Chapter Twelve

They saw it on his face as soon as he walked into the rehearsal room. Erik frowned. “What’s wrong?”

He tried to sound controlled, but as soon as he started talking, his words turned into nervous babble. “Dave Campbell broke into my apartment last night and left a threatening note. I went to the police, but because he’s a cop, they won’t help me – just like I already knew they wouldn’t - and then he threatens me and threatens to hurt Mickey, and someone at the precinct dropped the hint that he’s a killer, and I am fucking terrified.”

“Shit, man.” Kyle whistled and shook his head. “That’s a mess.”

“You have no idea.”

“What are you going to do?” Rich asked. “And can we help? The Viking used to be able to lay down some pretty decent ass-whoopins in the past. We could hunt this dude down and introduce him to the Valhalla way of war.”

Erik glared at him. “My fighting days are over, thank you very much. I don’t think that hunting down someone who is obviously unstable is the smartest course of action, do you?”

“Have you got a better idea?”

“Actually, I have.” He turned to Roger. “Bring Mickey and stay here for a while. It’s gated, you’ll be safe, and there are plenty of rooms. I can even give you an entire wing of the house, if that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Really? Here?” He knew his eyes were bugging; he had never gone anywhere in this grand house except the music room and the bathroom, and the thought of staying somewhere so palatial was intriguing.

“Yes, here. Where else? Connecticut?” He shook his head. “Try to jump start your brain for a minute, okay? This is important.”

Roger ran his thumb over the callus on his forefinger. “Yeah, all right. I think that’s probably a good idea.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” Kyle opined. “He won’t be able to get in here unless he climbs the wall, and that’s not a good idea.”

Erik explained, “It’s electrified.”

Roger snorted. “Damn. That’s serious.”

“I don’t like home invasions,” the blond defended. “Anyway, all of those safety measures were in here before I ever got the place.”

Roger went over to Erik and offered his hand. “Thank you, mate. That’s an amazing offer, and I’m honored.”

The blond shook hands with him. “It’s my pleasure. At least if you’re staying here, I know you won’t be trying to drive anywhere.”

He grinned wickedly at the momentarily horrified expression on Roger’s face, then broke out laughing.

“Very funny,” he grumbled.

“I have the right to laugh at you.” He pointed at his now-healed legs. “And you have to listen to me. You owe me that much.”

He walked back to his bass and strapped it on. “Frankly, I owe you much more than that.”

“On that, we agree.”

***

He stepped out of the music room after an hour, when he thought Mickey would be between class and rehearsal. He dialed his number and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He let the phone ring until it went to voice mail. Nervous, he called back, and the same thing happened. When he left hit the voice mail for the fourth time, he switched gears and called the company’s administration desk.

“New York Ballet Company,” a prim-voiced woman chirped into the phone.

“I need to speak to Mikhail Samsonov, and he’s not picking up his phone. Do you know if he’s there?”

There was a brief hesitation, then the woman spoke again, a bit chillier than before. “May I inquire who’s calling?”

“This is Roger Singh, his roommate.”

“Please hold.”

Light classical music started playing in his ear. It sounded familiar, but he wasn’t good at naming classical pieces. If they’d been playing Aka Daka, he’d have been able to name the song.

The woman came back on the line. “Mr. Singh? Mr. Samsonov is in the artistic director’s office in a private meeting and cannot come to the phone. Shall I give him a message for you?”

“Yes, please have him call Roger. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”

He hoped that the meeting was good news. He knew that Mickey was waiting to hear about casting for the spring tour; with luck, he was getting good news. He sent him a text.

‘Heard you’re in the a.d.’s office – hope all is well. Call when you can.’

Roger set his phone to vibrate and tucked it into his jeans pocket. He’d certainly notice it going off that way. With a sigh, he returned to the music room and the rest of Valhalla, ready to thrash through another song or three.

They were halfway through their newest song, “New Bad Habit,” when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He stopped playing and hurried out into the hallway.

“Hello?”

“I told you there would be consequences.”

He went cold. “Dave… what did you do?”

His stalker laughed. “You’ll see.”

Roger hung up and started dialing Mickey again. He hit the voice mail box three more times and was in a full-blown panic when Kyle came out to see why he’d disappeared.

