Death hits the fan Read Free Page A

authors' table, Shayla, and her would-be resuscitator. When she reached the bearded man, she grabbed his arm, turning him toward her with a yank.
    "Dean!" she said loudly, looking him in the face.
    Dean just stared through her, still holding the jade in his hand.
    "Dean," she said more softly. "It's me, Zoe. Zoe Ingersoll, remember?"
    Dean's eyes focused on hers slowly.
    "Zoe?" he said, as if trying out the word on his tongue. Then he shook his head and tears appeared in his eyes.
    "Zoe," he murmured thickly. "It's Shayla. She's dead."
    "Are you sure?" Zoe asked, the blinking of her eyes speeding up under her glasses. Only then did she glance back where Shayla lay. And even at that, only for a moment.

    She shivered and punched her fist into her hand before quickly turning her head back, twitching her eyes at Dean's again.
    "Yes," Dean assured her. "Oh, Lord yes, I'm sure," and then he began to cry in earnest. Zoe put her arms around him, tentatively, not holding him close, but holding him all the same.
    Who were these two? I eyed Dean. He had weathered skin under his gray beard, a straight nose and dark eyebrows. He was of medium height and build, not handsome nor unhandsome. Other than the relative darkness of his brows compared to his gray beard, he was unnoticeable. Except for his tears.
    Zoe, on the other hand, was more striking, partly because of her rounded face atop her thin body. She might have been a "Miss Peach" cartoon character. And partly because of the exquisitely embroidered vest she wore over her sloppy jeans and turtleneck. But mostly because of her frenetic energy. She was still blinking rapidly behind her oversized glasses. Sadness, concern, confusion? I couldn't tell.
    What was the relationship between Zoe and Dean? Were they—
    "She's not dead!" shouted the statesmanlike man who had been in the front row from the beginning. He was standing now, waving his pinstriped arms. "It's the bracelet, can't you fools see? Take off her bracelet!"
    "Vince, Mr. Quadrini," Ivan murmured, advancing on the pinstriped man. "It's okay. Everything will be okay."
    "Okay!" Vince Quadrini whirled on Ivan. I updated my age calculation on Mr. Quadrini to late, not early, seventies as I looked into his face. It was a good-looking face, with a long, rounded nose and solid features under wavy gray hair, but still strained and showing its age as Mr. Quadrini turned on Ivan.

    "Okay, okay?" he demanded. "The greatest writer since Kornbluth might be dying, and everything's okay?"
    Mr. Quadrini was right. Everything was not okay. I could see it in the face of the man still working on Shayla. He was pressing on the author's chest with two hands now, hard and fast, his dark features desperate. Shayla, S.X. Greenfree, was dead. She had to be. And she had called me by name while she was falling asleep. Only, she hadn't been falling asleep. My heart lurched as if I were the one receiving CPR. Had Shayla been dying all that time? Dying and ignored as Yvette read on and on. I looked up at the ceiling, anywhere but at the woman on the floor. The white ceiling was luminous suddenly, shining—
    I felt Wayne's hand on mine, and realized my hands were shaking. I drew my head back down slowly. Why had Shayla called my name? Had she known she was dying? Had she been crying out for help? But why me? Unless someone else was named Kate ...
    I shivered and looked beyond Dean, where Marcia Arme-son stood as still as a photograph, holding her camera. Her delicate features looked tight and meager in their evident unhappiness, however fashionably framed in elaborately waved black hair. But then, Marcia always looked unhappy. She jerked her head to look at Shayla, then jerked it back toward Ivan, before whirling around to run down the center aisle toward the storeroom, her designer jeans nothing more than a flash as they disappeared.
    "Hey, you!" Yvette called out. "Where the fu-hell are you going?"
    It was a good question. A very loud, good question. But