Page 70 of Rock and a Hard Place

“Right.” The parking guy looked at them in doubt. “I heard something about a contest.”

“Well, she’s the one.” DarLynn pointed at Libby. “We’ve driven halfway across the country to get her here, and we’re not giving up. Libby, you hop out and run the rest of the way. I’ll stay here and deal with the truck.”

“Are you sure?” She wanted to go so badly, but hated to abandon DarLynn after everything she’d done for her.

“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be waiting for you after the concert. Now go on.”

Libby hugged her friend, then jumped out of the truck, ticket in hand. She showed it to the parking guy. “Do you know where Gate 3A is?”

His eyes widened appreciatively as he recognized the VIP entrance. “All the way up. There are gold signs to direct you.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and ran around the bend in the road.

Out of breath after what seemed like a marathon trek, Libby arrived at the gate and joined the line under a gold banner that read: Search for Libby Contest Winners. Her nerves taut, she waited her turn.

“Ladies, patience please. We’ll get you all back in. It’s only a storm delay. Please show your ticket and hand stamp as you reenter,” a tall, dark-haired security guy said.

Thankfully, the line moved quickly. Libby sighed in relief that the concert hadn’t begun yet, but she felt annoyed at all the girls around her who pretended to be “Peter’s Libby.” How could they have possibly answered all the contest questions right?

“Hand please,” the security guard said.

“Excuse me?” Confused, Libby hesitated next to the turnstile with a black light set up.

“Your hand. Put it under the light so I can verify your hand stamp from exiting.”

“I just got here.”

“Oh.” He grabbed the radio from his belt and spoke into it. “I’ve got a new arrival here; what do I do?” He turned back to Libby. “Sorry, since we had to evacuate the amphitheater there’s been a lot of confusion. We’re all manning different stations now.”

The radio blared back. “Go to the contest table and have her complete the final question.”

“This way,” he said, stepping away from the main crush of fans reentering, and over to a long table with questionnaires, pens, and a surveillance camera set up in the corner. “Let’s see, looks like you answer the question on this sheet and . . .” His radio blared again. “Hang on a sec.” He took the radio and stepped away to listen.

Libby picked up the slip of paper and a pen. So this was how they would screen out all the girls pretending to be the real Libby? If all these girls could figure out the answers to the other questions, certainly they would know the answer to this one, too. She read the question.

“In the song ‘Angel Kisses,’ what is Peter referring to?”

She hugged the sheet to her and began to laugh. No one could possibly know the answer but her. She wrote the words on the paper. Her heart filled with joy at the memory of that autumn day when Peter traced her scarred hands with his fingertips and kissed her pain away.

She waited for the security guard, but he still spoke on his radio. Her adrenaline ran high now that she was about to see Peter again. Suddenly, music filled the air. The concert started, and she was missing it!

Anxious to find Peter, she waved to get the security man’s attention. He held up his index finger and signaled he would be another minute. The crowd’s roar filled her ears. She couldn’t bear it. When he still didn’t return, she waved again indicating that she left her answer sheet on the table. She turned and dashed away into the seating area to see Peter.

“Roger, you’ve got to speak up. I can’t hear you over the music.” The security guard held the radio tight to his ear and strained to hear what the head of Jamieson’s security said.

“What is the status of the crowd at your entrance?” the voice crackled over the radio.

“We’ve got just about everyone back inside, but I still need to know about the contest procedure. I’ve got a girl who hasn’t been processed yet, and no one else is here.” Helooked up to see the blond girl at the table wave to get his attention again. She pointed at the sheet on the table and then disappeared.

“Have her fill out the questionnaire and let me know her answer,” Roger said.

“Got it.” He spoke into the radio. “Hang on while I grab it and see what she wrote.” He returned to the contest table, picked up her paper, and read the neatly printed words.

“‘The scars on my hands.’ That’s what she wrote. Does it mean anything to you?” he asked.

“That’s her! You found her! Bring her backstage!” Roger said.

“Dang it. I can’t. She just ran into the amphitheater.

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