“Whoa,” the drummer said. “What’s going on, man?”

“I think Dave has Mickey.”

“What?!”

His startled exclamation brought his partner running, and soon all of them were gathered in the hallway while Roger called Mickey’s phone over and over. He finally gave up and nearly threw the phone against the wall.

“Someone, please. Drive me to the ballet studio.”

Erik wordlessly went to retrieve his car keys. Kyle pulled his own phone out and dialed a number. Roger could hear a gruff man’s voice answer.

“Howie, it’s Kyle,” he announced as soon as the call was picked up. “I need your help.”

Roger tried to hear what the other man said, but he couldn’t make out the words. He could only just hear the grumble of the man’s voice as he spoke. He tried to content himself with listening to Kyle’s end of the conversation.

“I’ve got a friend who’s got a situation with an ex who’s being a pain in the ass. We think he might be getting violent or crazy or something, and the friend’s current boyfriend is in his crosshairs. Can you do something?”

Rich explained to Roger quietly. “Howie is one of our roadies. He used to be a bounty hunter and a body guard for a coke dealer in Miami. He’s good with his fists and he’s a sneaky S.O.B. If you need someone to watch your back, or to get you or Mickey out of trouble he’s the one you to call.”

Roger ran a hand over his black hair. “Can you get him to just get rid of Dave?”

“We draw the line at murder.”

“Then just beat him to a pulp and let the hospital sort him.”

Rich gave him a sympathetic look and put a supportive hand on his shoulder. Kyle spoke again.

“Awesome. Yeah, I’ll get you the info.” He provided Mickey and Roger’s address, Mickey’s name, and the name of the troublesome cop. When he was done, he said, “I owe you big time.”

“I’m not sure he’s someone I would want to be indebted to,” Roger told Rich.

“Don’t worry. He makes bank working for Valhalla when we go out on the road, so he’s not going to do anything to any of us.”

Kyle hung up. “He’s going to help track down this guy and get him off your tail. If he has Mickey, Howie can get him back.”

Erik came back into view, his car keys dangling from his fingers. “Let’s go.”

The band piled into Erik’s car, and he drove like a maniac all the way to Midtown, which was something of an accomplishment at that time of the day. The streets were choked with cars and pedestrians, but they made good time and somehow managed not to crash into anything or anybody.

Erik pulled up to the front door of the ballet company’s building and let his three bandmates out of the car. “I’ve got no parking space, so I’ll go around the block. I’ll be in as soon as I can, or else I’ll pick you up. Keep me updated.”

Roger didn’t listen to everything his friend had to say. As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he dashed into the building, his momentum carrying him past his ability to stop smoothly. He ran straight into the receptionist’s stand, banging into it at speed. He almost fell but righted himself by grabbing the edge of the desk.

“What on earth?” the lady behind the desk exclaimed.

“Mickey. I need to see Mickey.”

She looked confused, and Roger pushed his way into the company’s inner sanctum, his bandmates right on his heels.

He had no idea where he was going. He led their group on a careening tour of the hallways between the dance studios, sticking their heads into every room they passed. Finally, a trio of men in suits came down the hallway toward them, their leader holding his hands up in a gesture that was half placating, half warning.

“Here, now!” the man barked in a thick eastern European accent. “What is happen?”             

“Mickey… Mikhail Samsonov,” Roger panted. “I need to see him. Urgently.”

The man looked at Roger as if he’d just stepped in something smelly. “Who are you?”

“Do you know where he is?” he pressed.

“No. Who are…?”

Kyle gave a rapid introduction. “Kyle, Rich, Roger. We think Mickey’s in trouble.”

“Mickey is in rehearsal. Very important.”

Roger grabbed the man by the biceps. “Where? I need to see him.”

He shook his hands away. “Upstairs, room four.”

Roger turned and ran toward the stairs, taking them two at a time as he flew up to the next story of the building. Rich was right behind him, and Kyle took a moment to try to be diplomatic with the man before he followed, too.

They reached the hall, and Roger led the way to room four. He could hear piano music coming from that room, and the thump-clack of dancers leaping in toe shoes. He burst through the double door, and the music abruptly ended. A trio of girls in leotards and ballet slippers stopped what they were doing and huddled together in the center of the room like frightened deer.

