Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 9

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take me to Festival Arena Friday night? I bet Jack could get us backstage,” Margaret said.

  This must’ve been the fourth time she’d mentioned it.

  “I told you, he can’t do stuff like that while he’s working, Mom. They’re strict.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m just teasing you. I would never ask you to go out at night in your condition.”

  Pamela had secretly contemplated surprising her mother and taking her and the girls to see Senator Sterling at the rally. It was free. She knew her mom would love it. And it could be an educational field trip for the girls.

  But she was so tired at night after working all day. She knew she wouldn’t feel up to it, especially making the long walk from the parking lot to the venue and back again late at night. Plus, it was getting colder, and it was getting dark so early. She just knew she wouldn’t want to make the thirty-minute drive into the city. And what if, by chance, she went into labor? She just wanted to be close to home.

  “Where are the girls, anyway?” Margaret said. “I haven’t seen them all day.”

  Pamela’s heart sank. She paused—longer than she meant to. “At piano lessons.”

  “Shouldn’t they be home by now?”

  Miscues like this came out of the blue. And they were happening more frequently. Pamela was learning to just get on the bus with her mother and ride.

  “I’ll get them in about thirty minutes. You can go with me if you want.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her mom had finished on the computer and was standing at the window, staring into the backyard. “What about Jack? What time does he get home?”

  “He’s running errands, remember?” Pamela said. “I need to start thinking about dinner.”

  Margaret turned around and faced Pamela with her arms crossed. “It’s been eight months since I’ve had a drink.”

  Okay … shifting gears.

  “Eight months—today?” Pamela said.

  Her mom nodded. “I don’t miss it. I really don’t.”

  “You should be so proud, Mom. Eight months. Wow.”

  “My clothes don’t smell anymore. My breath doesn’t reek. And I’ve saved a whole bunch of money. What a monkey off my back. A big part of it’s been the girls. Reading to them. Helping with homework. Just talking. It’s been like therapy.”

  “They love having you here.”

  She smiled and nodded, but creases formed on her brow. Her head dropped.

  Pamela went to her.

  “I just hate getting old,” Margaret whimpered. “I want to be able to take care of myself. I know I … I get a little off at times. It’s scary.”

  Pamela rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “I know, but you’re doing great, Mom. You’re in good shape. You’re still very independent.”

  But Pamela did question—even doubt—whether her mother would be safe living alone again. Margaret was on the waiting list at an assisted-living home in Cleveland where several of her friends resided. But Pamela couldn’t imagine leaving her up there alone.

  “Okay.” Margaret sniffed and threw her shoulders back. “Enough of this pity party. I’ve got things to do in the nursery.” She headed for the stairs.

  “Like what?”

  The phone rang.

  “I’m in the middle of building that mobile thing that hangs over the crib.”

  “Oh yeah.” The phone wasn’t in its cradle, so Pamela pressed the Page button.

  “Speaking of the crib, that thing is a relic,” Margaret said. “Are you sure you don’t need something newer? They’re probably much safer these days.”

  “No, Mom. It’s fine.” Pamela found the phone buried between the seat cushions on the couch and answered it.

  “Hello, is this Mrs. Crittendon?”

  “Who’s calling?” Pamela said.

  “My name is Alan Bingham, with Triple A Credit. I’m calling for Mr. Jack Crittendon. Is he in, please?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Pamela spoke in as kind a tone as she could muster. “Can you take us off of your call list, please?”

  “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t communicate clearly. This is not any kind of telemarketing. I am returning Mr. Crittendon’s call. He contacted me about having Triple A help consolidate his debts.”

  Pamela felt the wind go out of her. She sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I can call back if he’s not home …”

  Margaret had paused at the steps, listening.

  “Or you can just tell him Alan called from Triple A Credit.”

  Pamela mumbled something and turned the phone off in a daze.

  “Who was that?” Margaret said.

  “Someone for Jack …”

  “Oh … okay.” Margaret started up the steps.

  “Mom, wait … can you come here? I need to talk to you.”

  17

  Festival Arena, October 6

  Shakespeare was huffing by the time he got back to room 5-A, lugging a heavy backpack over his shoulder. Clarissa’s jaw clenched when she saw it, but she ignored it and quickly explained to him that she’d sent Jack upstairs with Lester’s party.

  “Once we hear they’re situated, you’re moving out with Sterling,” she said. “I want you up there as fast as possible. I don’t like this at all.”

  “What about doors?” Shakespeare looked at his watch.

  “We moved it to seven o’clock. Sterling’s furious.”

  “It’s almost seven now.”

  “He wants those people in here,” Clarissa said.

  “That guy’s got some screws missing. We need to wait.”

  Two journalists came jogging down the hall—the ones Jenny had called Derrick and Daniel.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Clarissa said.

  Derrick nodded at the door to 5-A. “We’re covering Sterling … for the Gazette.” He held up his plastic photo ID, and Daniel did the same.

  “I know who you are, but this is—”

  “It’s okay.” Jenny King stepped into the hallway with her arms crossed and a clipboard against her chest. “I promised them a few minutes with the senator.” She motioned to Derrick and Daniel. “Come in, gentlemen.”

