[Brackets]

by Sloan, David

  “Hey listen,” Tucker said, extending his hand. “Don’t try and kill yourself or anything when you lose. The security guy is already mad at us.”

  Cole grinned, a small flash of excitement lighting his face for the first time. “Same to you, man,” he said, and the two pairs separated.

  * * * *

  Tucker and his father paused for a moment when they stepped out of the concourse and into the arena. Both men had been watching games for years, cheering at games for years, playing in games for years. They had been steeped in the atmosphere of excitement unique to college ball: fanatical, joyous, anxious, and pulsing with school pride. But something was different in this game. They both felt it as soon as they saw the 20,000 seats filled with a kaleidoscope of red and white and blue and yellow. It was a shiver, a recognition that the national championship was different than just another big game. There was a grandness to it, rightfully earned from being the pinnacle of the longest and most chaotic tournament in all of American sport. For the two men, the bigness was sensed, but neither one was a poet.

  “Huh,” said Henry.

  “I know,” said Tucker.

  Tucker led the way to their seats. They were to sit in the middle of a host of University of Nebraska fans behind one of the baskets. Most of the students were already on their feet, laughing and cheering and practicing their stratagems for getting on national television. They recognized Tucker and applauded him and his father all the way to their seats, Henry waving to everybody in sight, the binoculars around his neck swaying between the two sides of his unzipped jacket. Tucker hadn’t seen his dad so energized in years.

  “This really is something,” said Henry again as he stared up at the Jumbotron, then down at the dancers and cameramen moving around on the floor. He placed a small tray of nachos on Tucker’s lap—a tray he had insisted on buying for his son—and settled in with satisfaction.

  Tucker looked across the court at the UCLA fans sitting opposite. “Hey Dad, can I see your binoculars a sec?” Henry handed them over and took back the nachos. After a minute of scanning, Tucker found Cole sitting in a seat surrounded by a group of shirtless fans whose bodies were completely painted blue and yellow. Nera was holding Cole’s hand and pointing animatedly down at the court.

  “You see Cole over there?” Henry asked. “How does he look?”

  “About the same as he looked on Saturday. Like he’s expecting a bomb to explode under his seat. Nera looks like she’s having fun, though.”

  “Well, this will be good for him,” Henry pontificated comfortably. “That boy seems like he could get out in the world more.”

  Tucker turned the binoculars up and to his right, pointing them at the row of private skyboxes that lined the upper ridge of the first level of stands. He counted over until he found the one that he thought contained Rick, Abby, and their South Korean hosts. It was difficult to make out anything behind the glass. There was a lot that he still didn’t know about Rick and Abby and their mysterious power-broker boss, and he certainly didn’t want to get dragged into a political conversation with the South Korean foreign minister. The possibilities of half-time made him nervous. But then he heard the music demanding that everyone get up off their feet, and as he saw his Nebraska Huskers come on the court and start dunking one after the other in a line, he realized that he didn’t want to think about halftime. It was time to get in the game.

  * * * *

  Across the court, Nera was explaining Cole’s psychic powers to a group of attentive undergrads. “Oh yeah, I’d say we knew that there was something special about Cole as soon as he was hired,” she lied. “We started calling him ‘The OraCole’ because he just seemed so in tune with the world.”

  “Woah,” said a skinny blue student who had the body of a twelve-year-old. “So do you, like, guess the stock market and stuff?”

  “Uh, no, it’s just, you know, basketball and real estate things.” Cole leaned closer to Nera. “You shouldn’t talk me up so much. You know I’m probably going to lose this thing.”

  Nera put her finger over his mouth. “You predicted every single winner of every game in the tournament, Cole. I think you can start to enjoy that a little.” Cole shook his head.

  “Luck does not hold out this long.”

  “If luck had an expiration date, it wouldn’t really be luck. Come on, embrace this. We are winning this thing!” She turned around to the crowd and raised her voice. “Am I right? We are winning this championship!” Fans around them started cheering “U-C-L-A!” and Cole looked on, impressed all over again with this woman who had all the social talents he lacked. He could even ignore, for a moment, his escalating feelings of discomfort at how much attention she was drawing to him.

