New Madrid Earthquake

by Bobby Akart

  Jill smiled at her and unlocked the doors. “I love you guys. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  The kids bailed out of the truck on the sidewalk without saying a word. Jill drove off, heading north toward Beale Street. She glanced in the rearview mirror long enough to see Tate drag his sister by the arm until they were safely across the street and running toward the all-glass performing-arts venue.

  At Beale Street, she got stuck in line at the red light. “This is ridiculous.” Downtown was packed because of so many activities at once. The AutoZone Liberty Bowl had been moved up to the twenty-first to accommodate the recently revised and expanded NCAA college football playoff schedule. At the FedEx Forum, the Mid-South Holiday Classic was underway, featuring eight college basketball teams, including Memphis, Villanova, UCLA, and Marquette.

  Plus, there were the revelers at Beale Street. Known as America’s Most Iconic Street and the Home of the Blues, Beale street featured dozens of bars and restaurants as well as shops. On any given night, thousands of locals and tourists alike packed into the area for barbecue, blues music, and dancing. On that night, the Friday before Christmas, it appeared thousands of partiers were descending on downtown to attend the sporting events and to let loose on Beale Street.

  Jill turned right on Beale Street, past the bronze statue of a young Elvis Presley playing the guitar, until she could turn on Second Street. The Bank of America Financial Center was a block up on Peabody Place, and she knew it to have a much larger parking garage than the one adjacent to the Halloran.

  After waiting at the light for what seemed an eternity although it was only a minute, she made her way into the garage. It was also packed but had a feature the other garage didn’t have—a spaces available board. The LED board at the single entrance to the garage informed new arrivals of how many spaces were available on each floor of the seven-story structure. Each of the first six floors were lit up in red and indicated no spaces were available. The seventh, or top floor, fortunately had eleven spaces.

  It was getting dark, and Jill took her chances by driving quickly through the lower floors. She hoped she’d see oncoming headlights or a car’s reverse lights before she crashed into them. She calculated correctly, and within minutes, she was at the top of the garage. She parked in the northeast corner of the garage, where she had a straight-on view of the historic Peabody Hotel.

  She exited the truck. The cool air and the roar of partiers struck her immediately. It was a jolt of energy coming from a city full of life and vigor. She loved Memphis, and one of her favorite things to do was to visit the Peabody Hotel to witness the March of the Peabody Ducks.

  The Peabody was also where she and Jack had professed their love to one another. It was just lunch, but it had led to an honest conversation in which the two revealed their feelings. The Peabody was where they honeymooned. It was where they celebrated their anniversaries. It was their place.

  She gazed down the street and visualized what would be happening soon. In just under thirty minutes, at five o’clock sharp, the Peabody Duckmaster would lead the hotel’s famed ambassadors, five mallard ducks consisting of one drake with his white collar and four less colorful hens, down the red carpet to the lobby’s fountain. The March of the Peabody Ducks had been a tradition since 1940.

  Sadly, it was about to end.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday, December 21

  Top of the Met

  One Metropolitan Square

  St. Louis, Missouri

  The small group of twenty arrived for their noon luncheon. It would be the smallest group of the week but important to Jack and Tony nonetheless. The majority of those in attendance for this final session were from the St. Louis area, and several had brought along family members who’d traveled to visit them for the holidays from around the country. It would give the guys an opportunity to reach prospects they wouldn’t ordinarily see.

  The Top of the Met was a breathtaking space with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides overlooking St. Louis, the Gateway Arch, and the Mississippi River. The well-appointed space featured crystal chandeliers, two propane-fueled fireplaces, and a twenty-foot-long bar with nearly two hundred different brands of liquor. Tables were decorated with flowers in crystal vases and stemware for every beverage.

  The banquet facility was used for everything from high-dollar political fundraisers to wedding receptions, as well as the occasional financial seminar for Jack’s company. The opulent space was rich in contrasting shapes, colors, and textures. The walls and floors were finished in eight different granites and marbles. Select walls were adorned with commissioned art and ornate mirrors. The room catered to the affluent, and Jack wanted his guests to feel special when they joined him for a seminar.

  After they enjoyed their choice of a chicken or fish entrée along with wine and dessert, the banquet staff cleared their tables, and the seminar kicked off. Jack took the first half hour to introduce the history of his firm and the locations of their offices. He explained the importance of wrapping under one roof all three aspects of their retirement planning, including living trusts, annuity-type investments, and tax-reduction strategies.

  After his introductory remarks, he yielded the floor to his associates, with the CPA being first up. The seminar was partially scripted with certain lines delivered to the attendees for maximum impact. The first words out of the CPA’s mouth were always the same.

  “Who would like to pay MORE income tax next year?”

  The response never varied. Nobody raised their hand, and everyone got a good laugh coupled with a chorus of boos.

  “Now, how many of you would like to reduce what you send to Washington?” The crowd was unanimous in their desire to save money on their taxes, and Jack’s team had effectively influenced them to agree with what his team would suggest right from the start.

