Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files)

by Creston Mapes

  For about the sixth time, Pamela attempted to concentrate as she read the words in red that, over the years, had been underlined and highlighted in her worn Bible: Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

  She rested her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, trying to relax her neck, shoulders, arms, legs. This too shall pass. It’s what her dad used to say. He’d had an easy manner that could diffuse even her mother’s fits of paranoia. Pamela wished he could be there now. He would know what to do about their financial situation. He would assure her that everything would work out with the baby. But he was gone.

  She told herself he was in heaven, just as she told herself the baby was okay, but she didn’t know for sure. Her dad had been a good man, a great husband and father, but he’d never had very much to say about God. They had attended church when Pamela was growing up, but it had been more out of tradition or obligation than anything. At least her father had never rejected Christ. Knowing that, she hoped to see him again one day in heaven.

  Margaret stirred in her chair and shifted positions, pulling the blanket up close beneath her chin.

  There were several light taps at the door. She heard it open. Jack entered quietly, adjusting his eyes. She held up a finger to her lips.

  He moved smoothly across the room and kissed her on the forehead. “How are you?” he whispered.

  “Anxious to see my baby again. How’s Shakespeare?” She, too, whispered.

  “I couldn’t tell anything was wrong.”

  “Sounds like Shakespeare. Was Sheena there?”

  “Earlier, but she went home. They’re gonna come to church.”

  Pamela’s head tilted. “You’re kidding me.”

  He shook his head but showed no emotion.

  “You look so tired.” She stroked his cheek, which was now filled with beard stubble.

  “I am.” He sighed. “We need to decide what we’re doing, where we’re sleeping.” He nodded at Margaret.

  “You should grow a beard,” Pamela whispered, still exploring his face. “It would be handsome. Mr. Lumberjack.”

  He gave a forced smile. “What do you say? You want me to take her home and come back? Should I stay there? Do you want us both to stay here?”

  Pamela dropped her hand from his face. “What’s wrong?”

  He stared at her for what seemed like twenty seconds. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “We all are. Gee whiz. Can’t we have a nice minute together?”

  “Sorry, honey. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I know you do too.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. His mind was definitely someplace else—probably fretting about the same things she was: the baby, the bills, a job, her mother.

  Margaret suddenly snored loudly, paused, then snorted and lifted her head. She examined Pamela, then Jack, but said nothing—just looked at them.

  “Hi, Mom. You had a good little catnap,” Pamela said.

  Margaret’s eyes darted from the sink to the window and back at them. “I must be in the wrong room. I’m sorry.” She rose quickly, tossed the blanket in the chair, and slipped into her shoes. “I apologize.”

  Pamela’s heart rate quickened as she anticipated her mother’s latest accidental charade. “Mom, you’re fine.” She spoke as casually as possible. “Sit back down and rest. We’re deciding what you guys are gonna do for the night.”

  As if she wasn’t listening, Margaret crossed to the phone on the table by the bed, picked it up, listened, and punched a number.

  “Who are you calling, Mom?” Jack asked.

  “The front desk. They gave me the wrong room. Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Let me gather my things and get the bellboy—”

  “Do something,” Pamela urged Jack. “It’s worse at night.”

  Jack went over and gently took the phone. “Mom, let’s go back home, okay?” He gently patted her back and set the phone down. “Wouldn’t you like to sleep in your own bed tonight? It’s been a long day. Come on. I’ll take us home. We’ll get the girls in bed.”

  “Oh, darn it.” She wrestled herself away from Jack’s hands and walked away with her head down. “I was thinking we were … Just, just go back to what you were doing. I’m sorry. Blast it. My memory’s going.”

  Margaret shook her head and muttered, obviously angry at herself for slipping into dementia land again.

  “Mom, have some cranberry juice. There’s fruit and crackers over there too.”

  “Okay, okay, enough, Pam,” she said. “You don’t have to baby me. We all recognize what’s happening to me. No need to dance around it.”

  Pamela turned away quickly, fighting back tears.

  This whole thing is a mess. Just a mess! It’s too much … too much to handle.

  Jack urged Margaret to get her things together.

  “I am not going anywhere. I’m staying right here,” Margaret said. “If you want to sleep in here with Pam, that’s fine. I’ll go find a bench in the waiting room, but I want to be close.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What are you doing?” Margaret said.

  “Getting your things. We’re going home,” Jack said sternly. “Pam needs her sleep. She’s not going to get it if we’re here. Come on, Mom. We’re all tired. This is the best thing. Besides, I don’t want to have to ask Tommy and Darlene to keep the girls overnight.”

  Pamela flipped over, wincing as she did. Her mom pouted as she gathered her knitting, a book, her glasses, and some other things.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom,” Pamela said, relieved they were going, relieved the girls would be home in their own beds. “Thanks, Jack.”

  He came over, kissed her, and gave a gloomy good-bye.

  Margaret wasn’t any better, shuffling for the door with her head down, only managing a weak wave.

