Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files)

by Creston Mapes

  “Roger that. Remember, stay on those doctors. Get answers.”

  “Will do.”

  “Hey, and you and Pam are gonna meet with Sheena and me when this is all over, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jack slipped the phone into his pocket and headed toward the room. The man was pushing the door open.

  Jack’s heart lurched. “Excuse me,” he called.

  The man leaned back into the hallway and stared at Jack but said nothing, his eyes open wide from behind gold-rimmed glasses that sat halfway down his long nose.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man waited until Jack got to him. “I’m looking for Lucy,” he said.

  “Oh, hey,” Jack said, relieved. He reached out to shake the man’s large, bony hand. “I’m Jack, Pam’s husband. You must be Lucy’s husband.”

  The man’s brown eyes moved mechanically up and down Jack. “That’s right. Victor. Dr. Victor Gambrell. Is Lucy here?”

  “Yes, of course. She’s been a total godsend.”

  “I’m sure.” Victor nodded and began to enter.

  “Hold up.” Jack reached for the door handle. “Listen, if you don’t mind, my wife’s in there, and her mother. Lucy probably told you we just had a baby.”

  Victor looked at the door handle and back at Jack. “She told me. I’ve been worried with all that happened at the rally. Is that where you met Lucy for the first time?”

  The question threw Jack. It sounded like an interrogation.

  “Yeah. Pam started going into labor while we were in the arena. Lucy came to help. She rode with her in the ambulance. She’s been amazing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Victor took in a deep breath and set his shoulders back. “Look, if you don’t want me to go in, can you tell her I’m here?”

  “Sure.” Jack got a really bad vibe as he squeezed past Victor to enter the room. “Just a second.”

  Jack entered the room.

  “What’d Shakespeare have to say?” Pam said.

  “Sterling’s alive. He escaped. He got shot, but they think he’s gonna make it.”

  The women squealed and began asking questions.

  “We’ll turn the TV on in a minute, but first—Lucy, your husband’s here.” Jack motioned toward the door.

  She shot to her feet, wide-eyed. “Victor? Here?”

  In the whole time they’d known Lucy, through all of the trauma at the arena and hospital, Jack hadn’t seen her rattled—until that moment.

  “Yeah, he’s right outside,” Jack said.

  Her head dropped. She searched the floor, then the room, as if she was suddenly confused.

  “Lucy?” Pam said.

  Margaret stood and put a hand around her shoulder. “What is it, dear?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” She snapped out of the fog and gave a chuckle. “It’s been a long day. I’m … He’ll want me to get home. I have to work tomorrow.”

  The newspaperman in Jack immediately took over. He glanced at the bruises on her arm, her rail-thin frame, her pronounced hip bones protruding beneath her shirt. “Were you expecting him?”

  Lucy looked at Jack and froze. Her face was ghostly white—even more so than normal.

  “Yeah,” she managed. “Yeah … I told him I’d pretty much done all I could do. He’ll take me back to the arena for my car. Or we’ll just wait till tomorrow to get it; it’s probably still crazy over there.” She scanned the room and crossed to a chair where her purse was hanging. She took the strap with trembling hands and threw it over her shoulder.

  “What is taking so long?” Victor barged into the room, muttering, and headed for Lucy like a magnet, not looking at the others. “What’s all this business about a presidential rally? I know you. I’m not about to fall for your tricks …”

  Jack froze in shock, unable to think or move.

  Victor’s narrow jaw clenched, and he grabbed Lucy by the upper part of her arm. She winced but said nothing. “You’ll have to excuse us.” He began muscling her toward the door, and she didn’t retaliate in the least. “We have a lot of talking to do, don’t we, dear?”

  Silent alarms clanged in Jack’s head.

  He had to intervene.

  The horror on Margaret’s and Pam’s faces confirmed something was terribly amiss.

  “Let’s just hold it a second.” Jack stepped directly in front of Victor, blocking the way to the door. “Lucy, what’s going on?”

