Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files)

by Creston Mapes

  He drew her in and tried to suppress the sobs.

  She tried to comfort him. “Listen, honey—”

  “Why is God doing this? It’s been months! What did I do that was so wrong? Why haven’t I gotten a job yet?”

  She’d asked the same questions a million times.

  “I don’t know.” She held him tight, their heads next to each other. “I just don’t know.”

  “I feel so bad, having you head off to work each day, all day long …”

  “Honey, it’s not like you’re sitting around eating popcorn and watching movies. You’re working at the arena, applying for jobs all day, keeping the house up, getting me and the girls off in the morning … putting up with my mother.” Pamela laughed and squeezed Jack tighter, forcing him to chuckle.

  “She’s been a big help.” He pulled back to look at her.

  She wiped his tears away with her thumbs. “I bet she would help us, you know, lend us a little bit—”

  He shook his head. “No way. I don’t want to owe her.”

  “She’s mentioned it to me before.”

  “I thought we were okay,” he said. “I had everything budgeted. The check just didn’t show up in time. I feel like such a failure. And I feel sorry for you. I want a job so bad. I’d take anything.”

  “Something will come, honey. We’ve got to just keep praying. Keep doing what you’re doing. I bet you’re going to get the best job you’ve ever had.”

  “Thanksgiving’s coming. Christmas. How are we gonna pay for gifts?”

  “Jack, look at me. We have each other. We have the girls and our parents. We’re healthy. I don’t care where we live. We can move to a smaller house for all I care.”

  “But you’re unhappy because you’re working, and I don’t blame you.”

  “I’ve got maternity leave coming.”

  “Then what? Twelve weeks? You’re not going to want to go back.” He held her face in his hands. “You’re not going to be able to go back.”

  He was dead-on. The thought of leaving her twelve-week-old baby all day, five days a week … She couldn’t even go there.

  “You’ll have something by then,” she said. “I know you will.” She squeezed his hands. “In the meantime, let Mom pay the mortgage, just once.”

  “I’m due to get that check. It should’ve been here.”

  She nodded. “When it finally comes, you pay her back. Simple as that.”

  “I just can’t believe we’re in this place. We had over thirty-five thousand dollars saved up.”

  “Yeah, and we used it on life. It’s not like we’ve been living extravagantly. God knows where we are. He knows we’ve honored him with our tithe. He’s going to take care of us.”

  “That money was for college, weddings … retirement.”

  “We’ll catch up, honey. The important thing is, we’re going to have a baby, a healthy baby. Right? And we’ve got insurance through my work. Think if we didn’t have that.”

  She put her hands around his back and snuggled close.

  They stayed like that for quite some time.

  To lighten things up, she told him how her mother had said she hadn’t noticed Pam leave for the day.

  After a moment, Jack chuckled into Pamela’s shoulder.

  Since she had him on a roll, she then told him how proud her mother was of the lifesaving water filter that had arrived in the mail.

  He outright laughed at that.

  Then he told her how much he loved her.

  She knew he meant it.

  And that felt like gold.

  13

  Festival Arena, October 6

  Clarissa dashed up the concrete steps marked Employees Only. Derrick and his photographer followed twenty feet behind. All Derrick could think about was letting Zenia know what was happening. But he hadn’t had a second.

  Clarissa threw open the door leading to the main concourse of the arena. Derrick and Daniel followed. Pure bedlam. They stood frozen as masses of people rushed by them in every direction—to concession stands, to restrooms, and into the bowl of the arena.

  “It’s too late to get them out,” Derrick said.

  “Unless they make an announcement and force them out,” Daniel said.

  “Let’s follow Clarissa.” Derrick headed toward the enormous glass front of the arena, with Daniel and his equipment in tow.

  “Get shots of this!” Derrick called over the noise, pointing toward the commotion at the large bank of front doors.

