by Sloan, David
“Is it?” Cole asked, looking over at her.
“It’s good for me,” she conceded. “It’s good for my mom. Why shouldn’t it be good for you, too?” Cole shrugged his shoulders again and stared out at the river. A nice thought occurred to him.
“She did say that I could go with a guest, right?”
What could have been a truly romantic moment was ruined by Deborah Cheney.
“There you are, you two!” she called as she walked over. “We’ve been looking everywhere. There is so much to plan before next Saturday. We’d like to do another interview, one-on-one, for the Monday opening, and I think it might be nice to bring a crew over to your apartment for some human interest. I’ve already talked to Anne Marie about doing another on-site at the office, maybe interviewing some co-workers who’ve been in on it from the beginning. She mentioned there was a man with a blog?”
Nera glanced over to see Cole stiffening up.
“Uh, Deborah, would it be possible…”
“Oh yes, and you’re the girlfriend, right? This is just perfect. So, I imagine that you’ll be going to DC…”
Out of nowhere, a quick whooshing shot past Cole’s left ear. Immediately, Deborah Cheney yelped in pain, reaching for her right shoulder as she fell back. Something shiny and hard had hit her square in the collar bone.
Cole grabbed Nera, almost pushing her against the rail, and they both hit the ground. Another object struck just above them, then ricocheted back over the steep ledge. Cole looked under the bottom of the rail as he lay flat, hand draped protectively over his head. Was that a man on the river trail below? Cole saw the flash of eye glasses reflecting the yellow light, the swooping motion of an arm. Then crr-aaack! A window broke above them and the figure ran off down the trail.
“Hey! Help!” Cole yelled.
“What was that?” The cameraman, who had been filming them from across the deck, came out running.
“Ms. Cheney!” Others came out when they heard the yelling. Deborah was rubbing her collarbone and using some language not fit for network broadcasting. Cole and Nera got tentatively up and stepped far away from the railing.
“Is this what hit you?” a man asked, bringing something over to Cole. It was a polished stone ball like a giant marble, the size of a chestnut. It had been crudely painted orange with black lines. The pattern of a basketball. On one side, in permanent marker, was the name ‘Cole’. On the opposite side was the outline of a flame overwritten with the name ‘Ichabod’.
“Who’s Ichabod?” asked Nera.
A deafening bang rocked the deck and threw them again to the ground. Something had exploded from underneath. Smoke began to roll out from the windows beneath the patio ledge, along with screams of “Fire! Fire!” A mob swarmed out onto the patio, some running straight to the ledge to try and jump off, most running to the stairs along the side of the building. Nera had the sense to grab Cole in the confusion and nearly drag him to the other end of the patio, avoiding the crushing flow of the mob. They huddled for a moment before joining the outgoing, panicked mass. In that moment, over the cacophony of the alarms and the crowd, Cole could somehow hear an energized voice announcing a basket for UCLA. They made it off of the patio and joined others who were standing around, gazing horror-struck at the tongues of flame that flickered out from the thick smoke surrounding the windows.
The sound of speeding fire engines approached them from the city. Almost everyone around him had taken out their phones and were taking pictures and contacting people. Words like ‘bombs’, ‘terrorists’, and ‘arson’ emerged from the chatter. It was when he heard the word ‘arson’ that the identity of his attacker, the man who had been on his doorstep just a few nights before, finally clicked in Cole’s mind. The revelations hit him hard and fast. The facts were so obvious that a sense of his own blind foolishness, mixed with the adrenaline, nauseated him.
It was cold. Before Cole could suggest that they go to one of their cars to get warm, he realized with a start that Nera was gripping his arm hard. She pulled him away from the crowd and spoke softly but intensely.
“What was that, Cole? Tell me what’s going on.” Cole had never seen Nera angry before, and he felt timid against the ire directed at him, and against the facts that infuriated her.
