“Seriously? Bach’s Chaconne?” A freakishly tall woman in stiletto heels that made her tower above Quinn twisted her face into a lipstick and mascara question mark. She was first-chair violin in the Anchorage Symphony- and not at all amused that some arriviste six-year-old was on the cusp of upstaging her. She patted Kim’s arm. “Of course you know what’s best for her, my dear,” the woman said in a husky voice that matched her height. “But the Chaconne is an awfully difficult piece, even for an adult.” She gave a condescending shake of her long neck before moving on to work the crowd.
Kim shot Quinn an exasperated look. She tugged at the arm of his leather jacket, chastising through gritted teeth. “Stop staring at everyone. You’re giving them the look.”
“What look? Don’t be mad at me because she-man is jealous of our kid.”
His back to the brick wall, Jericho’s eyes played across the faces of hundreds of milling patrons. People of all shapes and sizes lined the stairs, coffees in hand, crowding all three floors of the lobby. Watching for threats was like trying to play multilevel chess.
From the corner of his eye, he caught an olive-skinned man peering at him from the railing of the floor above. The dark face pulled back as Quinn met his gaze.
“Stop it!” Kim punched him in the arm. “I mean it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You are the only one here who looks like a terrorist.
Indeed, the bronze complexion of his Apache grandmother and his father’s heavy beard that grew in by noon gave Quinn a Mediterranean look. A single glare from his whiskey-brown eyes had a tendency to part the crowds inside the Performing Arts Center like the Red Sea.
Kim told him he was paranoid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go very wrong. Worried as he was, he gave his look to virtually everyone who met his gaze.
The Chinese called it zhijue or straight sense. To the Japanese it was haragei — the art of the belly. Whatever he called it, in Quinn’s experience the feeling was something to heed, real as the sense of sight or smell. With Kim on the warpath, he decided to keep his wits about him and his worries to himself. He tried to affect a smile but was sure it came across, at best, like a wolf with indigestion.
Apart from her dark hair, little Mattie Quinn was a miniature version of Jericho’s ex-wife, complete with accusing blue eyes. His heart caught hard in his chest every time he looked at her. Shimmering ebony curls spilled happily over a velvet dress of midnight blue. White tights, black pumps, and a robin’s-egg sash with a cockeyed bow she’d insisted on tying herself completed the outfit.
The packed confines of the Performing Arts Center-the PAC to Anchorage locals-only added to Quinn’s anxiety. He had to admit the patrons were mostly harmless. Bo called them the Subarus-and-comfortable-shoes crowd. All were eager to hear the six-year-old prodigy.
Kim had been first-chair violin for years and had only just hung up her bow to try her hand at composing a symphony of her own. Everyone supposed Mattie’s amazing talent had come from her. Quinn had never said so, but he believed his daughter’s gift might have had some link to his uncanny ability with languages. He was fluent in four other than English and semi-conversant in a half dozen more. What was music if not another language?
For Mattie’s part, her debut in front of eight hundred fans seemed the furthest thing from her mind.
Miss Suzette, Mattie’s gregarious music coach, stood beside the backstage door holding a small violin case. Even as a prodigy, six-year-old Mattie couldn’t handle a full-size instrument. The half-size nineteenth-century Paul Bailly fit her little hands perfectly. It was horribly expensive, costing more than Quinn’s brand-new BMW-but Mattie was that good. She’d named the little violin Babette, after a favorite teacher.
Case in hand, Miss Suzette rolled up the cuff of her matching blue velvet dress to check her watch every two minutes. Mattie ignored her, hanging on her Uncle Bo’s muscular forearm with both hands as she swayed back and forth.
Bo had traded his customary T-shirt and leather vest for a freshly pressed white button-down. Even in Alaska semiformal called for men to wear a tie. Bo could only go so far-even for his only niece. The Quinn brothers had agreed early in life that wearing a tie was like being strangled to death by a very weak man. Only Bo was brave enough to go against Kim’s orders and show up with an open collar. He’d not only forgone the tie, but rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal the last few inches of the black DENIZENS octopus tattooed on his forearm. He tucked the heavy Vanson jacket under his elbow while he let Mattie do pull-ups on his outstretched wrist.
