Free Revenant Rising by M. M. Mayle Page A

applauding and cheering audience that’s come to its feet.
    “I think that should about do it, then. As you’ve just seen and heard, the song really is a winner . . . and I am still able to perform. Thank you and goodnight.” He returns to the podium, takes the Icon statuette from the still stunned presenter, and lofts it like a torch as one of the girl guides escorts him from the stage.
    Audience roar sustains him all the way and would buoy him even further if he thought the majority really understood what he had just done. He is not faintly sorry if he’s stepped hard on a few toes, he just hopes they’re the right ones.
    His own toes are giving him serious grief as his escort explains how and when he can resume his seat in the auditorium.
    “No, I’ll be leaving now if you’ll just point me towards the nearest exit.”
    She gestures in the general direction of a large open area teeming with media reps and is gone before he can ask for a less populated route. He warily eyes the members of the media, all of whom seem to be brandishing cameras, tape recorders, long-handled mikes, and feral expressions. The only exit he sees is on the other side of their midst, so there’s nothing for it but plunge ahead.
    “No comment at this time,” he says to the barrage of shouted queries, pastes on a professional frown, and attempts to deafen himself to further demands. But the gist of the questioning gets through, centering on if and when he’s ever going to talk about where he’s been and what he’s been doing for the past twenty-eight months.
    He slows down and scans the multitude for a notoriously familiar face, the first time in all those months that he’s given conscious thought to the nemesis reporter whose skein of tips led to Northern Michigan and a supposed date with destiny. Where is Cliff Grant? Where is the bloody bastard, lost to memory since the bargain was struck that produced Aurora’s whereabouts? Did Grant ever make claim against that bargain? Might he be about to leap out of the woodwork and do it now?
    Colin ducks his head, speeds the final ten feet to the door, and couldn’t be happier about finding himself surrounded by rent-a-cops when he exits to the plaza beyond. For them, he doesn’t have to pretend. He removes the miserable shoes, flings them aside and sprints for the front of the building with a sharp eye out for Bemus and the white Cadillac. Two of the cops chase after him, shouting that he’s forgetting his shoes. Then, for keeping him company till Bemus comes into view, he autographs the shoes for them and invites each to fingerprint the Icon statuette.
    “Barefoot? You sparkin’ a new trend?” Bemus says when he jumps into the front seat.
    “My bleedin’ feet hurt, that’s all,” Colin says and instructs Bemus to return to the hotel, gather up their gear, check out, and book seats on the next flight to New York. “Same as when we left Denver. I’ll wait in the car and I won’t hold out for first class. Oh, but I am gonna insist on stayin’ at The Plaza when we get to New York.”
    “You can’t do that. Nate said you’re stayin’ at his place,” Bemus argues.
    “I fuckin’ can do that and it’s about time the lot of you takes notice I’m not an invalid, I’m not feebleminded, I’m not a child needing round-the-clock minders.”
    “He’ll have a shit fit.”
    “Let him. He’ll undoubtedly have a shit fit about this side trip to LA and what I did whilst collecting this.” Colin waves the trophy in Bemus’s face. “I rather expect he’ll be shittin’ himself dry before things are done with.”
    “About that flashy thing you’ve got there.” Bemus dodges a collision with the Icon. “You plan on carryin’ it through the airport like a beacon, or dialing down your profile a coupla notches by packin’ it away?”
    “Good thought, good point, but before I do put it away would it actually kill you to say something? Y’know, like ‘congratulations’ or