“This is all being figured out as we go,” she said. Would things unravel completely right then? On her toes, Clarissa yelled to be heard over the clamor. “Your job tonight is to take your positions as usual, be friendly, greet people, and be keenly observant. I need you to check your exits when you get to your posts; know where every nearby exit is. I need you to let your supervisor know if you see anything suspicious—a backpack, a bag, a package sitting unattended. We will have team members outside doing quick bag checks. Keep your eyes open for suspicious people with bulky jackets who might be hiding things underneath …”
Two male EventPros ducked out; one Jack knew well.
“We will have at least five floaters checking restrooms and empty club rooms, patrolling, watching, checking in on you.” As Clarissa examined her notes with trembling hands, the EventPros surrounding Jack talked in hushed voices and wore somber expressions. Many were texting as they spoke to coworkers.
Clarissa looked up. “There is a chance we might need to evacuate the building. If that happens, people with radios need to inform people with pagers. Then we need to be calm.” One more EventPro exited the building as she spoke. “I repeat, remain calm and get people out of the building in an orderly fashion. That is our job, people. If you don’t think you can do that in a professional manner, now is the time to clock out. Edgar? Where’s Edgar?”
Edgar raised a hand. He’d already grabbed his clipboard and was checking out the people who’d left.
“Thank you, Edgar,” Clarissa said as several more EventPros exited through the double doors.
“I want to thank you for being here tonight. When we know more, we will let you know. The key tonight is going to be flexibility. Be ready to move around, to go where we tell you and do what we ask.” She looked at her watch. “We need to get to our positions and check our exits. Supervisors, call your people …”
4
Shakespeare’s house, three months earlier
Shakespeare didn’t have the air-conditioning on in the house, and Pamela was hot and weary on her feet. Her ankles were swollen, and her knees and hips ached as she helped Sheena clean up the kitchen.
“You’re hot, aren’t you? I’m sorry.” Sheena scrubbed a pot. “Brian won’t have the AC on, almost never. You hear that rumbling noise? Attic fans. He says they cool the house just fine.” Sheena’s dejected face glimmered with sweat. “I’m dreading winter. He only sets the heat to come on if it hits fifty-five degrees in here. Tells the kids to bundle up.”
The house was a sight. The kitchen overlooked the family room, which featured a cast-iron stove and old-fashioned oak furniture, including a gliding rocker and matching footstool with bright blue cushions. The walls were bare except for a few faded paintings of hunters and hound dogs that hung crooked in dark wood frames.
“For a long time I believed him,” Sheena said. “I thought he was the smartest man alive—that economic collapse was right at our doorstep. I pictured us being the only ones prepared.” She stopped scrubbing and stared out the window above the sink. “Huh. That was eighteen years ago.”
“It could happen, I suppose,” Pamela said as she dried the cookware Sheena had washed.
The sliding door opened, and Shakespeare and Jack came in carrying a bunch of trash, which they deposited in a large trash can.
“Time for the inside tour,” Shakespeare announced. “Come on, Pam.”
Jack smiled and raised his eyebrows as he followed Shakespeare through a maze of bookshelves leading to the adjoining living room. That was where Sheena homeschooled all five children. There were books everywhere, overflowing from the shelves and stacked in piles on the floor. There was barely a path to walk by the cheap-looking black computer, old printer, chalkboard, encyclopedias, and tables and chairs.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Pamela said and turned back to Sheena. “Was Brian like this when you got married?” she asked.
Sheena sighed. “We were so in love.” She shook her head. “I knew the type of man he was. He liked guns and knives and hunting. But this whole thing? It’s become an addiction. He eats, drinks, and sleeps it. Do you know, he thinks the 9/11 attacks were a government plot?”
“What?”
