Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (24 page)

56

“What’s going on?” Jack panicked and hurried into the hallway to see the baby. “Is he okay to be out of progressive care?” The baby was on his back, awake, swaddled in a soft pastel-striped blanket.

“It’s okay, Mr. Crittendon. You won’t believe it,” Trevinia said. “I took it upon myself to call Dr. Shapiro. He asked me to convey his deepest apologies. His father-in-law had a seizure this evening. That’s why he had to dash off.”

Jack felt as if he’d just dropped a hundred-pound sack of flour from his shoulders.

He didn’t know whether to pick up the baby or not. The little guy was awake, his big brown eyes staring up at him.

Cole was leaning over the edge of the baby cart, gently rubbing the baby’s tiny face with the back of his fingers. “He looks like a strong little guy,” he said. Everett and Karen leaned down to admire the infant, both touching his snug-fitting white knit cap and his swaddled body. Then Everett put his arm around Cole, and they said their good-nights.

“I’m going to get your recordings, Mr. Lester,” Trevinia called to Everett. “That’s for sure! You sold me tonight.”

Everett smiled and winked at her, as if they shared a secret.

“Bring him here, Jack,” Pam called from the room.

Trevinia wheeled the baby the rest of the way into the room. With the greatest of care, Jack bent over and gathered up his first and only son and gently rested him close against his chest.

“Dr. Shapiro had me read him the baby’s latest vitals and instructed me to get him right down here to you,” Trevinia said.

“Oh my stars.” Margaret came close to the baby, patting his little back. “Oh, what a beauty. He’s got your nose and mouth, Pamela.”

Jack held the little guy out in front of him, and they made eye contact. The baby was very still, his shiny brown eyes inspecting every inch of Jack’s face.

Margaret moved the knit cap up slightly, and they all examined his thin reddish hair.

“How does he seem?” Pam said. “Bring him here, honey.”

“He seems good.” Jack lowered the baby into Pam’s waiting arms, uncertain whether he was lethargic or completely normal.

“He’s hungry,” Margaret said.

That was all they needed—an announcer.

Pam scooted around a bit, adjusted her gown, and began feeding the little guy. At first she winced, but soon she was feeding him as naturally as if she’d already done so a dozen times.

“That’s it. That’s it,” Margaret said. “Look at him go to town.”

Jack couldn’t take the running commentary from his mother-in-law. He walked to the window and checked his phone. Nothing new.

He shot a text message to Shakespeare, asking how he was doing. Once the baby left, Jack would try to sneak down to see him.

He imagined the excitement and stress in the newsroom at the
Gazette
as Derrick pounded out his stories on the night’s dramatic events.

He wanted to turn on the news to catch the latest about the attack and the pursuit of the terrorists, but it was no time for that. Margaret was sitting on the edge of the bed, inspecting the baby from head to toe, and Pam was staring down at him, stroking his hair.

“My goodness, this boy has a grip like a vise,” Margaret said as the baby squeezed her thumb in his tiny fist. “He’s eating like a champ.”

The thought of bringing up another child in this crazy world nagged at Jack as he watched the peaceful exchange between his precious wife and baby. Children were abducted and abused every day. Mass shootings at schools and businesses were becoming sickeningly commonplace. Why those troubled souls didn’t simply take their own lives was beyond Jack. It was sick, sick, sick. He couldn’t fathom how the families of those victims coped, especially those without God.

And now terrorist attacks, right in their own backyard.

What can you do?

Trust.

Simple trust in God. That was it. Hope for the best.

And realize … this is not all there is. This is not our ultimate destination.

“Jack.” Pam spoke softly, bringing him out of his daze.

He turned from the window and went to her. She was finished nursing.

“Yeah, sweetie.”

“What about Everett … for a name?”

Pam glanced at him and looked back down at the baby. Margaret raised her eyebrows at Jack.

“Everett Crittendon,” Jack said, contemplatively. “Everett Crittendon …”

“I like it,” Margaret said. “It’s very masculine.”

“What does it mean, Jack?”

He got out his phone and did a search.