  After that, the CPAs laid out their strategy, which included preparing the tax returns for their clients at a nominal charge, an interesting technique designed to create a new client of the firm while also gaining access to the details of their financial investments during the preparation of the return. Every time, without fail, they were able to find a way to save the client money on their income taxes, and the financial planner would step in to show them the investments to achieve that goal.

  As always, Tony wowed the group with a combination of his charm while extolling the virtues of fixed and variable annuities. Many of the retired men in attendance were looking for an edge to maximizing the return on their investments. The no-risk benefits of annuities caught their attention immediately. At their age, as Tony put it, they were too old to gamble in the stock market and needed to focus on safety, with enough growth to keep up with inflation.

  By the time Jack returned to take the floor, the attendees were often tired and less interested in talking about their ultimate demise as opposed to the excitement of saving on taxes and earning more on their investments. To keep their interest, Jack had to tug on their heartstrings.

  When he explained to his team why the living trust aspect of the presentation was so important, he once said, “Guilt is a great motivator.” He would oftentimes recall the details of probate cases in which families fought with one another because the deceased loved one either failed to create a simple will or the probate became contested. He explained how a living trust avoided the complications of settling an estate. It also saved an inordinate amount of time and legal expense. Like his representation of Jill, rather than taking nearly a year to settle an estate through probate court, a living trust’s provisions made the process take only a few days or weeks.

  That afternoon, despite the fact he’d said virtually the identical words and delivered them in almost the same manner as prior seminars, Jack was energized as he thought about driving home that night to join the family. Jill had been finishing the Christmas decorating. She’d promised lots of baked yummies as well as homemade candies. It was a time for family to come together to enjoy one another and celebra
te.

  Jack opened up the floor for questioning. He never looked at his watch during his presentation. Eagle-eye seminar attendees saw that as a sign of boredom or insincerity. Instead, he’d watch Tony, who stood at the back of the room. He was supposed to give Jack a signal when it was four o’clock. This would allow him to take questions, encourage everyone to fill out their informational forms to hand in, and thank them for coming. Jack knew sunset began around a quarter to five, and he wanted his attendees heading down the elevators by then. Instead of giving Jack the signal, Tony was distracted, flirting with one of the staff.

  He took pride in helping the attendees even if they never became clients. He looked them in the eye and spoke to them using their first name as if they’d been friends for years. Discussing one’s death and the plans for their family was extremely personal. Jack treated the subject matter with the respect it deserved. However, he sensed time had slipped by on him. He broke his rule and glanced at his watch. It was 4:20.

  “Okay, everyone. One last question.”

  “Jack, one of the things I hoped you would’ve covered today were the second-to-die life insurance policies. Can you tell me a little more about them?”

  Jack caught the eye of Tony, who nodded and winked. A second-to-die life insurance policy was designed for wealthy couples who were trying to avoid the onerous estate taxes due the federal government when the first spouse passes away. In essence, the policy insured both husband and wife, but doesn’t pay the beneficiaries until the second spouse passes away. It was designed for more wealthy retirees, so this particular prospective client might provide the firm enough business to justify the expenses of the entire week’s seminars.

  “Thank you for bringing up that very important estate-planning tool. We don’t usually get into a detailed discussion of second-to-die policies during our conversation, as it is only appropriate for certain families. However, let me—”

  Jack stopped midsentence. He was struck by a ringing sound that reached his ears. From overhead, or outside the windows, there was a faint chime that hung in the air for a moment. It was joined by more bells rising into a cacophony of clanging. Deep. Metallic. Frantic. Rising high into the air. High enough to reach the ears of the attendees on the forty-second floor of the Met.

  The room remained deathly quiet until the glassware shuddered. Ripples flowed across the partially filled water glasses, reminiscent of the scene in Jurassic Park when Tyrannosaurus rex rumbled past a rain puddle.

  Tony stepped forward. Ever the jokester, he attempted humor to lighten the moment. “It appears Santa Claus has landed on the roof a little bit early.”

  A few people laughed nervously, but most remained still as the building began to vibrate. Nobody uttered a word as the bells continued to sound, ringing loudly in dread, not celebration.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday, December 21

  Halloran Centre

  Memphis, Tennessee

  The Halloran Centre for Performing Arts and Education was opened in 2005 adjacent to the famous Orpheum Theatre. The CEO of the Orpheum, Pat Halloran, envisioned a theater arts education program designed to not only teach young people about performing arts but also as an alternative for teaching kids other core curriculum using theater as a tool.

  The thirty-nine-thousand-square-foot building was sandwiched between the Orpheum to the right of its entrance and a much taller parking garage to the left. Inside, in addition to multiple classrooms, the building contained a state-of-the-art audio-video lab, a forty-person conference table, and the two-hundred-sixty-seat theater with a full production stage.

  Tate and Emily hustled across the rain-soaked sidewalk to the double set of glass doors covered by a roof overhang. The door was immediately opened for them by a woman with salt-and-pepper hair framing a beaming smile.

  “Welcome to the Halloran theater, kids! I gather you’re here for the rehearsal.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Emily. “I’m one of the actors.”

