Chapter 22

22

By seven thirty that night, Beckford's Houzelle Gymnasium in the center of campus had the music pumping and all its lights blazing out against the night. Though the men's basketball season didn't start until the first week of November, every year at the end of October, they held a pep rally where they pulled out all the stops.

Pushing in through the arena's front doors, President Cushing's eyes went wide at the increase in volume, the sound of it like something physical as it blasted out from the inner arena into the outer corridor.

And corridor didn't really do the space justice, did it? he thought as he crossed through it. Concourse of champions was more like it. At its center was a massive museum-quality cabinet of glass encasing the team's history. There were Sports Illustrated covers, gleaming silver engraved trophy cups. Signed game basketballs and cut down nets. All placed upon pedestals as if they were crown jewels.

And just beyond this dazzling display in the center of the walkway was a kiosk with a high-def screen showing all the greatest moments in Redhawks history. Twist and turn windmill dunks from the high post, behind the back alley-oops, three-pointers at the buzzer. All put on eternal repeat and slo-mo as if they were moments in history and human progress as critical as the raising of the flag at Iwo Jima or the moon landing.

Across from this epic installation was a Dick's Sporting Goods–like gift shop with window dressing that reverently displayed the famous jerseys and sneakers of players who went on to play in the NBA. Along with these holy sweat-stained relics were plenty of glossy color photos of the legends themselves. And beside those were black-and-white photos from the Victorian days of basketball when it had been invented in nearby Springfield, Massachusetts. In these vintage images, old-timey white males wearing turtlenecks and what looked like football pants were frozen in time, forever jumping for a ball with laces on it.

Beyond the gift shop, Coach Houzelle who had led the Redhawks to their two Final Four berths of the national championship in the '80s had been cast in a bronze bust by the arena's front entryway door. The tradition was to pat his bald head for good luck as you went in, and Cushing, knowing one could always use some luck, dutifully tapped the coach for some.

Beyond this idol the half-filled twenty-thousand-person-capacity arena that he headed into could have been mistaken for Madison Square Garden. There were championship banners strung from the ceiling above the bright red seats and on the waxed shimmering hardwood, what looked like a pagan ritual was in full swing.

There were a bunch of guys with tubas along one baseline while on the other side were drummers led by a bass drum guy who had neon lights on his mallets that went off every time they struck. Between this orchestra, cheerleaders flew, spinning through the air, as two sets of dancers—male and female—battled each other theatrically beneath the jumbotron.

As the band stopped, the students in the half-filled stands did a sudden en masse freeze frame. And then some rap song started blasting and they all started yelling and suddenly hopping up and down in the stands with a sound like thunder.

My, my, my, they were really pumping up that jam tonight, weren't they? Cushing thought, wishing he had some noise-canceling earbuds as he made his way up the stairs to the top row of the midcourt VIP seats. If only the old jam could be pumped down a little for once.

Waving back politely at faculty and students as he sat, Cushing noticed how the VIP area was mostly empty still, with the most glaring absence being that of his wife, Jodi. That his wife wasn't already here was strange, he thought. She'd sent a text around five that she was done shopping but needed to stop by their daughter's with some clothes for Carter.

Would she have stayed this late though? Cushing wondered. Jodi loved this. Not just all the major ass-kissing they received from the usual grovelers but the actual game itself.

He was up and heading to find himself a drink from the portable bar that was in the corridor behind the VIP seats when his phone rang.

His wife? he thought. Then he looked at the screen and saw it was Director Travers, who was still out watching the New York investigator, who at last report had gone back to her hotel.

He immediately put a finger in his ear and picked up.

"What now, Travers?"

"This...this isn't good, boss."

"What isn't good?"

"I'm at the hotel," Travers said.

"Yes?"

"Well, I just saw someone go in and talk to our, um, target. I thought I recognized them, but I...I wasn't sure so I went out and checked the parking lot. They are still in there right now with the investigator, sir, and this isn't good at all. Not at all."

"What are you talking about? Who went there? Who's talking to the investigator?"

"It's—"

"Who?" Cushing cried.

"It's Jodi, sir," Travers said.

"J-J-Jodi!" Cushing stammered.

"Yes, sir," Travers said. "It's your wife."