Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files)

by Creston Mapes

  “No idea. I’ve only seen him once or twice. He’s like a fill-in.” Derrick headed back through the crowd. “What’s this about, dude?”

  “I think I recognized him at the arena attack—wearing a mask. One of Zaher’s men.”

  Derrick stopped. Hot coffee splashed from his cup onto his hand. “Ouch.” He shook it off. “That’s impossible.”

  “I know it sounds nuts, but I recognized him in the picture they’re posting all over the place. He’s got a toothpick, just like the day I was in the newsroom.”

  “Jack, c’mon.”

  But Derrick knew Jack never forgot a face. And he knew the photo of the hostile; it was everywhere.

  Jack had to be wrong. “Hold on.” Derrick’s heart thundered as he hurried back to his desk so he could pull up the photo.

  “What’s happening?” Jack said.

  “I’m heading to my computer to check it out. There’s no way, dude.”

  But he knew there was a way.

  “I might be wrong, but Shakespeare put me in touch with Rufus Peek. He was especially interested. You know why?”

  Derrick slid into his chair, closed his story, and called up the latest news on CNN. He found the photo of the guy and immediately saw the resemblance, but this was one shot in a million. “I got it up. I see what you’re saying about the similarity, but … there is no way …”

  “Listen to me, Derrick. Just listen. Peek thinks these guys are homegrown.”

  “I heard that, and we got it in the story, but most of it’s speculation at this point.”

  “No, it isn’t. Shakespeare’s in tight with Peek. Peek told him the guy who bought the flares for the fake bombs is an American citizen. Born and raised in Chillicothe.”

  “Chillicothe, Ohio?” Derrick felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff, waiting to be pushed off.

  “One and the same,” Jack said.

  Derrick’s mind reeled. This new information was a can of worms. If he dared to follow up on what Jack was saying, he would be working all night and would never make his deadlines.

  “You there?” Jack said.

  “Yeah—”

  “That’s not all,” Jack said. “That guy you interviewed tonight out in the field, the loner who helped Sterling, Ed somebody?”

  “Scarborough. Ed Scarborough.” Derrick was slipping into a daze, his suspicions and blood pressure mounting with each word out of Jack’s mouth.

  “His spending habits changed dramatically two months ago. They think he received an influx of cash—a lot of it.”

  Suddenly the story Derrick had written was old news. He swallowed hard and sat there in a fog. If that was true, it meant Senator Sterling had hired Ed Scarborough to corroborate the story about his heroic escape.

  This was a bomb.

  Jack wasn’t finished. “He bought new tires and wheels for his pickup, new hunting gear, fancy deer stand, a two-thousand-dollar gun safe. They’re searching his place as we speak.”

  Derrick was light-headed, his mind fuzzy. He stared at the photograph of the masked man with the toothpick, recalling his various conversations and interviews with Martin Sterling. Could Sterling be that nuts? To put all those citizens in harm’s way? To let people die?

  Deep inside, Derrick had always thought there was something brazen about the senator, but this …

  “That’s all we got right now,” Jack said. “What’s the deal on Sterling’s press conference in the morning—do you know yet?”

  Derrick was sweating profusely, almost gasping for breath. He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He needed to get with his editor.

  “Derrick?”

  “Yeah …”

  “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

  “Sterling’s gonna be at Mount Sinai at eight sharp to visit the people hurt in the attack.” Derrick’s voice had fallen to a monotone. It took all he had to keep going. “He’s scheduled to do a press conference on the steps outside the hospital right after, around nine.”

  “I assume you’ll be there,” Jack said.

  Derrick started in motion toward Buck Stevens’s office. “I’ll be there—if I still have a job.”

  63

  Pamela’s phone buzzed next to her on the bed. She opened her eyes from a deep sleep. The hospital room was dark now, except for light from around the edges of the door and her phone, which glowed next to her.

  She squinted at the screen. A text from Jack.

  Hey if you’re still up call me.

  She let the phone drop at her side and stretched. The aftermath of the C-section left her with a gnawing pain in her abdomen. She would ask for something to take the edge off when the nurse returned.

  She was anxious to see the baby again—and ready to feed him.

  Everett Crittendon.

  Yes, she liked the ring of it.

  She was wide-awake now and determined that no matter what issues the baby faced, they would deal with it. They would play the hand they were dealt, as her dad used to say. If she had to continue working full-time, with Jack at home, so be it. If they had to take out loans, it was only money.

  Her thoughts turned to frail Lucy, her guardian angel that night, and to her menacing husband, Victor, who she just knew was explosively dangerous. What had happened when they had walked to their car, rode home, gone inside? Pamela shuddered at the thought of any more physical harm coming to Lucy. The mental anguish alone had to be unbearable.

  “God, please help Lucy right now,” Pamela whispered. “Protect her. Be her shield. Her defense. Her comforter.”

  At least Lucy had agreed to seek help. That had to be one of the reasons God had brought them together that night, so Pamela and Jack and Margaret could confirm to her—through sober, unbiased counsel—that she needed outside intervention, sooner rather than later.