Someone had just tried to kill him. It was his name written on the rock. Someone who threw rocks into windows and set fire to buildings had singled him out as the target of an attack that would be all over the news before morning. That was even now burning one of Hartford’s hippest venues. That had injured a few and spooked everyone else. That very easily could have…
“Cole!” Nera was almost yelling at him. “Cole, who is Ichabod? Do you know him?”
Like he had so many times over the past nine months, Cole found himself looking at Nera with no idea of what to say. Guilt clouded over his vocabulary.
“Nera, I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see any of this coming, I had no idea that this guy was trying to—you could have been—”
“You could have been,” corrected Nera, looking at him fiercely. “He was trying to kill you, Cole. I would have just been collateral damage. Oh man, it’s going to take my mom about five seconds to hear about this on the news. She’s going to freak out.” She left his side and began craning her neck to find her Jetta in the shifting melee of first responders and on-lookers. “You know what? I don’t want to know what’s going on. I have to get home right now before my mom has a heart attack.” She began to laugh inappropriately and dug erratically for her keys.
Cole shook himself from his stupor and tried to clasp her arm.
“Nera, no, don’t go—I can tell you who this guy is, I think I know what’s going on.”
“No,” Nera snapped, lifting a finger to his face, “No, Cole. I can’t…” She turned away. She paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… You have to stay and tell the police everything. Get safe. Whatever is going on, you have to just…” She jangled her keys and walked to her car without looking back at him. “I have to go. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
[East Division: Final Four]
[Saturday, April 4]
But they didn’t talk. From Sunday night through early Monday morning, Cole retold what he knew until his head ached. The police had many questions. He arrived at work after lunch on Monday, groggy, and told the story again. Nera never came. On Tuesday, he tried to prevent Tom from renaming his blog Inside the OraCole. Again, Nera never showed. On Wednesday, Anne Marie announced in staff meeting that Nera was out on personal leave for the week. He spent the entire afternoon writing her an e-mail explaining everything. On Thursday, he got a text message back: I need to not be involved in all this right now. Take care. On Friday, he felt miserable.
That night, he had a dream.
He was at the skate park in Manchester that he used to visit as a kid, but it was bigger, more expansive. It was nighttime, with bright white lights beaming down from somewhere overhead. He stood on his old skateboard, looking down over a ledge onto a deep ramp. It was too steep, and he hesitated in fear. But before he realized what was happening, he felt himself going forward, over, and down. With exhilarating speed, he flew down the ramp as it curved up into a bowl. This isn’t so bad, he thought, and he looked for another ramp where he could launch for a trick.
Just as he approached the ramp, he realized that the entire floor was covered with ice. Who put ice there? He slid out of control and fell. Instinctively, he checked his lower back to see if it was hurt again. To his horror, he saw that it was bleeding dark red, and he was immobilized by the pain. If only I hadn’t tried to move that desk, he reasoned, I wouldn’t have been so weak.
His eyes were drawn to the top of the ramp. There was a figure, hooded and faceless except for a protruding pair of spectacles. He was just standing there, watching from a distance. Cole knew who it was and said his name: Ichabod. The figure threw something into the center of the bowl, a few feet in front of Cole. A grenade? It exploded. Suddenly, the w
hole sky was blackened with smoke. It was on fire. Ichabod had set the park on fire. Smoke was pouring into the bowl like storm clouds. He had to get out, but he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. It was too cold on the ice. He saw Anne Marie pop up over the ramp and say, “This weather is madness, huh?”
Ichabod called down to him and demanded that he predict something. Cole could think of nothing. “Four,” he shouted. It was the wrong answer.
The figure of Ichabod stretched to its full measure. Ichabod screamed like a warrior as he jumped over the ramp and slid down the icy wall on his feet, landing not far from where Cole lay. He charged Cole like a bull at full speed, full of rage, power, and cold blood, the reflection of orange flames on his glasses growing ever bigger in Cole’s view. Cole heard the fire alarms go off as Ichabod leapt up above him...
