Everything Pales in Comparision Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Everything Pales in Comparison

  by Rebecca Swartz

  Bella Books

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Swartz

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.

  Edited by Katherine V. Forrest

  Cover designed by Judy Fellows

  ISBN: 978-1-59493-289-2

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is dedicated to my dad, Harry Swartz, who taught me to love words and to never give up.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks go out to many people, too numerous to list here, who were helpful during the creation of this novel. They know who they are. Specifically, I would like to thank Sgt. Sharon Thomas (ret), Winnipeg Police Dept. and Karen Boily, good friend and beta-reader extraordinaire, both of whom were there from the beginning, and without whose help this book could not have been written. A huge thank you to my editor, Katherine V. Forrest, whose expertise helped make this a better book. I would also like to thank Melanie Wall, whose love and support has been unfailing.

  ~~~

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Certain creative license was taken with the city of Winnipeg, but not to its detriment.

  About the Author

  Rebecca Swartz was born and raised in the city of Winnipeg, Manitoba. Possessed of a restless nature, she has moved liberally and often throughout that city and most of western and northern Canada , even venturing as far north as Churchill in the dead of winter. She’s worked variously as a dental assistant, DJ, pool maintenance worker and dog obedience instructor. A firm believer in the taking of risks, Rebecca will try almost anything once—except jumping out of a plane. That is something she refuses to try.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The concert hall was sold out. Couples, groups of three, four and more people crowded the lobby, milling about or moving to take their seats, while still more people filed into the venue. The chatter was loud, the laughter louder, as people struggled to make themselves heard over the background music playing through the loudspeaker system. The mood was pervasively upbeat; these people were here to have a good time.

  Constable Emma Kirby glanced around the steadily filling hall and wondered yet again what had possessed her to volunteer for this particular shift. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t have found something better to do, she was sure she could have. And it certainly wasn’t a money issue, since she wasn’t getting paid for it. The music, and the artists performing it, could hardly be considered a draw either, since she didn’t know any of them. Well, that wasn’t precisely true. The three opening bands were unknown to her. Daina Buchanan, the headline act, she was vaguely familiar with, or at least a couple of her songs. One of them, a catchy little number called “Take Me, I’m Yours” was fast becoming a favorite of hers. But even so, Daina Buchanan was a country artist, and Emma was not much of a country music fan.

  With a slight sigh and a miniscule shake of her head, Emma abandoned the search for her reasons for being there. It was a fundraiser, sponsored in part by the local chapter of PFLAG, Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, the Rainbow Resource Center and several other corporations from the city of Winnipeg, Manitoba. Proceeds were to be donated to PFLAG, to further that organization’s growth. A worthy cause, she knew, and a good enough reason for being there.

  Emma hooked her thumbs in her service belt and surveyed the scene from her assigned position at the rear southwest exit. From where she stood, she could view the stage and the crowd with ease. It was a mixed bunch, not unlike any other concert. She had been informed during the briefing she and the other five officers had received at seven P.M., that there were three speakers scheduled for the first half hour. They would come on at eight. Which would account for the rather relaxed attitude of the concertgoers. No one was rushing to their seats; the hall was currently less than half full. Plus, she knew that many of the twenty-five hundred or so ticket holders were mainly here to see Daina Buchanan, who wasn’t scheduled to come on until approximately ten P.M. So she didn’t expect a capacity crowd until nine thirty or so.

  She set off on a little tour, more to ease her boredom than because any real crowd control was necessary. Her stride was relaxed and loose as she headed toward the lobby. Her eyes were alert and watchful, though, and she moved with deliberateness. She nodded to a few familiar faces as she made her way up the closest aisle, maintaining a facial expression that was friendly but not inviting. Once in the lobby, she even stopped to have a quick chat with Constable Rick Meyers at his station. As she made her way back to her post, she was mildly surprised to find herself actually beginning to look forward to the evening.

  As the night wore on, and the two warm-up acts came and went, the hall continued to fill until, by the end of the second intermission, it was practically full. Emma, making a pass backstage to check on things there just minutes before Daina Buchanan was due to come on, was brought up short by the sight of a woman just beyond her, her back to her, windmilling her arms. She was dressed in black: black boots, black jeans, a flowing black silk shirt tucked into the jeans. She had short, spiky, blonde hair. Pretty attractive rear view, Emma thought. As the woman turned toward her, she ceased her windmilling and reached for the guitar a young fresh-faced guy was handing to her. Emma found herself staring. According to the posters and T-shirts she had seen, but not really paid much attention to, this was obviously Daina Buchanan. This was her?