  She patted for her phone, found it, and pressed Jack’s number.

  “Hey, babe,” he answered. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. How are the girls?”

  “Fine. Sound asleep. Darlene had them in their nightgowns. They were falling asleep on that big couch of theirs, watching The Lion King. Tommy was asleep right next to them.”

  Pamela giggled.

  “They barely said a word; slipped right into their beds,” Jack said.

  “Good. What about Mom?”

  “It’s crazy. She was fine, absolutely fine. No sign of dementia. We had a good conversation. She’s in her room now. I think she’s reading. Did you sleep?”

  “Oh gosh, yeah. I crashed. Now I’m wide-awake.”

  “Are you ready for the latest time bomb?”

  “Oh no. What now?”

  When he told her he thought he recognized the masked man as having been part of Sterling’s security detail, all Pamela could do was shake her head. She knew Jack was right. He never forgot a face—ever.

  Jack told her that his tip was just one more in a series of similar clues that were surfacing and leading Peek to believe these were homegrown terrorists—and possibly not even terrorists at all. Quite possibly, they were murderous thugs hired by the independent candidate to wreak havoc and, in turn, send people rushing desperately to put him on the ballot and in the White House next November to save them from their fears.

  There was so much dishonesty in politics anymore, it didn’t take Pamela ten seconds to believe that Martin Sterling could have masterminded the terrorist plot at the arena.

  But to allow American citizens to be thrust into harm’s way? He had to be insane.

  “The last I heard, Peek may wait till the press conference in the morning to arrest Sterling. They’re hoping that by waiting they can draw the toothpick guy out, and as many others as possible who might’ve been in on the attack.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Shakesp
eare and Peek hit it off. It’s all top secret.”

  There was a knock at Pamela’s door. “Hold on, Jack,” she said, then called for whoever it was to come in.

  “Who is it?” Jack said.

  “Whoever it is, I’m sorry, you’re going to need to turn a light on,” Pamela called.

  The overhead light flicked on.

  Pam squinted.

  Dr. Shapiro?

  Yes, it was Dr. Shapiro, awkwardly holding the door open with one hand and wheeling the baby into the room on a cart with the other.

  “Pam, what’s going on? Who is it?” Jack said.

  “Hold on, Jack.”

  “Mrs. Crittendon, I know it’s late.” He bumped the cart into the room and rolled it right over to the bed. Little Everett was swaddled with his knit cap on and eyes open wide.

  “Jack, it’s the baby—and Dr. Shapiro. I’ll call you back.”

  “Shapiro’s back? Good. Hurry up. Let me know what’s going on.”

  She assured him she would, then hung up.

  The doctor parked the cart, gently lifted the baby out, and placed him in Pamela’s waiting arms. “Your baby’s going to be fine.”

  She looked at the doctor’s confident smile, then at tiny Everett, who was searching her eyes with his—and she burst into tears.

  The doctor smiled. “I need to apologize for leaving in the middle of everything. I’m very sorry. It was an emergency. My father-in-law had a seizure this evening. I dropped everything to get to him.”

  “Oh my, I’m so sorry,” Pamela said. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s going to be fine, yes, thank you.”

  Pamela was so relieved. She helped the little guy find his nourishment and settled back against the pillows.

  “Anyway, the nurses told me you and your husband were concerned, and rightfully so. I left you in the lurch. So I wanted to get back here and look at the results of our most recent tests. As it turns out, I think Everett here is just a super mellow little fellow. But he is completely fine.”

  Dr. Shapiro continued explaining, but Pamela was lost in a flood of tears and praise.

  64

  With his phone on the bathroom counter, Jack brushed his teeth, then threw on some pajama shorts and a T-shirt. He tossed the covers back and climbed into bed, wide-awake, propping up several pillows behind him.

  He was anxious to hear from Pam and was so cold he was practically shivering.

  Why had Dr. Shapiro returned to the hospital at that time of night? Was he bringing good news—or bad?

  The bedroom was intensely quiet and lonely without Pam.

  A spy novel sat next to him, which he had put there thinking it would get his mind off things, but he was in no mood to crack it. He pointed the remote at the TV and checked the news on CNN, but they kept playing the same segments over and over again. He turned it off, dropped his head back on the pillows, and closed his eyes.

  At least the girls were asleep in their own beds; that was a good feeling. At last check, Margaret’s light was still on in her room down the hall. The way she had been in and out with her dementia, he wondered about her future and how long she could stay with them without needing additional help.

  His phone buzzed.

  This is it … news on the baby.

  But no, it wasn’t. It was a text from Shakespeare.

  Just hung up with Peek. They r gathering more evidence. Arrest likely at 9 am press conf. Come to my room at 7:45. R u still here? Latest on baby?

  Jack quickly texted him with the latest and agreed to meet him at the hospital at 7:45, which was only a few hours away. He hit Send, and while the text was transmitting, his phone rang.

  He checked the screen. Pamela.

  “Hey, babe, what’s going on?” He took a deep breath.

  Just then Margaret appeared in the doorway.

  “He’s okay, honey. He’s fine!” Pam gushed. “He’s going to be just fine.”

