[Brackets] (39 page)

“Bathroom,” he said. “Just stay here and don’t move till I get back.”

“
Well, hurry up!”

Cole
half-
nodded and ran up the steps to the tunnel entrance. He looked
around
to make sure
that nobody was watching him, but a
ll eyes were on the court. Hands shaking, he pulled the note from his pocket and unfolded it. The words were
scratched out in black marker.

Just like this ball,

False prophets will fall.

I am here, and I will call.

For just a moment, Cole wanted to throw up. He crumpled the note and stuffed it back in his pocket, then let himself lean his head against the cool tunnel wall. In the stadium, the crowd erupted—someone had made the game’s first basket.
Now what?
Cole mulled. He wanted to just ignore the note. It wasn’t signed by Ichabod; he hadn’t actually seen him. But who else could it be? No, Ichabod was somewhere in the arena, watching them,
moving at will around their section
.
T
he security guards
—they
must have seen him. He stood up from the wall to go ask.

“Excuse me, are you Cole Kaman?”
asked an
official
-sounding
, gravelly voice. Cole turned to see a man in a blue jacket with a tag on it. The man’s eyes observed him sternly from beneath the rim of a baseball cap.

“
Yes?”

The man pulled out a badge from his pocket and flashed it quickly at Cole. “I’m Deputy Federal Marshall Bell. I was just coming down to find you. We have received a tip that Ichabod is in the arena.”

“Did you see him?” Cole tried to keep his voice low, but his nervousness betrayed him. The security guard at the tunnel
’s entrance
glanced at them but did nothing.

Marshall Bell shook his head. “No, this is a tip we got from one of the scalpers outside. He said a big man with a goatee and glasses bought a ticket off of him just before the game was about to start. The scalper said that
the
man made some comment
about
‘
a reckoning’ that
sounded like
possible terrorism, so he told a cop.
When t
he cop showed him the sketch of Ichabod
, it
was a positive ID. The seat number that the scalper gave us is empty, so we’re doing a search throughout the arena as we speak. Based on Ichabod’s description, he should be relatively easy to spot, though he’s proven evasive in the past.”

Cole dug out the basketball and note and handed them over. “Actually, I was just on my way to tell somebody about this.
This ball rolled down the steps
just a minute ago. The note looks like what Ichabod sent me last time.”

Marshall Bell took in the note with one quick glance, then looked closer at the writing on the ball. “This is him,” he confirmed.

“So…what’s going to happen? Do we all have to leave? I mean, evacuate?” Cole asked nervously. “I mean, he may try something again, right? What if he sets the building on fire with all these people inside?”

The Marshall shook his head and pointed to Ichabod’s note. “I don’t think so. See this line right here?
False
prophets will fall.
That’s prophets, plural
.
He’s not out for arson tonight. Our thinking right now is that he’s specifically here for you and Mr. Barnes.”
“Tucker?”

“Yes. Ichabod’s M.O. is going after people
or
groups
that
he thinks are forces of evil. The working theory right now is that his initial arson attempts were meant to draw out that evil from the world, smoke ‘em out. In his head, your perfect bracket is evidence that you are the evil one he’s been looking for. If that’s true, then
it stands to reason that
he will come after Tucker also.”

“What about the people with us? Is he going to target them, too?”

The man scratched his beard.

“There’s no way to know. What we need to do now is have you keep a low profile. And we need you and Mr. Barnes on board with us. Can you get in touch with him? Do you have his phone number?”

“Actually, we’re suppo
sed to do a stunt during a time-
out in a few minutes. We’re supposed to meet out at half-court. Should
we not do
it?”

“No, this is good. Tell Mr. Barnes to meet us at the Greene Turtle Restaurant on the east end of the building immediately after you do your thing. We’ll make a plan. Bu
t for now, just remain calm. Our
guess is that Ichabod probably won’t make a move until the end of the game, when he knows which bracket
is perfect
.”

“You mean, he’s going to attack the winner?”

“Mr. Kaman, relax. We’ll find him before the end of the game. Don’t worry.”

Cole nodded and took a deep breath. For a moment, he looked over the Marshall’s shoulder at the escalators going down to the exits. “Hey, what if I just left?” Cole said in a rush, his heart pounding. “Could I just leave and make him follow me? Wouldn’t that keep everyone safer?”

The Marshall took a step forward, forcing Cole to back away from the concourse. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Mr. Kaman. If you leave, we don’t know what he’ll do. He might go after you, but he might panic and do something drastic in the arena. No. You stay and wait until this all plays out. Understand?”

Cole nodded again, waited for an uncomfortable mome
nt, and returned to his seat meekly
.

The Marshall watched him go
all the way back down to his seat
, then checked the time and took out his phone. As he walked briskly down the concourse, phone to ear, he swerved toward the closest trash can and tossed in the basketball and torn piece of paper. One hand now free, he took out a handful of peanuts from his pocket and shoved them in his mouth.

*
             
*
             
*
             
*

With ten minutes to go in the first half, Tucker left his dad and made his way down to the closest corner entrance to the court, showing his credentials at several points. A floor coordinator with a walkie-talkie and a pencil behind his ear was waiting for him.

“Good,” said the coordinator when Tucker approached. “Okay, the other one is already waiting on the opposite side, so we’ll just stay here until the next full time-out. You remember what you’ll be doing?”

Tucker nodded.