She nodded and wiped her nose with the back of her wrist. “Yeah. He thinks it was a ‘controlled demolition.’ Says there’s no way the fuel from those planes could have melted the steel to make the Twin Towers collapse. He’s watched a million videos and listened to recordings that he claims prove there were other explosives involved.” Sheena looked to make sure no one else was around and whispered, “He thinks the government wants to control our lives.”
All Pamela could think was, What on earth are we doing here? Why is Jack friends with this guy?
Sheena went back to scrubbing. “Go see the garage. That’ll confirm that we’re absolute lunatics.”
Pamela finished drying a casserole dish and set down the towel. “I will take a look,” she said awkwardly. “It certainly is … interesting …”
“You’re polite, Pam. Just don’t fall for it.”
5
Festival Arena, October 6
After his regimented days as a marine and sharpshooter, Shakespeare had very few worries in civilian life; compared to war, it was a stroll in the park. But this was different. He hadn’t felt all his senses revving like this since he and a ragtag team of ground forces by the call name Red Horse led an assault to expel Iraqis from Kuwait during Desert Storm.
As supervisors called the team members who would be working with them that night and then headed off to gather in various parts of the arena, Shakespeare listened for his name. When the last group had left, he approached Clarissa.
“I didn’t get called,” he said.
“I know. Martin Sterling will be here any minute. I want you to choose whoever you want to partner with, go to the ops tunnel, and meet up with Sterling’s party. His handler, Jenny King, is expecting you. He’ll have his own security detail, but you’ll have full access. They’ll be counting on you to know your way around the building.”
“Okay.” Shakespeare took in a deep breath and exhaled silently. “What about police backup?”
“On their way, supposedly.”
Shakespeare started toward the steps that would take him up to the main concourse.
“Who do you want to help you?” Clarissa held up the clipboard. “I need to know who’s where.”
“Jack Crittendon.”
Clarissa shook her head. “Sorry, I’m assigning him to Everett Lester.”
This was not going right. Jack and the other EventPros staff weren’t trained for terror. “Are we getting a special-ops team in here or what?”
“Look, I want the police and army and whoever else here as much as you do. The requests have been made. But until then we have to go on as if they’re not coming. Now who do you want with you?”
Shakespeare shrugged. “Chico, I guess.”
She scanned her clipboard. “What’s his last name?”
“Gutierrez.”
“Okay, I’ll radio his supervisor and have him meet you in the ops tunnel.”
Shakespeare started off.
“Sterling doesn’t leave your side,” Clarissa called. “You got me?”
“Got you.”
Jack’s breathing was shallow as he hurried down the steep concrete steps within the vast arena, from row Z at the top to row AA at the floor. It always amazed him how quiet the bowl could be before fans arrived. Soon doors would open, and thousands of people would fill in the seats like ants on crumbs.
The air was filled with a smoky-looking haze, and an enormous red-white-and-blue banner stretched across the stage: Sterling for President—Sterling for America!
Once to the floor, Jack walked to the circular stage, which featured a large drum kit, main microphone and stool, s
everal backup microphones, and six guitars lined up offstage—likely for Everett Lester and whoever would be playing with him that night. Pam would be so jealous.
Near the stage, four very large colleagues milled around where they would form a human barrier later in the evening. It was cold down there because the arena’s wood floor covered up the home ice for the Columbus Spoilers, who had lost in overtime the night before.
“Base to Charlie,” Jack’s radio chirped. “What’s your twenty?”
Static.
“This is Charlie. All clear from floor up to club level. Over.”
“Roger that,” Clarissa said. “Keep going all the way up to the Sky Zone, Charlie. Let us know it’s clear.”
Jack made his way toward the ops tunnel, acknowledging his orange-clad coworkers stationed at various floor entry points along the way. Doors hadn’t opened yet, so some colleagues were sitting, some were standing, many were texting—probably to let loved ones know of the threat. About fifteen EventPros had gone home, and Jack second-guessed himself. Should he have been one of them? Pam would definitely say yes.