  The main lights dimmed as flashbulbs began to sizzle around the arena. On the Jumbotron, a loud, explosive homage to the journey of both teams climaxed with a spotlight on each team’s bench. The players lined up for the announcement of each team’s starting five. Nera squeezed Cole’s hand, her whole face joyful, and Cole smiled. Fun, he thought. This is fun. This is a couple of hours of fun in a very safe place, and then life goes back to normal. Better than normal.

  The pregame spectacle exploded and the pyrotechnics boomed. When the lights returned and the court was made ready for tip-off, the crowd stayed on its feet and kept the noise level high. There was no way for Cole to notice a cheap plastic basketball, the size of a grapefruit, bouncing erratically down the stairs past his row. It was finally picked up by someone with a fake yellow afro several rows down.

  “Cole Kaman?” the man called. Other fans pointed up in his direction. “Cole Kaman?” He came closer, and Cole heard. The painted man tossed him the ball. “You drop this?”

  Surprised, Cole caught the ball and looked at it. His name was written out very clearly with permanent marker, the “K” oddly warped over a long cut which ran along half of the rubber seam. Something rattled inside the ball. He slipped his fingernail into the seam and opened it like an Easter Egg. There was a piece of paper inside, folded into a tight square, clearly torn from the program booklet that was being given away at the arena entrances. He looked around above the crowd, scanning for a set of glasses and a goatee, but saw no one recognizable as his stalker. He looked over at Nera, who was distracted by a conversation with the person sitting on her other side. Cole shoved the ball and note in his pocket.

  “Hey, I’ll be right back,” he said to Nera, making sure not to meet her eyes.

  “Where are you going? The game is starting right now!” she called to his back.

  “Bathroom,” he said. “Just stay here and don’t move till I get back.”

  “Well, hurry up!”

  Cole half-nodded and ran up the steps to the tunnel entrance. He looked around to make sure that nobody was watching him, but all eyes were on the court. Hands shaking, he pulled the note from his pocket and unfolded it. The words were scratched out in black marker.

  Just like this ball,

  False prophets will fall.

  I am here, and I will call.

  For just a moment, Cole wanted to throw up. He crumpled the note and stuffed it back in his pocket, then let himself lean his head against the cool tunnel wall. In the stadium, the crowd erupted—someone had made the game’s first basket. Now what? Cole mulled. He wanted to just ignore the note. It wasn’t signed by Ichabod; he hadn’t actually seen him. But who else could it be? No, Ichabod was somewhere in the arena, watching them, moving at will around their section. The security guards—they must have seen him. He stood up from the wall to go ask.

  “Excuse me, are you Cole Kaman?” asked an official-sounding, gravelly voice. Cole turned to see a man in a blue jacket with a tag on it. The man’s eyes observed him sternly from beneath the rim of a baseball cap.

  “Yes?”

  The man pulled out a badge from his pocket and flashed it quickly at Cole. “I’m Deputy Federal Marshall Bell. I was just coming down to find you. We have received a tip that Ichabod i
s in the arena.”

  “Did you see him?” Cole tried to keep his voice low, but his nervousness betrayed him. The security guard at the tunnel’s entrance glanced at them but did nothing.

  Marshall Bell shook his head. “No, this is a tip we got from one of the scalpers outside. He said a big man with a goatee and glasses bought a ticket off of him just before the game was about to start. The scalper said that the man made some comment about ‘a reckoning’ that sounded like possible terrorism, so he told a cop. When the cop showed him the sketch of Ichabod, it was a positive ID. The seat number that the scalper gave us is empty, so we’re doing a search throughout the arena as we speak. Based on Ichabod’s description, he should be relatively easy to spot, though he’s proven evasive in the past.”

  Cole dug out the basketball and note and handed them over. “Actually, I was just on my way to tell somebody about this. This ball rolled down the steps just a minute ago. The note looks like what Ichabod sent me last time.”

