I was responsible for the safety of every one of these faces, yet one of them might be a danger to everyone.
Long before I’d ever considered wearing a university badge, this was why I had chosen my career path. It wasn’t just about keeping people safe. It was about keeping people free—unhinged from anyone who’d try to enforce their will on them. In this case, the people of Trenton University.
My people.
I parked and worked my way through the crowd. Light shone down on us from the newly renovated face of the gymnasium. The all-glass entrance featured high-performance LED lights that served as a beacon for basketball enthusiasts trudging their way toward the first tip-off of the NCAA’s shootout.
My badge would get me in, but I couldn’t just supersede security. So I picked a ticketing line. No reason to rush through and risk drawing more attention to myself. He was already watching.
A female attendant inside the ticketing booth, bundled up and no older than twenty, leaned out the window and greeted fans, regardless of their team affiliation, with an unusual joy and brightness—not just the ones closest to the booth, but those eight or nine deep. “Hello, sir, how are you? You look like the captain on that movie where the boat sinks.” Then to another person, “Hello, ma’am, how’s your evening?” And she still somehow managed to take tickets and stamp hands.
This was the person I needed to see right now. For every psychopath hell-bent on ruining lives, there were thousands more like this girl, giving smiles and genuine warmth.
“And you, sir—love the bipartisan look,” she hollered to me.
I glanced down at my uniform, forgetting I was one of the few not wearing a team’s color. I nodded at the girl.
When I reached the window, she looked at me from head to toe, then toe to head. “You are rocking that uniform—I need one for Halloween. But with a gorilla head, you know? Like the movie!” She tilted her head as if transported to a Marilyn Monroe photo shoot. “I think I’ll look ravishing with a beard.”
I allowed a small grin.
“Careful, Rosetta here likes older guys,” the ticketing person opposite her said.
Rosetta gripped the windowsill and stretched her leg out to kick the guy. “Zip it, we’re professionals.”
I held up my badge.
“Perks, huh?” she said, waving me through and handing me a flyer.
Actually, no. Chief had purposefully kept me off duty this evening. Renfroe would never admit such—he’d said he’d drawn names out of a hat for those interested in a courtside view of the tournament—but I knew better. Renfroe didn’t like me, trite as that sounded. He’d hired me, but only I knew the real reason why.
After I had butted up against unwritten rules and established norms within the department, most of which favored a run-out-the-clock mentality, the chief had become distant and hard. The latest example happened to be the NCAA game, for which the chief waited until tickets had sold out before informing the department who’d be on tournament duty. This ensured that no one in the department could attend the tourney if they’d waited for but didn’t receive the assignment.
I wish I’d handled things better as a rookie in the department. Nobody liked the ambitious greenhorn with rigid opinions on policies that had been shaped over decades.
I continued into the lobby. Had someone led me here to help, or was it all just part of the conductor’s game? Trophies were displayed prominently, and vendors were buzzing with pregame sales of T-shirts, memorabilia, and all kinds of salt and sugar. Normally I’d enjoy experiencing something new and exciting like the NCAA tournament kickoff game. But right now, all the smiles, fandom, and squeaking of basketball shoes in one overly crowded room looked and sounded violent.
Nobody knew. Except him. And he could be any person here.
What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have a ticket to sit in the grandstands, and I technically wasn’t on duty, so there was no official assignment for me. The moment other officers spotted me—both university and city—they’d think I’d gone behind the chief’s back and used my uniform to get a free courtside ticket.
My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone and stared at it.
Got your bracket filled out?
Go to the press box.
Convince Chief to put away his gambling long enough to be honored at center court.
Was a big night for him before you came along—now it’s gotten bigger.
What did that mean? Why did the conductor want the chief at center court? How would this even be possible with the game set to start in twenty minutes? I glanced at the flyer handed to me at the ticketing gate. A basic itinerary revealed only one item yet to occur before tip-off: “Special Presentation.” Something was already planned. But what?
Every fiber of my being rejected the idea of doing anything for the conductor. But my decisions now would determine whether or not something terrible happened to Steph, Cody, and the girls. I had to operate with that assumption. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to them.
Clock’s ticking, Markus.
You haven’t so much as moved a muscle.
I jerked my head up and surveyed the lobby, searching for any anomaly in the colorful crowd. How close was he? Manning a booth, standing in line, waving a foam hand, trying to find his seat? Or did he simply have eyes on me electronically?
I walked briskly through one of the double doors leading into the gymnasium, where I assumed I’d find the entrance to the press box. Where are you? What do you have planned?
Energy buzzed as concession workers pleaded their case for overpriced peanuts and cotton candy. Players were running through pregame warm-ups, knocking down jump shots and executing layups. The speakers blasted the Chicago Bulls’ electrifying theme song, which years ago had made Michael Jordan seem untouchable.
I spotted a Trenton police officer and quickly turned away. It was Mike Mitchell. I wondered where his buddy Clint Hopkins was. The two brownnosers usually traveled together.
“Haas?”
I turned around. It was Hopkins.