Cole opened his eyes to the sound of his alarm clock. It was Saturday morning, six o’clock, the day of the Final Four. He looked out the window, feeling silly, just to make sure that Ichabod wasn’t waiting for him. He saw only the police car that was assigned to his apartment that night. No pyromaniac stalkers in sight.
That was a bad omen, he thought groggily, the nightmare still fresh and vivid in his mind as he shuffled to the bathroom. But he had to be at the airport by 8:30, and he couldn’t let a bad dream slow him down.
As he made his way north to the airport, burying himself in a blaring mix of drums and bass, he considered calling Nera. She wouldn’t answer, he knew, and not just because it was too early. He settled on sending a text message just before boarding his flight. Hope your mom is okay. Go Bruins! Maybe she’d be impressed that he now knew the team’s mascot.
* * * *
The conference room at the Omni Hotel in downtown Washington D.C held an audience of press members waiting with cameras, recorders, and intense interest. All turned to look as four men, each very different from the others, walked onto the staged area and sat down in front of a bold ESPN banner. Lights flashed as the four responded in their own ways to the flock of lenses pointed at them.
The third of the four was Cole, dressed in a UCLA jersey with a white t-shirt underneath. His black hair had been combed back, but there was no way to smooth away his self-consciousness. It helped to sit behind the table and have something to lean on. Trying to calm himself down, he accidentally leaned too far forward and breathed hard into the microphone, eliciting muffled laughter from the crowd. He was tired from the quick flight and the jolting taxi ride and the rush to get settled before the press conference. He felt like his eyes were blinking at an unusually high rate.
Cole glanced around at the three other men sharing the spotlight. Each one was wearing the jersey of the team they had picked to win the championship. The one closest to the podium was balding and professional and seemed to know what he was doing. Cole had heard he was a business manager or something, and he now sat composed and assured. Next to him was a stocky, middle-aged man who was even more uncomfortable than Cole; he was sweating and could barely smile. To Cole’s left was a college kid, about Cole’s age, tall, black, and loving the moment. He was fist-pumping at the cameras and grinning like he was going to play in the games. Cole felt very alone. He looked out at the crowd and recognized only Deborah Cheney, sitting among the press with a conspicuous brace supporting her injured collar bone. She waved to Cole like a proud mom.
The moderator of the panel was a former WNBA player in a business suit. She took her place behind a separate podium that had been elevated just for her.
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to a press conference that is truly unique in the history of this tournament. My name is Carol Clemente. Today, I represent ESPN and the 2015 Men’s College Basketball Tourney Challenge. As you know, this year we have had the very unusual occurrence of four exceptional individuals correctly predicting each of the winners leading into the Final Four. It is a guarantee that one—and only one—of these contestants will emerge with a completely perfect bracket and the one million dollar prize. They are invited guests of ESPN at these games and will be sitting together as the tournament unfolds.” Ms. Clemente turned herself toward the seated men.
“Now, for introductions.” She pointed to each of them, starting with the one closest to her podium. “We have here Dr. Neeson Faulkner of Miami, Florida. Next to him,” she motioned to the heavy-set man, who was scratching at his cheek, “Mr. Perry Lynwood of Seattle, Washington. Next to him, Mr. Cole Kaman of South Windsor, Connecticut.” Cole gave a little wave. “Finally, Mr. Tucker Barnes, a junior at the University of Nebraska. Truly, a group that is as diverse and representative of the nation as the teams playing in this year’s tournament. We wish all of them luck, and they will now take questions. I ask that you please restrict the subjects of your questions to the games and their brackets.” Cole was relieved at the last part; it might keep them from asking about Ichabod.
An older reporter raised her hand. “Did any of you have a system for choosing your teams?”
All four shook their heads, but Neeson Faulkner spoke. “As you may know, some of the greatest minds in mathematics and statistics have attempted to create a fool-proof prediction system, but none were ever able to overcome the realities of probability. It has never worked. So the four of us up here would stand to make a lot of money if any of us had some sort of system that could accurately predict outcomes in March Madness, let alone other, more complicated scenarios. I don’t doubt that someone will create one eventually, but I think I speak for all of us when I say that we are extremely lucky.” The other three kind of nodded, though they weren’t sure if he really spoke for all of them.
