by J C Lane
“I know where Mr. Hall’s office is.”
“Building policy. A security officer needs to be with you at all times, unless you’re with another employee.”
Robert didn’t punch the wall, partly because he would lose his privileges, and partly because he didn’t want to break his hand.
“Follow Duane, please,” the woman said again. “Mr. Hall is expecting you. Have a nice visit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Robert made himself smile. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your work.”
She grunted and disappeared into the box office.
Robert’s hand shook, and sweat coated his body. He had to get into the arena. Tyrese would be there any minute. If Robert didn’t beat him there…
But the guard stood like a rock at the end of the hall, and Mr. Hall was waiting.
Robert took deliberate steps toward Duane, forcing himself to walk slowly, like any rich, privileged kid would do. When he reached the guard he waited for him to show the way. They took an elevator to the top floor, Robert ticking off the seconds as they traveled. Those seconds turned into minutes as they reached the general manager’s lobby.
The mom-aged woman at the reception desk smiled. “Hello, Robert. It’s good to see you again.”
Robert smiled like he remembered her, which he really didn’t. She was just another older woman who wanted something he couldn’t give. He repressed a shudder, but let his eyes glide over the nameplate on her desk. Yvonne Page.
“Mr. Hall is on a phone call right now,” Yvonne said. “He also has someone with him, but if you want to wait here, he’ll be done with that meeting soon. He didn’t know you were coming, you see.”
“I know, it’s not his fault. I just happened to be in town. Dad always likes it when we can touch base with Mr. Hall.”
“Of course. How thoughtful of you. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
Robert glanced at his watch, and tried not to respond to the fact that Tyrese had already gotten his last location transmission seven minutes ago, and was probably downstairs. “Actually, if it’s not too much trouble, what I’d really like to do is shoot some baskets in the arena while I wait. You think he would mind?”
“Of course not. There’s nothing going on in there right now. Here.” She went to a closet and pulled out a Bulls basketball. “Take this. Make yourself at home.” Their fingers touched as she gave him the ball, and she held on, stepping closer. “Duane can take you down and help with whatever you need. There are some safety lights on, but if you need more, he knows where to access those.”
“Thank you. Should I come up in a half hour or so?”
“No need. I’ll page Duane, let him know when Mr. Hall is ready for you. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.” He gave her one of the smiles older women always liked. “Thanks, Ms. Page.”
She went pink. “Please, call me Yvonne.”
Robert gagged. “Thank you, Yvonne.”
She smiled, and he made himself turn casually toward the elevator. Once the doors had closed behind them, Robert glanced at Duane. Duane wasn’t showing any emotion, but Robert was sure he’d seen that disgusting display back in the office. Of course it wasn’t his place to say anything, and he didn’t.
Robert leaned against the mirrored wall, ball tucked casually under his arm, and took measure of Duane while they rode the elevator. He could study the guard without looking directly at him, since their reflections were all around. Duane kept his eyes straight ahead. He was about Robert’s height, with a shaved head, a stony face, and skin the same color as “glorious” Tyrese’s. He wore a nightstick and a gun, had a radio attached to his pocket, and his arms were about as big around as Robert’s thighs. Robert wondered if he also carried a Taser. Wouldn’t surprise him. The nightstick hung loose in a halter, but the gun was snapped in.
They rode in silence to the arena level, and Robert stepped out of the elevator first, as Duane would expect him, or any special visitor, to do. But when they got to the arena, Robert held back as Duane unlocked the door and stepped in to check on the lights. Robert slid in behind him, closed the door quietly, and set his basketball on the ground. Duane’s back was to him. As the guard reached to flip on the lights, Robert grabbed the nightstick from its halter and smashed it into the back of Duane’s skull. Duane hung there for a moment before his knees buckled. Robert caught him, staggering under his massive weight, and dropped him as gently as he could onto the ground. He didn’t care if the guard hit his head. He just didn’t want to make any more noise than necessary, since there was a good chance Tyrese was already inside. Once the guard lay on the ground, Robert dropped to his hands and knees, grabbed the guard’s ankles, and slid him into a darkened row. He didn’t want someone to glance in and see the big man lying there. Especially since it seemed Robert had crushed his skull. No pulse. No breathing. Oh, well.
As soon as the guard was shoved into the footwell between rows 22 and 23, Robert crouched behind the seats and checked his watch.
You are 125 feet from your destination.
Robert swallowed his frustration. He’d been hoping that getting in the door would do the trick, but it appeared he would have to actually be on the court for the Game to return to his control. He stopped breathing for a few moments, listening for all he was worth. If Tyrese was in there, he had to have heard the attack, or have seen the door open and close. But Robert heard nothing. In fact, it was one of those silences so intense it felt like it was crawling into his ears. That gigantic, empty space, which could seat over twenty thousand, all of it focused on Robert.
His wrist vibrated with his three forty-five transmission, and a shot of panic went through him. Tyrese, whether he was in the arena or not, would now know that Robert had arrived at Home Base. There was no turning back.