  At Clarissa’s order, EventPros had shut all of the doors in midflow, and the people outside were shaking fists, scowling, and pounding at the glass. A young EventPro stood with her back to the doors, her face contorted in panic. Many of the people who’d made it inside looked scared, determined to get away from the chaos at the front doors. Some flashed nervous smiles as they latched hands with loved ones and forged ahead into the arena.

  Clarissa huddled up with a group of supervisors by the long, curved customer-service desk. The TV screen above them showed the massive crowd packed like a soccer-riot mob outside the lobby. It was a sea of people—leaning, swaying, pushing. The way they were pressing and pounding at the front doors made Derrick sick to his stomach. He supposed the people complaining angrily outside viewed the locked doors as some sort of liberal plot to suppress their freedom of speech or to ruin the independent candidate’s evening.

  Daniel was standing on a chair behind a display table, holding his Nikon high and firing flash after flash. Derrick signaled to him that he was heading toward Clarissa’s group. The crowd was so thick, he had to weave and force his way within earshot of her team.

  “I can barely hear you.” Clarissa pinched her mic right up against her lips. “No, we need them up here, now! And six forty-five is out of the question until we get control of things. Over.”

  She let the mic drop to her chest and addressed her team. “SWAT’s on the way up. We’ve got to get this crowd spread out. Have your people motion the crowd inside the bowl. Inside the bowl. That’s all we can do. Get people into the bowl and get them seated as fast as possible.”

  Derrick could only imagine how the mob outside would react when they saw the SWAT guys with their guns, helmets, and shields.

  “What about Charlie and Steve?” said Gordy Cavelli.

  “Still nothing,” Clarissa said. “Two SWAT are on their way up to the Sky Zone. You’ll hear as soon as I do. Now let’s get busy.”

  The supervisors began to disperse, but Clarissa called, “Wait!”

  She cupped a hand over her earpiece and held up a finger, listening intently.

  “Three more team members have left.” She shrugged, relaying the information coming in her earpiece. “SWAT wants us to take Sterling to suite 227 on the club level … Once that happens, they want Lester to go to suite 213, club level … Wait a minute.” She squinted and put her mic to her lips. “Why would we do that? They’re safer in the bunker. I repeat, they are safer in the bunker. Over.”

  Clarissa squeezed the back of her neck and dropped her head, awaiting a response. She shook her head and spoke into her mic. “This whole thing should’ve been called off—” She blinked several times, as if getting shot at with verbal gunfire. “Yes … yes, sir … understood. Over.”

  Her mouth sealed to a slit, and she looked soberly at her people, her chin jutting out. “Okay. SWAT wants Sterling and Lester up high. They intend to keep that level closed so they can isolate them. They don’t like all the possible entry points in the bunker. Also … the squad from Columbus PD is having a difficult time getting here.”

  Several of the supervisors shook their heads, concern brimming in their eyes.

  “Apparently traffic is at a standstill, and they’re caught in a bottleneck before the bridge at Overbrook Parkway. Word’s gotten out that Lester’s here. And
who knows what else is being said on the news.” Clarissa cupped her mouth, turned, and glared at Derrick as if he’d caused all of her problems.

  He just shrugged and held up his hands.

  She looked around the packed lobby with weary eyes. “I don’t know if we’re going to be able to fit all these people in the bowl without opening the club level …” She threw her hands out as if shooing a cat. “That’s it. Go. Do your best.”

  Shakespeare never shied away from a fight, but the team he was playing for this night was unraveling before his eyes. He felt as if they were fifty-point underdogs, with the odds worsening with each passing second.

  As long as he could remember, people had relied on him to know a little about everything, to give good advice, to be prepared, to have the answers, to be brave, to know how to fight—and win.

  It wasn’t going to be any different tonight; he could feel it.

  The cold truth was, Charlie and Steve had probably been overtaken by terrorists up in the Sky Zone, maybe even killed on the spot. More than a thousand civilians had been let inside the building, basically to go wherever they wanted. The thought was crystallizing in Shakespeare’s mind that his leadership in the next few hours might well mean the difference between life and death for a good number of people. It was time to make the mind-set change from EventPro to soldier.