“Sick tattoo, Uncle Boaz.” Mattie swung easily, as if the performance wasn’t minutes away.
Fearless, Jericho thought. That’s my little girl.
“Thanks, Sweet Pea.” Bo flexed his arm, hoisting her high off the floor and bringing a giddy squeal. His eyes shifted to Kim, who frowned like a brooding raincloud next to Jericho. “But I don’t think your mama approves. I do believe she’s afraid if you hang around with guys like me you’ll end up with a ring in your nose and a hand grenade tattooed on your back.”
Miss Suzette held up her wrist so all could see her watch. “We should get our young star backstage and make sure Babette is tuned before the performance.”
Kim nodded. “She does need to warm up.”
“Okaaaaay.” Mattie let go of her uncle and grabbed Jericho’s hand. “But it’s still a half hour…”
“We’ll be right out front,” Quinn said. He dreaded the thought of letting her walk through the door and out of his sight, even for a moment.
Mattie leaned against her father’s outstretched hand, swaying and batting her wide eyes. “Can I please ride home with you on your bike? Uncle Boaz has an extra helmet that fits me…”
Quinn’s eyes shifted to Kim. “Let’s see what your mom says about that.”
“Great,” Kim groaned. “Put it off on the mean old mom. A hand grenade tattoo. That’s my little girl…”
Quinn kissed his daughter on top of the head, drinking in the smell before shooing her toward Miss Suzette. “You’re my besty,” he whispered. Every ounce of his being told him to go with her, but Kim was on the verge of stealing one of his guns and shooting him with it, so he let her go without a fight. He had, after all, virtually abandoned them both to fight terrorism. How much more out of his sight could she get?
Quinn found the packed concert hall inside the PAC suffocating. “There’s not enough air in here for all of us,” he said as they made their way to their seats.
The front two rows were roped off. Kim worked her way to the center when they reached the third row back from the stage. Quinn followed, knowing he should insist on an aisle seat with a better tactical advantage, but saying nothing.
Kim gave an exasperated sigh, reading his mind as she so often did. “Sorry we can’t get your back to the wall, honey. All the gunfighter seats are up in the balcony if you prefer to sit back there.”
She took the seat on his left. Bo sat to his right, beside an attractive Alaska Native woman in a long green dress. Bo struck up a conversation easily, leaving Jericho with the nagging in his gut and a disgruntled ex-wife’s elbow digging into his ribs.
The Atwood Concert Hall’s cushioned green seats were filled to capacity, even up to the nosebleed section. The curtain opened to thunderous applause. Anchorage had plenty of musically talented youth, but six-year-old prodigies were very rare indeed. Alaska’s social elite-Quinn called them the NPR crowd-wanted to witness such an event firsthand.
A full youth orchestra sat on risers behind a single chair out front in the middle of the stage. The youngest members were over twice Mattie’s age. Most were in their late teens. Miss Suzette sat at a baby grand piano a few feet from the chair, stage left.
Babette cradled in her tiny hand, Mattie Quinn walked onto the stage with all the poise of a woman five times her age. She curtsied toward the audience, saluted the conductor and Miss Suzette with her bow, and daintily took her seat.
A hush fell over the hall and Mattie began the hauntingly perfect notes of Bach’s Chaconne…
Quinn closed his eyes, listening to the music. He knew something was wrong before he opened them.
The first man appeared from the flowing shadows of the side curtains left of the piano. He was tall, with close-cropped black hair and the wispy beginnings of a black goatee. White socks stood out against an ill-fitting brown suit and ratty dress shoes. A youthful face glistened with sweat under the harsh glare of stage lights. He stood motionless for a long moment, as if frozen by stage fright-half on, half off. His right hand was hidden in the dark folds of the heavy curtains.
The conductor, a heavyset man in his fifties with a sweating bald head, attempted to wave the intruder off