“What do you think, baby?” Pam shook her head close to the baby’s face. “Do you like the name Everett? Huh?”

“Okay, let’s see, it’s Old English and it means … Wow, get this. Strong, brave, hearty!” Jack laughed.

“That’s it!” Margaret bounced on the bed as she turned to face Pam and the baby. “Everett Crittendon.”

“What do you think, Everett?” Pam tapped the baby’s nose. “Do you like that name? Are you gonna be strong and brave? I think you are. I think you already are.”

“Says it means ‘strong as a boar.’” Jack chuckled and moved Margaret over so he could nestle up with Pam and the baby.

“You know what would make the
perfect
middle name?” Margaret stood and pinned her fists to her waist.

Jack only hoped she didn’t see his eyes roll.

“Benjamin,” she exclaimed. “Everett Benjamin Crittendon!”

It was Pam’s father’s name.

“Oh, Pam, your father would be so thrilled …”

Gee, no pressure.

57

Shakespeare could care less that all he was wearing was a wispy hospital gown, his boxers underneath, and the black flip-flops Sheena had brought from home. He had never been big on what other people thought. That was a hang-up for some people, but not him. He checked to make sure the nurses weren’t watching, took Sheena by the hand, and quickly led her out to the parking lot.

He sensed she was pleased he had offered to escort her to the car by the way she stayed so close that she bumped up against him several times as they walked. He literally couldn’t remember the last time they’d shown any affection. It felt good. No, it felt
great
.

The only problem was that he’d promised he was going to make some big changes, and that was dicey, because if he didn’t follow through this time, she would leave him for sure. He knew her, and she meant business. She had been more than patient for a long time, but the girl from Cleveland had some serious moxie. If and when it came time, she would walk out the door and never even consider looking back.

He planned to clear out most of the survivalist junk he’d accumulated, which had become a stupid obsession. But could he do it? He realized he might still not be thinking clearly. After all, he’d just survived a traumatic assault, it was the middle of the night, he hadn’t eaten properly in half a day, and he was dog tired yet jittery awake from all the glucose.

He just hoped he didn’t change his mind once things got back to normal—whatever that was.

“Okay.” Sheena stopped and squared up to him off to the side of the automatic glass doors leading to the parking lot. “Now you go up and get back on that IV. Get some sleep.”

Shakespeare took her hands in his. “How far out are you parked?”

“Not far.” She looked out at the rows of cars.

“I’ll watch till you get in.”

“Why are you being so nice?” She squinted up at him with a suspicious smile.

He examined her blue eyes, her glowing face, her sexy smile. Jack had once told him that he believed it was up to husbands to bring out the very best in their wives. Shakespeare had denied that—until now. And suddenly he realized he had failed at it, miserably, for a long time.

“What?” She looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head and peered into her eyes, hoping he wasn’t too late. “I am sorry …” His eyes brimmed with a tidal wave of emotions—regret, selfishness, time wasted.

She shook her head and wiped away a tear that streaked down his face, but she said nothing.

Then her own tears welled up.

He locked her in his arms.

Close.

So close.

“I hope I’m not too late,” he whispered.

Still she didn’t speak.

He wanted her to say he wasn’t too late, that she accepted his apology.

But she just stood there, very still in his arms.

He’d taken her for granted for so long.

Too long.

Too much neglect.

He pulled back and looked at her, and she at him. Their faces were wet. They both wiped their eyes and cheeks with their hands.

“What would you say if I told you I wanted to go to church?” he said.

Her eyebrows arched, and she looked at him with a casual half smile.

“Jack’s church,” he said.

She paused and blinked. “I’d do that. I’ll try anything once.”

He nodded and brought her close. “Okay then.” He rested his hands on her back. Through his touch he hoped she would know that he still treasured her, that this was the start of making up for lost time.

Lots of lost time.

58

The hospital was dimly lit and quiet—peaceful even. Jack was sore and dragging; his ears were still ringing from the gunfire at the arena. He found a restroom on his way to see Shakespeare, and he stopped to splash some hot water on his face. He patted dry with paper towels and leaned on the sink.

