“Yes, that would be perfect! Thank you!”
We walked them out to the lot where Joe’s truck was parked. I couldn’t believe what I saw stenciled on the driver’s side door. “Joe, you’re an electrician?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Would you mind if Fox asked you a few questions?”
* * *
Aunt Barb came home alone around six o’clock. She didn’t say much, but her eyes were red from crying. We helped with dinner, brought her coziest slippers, and put her favorite movie in the DVD player before sneaking back to Dad’s study. When I peeked in on her an hour later, she was fast asleep.
Fox and I didn’t sleep that night.
We pored over maps and schedules, walked through our current plan, and tossed around a few new ones. We read up on security systems and fire alarms and public PA systems.
Each of us loaded up a backpack with supplies. One of the perks of Dad’s business was that we had access to pretty much anything we could possibly need. Fox packed wire cutters, fireworks, two sets of walkie-talkies with extra batteries, and a set of lock picks he’d scrounged from who-knows-where. “Do you even know how to use those?” I asked him.
“It can’t be that hard,” he answered.
I brought a tool kit, a portable power source the size of a loaf of bread, trail mix and bottles of water, my cell phone, a photograph of Elsie I’d printed from the Internet—and my picture of Momma, for courage.
Around five in the morning, I wrote a note for Aunt Barb, hating to add to her stress but knowing it was better than just leaving without a word. It said, We had something really important to take care of today. We’ll be fine. Try not to worry.
Next I kissed Mason goodbye. Luckily he was still asleep, sprawled across his bed clutching his stuffed alligator.
Fox ruffled his hair and left an old handheld electronic football game on his nightstand as a peace offering.
A quick check of the morning news showed that plenty of people were still milling around outside the Field House. But we also got an unexpected piece of good news.
“Quilt show’s been canceled,” Fox announced, checking the Field House website for confirmation. “With all the crazies camped out there and the threats flying around, the organizers decided to reschedule.”
“That’s great,” I breathed.
“The building will be mostly empty until this afternoon,” Fox said.
“Let’s still go over this morning like we planned, just to make sure we’re ready.”
Fox told me he’d taken care of our transportation, but I was still surprised when a cab pulled up out front.
“When did you have time to call a cab?”
“Last night.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get a limo.”
“Have to keep a low profile,” he said, voice colored with regret. “Plus the limo couldn’t come on such short notice. You have the pin?”
I patted the moth pin on my collar and nodded.
As we stepped outside, the wind whipped our hair and stung our faces. A bank of steely gray clouds hovered off to the west. Most of the cow pasture crowd had thinned, but enough people remained to notice our presence. A man with a microphone stood in front of a news truck giving a report. As soon as he saw us come out, he rushed over, microphone first.
“It’s Fox Fletcher with his little sister! Tell us, how do you feel about your uncle being arrested? Did he ask you to fake Mothman sightings for him? Did your father fake breaking his leg in order to gain sympathy?”
Fox paused on his way to the taxi, ready to serve up some sharp-tongued reply, but I opened the back door of the taxi, shoved him in, and turned to face the camera just long enough to shout, “I’m older! And it’s Josie Fletcher, J-O-S-I-E.” I got in the car and slammed the door.
“Go!” Fox told the driver as more people started to surround the car.
The driver spun the tires in the gravel as we shot out of the driveway. He grinned over the seat at us. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he said. “This place, your family, you’re all over the news. You think I’ll be on TV, too?” His grin faltered when he saw that it was just the two of us. “Wait, there’s no adult with you? I don’t want to get in trouble for taking you somewhere you’re not supposed to be.”
“We paid in advance,” Fox said calmly. “Our dad arranged it.”
“From the hospital?”
“Yep.”
The driver checked his invoice and nodded. “Okay. You going to visit him, then?”
“Nope. The Field House, please.”
“A little early to be going to the game, isn’t it?” We glanced sidelong at each other, scrambling to come up with a decent answer, but it turned out we didn’t need one.
“Should be a good one,” the guy rambled. “My brother’s kid plays point guard for the Bulldogs. Which team are you cheering for?”
“The Bulldogs, definitely,” Fox said. They talked on and on about basketball and about sports in general. Fox wasn’t much of a jock; he preferred “intellectual pursuits,” as he liked to say. But he also seemed to know just enough to carry on a conversation about almost anything, so he and the driver talked the whole way about pick and rolls and zone defense.
I let it all wash over me as I thought again about the ways the people at the Field House might be in danger. Short of someone planning something intentional, I could only think it would have to be some sort of fire or gas explosion. Fox’s idea of a stampede didn’t sound impossible, either. I still couldn’t shake the worry that we might end up causing the disaster instead of preventing it. I gazed out at the surly sky, mind racing.
Fox tipped the driver ten dollars when we got there.
“Where are you getting all this money?” I whispered. “Have you been stashing it on the side?” The look on his face said it all. “You have!”
Fox shrugged. “Good thing I did, don’t you think?”
“I’m still mad,” I told him.
We found a quiet corner not far from where I’d spray-painted BEWARE on the wall just two days before. It was still there.
