Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 5

  “We’re socking some funds away. Spending a lot too. She thinks she’s ready to have a baby, but I’m not there yet. When’s Pam due again?”

  “Three months, if you can believe that.”

  “Wow, that’ll be here in a blink.”

  “That’s why I need to find a decent job,” Jack said. “We’ve gone through almost all our savings.”

  “You should be glad she found work.”

  “I know, but it’s the last thing she wants to do. Rebecca and Faye are used to having her home. She wants to be a full-time mom.”

  “Hey, you do what you gotta do, right?”

  “Yeah.” Jack paused. “Rebecca and Faye just seem to have such a good foundation. I know a lot of it has to do with Pam being there for them.”

  “We all go through seasons, Jack. This isn’t going to be forever. You’re going to find something.”

  Jack studied the names Derrick had scribbled on the napkin. “Don’t be surprised when you see me in the newsroom peddling my goods.”

  Derrick laughed heartily. “We’re going to get you a job at the Gazette if it’s the last thing we do.”

  For the first time in months, Jack felt a surge of optimism. “Thanks, man. I appreciate you,” he said.

  Derrick leveled his gaze at Jack. “No, I appreciate you. You’ve been a role model for me. Don’t give up now, man. You’ve always had a powerful faith. Cling to it. And while I’ve got you all serious …” He snatched the check and laughed the contagious laugh that made Jack feel so good.

  9

  Festival Arena, October 6

  “My wife is a huge fan of yours.” Jack’s heart beat like that of a boy meeting his favorite baseball star as he got Everett Lester and his larger-than-life entourage settled into room 5-A in the bowels of Columbus Festival Arena.

  “Will your wife be here tonight?” Everett grabbed two bottles of water from the ice bucket and handed one to Karen.

  “No, she won’t,” Jack said. “She’s eight months pregnant with our third child.” Jack knew from reading about Everett and Karen that they’d not been able to have children, so he wanted to be sensitive in his response. “Plus, we didn’t know you were going to be here. I think if she’d known, she probably would have taken her chances.”

  Everett and Karen laughed, and Jack joined them.

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Karen asked.

  “No. Pam didn’t know with our two girls and didn’t want to know this time either. She says the anticipation helps her get through it.”

  Karen smiled brilliantly and addressed Everett. “You should give him something to take to his wife.”

  “Good idea—”

  “I’m sorry, can I interrupt?” Gray Harris, Everett’s longtime road manager, placed a hand on the sleeve of the musician’s denim jacket.

  “Sure. Excuse me a second.” Everett and Gray walked to the corner of the room.

  Jack noticed Sid standing at attention next to the mini hot dogs—with a mouthful. Jack scowled at him and pointed to his own mouth. Sid’s eyebrows jumped, and his big cheeks turned pink.

  “It’s a little bit scary, about the threat.” Karen crossed her arms, her dazzling gray-green eyes looking into Jack’s as if awaiting his opinion.

  “It is. But I understand SWAT’s here now. That’s good, anyway,” Jack said. “And we’re supposed to get more police in here soon.”

  “I’m kind of hoping they just cancel it, for safety’s sake.”

  Everett and Gray were talking softly but intensely.

  “All EventPros, this is Clarissa,” came the voice in Jack’s headset. “Good news. Hedgwick and a team from the Columbus PD are en route. We’re expecting them to arrive at the loading docks within thirty minutes. Do what they say. If you come across any trouble, turn it over to them and get out of the way. Over and out.”

  Jack shared the news with Karen, then took a deep breath and exhaled, somewhat relieved. As he stepped over and whispered the news to Sid, his phone vibrated. He quickly made his way into the long hallway and found a text from Pam.

  I have a surprise for you!

  Before he could reply, Clarissa’s voice came over his headset again. “All EventPros: Doors open in ten minutes, ten minutes. Remember, everyone’s eyes are peeled. If you haven’t checked to know precisely where your exits are, do it now. Contact your supervisors about anything suspicious. Over and out.”