  Victor’s eyes burned with rage. He formed a claw with his free hand and pounded Jack’s chest with all five bony fingers, pressing them hard, pushing him back. “Oh, you do not want to do that, Mr. Crittendon. No, sir.”

  47

  A gust of wind kicked up and raindrops began to fall as the ambulance doors opened. A short, bleached-blonde paramedic wearing navy scrubs and blue surgical gloves jumped out of the back. She nodded to the group with a half smile, then squinted and covered her eyes as the TV guy flipped on his obnoxiously bright camera light.

  “Is he going to want that?” Peek said to Jenny King, nodding at the light.

  She nodded. “It’s okay. We’re good. This is going to be quick.”

  A stocky Hispanic paramedic hopped out next, wearing the same garb, right down to the plastic gloves. He kept his head down and didn’t make eye contact with anyone except his female partner. They glanced at each other, nodded, and leaned into the back of the ambulance.

  The anticipation was at a fever pitch as they bumped the stretcher out. On it sat Martin Sterling, wearing a somber expression. He still had on his white dress shirt, which was spotted with blood and dirt. It was unbuttoned to the chest. His tie was loose, and his sleeves were rolled up. His legs were covered with blankets.

  The drizzle came harder and was lit up by the cameraman’s neon light. Derrick had chills. The paramedics got the stretcher stabilized on the uneven ground and stood on either side of the senator. The woman whispered something to him, to which he nodded.

  It was extraordinarily quiet, when this type of scene would usually have been chaotic, with an onslaught of questions from reporters. But since there were only two of them, both present at the invitation of Jenny King, Derrick felt he should simply let the senator say what he was going to say and then possibly ask questions, if it seemed appropriate.

  “That rain feels good, doesn’t it?” Sterling dropped his head back and opened his mouth, to a smattering of laughter. After a moment he evened his gaze at the faces around him, only a dozen or so people in all.

  “I am a lucky man.” He paused and nodded, seemingly taken aback with emotion. “Columbus is a lucky city tonight.”

  There were nods and yeses all around as the rain came harder, tapping at the police ponchos and umbrellas popping up.

  “This event … what happened tonight at Columbus Festival Arena, is what I have been warning the American people about.” Again, an emotional pause. “If this isn’t a wake-up call, I sure as heck don’t know what is. Let me just say, it was only thanks to the courage and sacrifice of some remarkably brave individuals—US citizens—that there was not much more death, destruction, and bloodshed in our fair city tonight. Thank God. I will be recognizing those people in the days ahead.”

  Derrick was getting antsy, wondering if Sterling was going to say anything about how he had escaped. That’s what his readers would want to know.

  “How could this happen on American soil? In the land of the free?” Sterling looked directly into the camera. “You want to know how? Ask your president! Ask him about the protocols and agencies and intelligence he has slashed. Ask him about the Homeland initiatives and security forces he has cut.”

  Sterling dropped his head and combed a hand through his drenched, messy hair. After about fifteen seconds he looked up.

  “The United States of America must awaken from its slumber. We used
to be the most powerful force in the world, but not anymore—not under this administration. No matter what this president says, he has let us down. And we’re going to change all that next November.

  “We don’t have to put up with this unbridled hatred and terror. We shouldn’t have to be afraid to go to a campaign rally or a concert or a ball game. We can snuff these terrorists out.” Sterling shook a fist, and the veins in his neck protruded. “But it must become our number one priority and not some bottom-of-the-list agenda item we continue to butcher so we can spend more on giving handouts to people who are too lazy to go out and work—”

  He ran out of breath, and the Hispanic paramedic put a hand on his shoulder and whispered something.

  Sterling looked down, listened, and nodded.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “This isn’t the time for all this. You don’t want me to get all worked up and have a stroke now, do you?”

  A few people chuckled. “I’ll talk more tomorrow.” He looked at Jenny. “We’ll be having a press conference.”