  He approached Chico. “I’m gonna disappear for five minutes. Stall till I get back.”

  “You can’t leave, man!” Chico’s black eyes about popped out of his head. “We’re about to take them upstairs! Can’t it wait?”

  “No. I’ve got to get some things out of my car. Don’t worry. It’s right on the parking deck. It’ll take no time.”

  “Please, Brian, don’t leave. Get it later.”

  Shakespeare started for the door. “Stall them till I get back. Say I’m in the boys’ room. They’ll wait.”

  “Hey, you got a minute?” Jack got in step with Shakespeare as he stepped out the door. Clarissa was coming toward them down the hall at full steam.

  “You guys heard Columbus PD is stuck in traffic?” she said, out of breath.

  “This is serious, Clarissa,” Shakespeare said. “I think the terrorists are in the building, in the Sky Zone.”

  “That’s impossible,” she said. “We did a thorough bag check on everyone who came in.”

  Shakespeare closed his eyes and shook his head. “They’ve been here. Embedded. Overnight. Probably came in as civilians for the hockey game last night. No bag checks at hockey games.”

  “We did a full sweep last night after the game, just like always,” she protested. “I was here.”

  “You know as well as I do that if someone wanted to spend the night in this building, they could. If these guys are pros, and this thing’s been planned out, they could have been hanging from the ceiling like bats for all we know. There are plenty of places to hide. I say they’re in here now, and we should evacuate.”

  Jack’s mouth was agape. He swallowed visibly. “What are we gonna do?”

  “Stay calm.” Clarissa took in a deep breath. “You may have something. I’m gonna run your theory by Lieutenant Wolfski.”

  “We definitely have a situation,” Shakespeare said. “I’m gonna go get some things from my car that will come in handy—”

  “Oh no you’re not.” Clarissa shook her head. “There’re no weapons allowed in this building—not on us, anyway. I want you to get back in there and escort Sterling to the club level. That’s an order.”

  Shakespeare clenched his jaw and paused a moment, composing his thoughts. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Clarissa, but these are special circumstances, and I’m going to my car. If you don’t want me to come back, tell me now.” He started walking. “Otherwise, I’ll see you back in here in five minutes, and we’ll take care of business.”

  Not another word was spoken.

  14

  Offices of the Columbus Gazette, ten days earlier

  Jack couldn’t believe how nervous he was, sitting there in a chair by the bustling city desk in the newsroom of the Columbus Gazette. A week ago he’d called each of the editors whose names Derrick had given him, and now he was waiting for his appointment with Buck Stevens, the one who’d agreed to see him.

  With his big leather portfolio on his lap, he gazed out at the maze of cubicles before him, a football field’s worth of computers, scanners, printers, and reporters. The sound of keyboards clicking and people on telephones trying to get facts and quotes and scoops mesmerized him. He didn’t even know if there was a job opening, but he wanted to work in that newsroom so badly, he could taste the newsprint.

  Derrick had called Jack to let him know he was in a studio somewhere in the building, overseeing a photo shoot with Ohio senator and presidential candidate Martin Sterling. They planned to meet up when Jack was finished with his interview.

  Jack desperately needed the job, for Pam’s sake if nothing else. She was almost eight months along, yet she was up and down all day long at the orthodontist’s office, escorting patients, retrieving files, answering phones. He’d recently spent more than they could afford on some really cushy shoes for her, but even so, her ankles swelled up almost every night.

  Please, Father, let this Buck Stevens find favor on me.

  His phone vibrated. Probably Pam checking in on him.

  Hey. You got a minute to meet me?

  It was Shakespeare, not Pam.

  Jack replied that he could meet in a while and reminded Shakespeare that today was his big interview downtown.