  Once again Jack struggled with whether to let Pam know about the threat. But why worry her? If things heated up, he could contact her then. Until then, it was only words. He silently prayed that’s all it would remain.

  Way down the hall, around the corner, came a bicycle ridden by a teenage boy wearing a black ski cap, floppy flannel shirt, and fingerless gloves. He called out to Jack as he approached. “Lookin’ for 5-A. Know where it’s at?”

  “Right here. What can I do for you?” Jack said.

  The kid started his dismount, standing on one pedal, gliding, then jumping off and trotting up to Jack. “Got a delivery.” He bent over a basket behind his seat and came up with a dozen red roses. Ignoring Jack, he knocked on the door.

  “Hey, hold up …”

  As the kid opened the door, all heads snapped toward him. There was tension in the air, all right.

  Jack followed the delivery boy in, embarrassed, feeling as if he’d been run over.

  But Karen just smiled, took the flowers, and, on tiptoes, kissed Everett.

  Everyone else in the room had gone back to what they were doing, and no one besides Sid and Jack seemed to raise an eyebrow.

  Everett shrugged at Jack. “It’s a tradition.”

  “Roses play a big part in our past.” Karen smelled them with a shy grin. “I think tonight these might go home with you—for your wife.”

  “Oh my gosh, she would die,” Jack said.

  “I’ll put them in water, and they’ll be right here. I’ll have Ev write a note.” Karen looked up just as Cole was walking out the door. “Cole?”

  The boy stopped, turned toward his mom, and raised his dark eyebrows.

  “Where’re you going?” Karen said.

  “Vending machine.” He sounded a tad annoyed, probably because most everyone in the room was watching.

  “What do you need that we don’t have here?” she said.

  “Gum.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “We passed it coming in. I’ll be right back.”

  She looked at Jack. “You think it’s okay?”

  “Mom!” Cole said.

  “It’s not far, and the doors haven’t opened yet. I can walk him down there if you want,” Jack said.

  “No, it’s okay.” She looked at Cole. “Go ahead, but hurry right back.”

  Cole scampered off.

  “We told him there was a remote threat,” she said.

  “I’ll peek after him, just in case.”

  She thanked Jack, and he headed out the door.

  “Dude!” called a voice from the end of the hallway.

  Jack turned to see Derrick flashing the press credentials that hung around his neck to another EventPro, who was seated on a metal folding chair. With Derrick was a younger black guy Jack recognized from the Dispatch, who was lugging a heavy camera bag over each shoulder.

  “I wondered if you’d be here,” Jack called.

  “I’m his shadow. Of course I’m gonna be here.” Derrick walked toward Jack in his no-hurry swagger, looking good in a dark-green jacket and gray slim-fit cords. His leather satchel swung on his shoulder. “You remember Daniel Woodhouse?”

  “Yeah.” Jack reached out and shook hands. “Good to see you.”

  “You, too,” Daniel said.

  “This campaign’s wearing me out,” Derrick said. “Zenia’s fit to be
tied ’cause I’m gone all the time. Can’t imagine what it’ll be like a year from now. Sheesh.”

  “Glamour’s gone?”

  “It’s going. I mean, it’s exciting, but it’s a ton of hours.”

  “What’ve you heard about this threat?” Jack said.

  “No one’s talking. Who can I talk to? And I don’t mean that barracuda boss of yours. What’s her name, Dracula?”

  “Dracone.” Jack chuckled. “Clarissa Dracone. She’s the one, but she won’t talk. You got a pen?”

  Derrick got his phone out and thumbed the screen. “Go.”

  “Keefer O’Dell is Clarissa’s boss—he’s the president of EventPros. He’s on his way down from Cleveland now. But Reese Jenkins is top of the order. He’s the CEO of the arena. I’m not sure if he’s here or not.”

  Derrick punched in their names.

  Jack scanned the hall. “I better get going. Clarissa doesn’t like us talking to the press.”

  “I hear Everett Lester’s here,” Daniel said.

  Jack nodded toward room 5-A. “Right through that door.”