  The woman looked nothing like what Emma had expected, more like a punk rocker than a country singer. Damn, she’s good looking. The woman looked up from strapping on her guitar. Her eyes met Emma’s stare. She cocked her head to one side, her expression puzzled but friendly, and flashed Emma a crooked little grin. Emma’s heart gave a strange little leap in her chest, and she immediately blushed, feeling foolish and oddly uncomfortable. She ducked
her head, turned, and without looking back, quickly returned to where she was supposed to be.

  She didn’t even have time to reflect on the incident. The lights went down, the background music faded and the crowd came to life. Lighters and glow sticks flared up throughout the audience, and the cheers, whistles and applause became a tumult as the curtain rose to the chords of the opening number. As the band, with Daina in the forefront, was revealed, the crowd went wild.

  Emma found herself caught up in the excitement. From her position she was able to do her job and enjoy the show. She marveled at the dynamic energy and sheer physical presence of the woman onstage. Halfway through the set, she decided that purchasing a copy of her CD was definitely in order. The band left the stage and Daina Buchanan, in a single spotlight, began a solo.

  Emma wanted to watch this performance, but her attention was caught by a scuffle between a security guard and a couple of scrawny rowdy guys up her aisle. She frowned in annoyance, but automatically headed in their direction.

  One moment she was striding up the aisle, the next she was knocked off her feet by a huge, concussive shock wave from an explosion somewhere behind her. She hit the ground hard, cracking her left shoulder against one of the seat arms.

  What the fuck?

  Then, excruciating pain shot through her arm, and debris began to rain down all around her.

  Her ears filled with screams and cries of fear and pain, she made an attempt to struggle to her feet, only to be knocked down by a flood of panicked people fleeing the hall. Regaining her feet once more, drawing back into the relative safety of an empty side aisle, she glanced around in confusion. Smoke was filling the hall and the lights were down, making it almost impossible to see. The terrified crowd rushing past her did not help matters. The explosion, she realized, had come from the stage area; from what she could make out, the stage itself was almost completely destroyed, backdrop, lighting, everything was in a shambles. Her instincts took over. She attempted some measure of crowd control, but in such a panicked state, no one paid her the slightest heed. She almost got knocked down again before she decided to abandon her attempt at moving down the aisle and opted to vault over the seats in an effort to get back to the stage area.

  What the FUCK?

  Suddenly, the hall was filled with light. She saw bodies, she saw blood, she saw people struggling amongst wreckage strewn everywhere. She saw her fellow officers across the way. At her left shoulder, her radio crackled to life. She grabbed it and, over the cacophony surrounding her, spoke into it, uttering reassurances of her well-being, demanding rescue units, backup and fire crews. The smoke seemed to have come from the initial explosion; there was no fire evident now, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  The hall continued to empty out and she was able to leave the rows of seats and make her way down the aisle. She noted, almost absently, that no one appeared to have been trampled in the mad rush to escape, which was a miracle. She also noted that, though there was a lot of wreckage, only the stage and those rows closest to it, the first two or three, seemed to have been affected. But that was still a lot of people.

  Thank God the house rule for this venue was no rushing the stage. She kept her mind on the rational, refusing to give in to the horror of the whole situation. Otherwise, she would be lost. The injured, deal with the injured. She repeated the litany over and over, even as she bent and assessed casualties, reassuring them that help was on the way. She knelt beside a large young fellow with blank, staring eyes. Blood poured from his nose, soaking his white T-shirt, but he seemed oblivious. She looked into his eyes, speaking gently to get a response. As she placed a hand on his shoulder, he reacted violently, cringing away from her and striking out with both hands, a fearful cry escaping him. Emma barely missed being knocked over as she pulled back sharply. The bulky frame of Constable Meyers suddenly loomed in front of her. He took hold of the guy’s flailing arms, shouting something at Emma, but for a moment she couldn’t make it out, couldn’t concentrate. Something about the stage. What about the stage? There is no stage. Someone on stage, he was yelling. What? Who? And then it hit her: Daina Buchanan had been on stage, right when the explosion occurred.

  Meyers gave her a light shove. Go, she heard him say, I’ll take care of this one. Go!