The spot gave us a good view of the tunnel entrance for players, performers, and employees. That’s where we met up with Carl, Joe, and the other customers who’d agreed to help.
Most of them had made picket signs like we’d asked, so they could blend in with the groups of protesters and keep an eye on things from the outside. I recognized a few key phrases I’d requested, including MOTHMAN = MURDERER and EDGAR, KISS YOUR SOUL GOODBYE.
They were all there, even though it was early and cold, a drizzling rain clinging to our clothes. I looked into their faces—some we barely knew, others who’d known us our whole lives—and felt a rush of gratitude.
Carl stood holding a small cage with a towel draped over it. “Your bats, madam.”
I peeked under the towel to see three sleeping bats dangling from a long, thin branch.
“Thank you.”
Fox handed him a walkie-talkie in return and designated him point man for the group outside. “Channel three.”
“What if we run into somebody we know?” someone asked.
“Just tell them you’re a basketball fan. Or an anti-Mothman activist. Just make something up,” Fox said.
“Some of us aren’t as good at it as you,” Carl said.
Over the next hour, the crowd swelled as fans and protesters arrived by the carload. The number of police and security guards grew, too. But there was no sign of Mothman.
We kept a close eye on the lower-level entrance. It took a while, but finally the door opened. A janitor wheeled out a cart piled with bags of trash. The door swung shut behind him. Fox and I hurried down a concrete ramp and hid behind a corner thirty feet from the door. Fox crouched down like a runner at the starting blocks. The janitor returned from dumping the trash, opened the door with his ring of keys, and maneuvered his cart through. Fox took off running, catching the door with his toe just before it slammed shut.
I trotted after him, and together we slipped inside the Field House. We found ourselves in a maze of gloomy concrete tunnels beneath the arena.
Our first stop was the announcer’s booth on the second level, so we could get a look at the audio system.
“You remember the way?” Fox said.
I nodded and started walking. We came to a T intersection, and I had to pause to get my bearings. Was it right or left? I closed my eyes and pictured the map we’d memorized.
“Left,” I said, and took off walking again.
We found a bank of elevators but decided it would be safer to use the stairs. We expected security to be light so early in the morning, but you could never be too careful.
Since Fox’s lock picks were mostly just for show, I was glad that when we arrived at the announcer’s booth, it was unlocked and empty.
We looked down at the stands and the court below. Fox whistled. “This place is a lot bigger in person.”
We stared at the dizzying number of buttons and knobs on the media console. “Don’t touch anything,” I warned.
“Don’t worry,” Fox said.
“We just need a microphone, right? How hard can that be?”
We climbed beneath the console, following various power cords back to their source. Once we found one attached to a microphone, we marked it with a red X.
“With the power out, you’ll have to plug this into the portable battery.”
“Got it.”
“Can you get up here fast enough after you cut the power? How are you going to get past the announcers when the time comes?”
“Quit worrying. I’ll be fine,” Fox said.
“Hiding spot next?” I said.
“Yep. Storage closet fourteen-B on the main level.”
We’d picked a central location where Fox could get to the lower level within a minute or two. But when we got to the closet, the door was locked.
“They lock up the toilet paper but not the media equipment? Weird.”
“Why don’t we just go knock out the power right now?” I said. “Get it over with.”
“We talked about this,” Fox said. “We have to wait for Mothman to show so you can get him to break the curse. If we stop the disaster too soon…”
“I know. It won’t end well for me. Mothman has to break the curse before we do.”
“The timing’s going to be tricky,” Fox said. “At the first sign of Mothman, we have to be ready to move.” Fox jiggled the doorknob once more. “Lock picks?” he said.
I shrugged. “I’d love to see you try.”
I kept watch for security guards and random passersby while Fox tried his best, but after ten minutes, he’d gotten nowhere. “Looks like we’ll have to choose a new hiding spot.”
“Can I try?” I said.
“Knock yourself out.”
I hefted the tools to get a feel for them, running my fingers over each delicate tip. Sometimes I used a tiny set of tools to repair pieces of jewelry Dad gave me; these didn’t feel too different. I stuck one into the keyhole, closed my eyes, and threaded the tool by touch and sound. I felt one tumbler move, then another, and then, with a gentle click, the lock released and the door opened.
I smiled. “Beginner’s luck,” I said with only a hint of smugness.
Fox walked past without a word, though I caught him stealing curious glances my way.
We made ourselves comfortable in the tiny space. I set the cage down in one corner.
Around 10:00 a.m., Fox checked in with Carl. “How’s it going out there?”
“My feet hurt,” Carl said. “And I’m tired of getting into arguments with people over Mothman.”
“You’re doing great,” Fox told him. “Hang in there.”
Hours passed with no sign of Mothman. The pin remained dormant. We kept track of how many people walked past by the number of feet we saw through the crack beneath the door. We snacked. We watched the bats sleep.
Carl radioed us around three o’clock to say: “Team buses just pulled up.”
“Thanks, Carl.”
