We began to wander back to the tunnel. A man caught up with us.
"Hey guys, guys, guys. Wait up," he said.
We stopped and turned.
"Don't listen to Billy. He's a fuckin' tweaker."
"Yeah, thanks. We figured," I said.
"He's a good guy and all, you know. He just gets–"
"Yeah. S'OK."
"Listen, I think I saw that chick though. For real."
"Where?" Rick asked hopefully.
"She was with a couple dudes. She was headed up above," he said, gesturing with his thumb.
"Into the stands?" I asked.
The man nodded solemnly.
"When did you see her?" asked Rick.
"First set. End of the first set."
"Cool, man," I said. "Thanks."
We emerged from the bowels and turned around. You couldn't see much up there. But you could sense a roiling presence. The shadows teemed with fitful souls. In the farthest corner of the darkness there burned a fire.
I looked back at the stage. The drummers played alone now. Sinister tattoos blurred into cacophony and started up again. The Eyes of Horus peered urgently into mine as cymbals whispered warnings only I could hear.
"Let's head up," said Jim.
We climbed the concrete steps, scanning each row. A group of drunks stood unsteadily on their seats, shouting simpleminded chants: Hoh-oh! Hoh-oh! Hoh-oh! Hoh-oh! Hoh! Hoh! Hoh! Hoh! A man drank from a gallon jug of wine, letting it spill down his chin and the front of his shirt. His girl vomited copiously beside him; her pink puke flowed across the aisle and dribbled down the steps. On the other side a woman, lost in ecstasy, bounced on her lover's lap. Clouds of smoke drifted over it all.
No sign of Jenny.