“Didn’t know you’d made the cut for tonight,” he said. Why wasn’t he glaring at me? Why weren’t his words dipped in sarcasm and topped with malicious intent? He’d spoken as though he were almost relieved to see me.
I didn’t have time to find out right now. “One of the lucky ones, I guess. Excuse me.” I walked away and headed toward the aisle leading up to the press box.
“Haas,” Hopkins called out.
I turned back.
“I’m not going to say anything.”
His sudden shift in charity felt about as natural as taking a snow sled to California’s Death Valley. Either this was an olive branch extended because Hopkins was enjoying getting to cover the game, or it was a tough guy’s cry for help as a member of the string.
I gave him a nod and continued toward the press box.
University Police Chief Jack Renfroe sprawled his notes in front of him like clues from an evidence box. Two twenty-ounce bottles of cola, a jar of peanuts, four fun-sized candy bars, and three separate vending machine bags of chips stood guard over it all, ready to quench any distracting tinge of hunger or thirst. You could always find an edge in the numbers, and he expected to find those edges even in the final minutes before tip-off.
The ESPN crew had relegated him to this booth, which was more or less known as the storage closet of the press box, with countless boxes stacked in the corner and a trash can filled with a potpourri of rubbish and foul, molding pizza. But he wasn’t going to let that ruin his night.
He put on his headphones to tune in to the live podcast about to start, “NCAA Gunslingers Pro.” He reached for his radio absently and muttered into the receiver, “Everybody excited?”
One by one, his chosen officers responded:
“Oh yeah.”
“Great view, Boss.”
“Thanks for the ‘work.’”
They sounded more relaxed with him than usual. And why sh
ouldn’t they? This was an assignment of a lifetime.
“Remember, whoever guesses the winner and final score accompanies me to the big Celestial show tomorrow. Was harder to get tickets to that than tonight.”
A smattering of responses returned as Renfroe reached for his minibar-sized bottle of Jack. He poured the rest of it into his cola and realized he’d need something else to eat. There were only fifteen minutes left until tip-off.
He stood and opened the door into the spacious standing area of the press box, then locked it behind him. He furrowed his brow at the sight of the officer walking toward him. Markus Haas, whom he’d purposely left off duty tonight. That overzealous rookie had actually used his uniform to get into the game? If this wasn’t leverage against him, Renfroe didn’t know what was.
“Haas,” he said with a friendly question underneath.
“Chief, listen, we need to talk.”
They both stopped at the midpoint of the press box. Everyone else was much closer to the viewing area, distracted by the pregame host, who’d just started announcing the evening’s agenda from midcourt.
Renfroe didn’t like taking commands, especially not from an insubordinate. “I’ve got a national event I need to protect, Haas, and quite frankly, I need to talk—not we. What are you doing here, in uniform, when you’re off duty? Disappointing use of the badge.”
“I know how this looks, but there’s a reason I’m here. Can you talk a minute—in private?”
Renfroe checked his watch and shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’m not done with my pregame checklist and tip-off is in less than fifteen now. We’ll talk tomorrow—about a lot more than freeloading the tournament. You exploded a grill and put students in danger on a day when the university is trying to impress parents? Haas, you couldn’t have picked a worse time to demand anything.” He adjusted his cap. “Tomorrow.” He started past Haas, but the junior officer put his hand out, blocking the path to the exit. Renfroe could feel his face burn. “Haas, what part of—”
A freckle-faced press box attendant wearing a red staff shirt interrupted them. “Sorry to interrupt, but they’re trying to get, well . . .” He pointed down toward midcourt.
Renfroe tuned in to what was being announced over the loudspeakers.
“Aaaaand—we got him, folks. So as the honorary chief and other special guests make their way to midcourt for this surprise honor, I’ll step aside so that your homegrown Celestial Orchestra, which started its ascent right here in Trenton nearly twenty years ago, can get this tournament started with a baaaaaaaaang!”
I’ll be darned.
Renfroe knew the globally famous group had touched down locally earlier this week and would be performing on campus the next night—an extremely spendy event that he’d scored tickets to, thanks to Anita Postma and Franklin Iseman. But playing at the NCAA opening game? Impressive.
Renfroe looked back to his press box suite. Could he get back up here in time? He needed to try. That was a big spotlight to miss down there.
“Kid,” he said to Freckles, “I have to get down to the court, but I lost a bet and need to make good on some promises.” He pulled out his wallet and produced two twenty-dollar bills. “Go to concessions and grab as much of that garbage as you can in as much variety, got it? Just leave it by the box suite at the end there.”
The kid nodded and turned straight for the press box exit.
Renfroe noted that Haas was still standing there. “And you—go home.”
But the young officer stepped directly in front of him. “Sir, I don’t have time to explain, but you can’t go down there.”
Renfroe cursed loud enough to draw glances from others settling in for the pregame entertainment. He grabbed his radio. “Mitchell, Hopkins—get up here.”
“Look, the explosion wasn’t an accident. It’s part of a game that someone’s playing on campus, possibly deadly—and it’s being played tonight, right now at midcourt.”