Tyrese
The inner door in the United Center lobby was just closing as Tyrese arrived, so he went to the box office. A woman took a seat behind the counter, but didn’t return Tyrese’s smile, so he went back to his usual blank expression. “Any chance I could get in to see the arena?”
“You got a ticket?”
“No.”
“You part of a tour group?”
“No.”
“Class trip?”
“No.”
“Then, sorry, you’re out of luck.”
It was good the bulletproof glass was there, or he would’ve been tempted to strangle her with the one good hand he had left.
“Can I buy a ticket?”
“No game today.”
“Can I buy a ticket to just see inside the arena? I’m a huge Bulls fan.”
She sucked on her teeth while she shook her head. “No can do. Only recognized tour groups.”
“Are there any coming today?”
“Nope.”
“Is there a tour guide I could talk to?”
“You could check the Yellow Pages.”
Like people still checked the Yellow Pages.
“I’m going to IU next year on a basketball scholarship.”
She cracked her gum. “Good for you. Still can’t get in.”
“Well, what can I do?”
“Come back another day with a ticket.”
He restrained himself from punching the window, and looked around the box office and the lobby. No one else in sight.
“Anything else I can help you with?” the woman asked.
Tyrese stalked out the front door before he said or did something to get him thrown out. He stood in the shadow of a pillar and tried to focus, staring at the Michael Jordan statue. The over-the-counter pills he’d bought weren’t doing the trick, even though he’d downed four at once. He leaned against the building’s cool bricks and watched traffic. No Robert. At least, not out there. He’d probably already talked his way inside, being the charming, slippery boy f
rom money. Robert made it no secret that he—well, his father—was friends with the general manager, and had visited him at the center many times, sitting in the GM’s boxes on more than one occasion. Who was Tyrese kidding? He didn’t have a chance. He waited for the tingle on his wrist telling him Robert had made it Home, and that Tyrese was once again being chased down, had once again become prey.
He pushed himself off the wall. That was not going to happen. He was not going to let a talentless rich boy steal his life. Or his dream. Tyrese saluted the Jordan statue and jogged around the building—the huge, gigantic, endless building—until he came to some of those silver doors with no handles that only opened from the inside. No go. The next several sets were locked entrance doors with darkened interiors and no way to pick the lock. Finally, he found what must have been the players’ entrance.
An old man sat at a station just inside the door. He could have been Tyrese’s grandpa. Or great-grandpa. Dark and wrinkled like a dried prune. Tyrese wasn’t sure if that would help him or hurt him in his quest to get inside.
Tyrese pushed the buzzer and the man looked up. Tyrese waved at him, and an intercom clicked to life.
“Help you?”
“Could I come in and talk to you for a minute?”
The man walked up to the door. Tyrese slouched, and tried not to look intimidating.
“Hello, son.” The man smiled through the glass. “I’d say you a big one, because you probably hear that a lot where you come from, but when it comes to this building you have to be Moses Malone size in order for me to call you big.”
“I can be medium,” Tyrese said.
“What you do to your arm?”
“Somebody hit me with a crowbar.”
The man blinked. “Now that wasn’t very nice.”
“Sure wasn’t.”
“What can I do for you?” He sounded like he actually meant it, unlike that stupid woman in the box office.
Tyrese obviously couldn’t tell him the truth, partly because it sounded crazy, and partly because it could get the old man killed. So he settled for something else that was true.
“I’ve always wanted to see the arena, never have. I’ll be playing college ball next year, so maybe I’ll get to see it then, but it’s been one of those dreams that’s never happened.”
“You never seen a game?”
“Couldn’t afford it.”
The old man squinted up at him. “You have some ID?”
“Sorry, man. Crowbar guy.”
“How’d he overpower someone your size? Even if you ain’t big in here, you big out there.”
“More than one of them. Three crazy hillbillies.”
The man shook his head. “You don’t look so good, you know. The pain. You get it taken care of?”
“Been to the hospital this morning. I’ll be all right.”
The man shook his head again. “I ain’t supposed to let you in without ID.”
Tyrese deflated, and let the man see it. “Just thought I’d try.”
The man chuckled and unlocked the door. When Tyrese was inside, the man grinned. “Just ’cause I ain’t supposed to don’t mean I won’t. You not carrying anything bad?”
Tyrese thought of his smartwatch, but rejected it as a non-weapon. Everybody carried phones, right? “Nothing but some cash in my pocket.” He held out his arms. “You can frisk me if you want.”
The old man took him up on the offer, swishing his hands along his sides, up and down his legs, around his back, reminding Tyrese of crazy Regina, who’d frisked him a lifetime ago, with a different demeanor. “We got a metal detector, too,” the old man said. “You’ll have to go through that.”
“No problem.”
“Just want to see the arena?”
“That’s all.”
“Come on.”