  Okay, be that way.

  There was nothing more Pamela could do.

  Nothing.

  She was giving up for the day … and drifting off before the door closed behind them.

  61

  By the time Jack navigated the rainy Ohio freeways and got Margaret situated back home, then retrieved sleepy Rebecca and Faye from the Sweeneys’ house next door, his whole body was depleted. His neck felt as if it had metal rods in it from the stress, and the headache behind his ears was excruciating.

  But it was no time to rest. There was something he desperately needed to do.

  Standing at the kitchen sink, he took three aspirin and threw back half a glass of water. Then he grabbed an apple and headed for the computer in the den, where he logged on and went straight to Fox News. Sure enough, the photos they’d shown earlier of Zaher topped the headlines. Jack’s heart ticked like a rabbit’s as he skimmed the article, scrolled down, skimmed, scrolled down—and there … there he was.

  That’s him.

  That’s got to be him.

  Jack’s hand trembled as he moved the mouse and clicked the photo he and Shakespeare had seen earlier on TV—of the dark-skinned man with the mask … the thick neck … the toothpick tucked like a fixture in the corner of his mouth.

  Dear God … that’s him.

  It was a very clear shot, especially for one taken by a citizen, probably on a cell phone.

  He enlarged the photo—and froze.

  Staring.

  Barely breathing.

  Recalling the family joke, how Jack never forgot a face. He could meet someone once in passing and recognize the person months later at a quick glance.

  He was virtually positive this was the same man he’d seen with Derrick that day at—

  “Who’s that?” Margaret’s voice startled him.

  The apple dropped out of his hand and rolled across the desk.

  “Gee wh
iz, Mom. A little notice might be good next time. Maybe a knock?”

  “Sorry, honey.” She stood there in her robe and slippers, hair up, rubbing her hands with lotion, nodding at the computer. “He was one of the men onstage, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing? You need sleep.”

  He picked up the apple and reduced the size of the photo on the screen to regular size.

  “I can’t sleep yet. Too wired.”

  “Me, neither. I can’t stop thinking about the baby.”

  That, too, Jack thought, taking a deep breath, feeling the pressure of it all.

  “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill or something,” Margaret said. “You know, Ben used to take them once in a while.” She snickered. “He called them ‘blue bombs.’”

  Jack stood. “I’ll be fine. I’m about to go up. I just want to read the latest.” He ushered her toward the door. “You gonna be okay?”

  She used to drink herself to sleep. He was glad those days were behind her.

  Margaret took the hint and wandered toward the steps in the foyer. He walked with her. “I’m fine.” She stopped and turned to face him. “You know, I don’t feel any remorse for what I did tonight.” She shook her head as if replaying the moment when she was forced to gun down one of the terrorists as innocent people fled the arena. “It was us or them …”

  Jack suddenly felt a bond with Margaret he’d never experienced before. “I know. I know exactly what you mean.” Once again he pictured the man he shot, spinning, exploding, dropping. “It doesn’t seem real.”

  There was a long, quiet pause.

  “God will forgive us, won’t he, Jack?”

  He thought about it. “He knew the circumstances we were in. It was like a war. We had to do what we did. So, yes, I believe he will forgive us.”

  “I feel sorry for the girls, to have to grow up in this nutty world,” she said. “I’ll tell you what, Martin Sterling won the presidency tonight. This is exactly what he’s been warning us about. Anyone who was on the fence post before tonight is in his camp now.”

  Margaret’s words made Jack anxious to get back into the den and figure out what he was going to do about his hunch.

  “Next November can’t come soon enough. We need him.” She turned to go, then stopped and turned back around. “Thank you for having me here all these months, Jack. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

  “We’re glad you’re here. We wouldn’t want you anyplace else.”

  “Well, it’s been good for me, to be with Pam and the girls … and you, of course.”

  They both laughed quietly.

  She patted his arm and started up the stairs, watching each step while reminding him not to stay up much longer, and that they had to meet with the federal investigator sometime the next day.

  He returned to his chair in the dark room, in front of the bright screen.

  The reduced-size photo of the masked man was crystal clear.

  The toothpick was what did it.

  That was the giveaway.

  If he hadn’t had that in his mouth during the attack—and in that photo—Jack probably wouldn’t have recognized him as one of the men in Martin Sterling’s entourage the day they’d met at the Gazette, the day of Jack’s interview.

  But the toothpick got Jack’s attention, especially the way it was buried in the corner of the guy’s mouth as if it were part of him.

  And the toothpick led up to the watery black eyes, set wide apart, just like the eyes behind the mask in the photo he stared at now. Just like the man who had been with Sterling when Derrick introduced them in the newsroom.

  And if that was true, it meant the man worked for the Ohio senator.

  Preposterous.

  But in the back of his mind, Jack had always felt Sterling was somewhat of a wild card. He was unconventional. A renegade. That was turning out to be the understatement of the century.

