Beyond Paradise

He couldn't bear to look into the faces of the audience. Somehow this was too personal, too intimate, and he closed his eyes as he sang, seeing her face, seeing Joey and Jakob, and aching with the simple, desperate need to be with them, to be a father and husband once again.

The kind of man his own father had been.

And at that moment it hit him.

"Full circle," Odette had said. The greatest gift his father had given him was not just the love he had shown Billie as a boy. It was the example he had provided, teaching his youngest son to be that man for his own wife and children--to bring his love full circle. It was the part of him that still lived, right there inside Billie's hammering heart, and it had been there all along.

Finally, he understood completely. And in the cruelest of ironies, the realization had come upon him in this place of nightmares, of shadows, of fear and loneliness and separation.

The last notes of the song died slowly away, echoing into the still night as the stars twinkled mute witness. He opened his eyes slowly, looking out over the people who had come to give him their support and encouragement, waiting for--

For what? What was to be next?

A lone pair of hands began to clap lazily, and nervous heads turned toward the sound. Billie searched too, scanning past Mischa, Odette, Jabril--and there he saw the man he had met in Bollocks, the one who had so casually upended his reality with the song on the jukebox. The stranger stood, his palms still slapping together, and Billie saw both sarcasm and danger in his face. The man's frame stood taller than he remembered from the bar, at least six feet, and a feral smirk played around his lips.

"Bravo!" he called, his voice dripping with arrogant ennui. "Bravissimo! Encore de chanson!"

Billie's stomach clutched at the familiar tone of affected elegance, and suddenly the man's features began to shimmer and shift before his eyes, making him squint. Had there been a mustache above his lip a moment ago, a thin, penciled line of carefully groomed precision? Billie thought not. And his clothing--hadn't the man been wearing a flannel shirt and jeans? How had he mistaken that? He was clothed in a dark, pinstripe suit, a burgundy cravat neatly tied at his throat, and his long fingers circled--not a Marlboro, but a smoldering Dunhill.

"Mr. Armstrong, mesdames and messieurs," the man said as he extended an impeccably groomed arm toward the stage, and the crowd began to applaud, uncertainly at first, as a few staccato claps dribbled through the stillness, then picking up volume as one person after another bravely showed their approval. Whistles and cheers broke out, and the man smiled serenely as the audience rose to their feet in unison.

Jabril was poised, tension humming from his arms and legs as he watched Stroud's every move. From the corner of his eye, Billie could see the others slowly drawing closer to the stage, circling warily, and Mischa's hand had crept into his pocket, closing around some object he had hidden there. Odette's lips were moving silently, her eyes never leaving Billie for even an instant.

As the applause faded, Stroud turned smoothly toward the stage, and took a few measured steps in Billie's direction. The corners of his lips curled upward in a barely disguised smirk as he surveyed the boys positioned so carefully around him, and he waved a hand at them dismissively, trailing a curlicue of smoke.

"You needn't worry. My business is with Mr. Armstrong, and is of a private nature, so I intend no harm to any of you. Unless, of course, you choose to interfere. Isn't that right?" he said, his gaze shifting to Billie.

The dull ache in his left hand made him realize how tightly he had been gripping the neck of the guitar, and he forced himself to relax his body and take a deep breath. He nodded grimly. "I'm the one you came to talk to, so just let these folks go home and we'll take care of this ourselves."

Stroud mused for a moment, stroking his chin. "I think not. I prefer to have these good people as witnesses, so to speak, that I have followed the terms of our little contract here, so that there are no misunderstandings."

"Fine, then," Billie said, drawing his shoulders back defiantly. "I've kept my part of the bargain, so if it's not good enough, then go on and take what you came for. But it won't do you any good." He could hardly believe his own voice, filled with a confidence he most definitely did not feel.

One well-proportioned black eyebrow cocked curiously, and the man coughed delicately into his fist to conceal his laughter. "Oh? Well, then, do favor me with your reasons for such a bold pronouncement. Or could it be that you have mistakenly chosen bravado over substance?" he said, his voice thick with mock pity.