  Marshall Bell took in the note with one quick glance, then looked closer at the writing on the ball. “This is him,” he confirmed.

  “So…what’s going to happen? Do we all have to leave? I mean, evacuate?” Cole asked nervously. “I mean, he may try something again, right? What if he sets the building on fire with all these people inside?”

  The Marshall shook his head and pointed to Ichabod’s note. “I don’t think so. See this line right here? False prophets will fall. That’s prophets, plural. He’s not out for arson tonight. Our thinking right now is that he’s specifically here for you and Mr. Barnes.”

  “Tucker?”

  “Yes. Ichabod’s M.O. is going after people or groups that he thinks are forces of evil. The working theory right now is that his initial arson attempts were meant to draw out that evil from the world, smoke ‘em out. In his head, your perfect bracket is evidence that you are the evil one he’s been looking for. If that’s true, then it stands to reason that he will come after Tucker also.”

  “What about the people with us? Is he going to target them, too?”

  The man scratched his beard.

  “There’s no way to know. What we need to do now is have you keep a low profile. And we need you and Mr. Barnes on board with us. Can you get in touch with him? Do you have his phone number?”

  “Actually, we’re supposed to do a stunt during a time-out in a few minutes. We’re supposed to meet out at half-court. Should we not do it?”

  “No, this is good. Tell Mr. Barnes to meet us at the Greene Turtle Restaurant on the east end of the building immediately after you do your thing. We’ll make a plan. But for now, just remain calm. Our guess is that Ichabod probably won’t make a move until the end of the game, when he knows which bracket is perfect.”

  “You mean, he’s going to attack the winner?”

  “Mr. Kaman, relax. We’ll find him before the end of the game. Don’t worry.”

  Cole nodded and took a deep breath. For a moment, he looked over the Marshall’s shoulder at the escalators going down to the exits. “Hey, what if I just left?” Cole said in a rush, his heart pounding. “Could I just leave and make him follow me? Wouldn’t that keep everyone safer?”

  The Marshall took a step forward, forcing Cole to back away from the concourse. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Mr. Kaman. If you leave, we don’t know what he’ll do. He might go after you, but he might panic and do something drastic in the arena. No. You stay and wait until this all plays out. Understand?”

  Cole nodded again, waited for an uncomfortable moment, and returned to his seat meekly.

  The Marshall watched him go all the way back down to his seat, then checked the time and took out his phone. As he walked briskly down the concourse, phone to ear, he swerved toward the closest trash can and tossed in the basketball and torn piece of paper. One hand now free, he took out a handful of peanuts from his pocket and shoved them in his mouth.

  * * * *

  With ten minutes to go in the first half, Tucker left his dad and made his way down to the closest corner entrance to the court, showing his credentials at several points. A floor coordinator with a walkie-talkie and a pencil behind his ear was waiting for him.

  “Good,” said the coordinator when Tucker approached. “Okay, the other one is already waiting on the opposite side, so we’ll just stay here until the next full time-out. You remember what you’ll be doing?”

  Tucker nodded.

  “Good. Big night tonight. How about you? Been enjoying the game? Nice looking cheerleaders you’ve got out there.”

  Tucker smiled in agreement, but stopped smiling a couple of minutes later when he noticed that the man was still staring at the cheerleaders. A courtside view of the biggest game in college basketball was totally wasted on this guy.

  The time-out was called with six minutes to go in the half. As soon as the players hustled to their benches, Tucker jogged out to the middle of the court, waving to everybody in the stands. He was flanked by a producer with a microphone and a cameraman. Walking in quickly from the opposite side was Cole.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” the announcer boomed as the two men met at half court and shook hands. “Out of ten million brackets entered in the Tournament Challenge this year, only two have made it to the big game. Please welcome Cole Kaman and Tucker Barnes!”

  Tucker thrust both fists up in the air, turning around to take in the cheers coming from every side. Cole put a hand up and waved. He was enjoying it more than he would admit.

  The announcer continued. “Their predictions have been impressive, but now, they are going head to head in the ultimate psychological game of prediction: paper, rock, scissors!”