We blew through all our snacks and water by late afternoon. After a bathroom break at six thirty, Fox returned to tell me the teams were warming up on the court. The number of feet milling past the door was mounting by the minute.
We started arguing about the timing of our plan.
“I’m worried. It’s getting late,” I said. “Where is he? If we wait too long, we won’t have enough time to get everyone out. Maybe John was wrong. Maybe Mothman isn’t going to show.”
“It’s all a guessing game at this point,” Fox said. “We could always forget the power and just pull the fire alarm as soon as he shows.”
“Then people will have two reasons to panic. They’ll trample each other.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“I think you should go ahead and cut the power now.”
“Josie…”
I risked a peek out the door. “We have to. Look at all these people, Fox! We have to.”
He clenched his jaw but switched on his radio. “What’s the chatter, Carl?”
“No Mothman. The rain’s picking up, but the crowd hasn’t thinned much.”
“You’re a rock. Looks like we’re ready for Joe. Have him meet us at the north entrance, okay?”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Fox said.
“Okay, then. He’s on his way.”
Fox turned to me. “Are you sure this is going to work, Josie?”
I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat. “No.”
“What? You promised me you had it all worked out.”
“I’m scared, Fox.”
“Yeah, me too.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So, have you picked the next person to be cursed? In case we fail, I mean? There’s not much time left.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“If you don’t…”
I swallowed. “I know. Mothman will probably pick someone I love.”
“Pick me,” Fox blurted.
“No! I can’t do that, Fox.”
“But we’re practically experts at this now. I can handle it.”
I wanted to slap the pretend-cocky smile off his face. “I won’t pick someone, especially not you. Don’t ask me to.”
“If we fail, he’ll pick Dad, or Uncle Bill, or Aunt Barb. Or Mason.”
“Shut up!” I shouted, clenching my fists. “I don’t intend to fail. Are you coming?”
We gathered our stuff. I grabbed the cage and we abandoned our hiding spot for good. It was crowded enough that we could slip out into the concourse without attracting more than a few curious glances.
We met up with Joe, who had insisted on being present for any tampering with the power. We ducked into a nearby stairwell, down a flight of stairs, and through a winding maze of corridors, pausing every few minutes to listen for footsteps. At last we came to a set of double doors with the hum of heavy machinery behind them. The doors were painted bright red with a sign that read: WARNING: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.
I pulled some glow sticks from my backpack and handed them out.
“Give us about ten minutes, huh?” Fox said. “Then I’ll hustle upstairs to the media booth.”
I checked my phone for the time. “That should be right before tipoff. I’ll go back upstairs and watch for Mothman.”
Fox caught my arm, met my eye. “We’ll see you soon.”
I nodded.
I made my way back out to the main concourse, my footsteps heavy. Hundreds of people were milling around, smiling, laughing, buying souvenirs or food, checking their tickets against the signs overhead.
I felt the pin with my fingers for any trace of cold, but nothing had changed. As the tide of people flowed around me, I felt like I was stuck in slow motion, underwater, as if time itself had shifted. Someone jostled my arm; two people bumped into the cage as they passed. I ducked out of the path of several rowdy teenagers and collided with a huge m
an carrying nachos and a sixty-four-ounce soda.
“Josie?”
It was Mitch.
He stared down at me. “What are you doing here?” His gaze traveled to my backpack, his eyes narrowing. “Please tell me you’re not still carrying on with this Mothman stuff.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, pushing past him.
Mitch followed me, tossing his nachos and drink in the nearest trash can. “What are you planning?” His voice was getting too loud for comfort.
I pulled him aside, into a stairwell marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
“Look, we did the graffiti, okay? I admit it, but it was for a reason. Something bad really is going to happen tonight. Haven’t you seen the news? Mothman is all over the place. This is real.”
He shook his head. “I can’t let you do this.”
Helpless anger surged through me. “Haven’t you done enough? I won’t let you sabotage us when we’ve made it this far.”
Mitch studied my face. “You really believe all these people are in danger, don’t you?”
“Why else would we be here? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through this week, the things I’ve seen? I never wanted this, never wanted my family to get hurt. Now a lot of people are about to die, and I have a chance to change that. Why would I lie? Please, Mitch. Please.”
“If I can’t change your mind…”
I held my breath, ready to bolt if I had to.
His expression changed, softened. “Then you’d better let me help you.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “You can tag along if you want to, but you won’t stop me.”
“I guess I can live with that,” he said.
Carl clicked through on the radio: “Weather’s getting bad out here.”
“Still no sign of Mothman?” I said.
“Nope. Nothing.”
I checked my phone. Three minutes until Fox cut the power. “We need to get out in the open,” I said to Mitch.
We crossed from the stairwell back into the main concourse. I could hear a booming voice announcing the teams’ starting lineups to wild cheers of the crowd.
Mitch kept glancing around with a guilty look on his face.
“Quit it,” I told him. “Just act natural. First thing I learned from Fox, like a decade ago, is that nobody will stop you if you act like you belong there. If you act shifty, people will know you’re up to something.”
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