri broke the silence to say, “After our project becomes known, this site might be found. We have made a devil’s bargain here; detonating on land has left both a seismic footprint and debris, though I made sure there were no serial numbers or other identifiers on the trailer or the components, but, one never knows. It is a pity we could not have done this at sea.”

The Scar nodded. “True enough, but the complexity and the time factor precluded testing at sea. As for this site being found, it will not matter what they find at that point, as long as we adequately cover our tracks and also scatter about a few false clues. Once the powers that be are aware of our activities, everything will be in place and they will be limited in their options. Nonetheless, we will take every possible precaution; no point in taking a risk we don’t have to. Loose ends, for example, are best taken care of when convenient.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a cry of joy from the engineer. Running towards them he yelled, “It worked, it worked! The pressures and configuration of the implosion were at or better than my predictions, and good enough that we can expect several extra kilotons. Everything worked; now all I need to do is cast the plutonium cores and begin assembly.” His joy abating, the engineer fixed The Scar in his gaze as he added, “I will, of course, be needing the gold leaf you promised, along with the remaining Kryton switches.”

The Scar nodded. “You will have them, soon.”

Later, back at their isolated compound, The Scar strolled through the workshops, checking on several components, thankful that the engineer was content with his new assistant. The Engineer was actually well ahead of schedule on some components, and Dimitri, The Scar knew, was happy to be relieved of the onerous duty of assisting the engineer. Hauling Dimitri aside for a private word, the Scar said, “I’m leaving tomorrow. Things appear to be on track here, and our engineer is ahead of schedule on most of the components. As you know, the completion date is critical, so keep him on schedule at any cost. There’s been a few problems with our shipping plans that I need to deal with, and we still don’t have enough of the damned Kryton switches. My source for those is claiming difficulties, and I must go deal with that, and a few other items as well. I’ll be back when I can, but perhaps not for long. All the groundwork must be in place before our demonstration of capability and I must attend to it. Do whatever needs to be done, Dimitri.”

“Yes, I will do whatever is needed, Vozhd,” Dimitri smiled, using the Russian word that meant ‘boss’, and one that, as he well knew, was a word once widely used in Russia to denote Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, a man far better known as Josef Stalin. Dimitri wondered if The Scar would appreciate the reference, were he aware of it. Quite likely, Dimitri decided, because Dimitri had always been an admirer of Generalissimo Stalin, and thus Dimitri’s accolade was not one that he would ever hand out lightly.

The Scar, who had studied history and was thus aware of the deeper meaning of Dimitri’s salutation, smiled with heartfelt appreciation.

* * *

The nurse wheeled Eric into the waiting room, with his leg propped up and his new cast in place. Brandon noticed it had some writing on it; numbers. It took him a second to realize that it was a phone number, no doubt the nurse’s. “He’s ready to go,” the nurse announced.

They’d all been waiting several hours, so it was with both relief and enthusiasm that they made their way to the parking lot. The nurse helped Eric out of the wheelchair and into Helen’s rented car, while everyone else piled into Steve’s van for the ride back to the hotel. When Steve pulled into the hotel’s access-controlled parking garage, they found Barbra waiting with a wheelchair. Helen pulled in, and let Brandon and Chase lift Eric into the wheelchair. Eric spun the chair around, rolling back and forth, getting a feel for it, as he quipped, “I think I can deal with this for a few days, just keep everyone’s toes away.”

Helen pushed Eric up the ramp, telling everyone, “We’ll go in via the lobby. The press is there. They know Eric’s alive, but they’ll want to take pictures and get interviews. No one say a word, leave it to me.”

Entering the lobby, they were nearly blinded by over a dozen flashes going off at once. Still wearing just his jeans, Eric smiled and waved. Helen brought him to a halt at the elevator, and turned to speak to the clamoring reporters. “As you can see, he’s alive and well; just a broken ankle. The earlier reports of his death put us through hell, and I’d suggest you all dig into what happened there; why did the wire services claim Eric was dead when any fool can see he’s not? There’s a story there, people, if you’ve got the guts to go after it.”

With the seed planted, Helen and her charges continued on, making their way up to the suites, leaving the press behind. A few members of the press in attendance saw the implications and, wishing to be ahead of the curve, began making a few phone calls. What they found out did not please them. There’s little love lost between real reporters and paparazzi, so some reporters were not at all averse to highlighting a little incompetence from their competition. With a few facts gathered, pixels began hitting screens in several reporter’s offices, and soon enough the originating wire service was being laughed at and called a dupe for believing the unconfirmed report of a paparazzi.

The next morning, with less than thirty-six hours to go before the concert, Eric wrapped up a practice session with his bass guitar. The first attempt had been a disaster; he couldn’t even hold it right, due to the chair’s side rails getting in the way. Once Brandon had fixed that by finding a screwdriver and removing them, Eric had played well. The next hurdle was medical: Helen had insisted on getting the doctor’s okay before they left town. Eric became suspicious: his band mates were hiding something from him. He was right; they’d all agreed to let him concentrate on rehearsing before sharing some pretty big news. Eric, though, would not be put off. Cornering Chase with his wheelchair, (he was fast finding that the things had their advantages) Eric asked, “Spill it, bro. What’s up? I know there’s something you guys aren’t telling me.”

