“Crane,” Newcombe called. “They’re here.”
Crane frowned and looked at Whetstone. The two shook hands and walked toward the flap just as the police entered.
“You’re in charge now,” Crane told Newcombe. “I’ll get back here as soon as I can.”
“I don’t trust the river,” Newcombe replied. “Can’t they—”
“No,” Crane interrupted. “It’s too late. We’ll have to take our chances.”
“I’m Chief Hoskins of the Memphis PD,” the man cuffing Whetstone said, then nodded to his partner. “This here is Mr. Lyle Withington, the mayor of our fair city. I have a warrant for the arrest of Lewis Crane and Harry Whetstone.”
“It will give me great pleasure, sir,” the mayor said to Crane, “to watch you being put away where you can do no more harm.”
“Do you live outside of the city, Mr. Mayor?” Crane asked as they put the cuffs on him.
“Why, no … I have a house right in—”
“Then get your family out before they’re hurt.”
“Now, really … sir.”
“Is there a Jimmy Earl here?” Chief Hoskins called.
“Right here!” Jimmy, a big country boy with rosy cheeks and a fatback smile that never left his face, elbowed his way to them. Inherited money, Newcombe thought.
“You can come along, too.” the Chief said. “The mayor’s given you permission to videotape in the cell.”
“Thanks, Uncle Lyle,” Earl said, pumping the man’s hand.
Crane turned to the other camheads. “People of Memphis,” he said as Hoskins led him to the door, “go to your main power boxes and shut down the focus. If you have anything that runs on natural gas, cut the valve at the source. Do it now.”
They moved through the tent, Newcombe following, pulling his goggles back on with the rest of them as they got out in the sun, the crowds jeering loudly when Crane was spotted.
“Chief Hoskins,” Newcombe said, pointing to the crowds, “can’t you disperse those people? They’re trespassing on private property.”
“No!” Crane said as they shoved him into the car. “They’re safe here and they’ll be able to help after the quake.”
Lanie leaned through the window to give Crane a long kiss as the cams pulled in tight, Newcombe feeling a flush of rage that he fought down.
She stepped back, Crane sticking his head out the door and talking into the lenses of the cameras held by the camheads. “Take heavy objects off your shelves,” he called. “Take down glass and chandeliers. Get flammable materials out of your home. Now! Right away!”
Hoskins slid behind the wheel as Whetstone and an excited Jimmy Earl climbed in back with Crane.
Mayor Withington stared hard at Newcombe. “I’d advise you to pack up your belongings and get out of here,” he said. “There’s not a cop in Tennessee who’ll protect you from those people out there.”
“You’ll be blessing us for being here before the day’s out, Mayor,” Newcombe said, turning from the man and walking back into the tent, Lanie on his heels. He padded onto the P fiber. “Burt … Burt, are you there?”
“Yeah, Doc Dan.”
“You keeping track of that lawyer Crane dragged down here from Memphis?”
“Yeah … he’s right here.”
“Crane’s been arrested. Give the lawyer his retainer from the cash box. Tell him to go into town tomorrow and work the bail—that’s if the jail’s still standing tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
“What the hell?” Lanie said. Dan blanked Hill and turned to her. She was watching the screens. Africks and Hispanics were pouring out of the city’s sewer system, firing guns into the air. They were hotwiring cars on the streets and driving off. Cars were bumper-to-bumper on State Highway 51, Elvis Presley Boulevard.
“What the hell’s going on?” Lanie asked.
“The start of the revolution,” Newcombe said, his mind screaming, And I did it!
“What time is it?” she asked.
“3:45,” he said without looking. “We’ve got less than two hours.”
The Memphis city jail was part of the new law enforcement complex built on the old station house at 201 Poplar Street in the aging section of town, five miles from the Mississippi River and down the street from U China Tennessee State and the tree-lined splendor of Audubon Park. Of course, the park’s trees had mostly died. The city fathers undertook a campaign years before of filling the dead branches with artificial leaves so that the city’s ambience could remain intact. And they constantly reminded everyone that it was beautiful winter or summer.
They took Crane and Whetstone into the station amidst confusion. The War Zone had just exploded from its nest and flowed into the city proper, the entire force mobilized to fight. But the Zoners appeared not to want to fight—only to flee.
Dozens of Muslims were being dragged into the station, all demanding they be given the right to leave the region. Crane was thrilled that somebody was listening to him.
By the time they were booked and thrown into the tank—the huge holding cell that was filled to capacity with angry Zoners yelling for freedom—it was 4:00 P.M. When the tank was filled to capacity, people were jammed into other cells, then the halls, the whole block being locked down tight.
And during the entire procedure, Crane had never stopped talking, never stopped speaking into Jimmy Earl’s camera, rigged not just for recording, but also for broadcast.
“Time is running short,” he said. “The people in here with me are from the War Zone. They are trying to escape the disaster.
“You must listen carefully to me if you want to save your lives. It’s too late, I fear, for you to escape if you haven’t already. So, get shoes on. Wear heavy clothing and pack a bag. Take dry goods, canned goods. Fill water bottles. Fresh water will be the thing you most need in the hours to come. Your biggest problem right now, though, is your home. Your home is full of death—flying glass will kill you; objects hanging on your walls or sitting on your mantels are deadly projectiles; chimneys will crush you; your water pipes are explosives; the roof of your own home could fall and bury you. Bricks are bombs; splinters are swords. Get out of your house.
“There are dead trees everywhere. Avoid them. Stay off the roads. Look for open ground. Remember, emergency services are set up in Capleville. If you can see the EQ-eco on your region, gravitate toward the less dangerous areas. There will be aftershocks, several hundred of them in the next few days, so keep moving toward the safe areas.
“Fresh water … fresh water. Please … fill bottles now. There’s not much—”
He heard it then, the low rumbling roar coming from beneath them. It suddenly got deathly quiet in the cell block as the noise increased.
“It’s here,” Crane said. “It’s here! Out of your homes! Now! Now!”
The roar was upon them, the cell floor buckling, throwing them all to the floor as the sidewalks, streets, and lawns outside began exploding.
Jimmy Earl screamed and grabbed the bars for support. The entire line of bars fell outward, on top of the men in the halls as the building shook, plaster dust raining down on them. The lights went out.
“Stoney!” Crane shouted. The floor rolled and pitched like a ship on stormy seas. The wail of human beings joined the sickening roar in a stentorian cry of despair. “Stoney!”
“C-Crane!” came the pained response. “Here … here!”
Crane cursed the cops for putting too many people in the holding tank. He crawled through the writhing mass of flesh on the rocking floor. Pieces of the ceiling were falling all around. He was alert, not scared. Death would toy with him for a long time before taking him.
“Crane!”