  He unzipped the portfolio and double-checked that his résumé was on top and ready to present. He’d brought five copies just in case.

  “Jack?” A gray-haired man, probably in his early sixties, approached. He was holding a mug with a Denison University logo and wearing a white shirt, red suspenders, and khakis. He stuck his hand out. “Buck Stevens.”

  “Very good to meet you.” Jack stood and shook the editor’s hand. “Thanks for agreeing to see me today.”

  “Let’s go back this way where we can talk.” Buck headed off, looking behind him to make sure Jack was following. He had kind of a hunched back and a medium build. “Derrick’s told us a lot about you. I actually remember your work from the Dispatch.”

  The buzz of the newsroom gave Jack a euphoric feeling, almost as though he were floating as he walked. And he could actually smell the newsprint from the presses, which were in the same building.

  They settled into a tiny conference room with a huge table and almost no room for the many large chairs that surrounded it. Buck motioned for Jack to sit.

  “This election is knocking us on our rears, and it’s still a year off,” Buck said. “It’s because Sterling is so darn popular. His numbers are soaring.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Oh yeah. As of a few minutes ago, he’s atop all polls, including Republicans.”

  “That’s amazing,” Jack said, still nervous. “Would he be the first independent candidate elected president?”

  “Actually George Washington was independent both of his terms,” Buck said.

  Why did I ask a question I didn’t have the answer to? Isn’t that one of those things you’re never supposed to do?

  “We’re excited because this is an Ohio boy and he’s got a real shot,” Buck said. “This is no Ross Perot or Ralph Nader. The guy is a contender, and we’re going to cover him like a pack of dogs. Your buddy Derrick’s working it full-time, and we’ve got some others doing the same, in various capacities.”

  “Yes, he told me it had him running,” Jack said.

  “You and Derrick did quite a job on that Demler-Vargus exposé for the Dispatch. It was fine work. You certainly scooped us on that one.”

  “Thank you.” Jack fingered his résumé, anxious to give it to Buck and start showing off his
clips.

  “I don’t need to see your book.” Buck nodded at the portfolio. “I’ve done my homework.”

  “Okay. I’ve got a résumé for you.” Jack tried to mask his enthusiasm.

  Buck shook his head. “I’ve got your number. Listen, let me get right to this thing. We like your work. We like what kind of man you are. We like your experience. Derrick’s filled us in, and as I said, I’ve done a good amount of homework.”

  This was sounding good. Really good.

  “So we’ve been looking ahead to the election next November, trying to plan what it will mean to the paper as we head into the new year,” Buck said. “It’s quite possible—likely even—that our local boy will make it on the ticket and, ultimately, make it to the White House. Right now he’s got a darn good shot, and we plan to cover him every step of the way.”

  It was sounding so good, Jack was already envisioning a dinner-out celebration with the family.

  “So what we’ve determined is this. If Sterling continues to remain up in the polls for another month, until Thanksgiving, we will likely assign Derrick to cover a new Washington-slash-Sterling-slash-political beat that would keep him busy full-time. He’d be back and forth between here and DC and working on nothing local. In that case, we would need a reporter to take his place on his normal beat.”

  “I see.” If there had been any doubt before about whom Jack was backing for president, it was gone now. Sterling was his man—and his meal ticket.

  “I know what you’re probably thinking, but bear with me,” Buck said. “We wouldn’t want you for that job.”

  Jack felt a tinge of despair.

  “We’ve got a relatively new editor on staff who’s missing her old beat as a reporter,” Buck said. “So the plan would be to have Derrick cover Sterling full-time and move this editor back to a reporter slot. The upshot is, we need to replace the editor. That’s where you would come in.”

  Even more pay! Yes, the answer is yes! Jack tried to contain his excitement. “That sounds interesting.”

  “I know there’re quite a few ‘ifs’ involved, but when I realized you were available, I told our senior editor we needed to try to make a place for you. Your call came at just the right time.”