  The crowd laughed and cheered appreciatively, and the producer positioned Tucker and Cole to face each other at center court. The cameraman zoomed in on their hands and sent the image of their extended fists to the Jumbotron.

  “Are you ready?” the producer roared like a revving engine. Both men nodded.

  “Remember, best two out of three. And…1….2….3…shoot!” Cole flashed paper, and Tucker, with scissors, yelled in triumph and snipped Cole’s fingers victoriously.

  “That’s one for Tucker Barnes. Here we go with round two...1…2…3…shoot!” Tucker nearly flinched, but showed rock. Cole flashed paper again.

  “And one for Cole Kaman!” The crowd cheered and called out suggestions in an incoherent roar. Tucker leaned in to focus. There’s no way he puts out paper three times…

  “And round three for the win! Ready…1…2…3…shoot!” Tucker produced rock. To his instant humiliation, he saw Cole’s long, flat hand. Paper.

  “Paper beats rock, and Cole Kaman wins!” The UCLA fans began a chant of Cole’s name while the Nebraska fans booed. Tucker threw back his head in frustration, only partly for the Jumbotron shot. He knew it didn’t matter. But still.

  Cole gave another polite wave, allowing himself to enjoy the victory a bit, then stepped forward to shake Tucker’s hand. As the announcer gave a testimonial about the insurance company that had sponsored that event, Cole leaned in, smiling, and startled Tucker by saying, “Hey, we have a big problem. Meet me by the Greene Turtle restaurant right now. It’s about Ichabod.”

  Tucker’s stomach tightened, but he nodded that he understood and jogged off while the players made themselves ready to get back on the court. As Tucker approached his seat, Henry was shaking his head in mock shame.

  “Son, what in the world were you thinking? Rock two times in a row?”

  Tucker didn’t slow down and barely made eye contact with his dad as he passed by. “Hey Dad, I gotta go talk to a friend real quick. I’ll be back before the half.”

  “Okay, but we’re not through with this conversation, young man. We need to have a serious talk about what they’re teaching you at school.”

  “You got me, Dad, I’ve been skipping out on the paper-rock-scissors lecture,” Tucker called back. Pausing at the top of the tier to take one long look at the resumed game actio
n, Tucker sighed in frustration and went out into the concourse. He found the entrance to the Greene Turtle and saw Cole standing next to a man with a blue jacket.

  “Tucker Barnes? I’m Deputy Federal Marshall Bell. Have a seat.” Tucker sat. The Marshall explained the situation.

  Tucker was incredulous. “How’d he get in? How’d he get past security? Isn’t the guy like a giant? How is it that no one has seen him?”

  Bell’s retort was ice cold. “There are fifty thousand people here. We are doing our best.”

  “Could you show him the basketball?” Cole suggested, trying to ease the tension.

  Bell didn’t flinch. “No, I already gave that to Forensics.”

  “So what are we supposed to do if we see him?” Tucker asked more amenably. He wanted to get this conversation over with and get back to his seat as quickly as possible.

  “Don’t make a scene, just move away quietly. I’ll have people watching both of you, and if something looks wrong, they’ll move in. Do you have any other friends in the stands? Someone you could run to if the need arose?”

  “We know people in the Potomac Skybox,” said Tucker. “We were going up there at halftime.”

  Marshall Bell’s eyes registered brief surprise. “The Potomac? Where the South Korean delegation is?” He didn’t so much ask as state.

  “Yeah. That should be safe, right? They have security.”

  Bell paused, as if calculating. “Sure. That could work. But listen, I want you to do this. Go for halftime, but then stay for an extra ten minutes if they’ll let you. We can only assume that Ichabod will be watching your seats, and if you don’t show, he might make a move that gets him noticed. It’s a risk, as I explained to Mr. Kaman, but it might be the thing we need to try if we still haven’t found him.”

  The two young men nodded their compliance.

  “Okay, let’s get you back to the game. You have cell phones?” Two more nods. “Give me your numbers so I can text you any updates. We’re going to find this guy and shut him down, so just stay where you are and try to enjoy the game.”