Billie shook his head, his eyes holding Stroud's steadily. "No bravado, just truth. You want my music, then take it. If I never play another note, I at least know that I made a hell of a lot of people happy with the songs I wrote. But I know you for what you are now, and I know that jealously is the only thing you feel. Not love, not hate, not joy or anger--just envy that makes you want something you're powerless to use. The most precious thing I possess is something you'll never know or understand, and you can't take it away from me. You're empty, Stroud, as hollow as a crypt, and all the stolen talent in the world won't make you any less pathetic. "

A gasp swept across the crowd, and Odette's hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes filled with tears, her head swiveling from side to side in a silent warning to Billie. Stroud's expression darkened, and his brows drew together ominously. He stared up at Billie, as if considering whether to play with his prey, or simply kill him where he stood. A waxy finger slid contemplatively across his lips, and his eyes narrowed to thin slits.

Billie's gorge began to rise, and he struggled against the fear that was settling like ice around his heart. He had gone too far, his mouth had shifted into gear as it always did, but this time it would cost him dearly, and he wouldn't be the only one who suffered for his recklessness. Adie and Joey and Jakob would be left devastated, wondering where and why he had gone, and there would never be an answer for them.

Mischa had backed slowly toward the steps, his body a shield between Billie and Stroud, and the burly muscles in his upper arms stood out in bundles as his body tensed anxiously. "He speaks the truth," he growled to the taller man, his bushy brows low over his eyes. "And ve stand together vith him, for good or for bad. You should know this."

Stroud regarded him coldly, and Billie could sense some old, harbored grudge flashing between the two, one that ran deep and hot. The thin veneer of civility cracked, and for a moment, something hideous peered through, eyes glittering hungrily--and just as quickly, it was gone.

"I have not seen this guitar in some time," he purred, his composure restored. "You must have a great deal invested in our friend here, to trust him with such a priceless treasure. I must admit, I am curious--why would you risk so much for a stranger?"

Mischa ignored the question. "Your time is running short, Mr. Stroud. Vhat you asked, he has done, and there can be no doubt that he has von his freedom."

"Mischa, you wound me--do you suggest that I am less than honorable in my wagers? Of course you are correct. His performance was nothing less than inspiring, and as much as I would love to claim his prowess for my own, fair play prohibits me from doing so."

Billie's breath hitched in his throat, and tears of relief pricked the corners of his eyes. He could almost smell the jasmine in Adie's hair, feel the arms of his sons winding around his neck as he bent to scoop them up. He was going home.

He lifted the guitar, sliding the strap carefully off his shoulder, and held it toward Mischa with a smile of thanks. But the big man's eyes remained fixed on Stroud, who stood less than a yard away, and as Billie hesitated, Stroud's hand shot out like the strike of a rattler and snatched the beautiful instrument from his grasp.

"NO!" Mischa bellowed, rushing to close the space between them. He lunged to retrieve the guitar, but Stroud's lithe body deftly pivoted away, and the big hand closed on empty air. Behind him, Odette's face twisted in anguish, but she darted forward, one wizened hand dipping in and out of the pocket of Stroud's jacket so quickly that he had no time to see what she was doing. Then, just as swiftly, she leaped back and away, watching him warily.

Mischa trembled with rage, his face ruddy. "You have no right," he growled, nostrils flaring. "You defile her vith your touch, you filth! Return her to me or I vill kill you myself!"

Stroud regarded him with amusement, lifting the beautiful instrument to examine it more closely. "Such workmanship," he remarked casually, "as though its maker had put heart and soul into its crafting." A smirk touched his lips, and Billie felt a chill pass through him. "Why, it almost seems a living thing. What a tragedy it would be if some harm came to it!"

In his waxy hands, the strings of the guitar began to vibrate, then to hum, softly at first, and then as the sound grew louder, a high-pitched note of such clarity that it seemed to be a thread of silver floating on the air. Jabril winced, and at the end of the stage, Snot lifted his shaggy head and howled mournfully. As Billie listened, the tone deepened, warming into something more than a metal string.

It was a human voice, a woman's sweet soprano, and at the sound of it, Mischa fell to his knees and wept.