“Mickey?” he cried.

The object of his search stood up from where he’d been sitting on the floor, pulling out his ear buds. “Roger! What the hell…?”

He ran to him, nearly bowling over another trio of dancers who were stretching against the wall. He grabbed Mickey in his arms and held him tight.

“Oh. My. God.”

Mickey hugged him back, but he was clearly perplexed. “What is the matter?”

Kyle answered for him. “Dave called and implied that he’d done something to you.”

“You guys are all panicking over me?” He sounded touched.

Roger pulled back and took his face in his hands. “I called and called but you didn’t answer and I was getting so afraid for you.”

A lithe, gray-haired man in a black three-piece suit stormed into the studio. “You there! You can’t be in here. You’re disrupting our rehearsal and wasting valuable time and resources. Samsonov, get these men out of here!”

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly. He grabbed Roger by the hand and pulled him out of the room and across the hallway to an empty studio. Kyle and Rich dutifully followed.

“Who’s the stuffed shirt?” Rich asked.

“My boss.” He pulled Roger to sit with him on the piano bench. “Now start over and talk slow, like I’m stupid. What did Dave say?”

“He said, ‘I told you there would be consequences.’”

Mickey put a hand to his forehead. “And what part of that made you think he was talking about me?”

“He…” He took a deep breath. “He’s called me twice today, and the first time, he said he might do something to you if I didn’t do what he wanted me to.” He grabbed Mickey’s hands and held them tightly. “My God, Mick, I couldn’t live with it if he hurt you because of me!”

His lover smiled, his eyes filled with emotion. “You’re so sweet. But I’m okay. Nobody is doing anything to me. I’m just fine. See?”

Roger tried to speak, but his words failed him, so he just crushed Mickey in his arms instead. Mickey stroked his back and made soothing sounds.

“Man, maybe he was just trying to get under your skin,” Rich suggested. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly explicit in what he was saying, you know?”

“I…” He released Mickey and took a deep breath, but he didn’t stop holding his hand. “I may have jumped to conclusions, but it sounded so dangerous, and I can’t bear the thought of…”

Mickey kissed him. “You are so sweet.”

“I just love you so much… I can’t bear the thought…”

Rich came over and put his hands on Roger’s shoulders. “Okay, man. Your boy needs to work. Let him get back to it.”

He reluctantly stood, but then sat again. “Erik says we can stay with him. I’ll go back to the apartment and pack some things, and then we’ll be safe.”

“That sounds really good, because I hate the thought of anything happening to you, too.”

They embraced, and then one of the ballerinas came in from the other studio. “Mickey, they’re getting ready for your solo.”

“Thanks, Bettina. I’ll be there.” He stood up. “I’m all cold now so I have to do some stretching. I love you and I’ll call you when I’m done here.”

“Great.” He squeezed his hand and backed away, giving him room to get back to his rehearsal. “Break a leg, but not really.”

Mickey chuckled. “Dork.”

He smiled after him, then turned back to his bandmates. “Well… shall we go catch up with the Viking?”

Together, the three of them went back down to street level to wait for Erik’s car to make another circuit of the block.

They didn’t have to wait for long. The black sedan rolled to a stop in the street in front of them, and they piled in. Erik asked, “Was he okay?”

“Fine, thank God.” Roger took a relieved breath. “I need to go to our apartment and pack some things. Do you mind…?”

“Not a problem.”

He pulled back into traffic, and as they rode, Kyle asked, “Who were all of those stuffed shirts who were yelling at us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the artistic director, or business staff? I have no idea what people work for a ballet company.” He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life.”

“It’s that bad?” Rich asked sympathetically.

“Good and bad, actually. A year ago, my life was nothing like this.” He ticked off the differences on his fingers. “I lived in London, not New York. I was single, not involved with a wonderful man. I was between gigs, not playing bass with one of the biggest bands on the planet.”

“And you didn’t have a stalker,” Kyle added helpfully.

“Yeah. That would be the bad part.”

Erik smirked. “And a year ago, I’ll bet you hadn’t run anybody over with a car.”

Roger groaned.

They reached the apartment building, and Erik parked in a loading zone. Kyle told him, “That’s illegal, you know, and you’re going to get towed.”