  “That’s right,” Jenny said. “I’ll get that out as soon as we finalize a place and time.” She extended a hand toward the senator. “What else would you like to say right now?”

  Sterling sighed. “Uh, look … this is not about me. It’s about America. As for my condition, I’m going to be fine. I was shot in the back of the leg. These good people assure me I’ll be up and about in no time—on crutches, of course.” His words were concise and matter-of-fact, as if he truly didn’t want to talk about it. “I don’t know if we want to get into a lot more detail than that.”

  Jenny raised her eyebrows, nodding at Sterling and bouncing on her toes as if encouraging him to wrap up.

  Derrick couldn’t help himself. “Sir, how did you get away from the terrorists?” he said. “Is that when you got shot?”

  Jenny glared at him. The TV guy took several steps toward Sterling. The blonde paramedic whispered something to him.

  “Without getting into a lot of detail,” Sterling said, “because these good people need to get me to the hospital, yes, the wound to my leg came as I was getting away.”

  “Can you tell us what happened—when the helicopter landed?” the TV guy said.

  Good. At least Derrick wasn’t the only one asking questions.

  “We landed. They had vans waiting. I believed once I got in one of those, my chances would diminish a hundredfold. So I figured it was worth taking a gamble out here in this field.”

  It was raining hard now. Derrick pulled his sleeve over his tape recorder and only hoped it wasn’t getting damaged by the rain.

  “What happened was …” Sterling shook his head and chuckled because his voice was getting drowned out by the volume of the downpour. He spoke louder. “On the way from the helicopter to the vans I moved slowly on purpose, letting the guy in front of me get ahead.” He held up his left elbow and patted it. “I took out the armed guy behind me with this elbow to his face—and I ran. It was dark. I thought they’d have a hard time hitting me.”

  “But they did hit you?” Derrick said.

  Sterling smiled and nodded. “I fell down … twice, actually—the ground’s so uneven. The second time, one of them hit me with a shot to the thigh. I mean, it was like the Fourth of July. They unleashed all the firepower they had. I didn’t think I was going to make it, but I kept going. Had to. Thank God I ran into Mr. Scarborough over here.” He motioned toward the driver of the pickup, who was standing between two police officers. “I’ll talk more about Ed and the other brave men and women tomorrow.”

  He looked at Jenny. She gave him one distinct nod and went into motion. “Okay, get him out of here,” she told the paramedics. “I will contact all of you with details about tomorrow morning’s press conference. Thank you all. Go get dry!”

  48

  “Oh my gosh, Jack!” Pamela squirmed as Lucy’s husband shoved him. “What on earth?”

  Jack took the shove, but his legs locked and his jaw clenched. She knew that look. He was about to explode.

  “Jack, not in here,” Pamela said. “Please!”

  It felt like a slow-motion dream. Could it be a dream? The arena attack. The baby’s problems. Now this? Could it be that she was sleeping in her own bed at home and this was all a nightmare? She prayed it was.

  “What’s going on, Lucy?” Margaret said. “What’s this about? You talk to us.”

  No, it wasn’t a dream. Even her mother was onto it.

  “Never mind.” Victor pointed at Margaret, then swung the finger around to the rest of them. “Never mind. We’re going.”

  “Lucy, are you okay to go with him?” Jack said.

  Lucy nodded quickly, blinking. She’d changed from a confident, outgoing health-care professional to a blubbering, inhibited slave. The transformation was incredible.

  “It’s not okay, Jack,” Margaret blurted. “Look at her. Lucy, talk to us.”

  “You be quiet!” Victor clenched Lucy’s arm and began to walk, but Jack got in his path again.

  “Just cool it, Victor. Just cool it.” Jack’s breathing was exaggerated, his whole body rigid. “Let’s just be calm and talk through this.”

  “What are you saying?” Victor squinted in disgust. “We don’t even know you.”

  “We know Lucy. She’s our friend. And we’re gonna do what’s best for her.”

  Pamela could not believe this was happening.

  “Look, we’re leaving,” Victor announced. “None of this is any of your business.”