He scanned the arena for any sign of police or special-ops people, but all he saw were the regular few Columbus police officers who stood at different spots along the perimeter of the main concourse.
About thirty feet above the main seating in the big bowl was an additional narrow strip of seats that ran the entire circumference. This was the mezzanine section, the cheapest seats in the house, but still good. Now it was dotted with several colleagues, either sitting or wandering the aisles. Tonight the upper level was adorned with half-moon-shaped red-white-and-blue flags positioned every thirty feet.
Partitioned off from the mezzanine section was the club level. EventPros who worked there had to wear coats and ties because it was a higher-priced VIP section. Its concourse featured plush carpeting, recessed lighting, polished wood floors, bars and restaurants that overlooked the arena, corporate club suites, and elegantly framed photographs of famous entertainers who had performed here at the arena. Jack had worked there several times but didn’t get to see the events as much as when he was ushering in the bowl.
Above the club level, a large black curtain ran the entire circumference of the arena; it blew and waved from the air being circulated near the top of the building. Above the curtain, about six stories above the floor up in no-man’s-land, were press boxes for radio announcers and hockey officials. Jack could see several people stirring up there now. Were they aware of the threat?
Something orange above the announcer boxes caught his eye. It was Charlie, way up at the top of the venue in the area known as the Sky Zone. He was clutching a black railing that circled the rim of the facility. From there, two black catwalks ran across the top of the arena about seven or eight stories off the ground. Jack would never want to go up there; he didn’t like heights.
He passed through large strips of plastic curtains and found Sid waiting for him in the ops tunnel next to the huge doors and docks where roadies loaded and unloaded stage equipment.
“Dude, this is nuts,” Sid said.
“Is Lester here yet?”
“En route. From what I hear, the show’s going on. I wish they’d just cancel. I mean, why would you take the chance?”
“I agree,” Jack said. “But I guess if we stopped every event where there was a threat, the country would eventually be crippled.”
“I guess,” Sid said. “I called my girlfriend. There’s nothing about it on the news yet.”
“Base to Charlie.” Clarissa’s voice filled Jack’s headset. “Have you finished your sweep?”
There was no immediate response.
Jack said to Sid, “Look at it this way—we’re about to meet a rock legend.”
They both chuckled.
Years ago, when Everett Lester’s personal psychic turned up murdered, he was charged for the crime. That was when Everett started getting letters from a girl in Topeka, Kansas, named Karen Bayliss. The message of her letters eventually penetrated his heart, and he became a Christian. Against all odds, he was acquitted of the psychic’s murder, ended up marrying Karen, and now used his raspy Springsteen-like voice to stir millions of fans with the gospel.
“My wife’s not going to believe we get to hang with Everett Lester,” Jack said. “She’s going to want to know every detail.”
“They adopted a kid, didn’t they? I wonder if he’ll be with them.”
Jack nodded. “Cole. I think he’s like ten or twelve.”
“You’re going to have to at least get a picture to show your wife,” Sid said.
Jack squinted. “We’re not supposed to.”
“Oh, phht. We’ll get you a picture.”
“Base to Charlie, base to Charlie.” Clarissa’s voice filled Jack’s headset again. “What is your twenty, Charlie? I repeat, what is your twenty?”
A loud buzz shrieked inside the guardhouse next to the back door, startling Jack. He watched as the gray-haired security guard popped to his feet, eyed one of the many video screens on a panel above his desk, and spoke into an intercom. The guard pressed a button, walked around the corner, and opened the back door.
An entourage of young men and women filed in. Then a healthy-looking Everett Lester entered with a smile and a handshake for the guard, followed by his wife and a boy with curly brown hair and freckles.
“Here we go.” Sid bounced on his toes.
“Larger than life,” Jack said. “They’ll come through this door. You ready?”
Jack’s earpiece flooded with static. “This is base to Charlie, base to Charlie,” Clarissa barked. “What is your twenty, Charlie? I repeat, what is your twenty? Has anybody seen Charlie Clearwater?”
