"That do anything?" he asked Liz.

There was a pause. "No change. That horrid box is still moving."

Boo-Boo helped the girl to sit up. She stared at him wildly. Spittle flecked her lips and she mumbled nonsense. Her hands moved of their own volition, performing a bizarre dance in midair.

"Look, Ms. Robbie," he said reasonably, "if you don't cut off what you're doin', thousands of people are goin' to get hurt. Some of 'em could die. It'll all be your fault."

He could almost see the words bounce off her ear. He had to break the connection between Robbie and the Superdome.

"Nothin' personal, ma'am," he said. He cocked back an arm and caught her under the jaw with a solid right. Robbie dropped to the grass in a boneless heap. Boo crouched over her, keeping passing couples from walking on her. He clapped the cell phone to his ear.

"I just knocked her out. Did that help?"

"No, it made it worse," Liz said, briskly. Boo could tell just from her voice how difficult her task was. "If she is the only one in control, that just set off everything she was thinking of. We have monsters, rockets, musicians in flight and the Jumbotron. How is she doing all of that?"

Boo looked down at the unconscious woman sprawled at his feet. "Well, I can't ask her just now."

"But what can we do to turn her off?" Liz asked, and he could tell how she was straining to keep her cool. "The building itself won't take much more. There is only so much power any one structure can contain. This one is more flexible than most, but, oh, Boo-Boo!"

"I know, darlin'," he said, slumping beside Robbie with his head in his hands. He could try force-feeding the girl a Mickey Finn, but if a stiff uppercut didn't work, a knockout drug wouldn't have much more effect. Besides, she was dosed to the eyeballs with something strong. He was afraid to try mixing more chemicals into her system. Who knew what kind of subconscious horrors would swim up from delta-wave sleep? What about a lobotomy? Could cutting off the prefrontal lobe squelch the violent emissions of her brain? An operation, or even a spell to the same effect, would take too long. Time was running out. The quickest solution might be a bullet to the head. He hated to take a life, but he had to balance one girl against the thousands and thousands of others trapped in the Superdome. If someone popped that bubble of power now there'd be a massacre. He glanced out over the river. Maybe sinking the barge with the fireworks would do it.

Thankfully, the fireworks stopped before he could put that into effect. There was a smattering of applause, and the crowd began to break up. He was left alone on the steps of the gazebo with Robbie slumped beside him.

"The show's over. Did that do it?" he asked the phone. "Did the effects stop?"

"No," Liz said. "The place is still shaking itself apart."

Boo-Boo's heart sank. "Then it's all goin' on in her head."

"How can we turn off her subconscious? There are only a couple more numbers to be played. Everyone is going to want to leave soon, and the place is a hermetically sealed drum full of power that will blow if someone breaches the walls."

Boo-Boo's eyebrows went up. He had an idea. The girl had pretty much been following her cues in the beginning. Maybe her subconscious would continue to do it. He hoped he could connect with those ingrained reactions.

"Let's try and reestablish her connection to the show," Boo said. "Hold the phone toward the band."

Liz nodded to the roadie holding the phone to her ear. He pulled it away and prepared to turn it off.

"No, don't do that," she said. "Hold it out between the speakers so it picks up the music."

Whatever the concertgoing audience thought of seeing a disembodied hand with a telephone at the top of the stage Liz couldn't guess, but Boo-Boo was right. After a few falters, the special effects began again, this time following the cue sheet that the astonished stage manager held in his hand. Robbie certainly did know her work backwards and forwards. Lasers touched the stage. A few Roman candles popped into the air in sequence. The steam box played. At last the show was going according to the plan the producers wanted. The gigantic box overhead stopped swaying. Liz was able to relax her stance for a moment.

It had taken her a short while to appreciate the skill of the young man who had been holding the phone up for her. Not once did he let the instrument slip off her ear or jam it too tightly against her head. He was watching her, moving when she did, and adjusting his grip accordingly. He must also have muscles like iron. Her arms were getting tired being held aloft for hours, and she was trained to hold that pose. It had taken a great burden off her, not having to worry about the telephone slipping off her shoulder and falling down because she couldn't spare a hand for it.

"You are very observant," she told him, and was rewarded with a smile.

"In this business you have to be, ma'am," he said. "You're pretty good at what you do, yourself."

Liz smiled. "I'm beginning to find that out."

Everyone was being so very cooperative. Over the last hour they had formed a special bond. United at first by necessity, they were now freely enjoying all the positive energy running throughout the room and one another. She knew how many people were in the huge auditorium. She knew them all intimately, every emotion, every urge. How many were in tune with the music. How many of them under her overlay of calming magic were excited, terrified, angry, in love, afraid, relieved. How many of them were heading for the lavatory, and how many were coming back. No one was bored.

With the cool beat of jazz running through her veins like blood, she could do anything. The final song was a rocking ballad in a minor key that sent chills up the audience's collective spine even while it thrilled and elated them. The lyrics were an allegory about a mystical underground power that rose up from beneath the earth to destroy humanity because it was destroying nature, but decided to give it one more chance because humans cared about music. If they could understand one kind of harmony, it could learn to appreciate the other. It was a warning, but it had a happy ending. Liz fervently hoped that Robbie could hold it together just a little while longer.

"This is the last number, Beauray," she said into the phone.

"I hear you," Boo said. He shifted Robbie and cuddled the phone closer to her ear. Pretty soon it would be all over.

A tiny, faint beeping began. He realized it was coming from his cell phone. Oh, no! The battery mustn't die now!

It wouldn't. He leaned in close to the receiver.

"Liz, send me a little of that power," Boo said in a very calm voice so as not to alarm Robbie and set her off. She was still out, but her eyelids fluttered, and she was drooling down her chin. He wondered again how much of those drugs Ken Lewis had given her. "Just a tickle."

A tickle was all he got. The small phone grew warm in his fingers. He held it just far enough from Robbie's ear to see the miniature screen. Battery full. Whew.

The music coming from the tiny speaker reached a thrilling crescendo, and died away.

"Okay," he whispered. "Fade to black."

"Beauray." Liz's calm voice issued forth from the earpiece. "It has stopped."

"Whew!" Boo-Boo slumped down on the concrete steps with the unconscious woman in his arms. "Thanks, darlin'. I'd better get this poor young lady back to the hotel. See you at the party."

He pocketed the phone, stood up and hoisted Robbie into his arms.

The park emptied out swiftly. The FBI agent passed within a couple of feet of him. Ken could have reached out and touched his shoulder, but contact with Beauray Boudreau was the last thing he wanted. Or the second last. Ken waited until Boo-Boo had stopped at the street corner with his limp burden, then insinuated himself into a large crowd of happy merrymakers heading north along the riverfront toward a bar near the French Market. He needed a very large drink.