  If that was the case, it meant Sterling—the independent would-be candidate for president of the United States—had staged the terrorist attack at the arena.

  Why?

  To prove to the American people that the threat of terror on US soil was real and dangerous and terrifying and imminent—and that if they wanted to avoid such horrors in the future, they’d darn well better put him on the ballot and cast their vote for the candidate who’d built his entire platform on squelching terrorists.

  Martin Sterling.

  Jack buried his head in his hands.

  If he was right, he had to tell … he had to say something—to Derrick, to Rufus Peek of the FBI, or Hedgwick with the Columbus PD.

  He glanced at the masked man and backed his chair away from the desk, sticking his elbows on his knees, leaning over, thinking and rocking, thinking and rocking.

  Hadn’t anyone else noticed the man? Put two and two together? Said anything?

  What was he waiting for?

  Why wasn’t he reaching for the phone to call the authorities?

  And then it hit him—like a sobering, ghastly lightning bolt tossed by the Devil himself.

  Jack wanted the job at the Gazette.

  If he contacted the authorities, Sterling would go down.

  The job would go away.

  It was going on a year that Jack had been out of work. He needed the job. Their lives depended on it.

  He stood and crossed his arms and paced. He turned on the overhead fan and wiped the sweat from his forehead. All he could think about was the tidal wave of bills they were facing, and the baby’s future expenses. If he got the job at the Gazette, he’d finally have a solid, regular paycheck again, and insurance—

  Where was his faith?

  You don’t even know the baby has problems.

  What was he even thinking?

  You can’t do that.

  But people had done worse. Staying silent wouldn’t actually be doing anything wrong. Besides, the FBI would certainly realize what was going on, wouldn’t they?

  You’ve been dealt a rotten hand. You need this job. You deserve it.

  He left the den, walked through the dark house to the back door, and went out onto the screen porch. A steady rain fell. A cool breeze blew.

  He just couldn’t fathom that Martin Sterling could have masterminded the attack. It was insane. If Jack told authorities what he suspected, they would certainly check it out. If he turned out to be wrong, no harm would be done. If he was right, it would set the world on its ear.

  And the job at the Gazette would be gone.

  He sat down in one of the rockers. A cool mist of rain blew in on him.

  You know you can’t orchestrate your own destiny.

  The second you cover this thing up is the second you will not get that job … and other things will go wrong.

  You know from experience that God will be faithful to you if you trust him and do the right thing. He’ll bless. He’s proven it a million times.

  Jack sat there. The mist from the rain felt like God’s prompting, God’s presence.

  He got out his phone. If he was going to alert the authorities, Shakespeare would know the best protocol.

  He punched the number.

  It rang twice.

  “Aw, you miss me that much already?” Shakespeare answered.

  “Hey, yeah. Funny. Listen, I need to talk to you. This is serious.”

  “Hit me.”

  Jack quickly explained his suspicions. It was a relief just to get it off his chest. When he finished, the other end of the line was silent.

  “You there?” Jack said.

  More silence.

  “Brian?”

  “Yeah,” Shakespeare said. “I’m here.”

  “Well?”

  Long pause.

  “We need to contact Rufus Peek. R
ight now.”

  62

  Derrick hung up the phone on his desk, took a deep breath, and looked out at the bustling newsroom. Buck Stevens had just told him that all systems were go for a special morning edition of the Columbus Gazette focusing almost entirely on the attack at the arena.

  Now he was really under the gun, but he couldn’t recall a more exciting moment in his career as a journalist. He wished Jack could be in on it. They’d once shared side-by-side cubicles at the Trenton City Dispatch. He knew his friend missed reporting with a passion—and needed the regular paycheck. But Derrick took solace in knowing they would be working together again soon, especially since Martin Sterling’s run for president looked so promising.

  He skimmed the story he’d written about the night’s events at the arena, stopped and thought for a second, then continued where he’d left off.

  Derrick was firing on all cylinders, clicking away at his keyboard in a steady flow when his cell phone rang.

  Jack.

  He thought about sending him to voice mail but decided to take it and make it quick.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Derrick answered.

  “Hey. Listen, I need to give you a heads-up on something,” Jack said.

  “Okay. Talk fast. I’m on deadline.”

  “Well, take a breather. This’ll impact what you’re doing.”

  Derrick clicked Save, pushed back from the computer, and grabbed his mug. “Okay, I’m going for coffee.”

  It felt good to stretch.

  “Remember the day I came to the newsroom for the interview with Buck Stevens, and I saw you? You were with Martin Sterling and his entourage?”

  “Yeah.” Derrick weaved in and out of people standing about the busy newsroom.

  “There was a big guy in Sterling’s security detail, dark skinned, quiet—huge guy.”

  “Yeah, I know the one.”

  “Toothpick.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No. Why?” Derrick excused himself as he squeezed between two guys and filled his coffee mug.

  “Do you know if he and Sterling are tight?”