The man shuffled along the hallway lined with photographs. “That there’s Horace Grant. Best power forward ever come through Chicago, you ask me. Others might say Bob Love, but Grant was my favorite. You know Jordan, of course, and Pippin. And you might’ve heard of this guy.” Dennis Rodman. “The glory days, that was, with Jordan and Pippin. I was a youngster. Or, well, younger.” He grinned. “I used to usher for the Bulls just so’s I could see the games. I was like you, couldn’t pay to come, but I lived right here, downtown, so I could work them. Sold more than my share of popcorn, too.”
They made it to the end of the hallway. “Here’s the metal detector. Go on through.”
Tyrese hoped the watch wouldn’t set off the alarm, but he needn’t have worried.
The old man shuffled past and walked Tyrese down the bright hallway to a double door. “Most fans don’t get to go in through here, so you’re special.” He grinned. “You take your time looking around. Come back out through my door when you’re done. No sense getting the box office all worked up. You with me?”
“I come back through you.” If I’m alive, Tyrese thought, which he would be if he could just get the man to unlock the doors.
The man pulled his keys from his pocket and took more time than Tyrese thought necessary to open the locks. “You have fun now, son.”
“I will. And thank you.”
The old man smiled again, and waited as Tyrese went inside. Tyrese let the door close quietly behind him. The silence was deafening. He pushed the button on his proximity meter.
Runner is out of range.
It was worth a shot.
Tyrese stood in a tunnel, the kind of entrance that comes out between two bleacher levels.
Above his head was probably about row fifteen, and it angled down to one. He stuck to the side in the shadows and slowly made his way forward, keeping his head under seat level until he was crouched beside row three. No one was on the court, and he could see no movement anywhere else. But how could he? The place was a world unto itself. A monster. It could seat over twenty thousand. Robert could be hiding anywhere.
He pressed the proximity button again, just to be sure.
Runner is out of range.
The court was twenty feet away now. So close he could smell it. Smell the future he wanted. The freedom from his old life. The glory. The victory. He could see the championship banners hanging from the ceiling, along with the retired numbers of Jordan and Pippin and two older guys. That would be his jersey someday. But first he had to survive the Game.
Twenty feet was the farthest he could be away from Robert in order to Tag him. Problem was, the far side of the court was more than that. Even if he stood in the middle, he would be too far from either end. If he didn’t choose the exact spot Robert would be entering, he would miss the Tag. He would once again be the Runner.
Runner is out of range.
He waited, as still as the concrete surrounding him, evening out his breathing until it was down to resting rate along with his heartbeat. Ready like a runner in a starting block, every sense focused on that pistol shot. The silence bore down on him like a living thing, pressing him to the floor, squeezing him like that moment he stood at the free-throw line, everyone’s eyes on him to fail. Or succeed.
Something clicked. A door. Within the huge space it was impossible to know where the sound came from. Above him, to his right, to his left. Not in front of him, because he saw no movement, no flash of light from the hallway. He sat still as the dead.
A thud, a grunt, and a shuffling sound like something being dragged. Please God, it wasn’t that nice old man.
And then the silence again, but different now, since Tyrese knew someone else was sharing it. He pushed the proximity button.
Runner is out of range.
He waited another minute, until his watch vibrated. It was official. Robert Matthews was in the arena.
3:45 p.m.
Amanda
Charles stared at Amanda from over Nerys’ arm, which threatened to choke
him. “How did you…? But you were just…” He blinked and looked back and forth from her to Solo to X. His eyes swiveled in Nerys’ direction, but he stopped short of actually turning to look at him.
Amanda stepped forward, holding up her wrist with the doctored watch. “This is because of you.”
He gaped. “What did you do to it?”
“Kept it from killing me.” She shook it in his face. “Killing me! What the f—?” She pinched her lips together.
Nerys gave a little laugh. “Goddess, did you almost say a bad word? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
She cut him a mean look, but he just grinned. She turned her attention back to Charles, the slimy murderer. “Why?”
He cleared his throat. “Why what?”
“What do you think? Why would you want to kill me? Why would you chase me in the first place? Why would you want to kill anybody?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
He shifted on his feet, and Nerys tightened his hold, making Charles’ eyes widen. “Can’t…breathe…”
“Don’t really care,” Nerys said.
Amanda jerked her chin. “Let him talk.”
Nerys let up just enough.
“I was bored,” Charles wheezed.
Amanda let out a sharp laugh. “So you decided to kill me?”
“I wasn’t going to! I just wanted a good Game! But you ignored me and made me raise the stakes.”
“Oh, no,” Amanda snapped. “You don’t get to blame this on me. I was ambushed in my home by some androgynous avatar—”
“Dudette,” Nerys said.
“—who wouldn’t tell me what was going on, threatened me, killed the avatar I’ve been building for years.” She choked up. “You do not get to say this is my fault. So start talking about why it’s yours. And not just that you’re bored.”
Charles fought against Nerys’ arm, but that just made Nerys hold on tighter. Finally, Charles slumped so far Nerys stumbled. Charles drifted sideways to lean against the car, and Nerys let go, standing at Charles’ shoulder, ready to grab him.