The baby was fine, he told himself. The little guy had eaten well, gripped their fingers, examined their faces with those innocent, searching eyes.

Had he seemed lethargic?

He told himself no, that the baby was completely healthy.

But he had seemed somewhat … tranquil.

“Oh, God.” He stared down at the sink. “Please, please let him be okay. He’s in your hands. It’s not up to me—”

There was a knock, and the door swung open. In came a hunched-over Hispanic woman wheeling a metal bucket and mop. “Oops.” She began to back out. “Sorry about that.”

Jack chuckled and assured her it was okay as he excused himself and went to find Shakespeare’s room.

“There’s usually no one in here this time of night,” the lady called.

He waved. There was a lady breaking her back to make ends meet. On an hourly wage it would be practically impossible. Jack knew this all too well and hoped again for the job at the
Gazette
to come through.

He got confused at first and took a wrong turn but then backpedaled and found the numbers leading to Shakespeare’s room.

Fifteen feet from the door he heard the roommate Shakespeare had described, hacking away as if he’d just staggered out of a coal mine after thirty years.

Jack knocked, but no one heard. He crept in.

The bony old gentleman was sitting on the edge of his chair in a gray gown, looking down, leaning on his knees with clear tubes coming out his nose, wheezing as a green oxygen tank rumbled loudly on the floor between his legs.

Jack tiptoed past him, around the curtain, as Shakespeare had instructed.

“Aha, you made it past my astute security guard.” Shakespeare was upright in bed, IV attached to one wrist, heavy white gauze and tape on the other arm. The TV was on Fox News. There was a half-eaten plate of fruit in his lap.

“Hey, man.” Jack approached, and they shook hands and gave a slight embrace.

“Good news about the baby.” Shakespeare took a bite of banana.

“Yeah.” Jack pulled up a chair. “It’s still a little hard to tell at this point. We’ll see.”

“If it was bad, you’d know by now. How did he seem?” Shakespeare bit into a peach and made a slurping sound, then wiped his chin and mouth with a napkin.

“Good. I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I would say he’s just a quiet little guy.”

“It’ll be fine.” Shakespeare waved. “Did you come up with a name yet?”

Jack gave a lazy nod. “We’re leaning toward Everett.”

“Everett Crittendon? What kind of name is that? What’s wrong with Brian Crittendon? Now that has some punch to it.”

They laughed, and Shakespeare explained that Sheena had come and gone, but things were looking up between them.

“I’m taking your advice. I’m gonna win her back,” Shakespeare said. “Gonna romance her like when we were dating.”

Jack looked down and shook his head. “I need to take my own advice. Pam and I haven’t been out in a long time.”

He was too embarrassed to mention that they couldn’t afford it.

While Shakespeare told of his plans to turn over a new leaf and clear out his survivalist stash, Jack eyed the TV in the upper corner of the room. The volume was low. There was a shaky video clip, shot earlier, of Everett and Karen Lester leaving a back door of the arena with Cole. They were shielding their faces, being guided by bodyguards, dozens of electronic flashes igniting.

“Are you listening to me?” Shakespeare said.

“Yeah, I am, but I don’t get it. I would’ve thought tonight would have sent you completely off the grid,” Jack said.

“That’s just it. Tonight showed me something. It woke me up. Anything can happen, any minute—to end things. I don’t know …” Shakespeare shook his head and stared at Jack with an unusually somber face. “I’ve been preparing physically, but the rest of my life’s been in shambles. Me and Sheena, the kids, things that matter.”

Jack was floored, in a good way.

“I saw evil tonight, Jack.” Shakespeare closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve seen it before, but … I don’t know. Something shook me tonight. I want to be closer to God. That’s what I need.”

Shakespeare had killed men that night. The man Jack shot was probably dead. It was sickening and humbling.

“Dude, that’s what I need too,” Jack said.

“I told Sheena I’m going to church with you.”

Jack felt his eyes bulge.

“She said she’d come.”

“You got a deal.” Jack kept his voice calm, not wanting to sound as excited as he was. By now he knew how to handle Shakespeare, and in this instance cool and nonchalant was the way to play it.

It was quiet between them for a few minutes.