Being a fiercely loyal man, Renfroe never forgot those who’d attacked him. “Out of my way, Haas.” He pushed the officer aside. “I want it all in a report before I’m at my desk tomorrow—and these details better be in there, because right now it sounds like grasping at straws.”
The press box door swung open and in walked Officers Mitchell and Hopkins. “Officer Haas needs to cool off immediately.” Renfroe held up his radio. “Be advised that Officer Haas is not to enter this building for the rest of the evening.” He clicked off. “That reminds me. Medic said you have a concussion”—Renfroe undid Haas’s badge from his uniform—“rendering you unable to do your job until docs check you out.” He stepped back and held out his hands. “Weapons.”
“Chief, you’re making—”
Renfroe gripped Haas’s arm and leaned in so close that their noses almost touched. “Weapons,” he growled, struggling not to make a scene.
Haas handed over his Glock and Taser.
Renfroe scowled. “Get out of here.”
For the first time, Haas shut up as his colleagues—one of them appearing amused, the other concerned—escorted him out.
Renfroe shook his head. He adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and started toward midcourt.
Alec McCullers found himself leaning forward with anticipation in his seat despite having run to the restroom mere minutes ago to puke from sheer anxiety. He’d dreamed of attending a Celestial Orchestra performance for years, but it had always felt out of reach both financially and geographically. Now he had a media pass for front-row viewing, but he couldn’t take in a single moment of joy.
The conductor was here. The string was here.
He couldn’t be sure of it. He just felt it.
Alec raised his camera. He already had an idea of the shot he wanted for the sports section of the Telegraph’s next-day edition, but you could never bet on capturing it, so contingencies were key. Besides, the more he kept his face in his camera, the less the conductor—who surely had eyes at the game—would suspect his real motive tonight.
To help break the string.
The Celestial Orchestra’s presence, which hadn’t been announced, was worth the hiked ticket price to the game alone. Alec had grown up listening to their music and had never stopped. It was the kind of music that made you feel like you were a part of something transcendent.
The fact that musical prominence had descended upon the university while Alec was being threatened and controlled by a man who called himself the conductor was not lost on him. But what connection could there be between his favorite musical group, which stood for all that was right in this world, and a psychopathic maniac?
The orchestra marched down separate aisles in the stadium, all of them in sync. They flowed into formation, half on the right, half on the left. One of the group’s runners unfurled a giant purple carpet down the center aisle, leading toward three purple circles at the front. The orchestra suddenly burst into a rendition of the Star Wars throne room theme song. All their heads turned in, awaiting the guests of honor.
“Would our revered patrons—the ones who all those years ago paved the way for us on our day of destiny—please make your way to the carpet: University Police Chief Jackson Renfroe, Vice President for Business and Financial Affairs Franklin Iseman, and Vice President for Academic and Student Life Anita Postma. We have in store for you something . . .” The announcer paused, letting silence stir the crowd. “Breathtaking.”
The three trickled down toward the court, the most noticeable one being Renfroe, who was impossible to miss in his uniform and throwback police cap. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes smiled as he led the way through the orchestra tunnel, which remained in perfect sync.
“Please take your stand on the carpets, for tonight your feet shall trod only on rugs of royalty!”
They each took up their position on the trio of circles.
Alec kept clicking the trigger on his camera as fast as he could.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you take your seats for t
he next few moments, as things are about to get dark.”
Suddenly, the gymnasium went black, save for three spotlights focused on the honored guests.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alec saw cameras hovering through the air. A fourth light shone, brightening the large televisions high above. The base of the televisions detached and floated downward to reveal a man standing behind a music stand, his hands behind his back. The platform slid to just above the hoop in front of the honored guests, all of whom were now grinning ear to ear.
Alec felt as though his inner fanboy might pop out of his eyeballs. Wow, this is actually happening.
The orchestra’s brainchild and champion needed no introduction—his presence alone spoke volumes. Ivan Mikolaev, the man of humble and tragic beginnings, moved his hands with the intensity of a cheetah and the grace of a dove. He motioned for the orchestra to continue without his lead. His smile widened as proud and big as one could achieve without showing a single tooth. Arms swung wide, he looked down at the three before him, as if to say, “Look at those who honor you; behold those who thank you.”
The crowd erupted in applause and whistling elation.
A text came in, and Alec lifted his eyes from his camera.
Yes, Mr. Camera, wait for it.
Alec scanned the crowd, his gut clenching. How many had their phones out, texting at this exact moment? So many taking selfies or smiling down at their phones.
Ivan motioned for the guests to behold the thunderclaps of praise being heaped upon them from every direction. One by one, the faces of the honored three lit with a wonder that could only be achieved when the recipients hadn’t thought they’d done anything worthy of such praise.
Chief Renfroe removed his cap and raised it to the right, to the left. He turned back to the two rows of the orchestra behind him and nodded at them as well.
Hands softly gripped Alec’s shoulders out of the blackness behind him. Alec flinched and tried to turn his head, but the person stopped him.
The String Page 6