  The woman chuckled. “So you are. Well, most of your fellow actors are already here. Young man, are you in the presentation as well?”

  Tate shook his head. “Nah, I’m her bodyguard.”

  The woman cocked her head and furrowed her brow, not sure how to take his comment. Then she laughed. “Well, I suppose all the famous actors have one. Um, you’re not packin’ heat, are you?”

  Tate smiled and said no. Their gracious greeter led them inside and pointed out a few things as they walked down the corridors.

  “I doubt that you’ll have a need to wander around other than in the theater itself, but to our left is a boardroom overlooking Main Street, which is used by local businesses for large meetings. Through that door is our lounge with comfortable seating and big-screen televisions.”

  “Really?” asked Tate, suddenly interested in the nickel tour.

  “Yes, but it’s closed for this evening. I’m sorry. On the far side of the building is the reception hall. There are some vending machines in there if you need a drink or a light snack. And, of course, through these doors is the theater.”

  She gestured for Emily and Tate to walk through the open doors. She stood back with pride to allow them to take in the scene. Tate was the first to comment.

  “It looks like a movie theater except with a stage.”

  “That’s right, young man. The theater-style seating enables every guest to have an excellent view of the presentation. They rise up so that even tall young men like yourself won’t block another’s view.”

  “Look at all of that equipment,” marveled Tate as he pointed toward the front of the theater. He was genuinely impressed that his little sister would be performing on a professional stage like this one instead of an elementary school lunchroom full of temporary risers.

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Halloran spared no expense years ago when he created this marvelous theater. The large structure you see at the front is a custom rigging system holding the lighting and audio accessories. From a control panel on the platform above our heads, the production team can increase or dim the lights, change their colors, and adjust the sound depending on the scene. Behind the black curtain you see just in front of the rigging are thousands of feet of electrical wire, enormous subwoofers too large to attach to the rigging, and video cameras to record the presentation for later classroom use.”

  “That’s a lot of red,” added Emily, referencing the rows upon rows of padded red seats.

  “Emily!” shouted the rehearsal director. “Hurry up, Miss Atwood. We need to get started.”

  Emily smiled at Tate and hustled off.

  Tate shouted after her, “Break a leg, Em!” It was the traditional method of wishing a performer well.

  “I will!” she shouted back.

  The greeter heard voices in the corridor and turned to leave. “Young man, you’re welcome to sit anywhere. Obviously, most of the families are as close to the stage as possible.”

  “I like it back here, thanks,” said Tate as he walked along the back row against the wall.

  Tate pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and settled into a comfortable seat. He stretched his long legs through the seats in front of him. Emily was instructed to join the dancer’s group, and all the kids were given instructions on how the rehearsal would go. Tate expected his mom to arrive and force him to sit closer to the stage, so he wanted to text his girlfriend, Britney, before Jill arrived in the theater.

  T: You around?

  B: Hey, you! I’m getting ready to go out. I wish you could go, too.

  T: No kidding. Coach Carey has us all on lockdown anyway. I’m in the city for my sister’s rehearsal.

  B: Bummer. We’re all headed out to Scooter’s farm toward Macon. You know. Bonfire. Jager shots. The good life.

  T: Sucks for me.

  Tate scowled. Sometimes, he hated being responsible. MUS was full of kids who had lots of money, nice cars, and parents who were oblivious as to what they did at night. His family lived comfortabl
y, but he realized he would never have been able to attend MUS if he hadn’t received a full sports scholarship. He was expected to keep his grades up and fulfill his obligations to the private school’s athletic department. If he didn’t, the scholarship went away, and he’d have to transfer to Cordova High.

  He leaned forward and checked the two entrances to his right and left for his mother. Jill still hadn’t arrived. Then he checked his text messages. Britney kind of disappeared, he thought.

  T: Hey, where’d you go?

  A few seconds later, she replied.

  B: Did you feel that?

  T: Feel what?

  Then Tate felt it. Everybody did.

  Part II

  Shaken Fury

  Imagine a city crying out in despair. Not just in the building where you stand. The pleas for mercy were everywhere. Block by block. Street by street. Downtown. Along the riverfront. In the suburbs. Traffic stopped. Many people stood, frozen in shock, covering their mouths to suppress their angst. Others ran out of buildings while some ran into them. Cars forced their way through panicked pedestrians in an effort to escape. Everywhere, people were wailing. Guttural. Primal. Utter fear exuded from their minds through their lungs and vocalized for the world to hear. Many did nothing at all, because they were dead. In cities up and down the Mississippi River, the scene was the same. Pure, unadulterated terror.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday, December 21

  USGS

  Golden, Colorado

  Several of the geophysicists at the NEIC were winding down their short workday and chatting amongst themselves. Because it was the Friday before Christmas, the director of the USGS in Reston, Virginia, had approved all nonessential personnel to leave early that day by 2:30 local time. In the Golden facility, some of the staff had planned vacations for the following week. Others relished the overtime they’d be making by monitoring their patient, as Dr. Lansing called the planet.