The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales (Cainsville 3.5)

"I, uh, don't think this is a coat room."

He walked up behind her. "It is. There's a rack right in there. See it?"

She stepped in . . . and he shut the door behind her and turned the lock.

#

Locking Lisa in the closet was not his revenge. That would come later, when he figured out who was looking for him and why. Right now, he just needed to get out.

He didn't take the rear door. There was always the chance--probably a good one--that Lisa wasn't working alone. He turned down one hall and then another, looking for the elusive Exit sign. Then he spotted an arrow pointing to the theater. He jogged along the hall until he reached a door marked Stage.

He glanced around. The hall was still empty. He thought he'd caught the faint sound of Lisa banging on the door, but he was far enough away that it had faded.

He ducked through the stage door and walked past the curtains--

There were people in the theater.

At least a dozen of them seated in the old chairs. When he walked out, one began to clap. Another, just coming through the doors, hurried to a seat as she checked her watch. A middle-aged woman in the front row let out a chirping squawk and scampered to the side steps, whispering loudly, "Mr. Rhys, it's not time!" as she motioned him back behind the curtain.

Patrick paused for a moment, during which he had a flashed mental image of some macabre ceremony, human practitioners of the black arts who'd tracked down a live fae and lured him in and were about to sacrifice him--

"Mr. Rhys?" the woman whispered again.

He looked out into the audience. Fifteen people sat there. Fifteen very ordinary people. Most clutched copies of his books.

Off to the side, three college-aged girls whispered amongst themselves and he caught, "Oh my God, it's him!" and, "He's cute." One of the few men in the audience lif

ted a hand in sheepish greeting. Someone else snapped his picture.

Okay, perhaps not a sacrificial ceremony. He may have written one too many of those sort of scenes.

The woman propelled him behind the curtain. "Carla Yee. I work for the Chicago Public Library. I was on the selection committee."

"Selection . . ."

"I realize you aren't our usual fare, Mr. Rhys, but we wanted to recognize area authors who appeal to a different segment of our clientele. I must say, I am a huge fan of yours. I read your first book, oh, years ago, and it was wonderful. Such a delight."

"I have written others."

She squeezed his arm. "Oh, I know, you are so prolific. You just keep churning them out. Your publisher must be so proud of you."

Publisher.

Publicist.

Lisa.

"I need to go," he said. "Back to the staff room. I left my . . . blazer."

"I'll have someone fetch it for you."

"No! I mean, perhaps I should leave it there. But I do need to use the restroom before the ceremony begins."

"I'll take you to it."

"That isn't necessary. Just point--"

"It's hard to find." She began leading him out. "Now, while I have you all to myself, I really must ask, where do you get your ideas?"