  Jack ripped out of bed and reached out for Margaret.

  By the time she got to him, he was crying.

  They embraced.

  Pam continued talking.

  Jack held the phone up so Margaret could hear.

  They both listened and squeezed each other, laughing with delight.

  In his hospital gown and flip-flops, Shakespeare handed the old man beyond the curtain a plastic glass filled with ice water. The man had been coughing a blue streak. With a trembling hand and watery, yellow eyes, he nodded and took the glass but didn’t drink.

  “Drink some,” Shakespeare said. “You need to wet your pipes.”

  When he tried, the old gentleman’s hand shook so badly that the water spilled all over the floor and onto his gown. None made it to his mouth.

  “Gee whiz.” Shakespeare grabbed a towel and wiped him off, then dried the floor.

  The poor guy shook his head and lowered his eyes in defeat, then turned back to the oxygen machine that sat on the floor between his bony knees. He appeared to have no hope or strength.

  Shakespeare found a straw back on his side of the room, dropped it in the glass of water, and held it up to the man’s mouth.

  The man craned his neck and stared up at Shakespeare for a moment, then found the straw with a shaking hand, put it in his bone-dry mouth, and drank until half the water was gone.

  Even that simple action winded the man. He caught his breath and said a feeble thanks.

  Shakespeare nodded, set the glass by him, and went through the curtain to his side of the room. He sat down in the chair by his bed. The poor old guy appeared to have no family or friends to visit him.

  Shakespeare wondered who would visit him if he were on his deathbed. Who would come to his funeral? Shakespeare had worked so hard at isolating himself and his family that they barely had any relationships outside their own little tribe. Many of his family ties had been severed, because all of his relatives thought he was a survivalist nutcase.

  Something was happening inside Shakespeare. He wanted to help people.

  He’d once been like that. Outgoing. Caring.

  When had he changed? When had he managed to turn so insanely inward?

  He’d denied it until now.

  But it had been when his son Will was born—with special needs. Then Tyler. Back-to-back children who were not “normal” by the world’s standards.

  Elbows on his knees, Shakespeare buried his head in his hands.

  You allowed them to be born like that, he thought. And I’ve hated you for it.

  So he’d rebelled—against authority, against evil, against society.

  Without admitting it, he had been spitting in the face of God.

  But now—in that stuffy, smelly hospital room—a light was arising. It was shining with something good and pure and bright. It was telling him it was time for a change. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew he wanted to be closer to God. And he knew he wanted to make up for lost time with Sheena and the kids. And he knew he wanted to invest in other people, like Jack and Pam … and needy people, like the old man beyond the curtain.

  His cell phone chirped with a new text message.

  He wiped his eyes and took in a deep breath and stretched.

  He liked what he was feeling.

  It was a gratefulness he’d never experienced before.

  He got up and crossed to his phone and examined the screen.

  The text from Jack read:

  Baby FINE ! ! ! Official name: Everett BRIAN Crittendon. C u at 7:45.

  He read it again.

  And he stared at the baby’s middle name.

  BRIAN.

  My name.

  And he bent over.

  And he cried.

  And he laughed.

  And he let everything pour out that he’d held in f
or so long.

  65

  Pamela could tell by the dull light around the edge of the window curtain in her hospital room that it was almost dawn. Excitedly she did what she’d done half a dozen times in the night, leaning over the side of her bed and shining the light from her cell phone onto the baby as he slept. He really was a mellow little guy and a good sleeper.

  With a little coaxing, Dr. Shapiro had let her keep the baby in the cart next to her. Pamela hadn’t slept well, but she didn’t care. The baby was fine. That was all that mattered. She was so happy, so relieved.

  She’d thought about Lucy through the night and had prayed for her—for her protection, for a good future. She’d thought of Jack and how lucky she was to be married to such a man of faith. He’d risked the promise of the job at the Gazette to blow the whistle on Sterling’s bodyguard. She trusted it was for the best.

  It was all so surreal.

  She lifted herself up, ignoring the pain in her abdomen, and slipped out of bed. She opened the curtain several inches, just enough so she could see her way around. She went over to Everett’s little bed and leaned over him. His eyes were open.

  “Good morning, baby … Good morning, sunshine.”

  When his eyes found hers, his whole body flinched.

  “You recognize Mommy? You recognize me?” She reached in and scooped him up. “Are you hungry? Yes, sir. I bet you are. I bet …”

  Carrying him gently in her arms, she hit the remote to raise the back of the bed and settled back to feed him.

  He was going to be a good boy, a gentleman, just like his dad.

  “You’re gonna be brave and strong.” Pamela ran her fingers across his little forehead and rubbed his silky hair. “And you’re hearty. Yes, you’re a hearty little eater.”

  Her phone buzzed on the bed next to her.

  It was still so early.

  It was a text message—from Lucy.

  Pamela’s heart raced as she read.

  How are you and baby? Let me know when you can. I won’t be able to make it this morning. Will explain later. I’m fine. Lucy

  Pamela looked at the time the text was sent: 6:57 a.m., just a minute ago.