[Brackets] (7 page)

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, s
ome r
unning
st
raight to the ledge to try and
jump off, most ru
n
ning
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 f
rom 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 els
e. That very easily could have…

“Cole!” Nera wa
s almost yelling at him. “Cole,
who is Ichabod? Do y
ou know him?”

Like he had so many times over the past nine months, Cole found himself looking at Ne
ra 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 wa
s 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-look
ers. “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…”
S
he
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 renamin
g
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
.
H
e 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 whole 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, “T
his 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 h
e 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 to
o
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.