  “Dude, that is sick,” Derrick said. “Can you get us in there?”

  Jack searched the hall again, wondering what was taking Cole so long. “No way … not right now.”

  The door to Sterling’s room opened down the hall, and out came Shakespeare and a sharp girl Jack recognized as one of Sterling’s assistants. She wore a well pressed gray pinstriped suit and had a large gray radio in her hand. It looked a lot nicer than those the EventPros were issued. Shakespeare and the girl were followed by three security guys in dark suits, with Sterling right in the middle of them. Chico brought up the rear.

  Shakespeare gave a nod to Jack as they headed toward him. “We’re coming over to your place.”

  The long-legged girl in the suit took the lead, strutting down the hall as if she was leading a fire drill. “Hello, Derrick, Daniel … Excuse us.” She reached in front of Jack and opened the door to room 5-A.

  “Jenny, can I come in?” Derrick said.

  She looked back at him as if she’d smelled a skunk. “Later, maybe.”

  Shakespeare started in, and Jenny held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, Shakespeare can come in, but no other arena staff. No press.” She looked at Jack. “You, wait right here. We’re expecting Reese Jenkins, Clarissa Dracone, and the head of SWAT.” She craned her neck. “Ah, there’s Mr. Jenkins now … good. Derrick, we’ll give you an update in a few minutes. Hang tight.” She entered the room, and the door closed behind her.

  Jenkins, CEO of the arena, was lanky, tan, and distinguished. A short, plump woman with black glasses and a briefcase walked beside him. They barely acknowledged Jack as they made their way into the last-minute powwow.

  Karen stepped out of the room, looking a bit pale. “Where’s Cole?”

  Jack had forgotten. He looked down the empty hallway and was overtaken by a pang of anxiety. “I’ll go check on him.”

  “How long can it possibly take to get a pack of gum?”

  10

  Washington, DC, six weeks earlier

  “Senator Sterling, can I talk to you for one minute?” Derrick wiped the August sweat from his forehead as he followed the senator and his bulky security guard through a maze of desks and file cabinets toward his cramped office in the Hart Building in downtown Washington, DC.

  At the doorway Sterling turned to face Derrick; the security guard awkwardly ducked out of the way, straightening himself in a military stance off to the side.

  “Good grief, Whittaker, you’d think the AC wasn’t working in here the way you’re sweating,” Sterling said.

  Derrick followed the security guard’s eyes down to his own armpits, where his neatly pressed light-blue dress shirt was soaked with two huge dark blotches of perspiration. “I know, sir. I’m not used to this humidity. It’s hotter here than it is at home.”

  “Well, come in a minute.” Sterling went into his office. “Sit down, get cooled off. We Buckeyes have got to stick together.”

  “Thank you, Senator.” The only chair besides Sterling’s had stacks of papers in it.

  “Just set that stuff on the floor.” Sterling dropped his notebook atop reams of paperwork spread across his desk like a mountain range. He tossed his dark suit coat onto a small table stacked with books and journals, went around, and dropped into his big leather chair. “Do you know how much reading this job entails? I could read sunup to sundown and never get to half of it.”

  “I believe it, sir.” Derrick plunked into the chair, wiped the sweat from his upper lip, and flipped to the questions he’d jotted down during Sterling’s speech to the Senate an hour earlier. It wasn’t only the humidity that was getting to him; he still got nervous around Sterling, probably because the man could very well be the next president of the United States.

  “A lot of senators don’t read a tenth of it. You believe that?” Sterling swiveled around to his computer screen and moved the mouse. “Some have their aides do it … Oh, for goodness’ sake. Seventy-four new emails in the last ninety minutes. And I guarantee you, half of it’s hate mail.” He shoved the mouse, turned the chair toward Derrick, and leaned way back, clasping his hands behind his head.