“This is Tab. Last I heard his sweep was clear through club level. Over.”
Jack pressed the Talk button on his headset. “This is Jack to base. I saw Charlie along the railing up in the Sky Zone a few minutes ago, after he’d swept the club level. Over.”
“Steve? Where is Steve Basheer?” Clarissa said.
“This is Steve, over.”
“I need you to go up to the Sky Zone and check on Charlie. He’s not answering his radio.”
“Ten-four. I’ll let you know when I get up there. Over.”
6
Shakespeare’s house, three months earlier
Pamela tiptoed through Sheena’s jumbled homeschool room with its heavy fingerprints on the walls and followed the men’s voices to the garage. It was dark and hot. Low-hanging fluorescent lights glowed above a massive tool bench. Various storage boxes and equipment dotted the cluttered room, which was obviously not used for parking cars.
Shakespeare and Jack were standing next to a six-foot-tall metal storage cabinet. “So we cycle these foods into the house for consumption, then buy more for storage here,” Shakespeare was saying. “Come on in, Pam.”
The cabinet was packed with containers of peanut butter, salt, coffee, spaghetti sauce, pepper rings, salsa, olive oil, tuna, evaporated milk, jam, soup, and more.
“Over here we have our three-gallon bins.” Shakespeare opened a white plastic container. “We’ve got our beans, black-eyed peas, rice, yeast, potatoes, pasta …” He explained that he kept dry ice in some of the containers to freeze out any bugs. He opened another, revealing cornmeal, nuts, garlic, cornstarch, and vacuum-packed dry fruits.
Before Pamela had time to process it all, Shakespeare had moved on to an apparatus next to the tool bench that looked like a moonshine still.
“When the water gets poisoned or stops coming, for whatever reason, this little baby gives us water to drink and cook with,” he said. “Found it at a garage sale.”
“What is it, a purifier?” asked Jack.
“Distiller.” Shakespeare flipped open a metal lid. “Pour the water in here, it boils, runs across these coils, and comes right
out the tap. Good to go. Over here are my kerosene heaters, jugs of kerosene, portable gas cooktops, propane … Gotta be careful with propane. If it leaks, it sinks to the bottom of the room, and if there’s any sort of spark—kablooey.”
“What are these?” Jack held up two metal rods.
“Parts of cooking kits I’m fixing. You guys got a freezer?”
Jack shook his head, and Pamela felt an increasing sense of inadequacy.
Shakespeare lifted the top of a large white freezer, and a cloud of frosty air rolled upward. “Look here,” he said. “You’re gonna need protein, Jack. We got plenty of deer meat and chicken …” There were containers of eggs and large blocks of cheese.
“What if the power goes out?” Pamela said.
Shakespeare dropped the lid of the freezer, walked several steps, and kicked a bulky red machine on the ground. “Four thousand watts.”
“Generator?” Jack said.
Shakespeare nodded. “There’s a backup in the shed. This’ll keep both freezers going and a small section of the house. ’Course, we’re gonna have to be careful. We wouldn’t want the neighbors or bands of ruffians to know we have power. We’ve got heavy window shades to block out the light.”
“Why wasn’t I included on this tour?” Margaret stumbled into the garage, looking around in awe, as if she’d just discovered the Batcave.
“Hey, Mom.” Pamela wished she hadn’t found them.
“I wondered where you went,” Shakespeare said.
“I was helping the kids with that darn tractor. Then Faye fell, and I had to tend to that.”
“Is she okay?” Jack said.
“She’s fine. Brian’s kids got out their first-aid kit and did ‘triage.’ They were glad to have a patient. It’s just a little strawberry.”
“Over here we have ammo.” Shakespeare drummed the top of two large metal coffee cans; there were seven in all. “Weapons are in safekeeping.”
“What kind of weapons?” Margaret said.
Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 3