  She went, stumbling over debris, her mind spinning, eyes darting everywhere. She was aware of her heart pounding, racing in her chest, her face and hands slick with sweat and grime. Jesus Christ, how in the hell am I supposed to find her? Just do it! she told herself sternly. She set her jaw and skirted around and over huge sections of stage material and jutting struts. A thought occurred to her and she latched onto it: If the explosion had been strong enough to knock her off her feet, could it have been strong enough, considering the proximity, to throw Daina clear? She had no idea, but it was a start. She headed for the area behind where the backdrop had been.

  As she worked her way there, flinging aside what wreckage she could and avoiding what she couldn’t, she became aware of others who were obviously involving themselves in the same search. Finders, keepers, she thought, and then bit down on her tongue, hard, to hold back the near-hysterical laughter that threatened to pour out of her. She mentally focused on maintaining a tight clamp on her emotions. Hysterics abounded here; she could not afford to join in.

  Mere seconds had passed, she knew, before she reached her destination, but time had slowed to a crawl. She took the area in with one glance, and her eyes fell on a jumble of light and sound equipment and backdrop material, balanced precariously on a section of the stage roughly 8’x8’, which was itself teetering over what she could only guess was another speaker. Her attention was caught by an extremely distraught, but apparently unharmed woman stumbling around some yards away, yelling a name over and over again. Just as she was looking away, her brain recognized something before her eye could even register it. Was that a boot? A black boot?

  She leaped forward, certainty rising within her along with a sense of dread. Reaching the area, she crouched, removing her flashlight from her belt. She shone the beam into the darkness beneath the delicately balanced mess. A wave of triumph, of excitement, washed over her as she recognized those boots, the black jeans. And then, for one awful moment, she felt totally, completely helpless, as the dangerous predicament Daina Buchanan was in hit home. This whole thing could collapse at any moment, crushing the still form beneath it, if it hadn’t already.

  She could not possibly move any of the obviously heavy equipment or materials. Grabbing her radio, she called for immediate assistance. Then, crouching lower, she called out to the still form, “Ms. Buchanan? Daina? Can you hear me?” Receiving no response, she did the only other thing she could think of, under the circumstances. She reached under, ducking her head, grasped the woman’s ankles and gently pulled. The body slid toward her easily, about a foot, and then was brought up short. She tugged again. Nothing. She must be pinned. She whipped out her flashlight and shone the beam beneath the wreckage. Everything was brought into sharp relief. And she could see where the hang-up was: Daina’s sleeve was caught by a corner of the speaker that was holding this whole mess off of her.

  Okay, well, it’s just a shirt, she told herself. She can always buy another. Pulling a penknife from a pocket of her service belt, she dropped to her hands and knees. She tried not to think of the passage of time, tried not to imagine Daina’s condition. She could not hurry this; to hurry could prove disastrous. And yet, the pressing need to hurry was overwhelming. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. She clamped the knife between her teeth, lowered herself to her belly, and with the flashlight in one hand, proceeded to wriggle her way forward into the narrow, confining space where Daina Buchanan was trapped.

  “Okay, Daina, I’m coming in,” Emma said aloud, hoping for a response. “Just hang in there, girl, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  She inched her way forward on her elbows, the flashlight beam illuminating the length of Daina’s body. Good thing I’m not cla
ustrophobic. By the time she reached Daina’s shoulders, things were getting pretty tight.

  “Alrighty then, let’s see what we’ve got here,” she breathed.

  The singer lay on her stomach, her face turned away. Her right arm was folded beneath her, her left extended beyond and above her head. Here then was the culprit: the voluminous silk shirt with its baggy sleeves, the left sleeve of which was pinned to the floor by the speaker. Emma, taking a quick glance at the close surroundings, could hardly believe the narrow margin by which Daina had escaped being crushed. At the highest point of this little makeshift cavern, there was maybe a foot of space. When she had initially attempted to move Daina, the woman’s body had been angled toward the lowest point. Emma thought it amazing she still had a head at all.

  She felt for, and found, the carotid pulse. It was weak and thready, and Daina’s breathing was terribly shallow. Emma had felt something else as well; when she brought her hand into the beam of the flashlight, she was not surprised to see her fingers covered with blood. So there were injuries whose nature she could not properly assess, or even assess at all, under the current conditions.

  “Okay, honey,” she murmured, removing the knife from between her teeth, “time to get you out of here.”

  “Kirby?” The voice, belonging to Meyers, came from behind.

  “Yeah, here!” she yelled back, continuing her task of cutting through Daina’s shirt, but aware of the beam of another flashlight and the sound of scuffling feet.

  “What’ve you got?”

  She filled him in on the situation, ending with, “She’s caught up, I have to cut her loose, just give me one more second…” Emma paused, and could never afterward explain what caused her to suddenly drop a hand back and check again for a pulse, for breathing. This time she found neither.