Next question. “Is the team that you chose to win your favorite team, or did you have a particular reason to like them?”
Tucker Barnes jumped on that one. “I don’t know about these guys, but Nebraska is going to dominate the next two rounds. I knew it from day one. Like my man at the other end there said, we’re really lucky and fortunate to be here, but my team is here because they’re the best, and I feel like I’m just running with them today.” Cole noticed some grins as reporters typed notes and looked up for more. The two older men were inspecting their hands, so Cole felt the burden of answering next fall to him.
“Yeah, uh, I think UCLA is a great team, which is why, you know, I picked them. I know some people were mad that I didn’t go with UCONN, but, like, and I’m not saying they aren’t a good team, but…” Shut up right now, he thought. “I’m just saying that I chose UCLA this year.” He finished, trailing off into a silent room. No one really knew what to write. Someone in the room cleared a throat. Please don’t let Nera be watching this, Cole prayed as he, too, inspected his hands.
Next. “Who among you four is the most confident that you’re going to win?” Tucker’s hand shot up immediately, but Neeson also volunteered. Cole shrugged and Perry remained very quiet. “Mr. Lynwood, you don’t think that you’re going to win? Is that because you don’t have much faith in your bracket, or is that a vote of no confidence for Georgia?”
Perry mumbled low and had to be told to speak into the microphone. “No, they’re a great team and school and I have… but I just think that it’s kind of weird for me to get all the ones right that I did so I don’t see how I can really feel like I can just keep on winning forever.” It was a depressing enough answer that they just moved on.
The next question was directed at Cole. It was Deborah Cheney, and she violated the disclaimer. “Mr. Kaman, local station WHAR in Connecticut has been tracking the fallout from the bombing of the Player Pier in Hartford, which was apparently a targeted attack at you by the Wall Street bomber, now known as Ichabod. Would you care to comment about what that incident means to you now? Are you concerned for your safety?” The other three men turned to listen, as curious as the reporters. It had been on the news that whole week.
You were there, you give a comment, Cole thought, trying not to glare at Deborah. “No, I mean, nothing happened after that. There was this crazy guy, he j
ust threw a metal ball at us and started a fire. We haven’t seen him since then, and nothing really weird happened all this week. The cops are still looking into it. I’m fine, I don’t have much more to say than that.”
Deborah followed up. “And your girlfriend?” Cole went red. Thanks for that, you…
“Uh, I’d rather not comment on that.” Carol quickly moved to someone else, for which Cole was grateful.
It hadn’t escaped one reporter’s notice that, even though they were offered tickets for a guest, none of them had brought one. None of the four had a reason that they wanted to share, so the issue was dropped.
A few more questions were raised. Yes, all of them would accept the money and had big plans for it. Of the three, Tucker was the only one who actually played basketball, although Neeson had been following the game for a while. They were all aware of the nicknames being given to them by the media but had not decided among themselves which one they liked most, though Neeson was partial to the “Fourseers” and Tucker liked the “Four Bracketeers”. Finally, they confirmed that none of them had a stake in the games outside of the prize money from the contest. It was all luck, and all in good fun.
“Well, if there are no more questions,” said Carol Clemente, “I think we’ll wrap things up. We’d like to thank these four men for being willing to come today, and again, we wish them luck. Next at this table, in fifteen minutes, will be some of the coaching staff for Boston College. Thank you.” Carol dismissed the four, who exited to the left and found themselves in the hallway.
All around them, the chaos of media coverage at the Final Four closed in. An intern from ESPN was trying to give them instructions. They had a photo shoot in ten minutes, followed by filming of individual interviews to be used as potential fillers during the long time-outs. They had to hurry; there wasn’t much time. Tip off was in just four hours.