  They passed into the room, and Jenny leaned toward Clarissa. “Senator Sterling insists the doors open at seven.”

  As Jenny slipped back into 5-A, Lieutenant Wolfski stepped out. He glanced at Shakespeare and squared up to Clarissa.

  “My men found one of your guy’s radios in the Sky Zone.” His tone was low and serious. “No sign of your people yet.”

  “Where was the radio?” Shakespeare asked.

  Wolfski continued looking at Clarissa. “In the small stairwell leading to the roof.”

  “These guys are in the building. You know that, don’t you?” Shakespeare said.

  “My men are still canvassing the Sky Zone.” Wolfski continued to address Clarissa. He obviously didn’t need or want Shakespeare’s opinion.

  “Sir, if I may …” Shakespeare waited for Wolfski to face him. Shakespeare didn’t want to say the words he was thinking, that it was a mistake sending Lester and Sterling to the club level. So he spun it. “There are more exit points for the senator and Everett Lester down here.”

  Wolfski’s eyes widened. “More exit points mean more entry points—”

  “But entry points don’t matter if the bad guys are already in the building.” Shakespeare felt the heat rising in his face. “Two EventPros are missing. That’s a fact. Until they’re accounted for, don’t you think this building should be cleared of all civilians?”

  Wolfski stepped closer to Shakespeare, his boots pointing outward like a penguin’s feet, his thick hands and big thumbs hooked on to his leather utility belt. “Mister”—he squinted at the ID badge hanging around
Brian’s neck—“Shakespeare.” He smirked. “The fact that civilians are in the building was not our idea, but we’re going to keep them safe. Let us finish our sweep in the Sky Zone and make an assessment at that time. Would that meet your approval?”

  Smart aleck.

  “It would,” Shakespeare said. “As long as you postpone doors at least another fifteen minutes, to quarter past.”

  Wolfski blinked slowly. He had the wide, wet mouth of a slobbery bulldog and one of those five o’clock shadows that seemed always present, probably even right after he shaved.

  “I’m about to discuss that with the senator,” he said.

  With a burst of static, Shakespeare’s radio came to life. “This is Jack to Clarissa. Everett Lester and his party are safely in suite 213. I’m stationed outside the door. Over.”

  Clarissa’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Ten-four. Over.” She nodded to Shakespeare. “Okay. Get the senator and his party to suite 227—ASAP. Keep me posted.”

  Shakespeare shot Wolfski one last glance and ducked into room 5-A.

  Up on the plush club level, with its recessed lighting and expensive glass, chrome, and wood finish, a person could be fooled into thinking there was nothing at all going on at the arena that night.

  Several of the familiar black-clad caterers hurried along the wide, cool concourse, pushing silver food carts and talking on radios. The suite Jack had just opened for Everett Lester had been fully stocked with a line of hot entrees in silver warming trays, plus a variety of snacks and beverages.

  Jack got out his phone to call Pam. Her cell rang and rang, and then her voice mail came on.

  Jack shook the phone. What good were cell phones if people didn’t answer them!

  Now he was officially worried.

  The only positive thing he had to cling to was the text she’d sent him earlier. He punched his messages and read it again.

  I have a surprise for you!

  Okay … whom else could he call to find out what on earth was going on?

  Just then, his phone vibrated once.

  A text message … from Pam!

  His heart raced as he opened it.

  What section are you in?

  18

  Trenton City, one day earlier

  It was a brisk fall afternoon, and the red traffic light above Pamela’s car in downtown Trenton City swayed in the wind. Leaves danced across the street, and people pinched their coats tight around their necks and pulled their hats and scarves close as they walked and jogged across the intersection.

  She had gotten to work early that morning so she could break away in the afternoon to get to the bank. She phoned her mom to make sure the girls had made it home from the bus stop safely. Margaret said they were doing homework and she was ironing.

  Before she hung up, Pamela said, “Now, Mom, I don’t want you vegging out on that computer the whole time I’m gone.” It was like having another child. Sometimes she wished they’d never taught her how to use the computer. “And be sure to unplug the iron when you’re done with it.”

  The light changed and Pamela drove, resting a hand on her tummy, feeling the baby’s elbow or a knee. Jack was going to be upset when he learned that she had discussed their financial situation with Margaret. She dreaded telling him. But it was a conversation she had already put off too long.

  She wheeled the red Accord into the bank parking lot, feeling more alert and energetic than she had in days. Bring on this baby, she thought. Last night she’d slept better than she had in weeks, months maybe. Nine hours straight without waking. She attributed it to the chamomile tea Jack had prepared for her before bed. Of course, Shakespeare had suggested it, and Jack had made a special trip to buy some.

  She entered the bank, got a deposit slip, and found herself standing at the desk, staring at the check her mother had written: Pamela Crittendon, $5,000.

  Pamela’s father had worked hard for that money, and the sad thing was, it wouldn’t go far. She and Jack had burned through virtually all of their savings in the past year, and it wasn’t as if they were eating out every night or buying new clothes at Nordstrom. They ate at home most of the time, and she shopped at secondhand stores for many of the girls’ clothes.