“Sounds like my neighbor finally found some cough medicine,” Shakespeare said. “Are you staying here tonight?”

“I would, but Pam’s mom’s here. I’m not sure.”

“You’ll probably want to take her home.”

“We’ll see. They’re supposed to bring the baby back in a few hours. I’d like to be here.”

Shakespeare turned the TV volume up with the remote. “This thing’s a fiasco.”

“What’s the latest?”

“By now they must’ve ID’d some of the bodies, but they’re not releasing anything,” Shakespeare said. “They’re not saying anything about where the getaway vans went. One guy posted a video on YouTube of what he says is one of the vans. He claims they split up, went separate directions. Who knows if that’s legit? More’s coming in from civilians than from the media. The flares used for the fake dynamite were purchased in Columbus, but they haven’t said who bought them.”

The video on the TV replayed segments of the news conference led earlier by special agent Rufus Peek.

“The good news is that the second bodyguard got moved out of intensive care, so it looks like they’re both gonna make it,” Shakespeare said.

“Oh, man, that’s good.”

“I know. Oh, listen to this.” Shakespeare turned it up. “You see your buddy?”

“Who? Oh yeah.” There was Derrick, holding a tape recorder up as Senator Sterling spoke from a stretcher at the back of an ambulance. A light rain was falling, lit by a TV spotlight. Sterling’s handler, Jenny King, was nearby, along with Peek, Hedgwick, Wolfski, paramedics, and others.

Jack and Shakespeare listened intently as the station played various pertinent segments of Sterling’s talk before he was whisked to the hospital.

“He’s not here, is he?” It just dawned on Jack that the senator could be at Mount Sinai Hospital.

“No, he’s probably at one of the other ones. They were trying to keep it hush-hush. I also heard he might not have even gone to a hospital; they might’ve treated him and taken him to another location to meet his wife. His house is swarming with media—they showed it.”

The video of Sterling cut off, and the word
Live
popped onto the screen. “We interrupt this footage to take you live to Columbus Festival Arena, where special agent Rufus Peek is speaking about the latest on the terrorist attack,” said the female Fox broadcaster.

“Good evening,” Peek said, his gaunt face washed out by the white media lights and barrage of electronic flashes. “Although we are still early in our investigation, our findings are leading us to believe that the terrorists involved in the attack tonight are homegrown, possibly even citizens of the United States.”

The crowd around Peek erupted, so much so that the camera shook. Shouts and yelling and questions came from every direction. Peek lowered his head, paused, then held up a shaky hand and leaned toward the dozens of microphones. “We are releasing two new photographs of the man calling himself Shareek Zaher.”

The camera cut to side-by-side photos of Zaher, just as Jack remembered him. “These are good-quality photographs, taken by civilians in the arena this evening. Obviously, we are on the lookout for this man. He is armed and dangerous. If you see him, do not confront him, but call the number on your screen.”

A toll-free number came up. “A five-million-dollar reward is being offered to anyone who can provide us with information leading to the capture of this man,” Peek said. “Next we have two more photographs, also fairly close-up shots and of good quality. These two men worked closely with Zaher this evening.”

Again the screen split in two.

Jack didn’t recognize the guy on the right.

He zeroed in on the heavy man on the left … and everything stopped.

Something slammed in his stomach.

Everything froze.

The large man had been onstage with Zaher that night—but that wasn’t all.

Jack’s mind freewheeled—like a runaway fishing reel.

It wasn’t a physical thing but a mental thing.

A sudden knowledge.

An awareness.

A fact.

He was on his feet.

Peek was talking.

Shakespeare said something.

Jack approached the TV, focusing on the man’s masked face, his mouth. And suddenly all the sound in the room—the TV, Shakespeare, the man coughing, his loud oxygen tank—all sucked away.

Shakespeare spoke again, but Jack wasn’t even there anymore.

His ears thundered with the pounding of his pulse as he stepped closer to the TV.

All he could do was stare, stare, stare at the toothpick in the man’s mouth.

The toothpick … the man he’d seen somewhere before that night. Somewhere a terrorist never should have been.