“We’re loading, right? And anyway, we won’t be that long,” he reasoned. “And if my car gets towed, Crash will get it back for me.”

Roger chuckled as Erik grinned at him, looking like a blond piranha. “I’ll do my best.”

They climbed the stairs to his apartment, moving in single file with Roger in the lead. On the second landing, a middle-aged woman in a housecoat and battered tennis shoes was waiting for them.

“I don’t know what you boys are up to, but some people work nights and try to sleep during the day,” she snapped. “Keep it down!”

His heart sank. “I… we… Right. Sorry.”

The woman stomped back to her apartment, and Roger spared a worried look toward Erik before he sprinted up the rest of the steps. The door to his apartment was standing open, and from the stairs he could see a disaster inside. He pushed through the door and stood in the living room with his hands on his head.

Every piece of furniture had been broken, the legs snapped off chairs, couch cushions ripped open with the stuffing pulled out. Every picture on the wall had been smashed, the shattered glass scratching and damaging the images in the frames. A painting that Mickey had bought from an artist in the Village had been slashed and hung in tatters from the broken frame.

Kyle whistled, long and low, and Rich put a hand on Roger’s back to keep him from falling over. Erik walked in farther, his face red and his jaw set. He went into the kitchen.

“What a mess.”

Roger followed his voice and stopped short when he saw what Erik was talking about. Every jar from the cupboard and refrigerator had been smashed on the middle of the kitchen floor, making a nauseating conglomeration of things that should never have been combined. The resulting smell was appalling, and it was all Roger could do not to run to the bathroom to be sick.

“Jesus,” Rich said. “This is…”

His partner chimed in. “I’m just glad neither of you were here when this happened.”

Roger picked up what was left of Mickey’s barre and tried to put it back onto its frame without success. He let the splintered wood fall and walked stiffly into the bedroom.

The mattress had been shredded and was soaked with reeking urine. The condoms had been pulled out of the bedside table and threaded onto a wire coat hanger whose curved neck had been straightened for the task. Both tubes of lubricant had been squeezed out onto the wall, and the dresser drawers were thrown haphazardly around the room.

“If this guy is still this mad so long after that night, he’s one dangerous motherfucker,” Erik opined. He sniffed at the urine-scented air. “He’s also a fucking pig.”

Roger was too shattered to say anything. He mutely grabbed a suitcase and found that the lid had been cut away from the body, rendering it useless. He dropped it and stood, staring at the wreckage of his home.

“I can’t believe it,” he finally whispered.

Kyle went to the closet and found more luggage, which had been stabbed and torn but not completely demolished. He handed it to Roger, who held it in silence while the Valhalla drummer filled it with clothing from the drawers.

Erik told Roger, “I’ll send a service to clean this up, but first we need to call the cops.”

“They won’t do anything.” A tear tumbled from Roger’s eye and traced a slick track down his cheek. “There’s nobody who’ll help me.”

“We’ll help you,” Rich told him. “We’ve got your backs.”

“What can you do, though? What can anybody do? He can come in any time he likes, he can contact us whenever he wants, and the police won’t do anything to stop him. How can you?”

He felt desperate and unhappy, and more than a little afraid. He had never felt so violated in his life. He looked down into the suitcase at his clothes mingled with Mickey’s, and he wanted to cry. They had done nothing to deserve this.

Erik went into the bathroom and came back with all of the toiletries that were still intact, which weren’t many. He tucked them into the suitcase. “We’ll get you everything you need, I promise. You’ll be okay.”

Kyle finished packing the suitcase, and he closed it with a click. Rich rubbed Roger’s back, then went into the living room with his phone to report the break-in to police. Roger, numb and defeated, shuffled out of the bedroom and tried unsuccessfully to find a place to sit. Rich tucked his phone away.

“They said they’d send someone, but it might be a while,” he reported.

“I’ll wait.” Roger sat down on the floor, clutching the suitcase to his chest. “You guys can go.”

“We’re not leaving you in this place like this.” Kyle sat beside him. “Besides, that asshole might come back, and I don’t want you alone if he does.”

Erik walked toward the door. “I’m going to move the car. I’ll be right back.” He left the apartment, pulling out his phone as he went. Roger didn’t know who he was going to call, and he really didn’t care. He didn’t know anything anymore.