  “You made it our business when you came in here,” Margaret said. “What are you, one of those wife abusers?”

  No, Mom, don’t do that!

  “Lucy, you speak up,” Margaret said. “We can help you, but not after you leave here.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Victor said. “It’s the middle of the night. My wife was involved in a terrorist attack. She served as your personal nurse for the past five hours. And now we’re going home.” He straightened the pen in the breast pocket of his blue-and-white-checked short-sleeved shirt.

  The room fell silent. “And as for your doubts about my character,” he said, “I’ll have you know I’m one of the most respected mechanical engineers in the state—”

  “Then you should know better than to bust in here like some savage,” Margaret said. “It’s obvious Lucy’s frightened. Now why don’t you leave?”

  Margaret crossed to the phone and picked up the receiver. “Just go. You go, alone. Leave us with Lucy for a few minutes—or I’ll call security right now.”

  Victor’s eyes burned into Margaret. He looked like a caged animal, with his brown beard stubble and fiery eyes, which moved from Margaret to Pamela and Jack, and then settled on Lucy.

  “I’m gonna be at the end of the hall.” He spoke with his mouth closed like a ventriloquist, as if they weren’t going to hear him. “Don’t you dare keep me waiting more than five minutes. And, by golly …” Then he stared at her, his eyes darting back and forth as if he was trying to convey something more—a harsh warning.

  “Go on.” Margaret held up the receiver. “Leave us alone.”

  He huffed and stalked out of the room, and the rest of them breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Lucy’s shoulders jumped, and she began to cry. Margaret hung up the phone and embraced her.

  “Come here,” Pamela said from the bed.

  Margaret took Lucy to the bed, and they plunked down next to Pamela.

  Jack looked at his watch. They still hadn’t brought the baby.

  This was insane.

  “Most of the time he’s fine, a gentleman—I promise you.” Lucy shook her head. “Other times it’s like walking on eggshells. He has temper issues. I’ve pleaded with him to get counseling or see a doctor—”

  “How long?” Margaret said. “Has he always been l
ike this?”

  Lucy nodded, then dropped her head.

  “It was subtle at first. But slowly I started realizing what he was like. We’d try to talk about something serious, like money, and he’d fly off the handle. I gave it right back to him at first, until things got violent.”

  “Has he hurt you?” Jack said.

  “Not like battery or anything, but grabbing my shoulders and wrists. Pushing. Pinning me to walls. Yelling in my face.”

  “That is not okay, Lucy!” Pamela said. “You can’t be with him until that changes.”

  “She’s right,” Margaret said.

  “Did you know he was coming here?” Jack said.

  Lucy shook her head. “I told him where I was and what had happened, that I was fine after the attack and helping you. But when he’s like this, he gets jealous; he invents all kinds of things in his mind. He tracks my cell phone with GPS.”

  “Oh brother, a real wing nut,” Margaret said.

  “Mom, that’s not necessary,” Pamela said.

  “He came here because he suspected something,” Lucy said. “That I was meeting a doctor or … whatever. Who knows?”

  Pamela and Jack exchanged a look of concern.

  “It’s okay,” Lucy said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Margaret started to argue, but Lucy stood. “No, you have enough on your minds.” She rubbed her nose with a tissue. “The fact that you saw him and confirmed that I need to get help—that’s good, that’s enough. I will. I will get help. I promise you.” She looped her purse over her shoulder and started to go.

  Pamela felt completely overwhelmed.

  Margaret craned her neck toward Pamela as if to urge her to invite Lucy to stay with them. And she would do that, except for the fact that Margaret was already living in their small house, plus the new baby would be coming home—and who knew what challenges that would bring?

  “Lucy, wait,” Jack said. “You could stay with us.”

  She shook her head, walked to the bed, and squeezed Pamela’s hand. “I’ll come by first thing in the morning to see how you are and to see that baby. Maybe by then you’ll have a name for him.” She managed a smile and was off.