  Both cars were paid off. But they had a mortgage and bills—and taxes were higher than Pamela could ever recall. Another good reason to vote for Martin Sterling. The dirty SUV she’d parked behind had featured a crooked bumper sticker: Sterling for President—Sterling for America! She hoped it was foreshadowing.

  She got in line to make the deposit, thinking how down Jack had been. The financial stress was getting to him. Although he might think Pamela was disappointed in him, it wasn’t true. She knew he was trying everything within his power to find a good job.

  It was up to God.

  Was she frustrated with God?

  She thought about it for a moment and concluded maybe she was.

  He could produce a job. On a silver platter. In a snap.

  Why was he putting them through this?

  Yet another trial by fire.

  Like a battleship at war, their marriage had taken some jarring hits.

  First it was the whole home-invasion nightmare with Granger Meade. Then her dad passing away. Then Jack and Derrick’s frightening investigation of the crooks at Demler-Vargus. Now her mom was living with them, and all of the money they’d saved for weddings and college educations was gone. And her mom was struggling with dementia.

  Frankly, it had been excruciating for Pamela to go from being a stay-at-home mom to a full-time career person. She gave 100 percent of herself at work and didn’t have much energy or patience left by the time she got home.

  She finished her transaction, put the receipt in her purse, dug for her keys—and felt a contraction.

  “Pam?”

  She looked up and felt her mouth drop open. “Jeanie?”

  Her friend Jeanie Sorenson embraced her, then stepped back, holding Pamela’s hands and looking wide-eyed at her tummy. “Look at you! I had no idea you were expecting!”

  Pamela nodded. “One more month. And right now …” She paused with a hand on her lower back, concentrating on breathing through the pain. “… I’m having a Braxton-Hicks.”

  Jeanie’s mouth and eyes were open wide. “Are you kidding me? You’re having a contraction right now?”

  Pamela nodded, trying to smile. “I’m sure it’s Braxton-Hicks. I’ve been having them for the past week.”

  “So is it a girl or a boy?”

  “Don’t know!”

  “That’s right, you never wanted to know.”

  “Okay, okay, this is getting better. Getting better. Whew.”

  “Are you sure it’s not the real thing?”

  Pamela shook her head. “Not yet. But soon, I hope. I’m ready.”

  “Well, how is everything in your world, girl?”

  Jeanie and Pamela had met in college and ended up sharing a house with two other girls their junior and senior year’s. Jeanie’s husband was a dentist in Columbus, and they lived in one of the enormous nineteenth-century homes approaching the square in downtown Trenton City. Needless to say, Pamela did not mention their financial woes when catching her up to speed, but she did tell her she was back in the workforce.

  “Why haven’t we gotten together?” Jeanie said.

  In truth, it was because Jack and Jeanie’s husband, Quinton, never hit it off. Quinton was a prep schooler, Ivy Leaguer, and country clubber. Jack was a public schooler, attended a state university, and got along better with the guys at the paper than those in suits and high-rises. Otherwise, Pamela would have loved spending more time with Jeanie. They each had two children and a lot in common, including their faith.

  “What have you been up to? You look fantastic,” Pamela said.

  Jeanie shook her shiny
highlighted auburn hair over her shoulder and held up a red pouch. Pamela couldn’t help but notice her heavy, expensive-looking bracelets, rings, and glossy french manicure.

  Jeanie looked around the bank lobby and leaned in close. “I’m working with Martin Sterling. These are deposits. We’ve been supporting him for, oh gosh, almost two years. Right now it’s just crazy.”

  “That is so funny. Jack just met him!”

  “Really? Where?”

  “He was …” Oops. She really didn’t want Jeanie to know Jack was out of work. “He ran into him at the Gazette … when he was meeting a friend. Do you know Derrick Whittaker?”

  “Sure! I mean, I don’t know him as a friend, but he’s covering Martin’s campaign.”

  Oh, she and the senator were on a first-name basis … Perhaps Quinton was rubbing off on her. Pamela hoped not.

  “He gave Jack an autographed picture to give to my mom, and she freaked out. She’s a huge fan.”

  “Are you guys going to the rally at the arena?”

  Pamela deflated. “No, I wish we could …” Again, she was dodging truths that she really didn’t want to share. “I thought about taking Mom and the girls, but”—she glanced at her huge tummy—“I don’t want to be too far from home. Plus, it’s a lot of walking.”

  “I’ll take you! Quinton’s out of town—teaching at some dental convention—so I’m taking the kids.” Jeanie bounced and bubbled with enthusiasm. “I can pick you guys up. It’s practically on the way!”

  Pamela shook her head. “That is so nice of you, but no, it’s too much to ask. Plus, really, I don’t know if I’d be up to it.” She rested a hand on her tummy, doing a circular motion, again feeling an elbow or a knee or a heel.

  Jeanie’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned in and gave Pamela a sneaky grin. “What if I told you Everett Lester’s going to be there?” she whispered.

  “What?” Pamela was floored and instantly taken back to the Everett Lester concert she and Jeanie attended together at Blossom Music Center, an outdoor amphitheater near Akron, not long after the bad-boy rocker had become a Christian.