  In the glow from his computer screen, Sterling’s thick hair, combed over in front, had the color and texture of steel wool. Although he wore an expensive suit, his wide red tie was crooked and his gray shirt wrinkled. Derrick even noticed some grayish beard stubble beneath the sides of his sharp jaw. As Sterling rolled up his sleeves, revealing dark hairy wrists, Derrick got the impression that the man’s life outside the office mirrored the mess on his desk.

  “You’ve got to keep focused on your top priorities in this work and forget the small stuff.” Sterling tossed both hands into the air. “Let it roll right off. Otherwise you’ll never get anything accomplished.”

  “Speaking of priorities, sir, I want to ask you about the proposed initiative you just talked about in Senate chambers—to get the country up to speed on the threat of an electromagnetic pulse attack.”

  Sterling opened his hands like a bomb exploding. “We’re totally unprepared for an EMP. Our power grid is vulnerable at best. Such an attack would bring the US to a standstill. It would permanently disable electronic devices. You’ve seen the show Revolution, where the power goes out?”

  Derrick nodded.

  “That’s what we’re talking about. ATMs stop working. Water and sewer systems shut down. Transportation comes to a halt. We’d be in the Dark Ages—”

  “You mentioned this threat is real, right now. It could happen …”

  “A short-range ballistic missile carrying an EMP device could destroy our critical infrastructure today.” Sterling snapped his fingers.

  “Who would this come from?”

  “Any rogue nation could create a radio-frequency device that could cause an EMP that would disrupt critical systems. Heck, Iran and North Korea have ballistic missile capabilities. We are not ready! This is the platform I’m running on, Whittaker. President Brumby is burying his head in the sand. His job is to protect the people of this country. The job ain’t gettin’ done!”

  Derrick had heard all of this in Sterling’s speeches. “What I want to know, Senator, is what it would cost to develop the system you talked about that would combat these vulnerabilities.”

  Sterling shook his head. “Millions, maybe billions. But you see, herein lies the difference between the president and me. For me, this is a hands-down, red-alert top priority. For him”—he slashed his hand low—“it’s not even on the radar. Our nation’s defense is this administration’s lowest budget priority among the major responsibilities of the federal government. His proposed plan would shrink our defense budget even more than he has already, not just slow its rate of growth as he claims. Heck, everybody knows he’s financing terrorist s
ympathizers.”

  “Where would the money come from to pay for the defense against EMPs?”

  “It’s back to my mantra. Cut. Government. Spending! We are gonna be ruthless when it comes to this. I truly believe government is four to five times larger than it should be. Some of those funds we save by reducing big government will go toward EMP defense, the National Counterterrorism Center, new defenses against cyberthreats—”

  “Okay, fine. I get that,” Derrick said.

  “Good.” Sterling leaned on his desk. “You cooled down?”

  Derrick chuckled. “Yes, I am. Thanks for letting me come in.”

  Sterling rose. “Anything else?”

  “One thing I’m curious about.” Derrick pointed to Sterling’s computer. “The hate mail. I can guess what it’s about, but I’d like to hear from you. And who does it come from?”

  “Off the record?”

  Ugh. Derrick hated when politicians did that. “I guess so …”

  Sterling walked around his desk to the door and closed it. “Off the record—it’s from liberals and leftist advocates who are blind to the fact that this country is going straight to hell in a handbasket. They’re opposed to my strict stance on illegals. They’re opposed to my plan to root out terrorists, homegrown and foreign, and cut them off at the knees—”

  “They think you’re profiling—”

  He threw his hands up. “Call it whatever you want! The fact is, if America doesn’t do something—and I mean something radical—this country will never be the same. I hope it’s not too late already. Four more years under this president will sink the ship, I can assure you of that.”

  “Can I just read something? I’d like to get your feedback on this—on the record.”

  Sterling waved his hand, walked to the window, and stared out.

  Derrick found the printout he’d tucked into his notebook. “Some of your opponents believe you’re advocating what they call ‘religious and racial profiling.’ They say, and I quote, ‘Profiling violates our country’s fundamental promise of affording every citizen equal justice under the law. Biased policing makes us less safe because it wastes resources and misleads law enforcement authorities away from focusing on real threats.’”