With a laugh, Chase replied, “Nothing bad, dude, I promise. Just leave it for later, okay? You’ll like it, I promise.”

* * *

Helen drove Eric out to the hospital for another visit with the doctor. Eric stared out the window, with a wistful look at the passing Las Vegas scenery, and Helen decided to broach something she’d been thinking about. “Eric, I know that look. You’re wishing you could get out and see Vegas, aren’t you?”

Eric nodded. “Yeah, but I know I can’t. This busted leg and having to rehearse playing in a wheelchair means I don’t have the time. This is one of the few places where we could all go out without too much hassle, and I can’t, and my brothers and Brandon are missing it too. It sucks. Then there’s the damn paparazzi following us every fucking minute... ”

“Well, things are going to change, at least somewhat. When I thought I’d lost you, one of the things that came to mind was that you’re pretty much trapped a lot of the time. That’s no way to live. I want you, all of you, to have more of a normal life, even if it dings us on the revenue side. We can afford it if it does, but I don’t think it will come to that. Here’s the deal: I talked to Brandon last night, and he suggested I have a chat with his friend Jim. I took that advice. Well, Jim’s biker look isn’t a put-on, he’s real. He’s got lots of contacts in that world, too. So, as of today, Jim is going to be working for us, unofficially, and strictly for cash, so we’ll have total deniability. I’ll head off any lash-back from the legitimate media by granting more access to real reporters, but that will be on our timetable and won’t impinge on your private lives. Jim will have some people around who are, shall we say, businesslike. Their mission will be to keep the paparazzi away. I told him I didn’t want to know how, but I’m hoping it won’t be pleasant. Jim thinks that after a few incidents, they’ll wise up and clear out. In other words, Eric, this is a declaration of war on your favorite enemy.”

His face lighting up in a brilliant grin, Eric replied, “Perfect! So, does this mean the next time I go sabotage their cars you won’t get mad?”

Shaking her head, Helen laid down the law on that issue. “So it was you those times on the last tour. I pretty much figured that, especially when I heard about a car getting sugar in its gas tank after I’d seen you pocketing sugar packets in the restaurant. No, hon, you can’t do things like that. If you were caught, there would be hell to pay. In this case, it’s much better if Jim and his buddies handle it. Now for the bad news; in a few weeks, the tour will be in Europe, and there’s far less we can do there. The paparazzi are more entrenched and have a freer hand and Jim lacks any contacts there. So, we’re going to keep all this low-key and back-burner until after Europe. Australia is another matter; I’ll see what can be done there, but once we get back to the U.S., Jim and his boys should be up to speed and able to take the heat off. After the tour, I’m assuming you guys will want to unwind at your spread near Telluride, and Jim looked at the maps. He assures me that he’ll keep any paparazzi well away.”

Eric reveled in the news; it was, in his opinion, long overdue.

The medical appointment went well. Satisfied with the doctor’s okay, Helen let him make the phone call as soon as they left the hospital. Sitting in the passenger seat of her car, grinning like an idiot, Eric phoned his band mates to tell them the good news: the Salt Lake City concert was on.

* * *

“Ouch,” Chase hollered, stumbling away and shaking his foot. Eric looked back and grinned as Chase said, “I think you’re doing that on purpose. That’s the second time today you’ve run over my foot.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Jon grumbled. “He’s gotten me three times. I don’t know whether he’s just reckless, or doing it on purpose, or both.”

Spinning into a wheelie, Eric laughed. “I’m just getting used to this chair. I’ve got to be able to handle it on stage, remember, so I need the practice.”

Helen stood up, wearing a set of hard-toed boots she’d hurriedly acquired after a morning encounter between her toes and Eric’s wheelchair. “Eric, you don’t need to do anything with the wheelchair on stage. You’ll be wheeled out and the brake will be set. The other guys will just handle the stage moves without you. So, no, you don’t need to be tearing around in that chair. Now, that’s settled, let’s get down to business. You should be okay to use crutches after the concert, so the rest of the tour should be unaffected....” Helen went on, giving the guys a rundown of tour dates and venues for their schedule. A collective round of sighs greeted her announcement that there would be press interviews on a regular basis, but any discord was minimized by her plan to hit back at the paparazzi. As Brandon was learning fast, having the paparazzi lurking around every corner could be hazardous in many ways, most especially for people with secrets to keep.

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of rehearsals, preparations, and crunched toes – everyone was consoled by the knowledge that after the Salt Lake City concert, Eric would be out of the wheelchair and on crutches. The following morning, the tour bus delivered Instinct to Salt Lake City, right on time, and soon thereafter Jon wheeled an enthusiastic and waving Eric to his place on the stage to a crescendo of cheers, and the show, as it must, goes on.