Page 22 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
"All of them," Robert said when I voiced the question. "He's not taking chances. He wants Anya dead, and he doesn't care which sequence kills her."
"Then we need to be ready for all three moments," I said. "Can we replace the damaged rigging?"
LeClair shook his head. "Not without canceling the performance. With the audience already arriving . . .” He gestured toward the front of the theatre, where we could hear the sounds of patrons taking their seats.
"Volkov would know if we tried to cancel," Robert added. "He'd either disappear with Anya or kill her immediately rather than let her escape again."
"So we let the performance proceed," I said, "but be ready to act the moment we see the rigging start to fail."
"From where? The stage will be lit, and any movement from the wings will be visible to the audience."
I studied the theatre's layout, remembering my earlier visits. "The fly gallery," I said suddenly. "There's a catwalk system above the stage where the stagehands operate the rigging. If I could get up there . . .”
"Absolutely not," Robert said immediately. "It's too dangerous, and you don't have the expertise."
"But I'm small enough to move quickly, and I know what to look for now that I know the sabotage points." I met his eyes."Robert, if the rigging starts to fail during one of those flying sequences, someone needs to be in position to cut her loose or operate the emergency systems."
"I'll send one of my men?—"
"Your men are needed down here to watch for Volkov's escape routes. And,” I added with more confidence than I felt, “none of them know the backstage areas like I do.”
Before Robert could argue further, the theatre's house lights dimmed and the orchestra began the haunting opening strains ofThe Firebird. There was no more time for debate.
"Stay in contact," he whispered, pressing a small police whistle into my hand. "Any sign of immediate danger, you signal us." He handed me a torch as well. “You’ll need this to find your way in the dark.”
I slipped away toward the narrow staircase that led to the fly gallery, my heart pounding as the music swelled below. Through the rigging, I could see the stage being set for Anya's entrance—the magical garden where Prince Ivan would first encounter the Firebird.
The fly gallery was a narrow walkway suspended high above the stage, lined with ropes, pulleys, and the complex machinery that created theatrical magic. From here, I could see everything: the stage below, the wings where dancers waited for their entrances, and most importantly, the rigging systems that would carry Anya through her aerial sequences.
The music reached its crescendo for the Firebird's entrance. A spotlight illuminated the center of the stage as Anya appeared in a burst of red and gold, her costume glittering like real flames. Despite everything—the fear, the threats, the certain knowledge that she was dancing for her life—she was magnificent.
But even from my perch high above, I could see the tension in her movements, the way her eyes flicked toward the wings where I knew Volkov was watching. She knew what was planned forher, yet she danced with fierce determination, as if the beauty of the performance itself could somehow save her.
The first flying sequence began. Anya was lifted into the air by an intricate harness system, soaring above the corps de ballet in a moment of breathtaking beauty. I held my breath, watching the rigging for any sign of failure, but this sequence was completed safely.
It was during the second act transformation that I saw him.
Cooper emerged from the shadows at the far end of the fly gallery, moving stealthily toward the main rigging controls. He hadn't fled. Instead, he'd been hiding in the theatre, waiting for this moment.
He didn't see me at first, focused as he was on the complex array of ropes and pulleys that controlled Anya's harness. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, making adjustments that I knew from LeClair's explanation would prove fatal during the final ascension sequence.
I had to stop him, but I was too far away to reach him before he finished his sabotage. The police whistle Robert had given me would summon help, but Cooper would complete his work before anyone could climb to the fly gallery.
Then I remembered Emma's hatpin, still tucked into my coat. Long, sharp, and perfectly designed for desperate situations.
Moving as quietly as possible along the narrow walkway, I crept toward Cooper while below us, Anya continued her performance, unaware that her life hung by a literal thread. The music covered any small sounds I might make, but one creaking board or shifting rope could give me away.
Cooper was almost finished with his adjustments when I reached striking distance. The hatpin felt small and inadequate in my hand, but it was all I had.
"Mr. Cooper," I said quietly.
He spun around, his face a mask of guilt and fear. "Miss Worthington! You shouldn't be up here. It's dangerous."
"Yes, it is. Particularly for Anya, thanks to your sabotage."
His expression hardened. "You don't understand. Volkov has my daughter. If I don't do this, he'll kill her."
"And if you do this, he'll kill Anya. Then probably you, to eliminate witnesses. And quite possibly your daughter anyway, because that's what men like Volkov do."