“Good. Big night tonight. How about you? Been enjoying the game? Nice looking cheerleaders you’ve got out there.”

Tucker smiled in agreement, but stopped smiling a couple of minutes later when he noticed that the man was still staring at the cheerleaders. A courtside view of the biggest game in college basketball was totally wasted on this guy.

The time
-
out was called with six minutes to go in the half. As soon as the players hustled to their benches, Tucker jog
ged
out to the middle of the court, waving to everybody in the stands. He was flanked by a producer with a microphone and a cameraman. Walking in
quickly
from the opposite side was Cole.

“Ladies and gentleman,”
the
announcer
boomed
as the two men met at half court and shook hands. “Out of ten million brackets entered in the
Tournament Challenge this year,
o
nly two have made it to the big game. Please welcome Cole Kaman and Tucker Barnes!”

Tucker thrust both fists up in the air, turning around to take in the cheers coming from every side. Cole put a hand up and waved. He was enjoying it more than he would admit.

The announcer continued.
“Their
predictions
have been impressive, but now, they are going head to head in the ultimate psychological game of prediction: paper, rock, scissors!”

The crowd laughed and cheered appreciatively, and the producer positioned Tucker and Cole to face each other at center court. The cameraman zoomed in on their hands and sent the
image of their extended fists to
the Jumbotron.

“Are you ready?” the producer roared like a revving engine. Both men nodded.

“Remember, best two out of three. And…1….2….3…shoot!” Cole flashed paper, and Tucker, with scissors, yelled in triumph and snipped Cole’s fingers victoriously.

“That’s one for Tucker Barnes. Here we go with round two...1…2…3…shoot!” Tucker nearly flinched, but showed rock. Cole flashed paper again.

“And one for Cole Kaman!” The crowd cheered and called out suggestions in an incoherent roar. Tucker leaned in to focus.
There’s no way he puts out paper three times
…

“And round three for the win! Ready…1…2…3…shoot!”  Tucker produced rock. To his instant humiliation, he saw Cole’s
long, flat hand. Paper.

“Paper beats rock, and Cole Kaman wins!” The UCLA fans began a chant of Cole’s name while the Nebraska fans booed. Tucker threw back his head in frustration, only partly for the Jumbotron shot. He knew it didn’t matter. But still.

Cole gave another polite wave, allowing himself to enjoy the victory a bit, then stepped forward to shake Tucker’s hand.  As the announcer gave a testimonial about the insurance company that had sponsored that event, Cole leaned in, smiling, and startled Tucker by saying, “Hey, we have a big problem. Meet me by the Greene Turtle restaurant right now. It’s about Ichabod.”

Tucker’s stomach tightened, but he nodded that he understood and jogged
off
while
the players made themselves ready to get back on the court. As Tucker
approached his seat
, Henry was shaking his head in mock shame.

“Son, what in the world were you thinking? Rock two times in a row?”

Tucker didn’t slow down and barely made eye contact with his dad as he passed by. “Hey Dad, I gotta go talk to a friend real quick. I’ll be back before the half.”

“Okay, but we’re not through with this conversation, young man. We need to have a serious talk about what they’re teaching you at school.”

“You got me, Dad, I’ve been skipping out on
the
paper-rock-scissors lecture,” Tucker called back. Pausing at the top of the tier to take one long look at the resumed game action, Tucker sighed in frustration and went out into the concourse. He found the
entrance to the
Green
e
Turtle and saw Cole s
tanding
next to a man with a blue jacket.

“Tucker Barnes? I’m Deputy Federal Marshall Bell. Have a seat.” Tucker sat. The Marshall explained the situation.

Tucker was incr
e
dulous. “How’d he get in? How’d he get past security? Isn’t the guy like a giant? How is it that no one has seen him?”

Bell’s retort was ice cold. “There are fifty thousand people here. We are doing our best.”

“Coul
d you show him the basketball?” Cole suggested, trying to ease the tension.

Bell didn’t flinch. “No, I already gave that to Forensics.”

“So what are we supposed to do if we see him?” Tucker asked more amenably. He wanted to get this conversation over with and get back to his seat as quickly as possible.

“Don’t make a scene, just move away quietly. I’ll have people watching both of you, and if something looks wrong, they’ll move in. Do you have any other friends in the stands? Someone you could run to if the need arose?”

“We know people in the Potomac Skybox,” said Tucker. “We were going up there at halftime.”

Marshall Bell’s eyes registered brief surprise. “The Potomac? Where the South Korean delegation is?” He didn’t so much ask as state.

“Yeah. That should be safe, right? They have security.”

Bell paused, as if calculating. “Sure. That could work. But listen, I w
ant you to do this. Go for half
time, but then stay for an extra ten minutes if they’ll let you. We can only assume that Ichabod will be watching your seats, and if you don’t show, he might make a move that gets him noticed. It’s a risk, as I explained to Mr. Kaman, but it might be the thing we need to try if we still haven’t found him.”

The two young men nodded their compliance.

“Okay, let’s get you back to the game. You have cell phones?” Two more nods. “Give me your numbers so I can text you any updates. We’re going to find this guy and shut him down, so just stay where you are and try to enjoy the game.”

“Don’t have to tell me,” Tucker stated with finality. “I’ve missed too much of this game already.”

Bell fixed him with another appraising stare, and the two bracket holders were waved out of the restaurant.