Trent nodded, eyes dark, as he studied the printout.
Jules said, “I’ll bet this is what shows up in Charla King’s files, what the parents or prospective colleges or doctors or lawyers see.”
He took a sip of coffee. “So?”
“It doesn’t even scratch the surface.” She felt that buzz of adrenaline zinging through her veins, nervous energy that came with discovery. “Look here.” She flipped open another page, written in Lynch’s handwriting. “This is a different report. Not even typed, and it goes into much more detail. Rolfe’s psyche is dissected and studied.”
He shrugged. “Again, not illegal. Looks normal to me.”
“Except that it was kept from the main files. What if … what if Lynch was taking those kids with the raw proclivity for violence, you know, picking them and culling them out, for something other than to help them.”
“What?” He eyed her as if she were sprouting a third eye. “Why?”
“Because no one else will take them,” she said. “Because this would keep them out of institutions or psych wards in hospitals and because their parents will pay him well to take them off their hands.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Okay, let’s start with Eric,” she said, pushing Rolfe’s file to one side of the table. “He’s a good one to think about, because he’s so antisocial, his feelings right out in the open.”
“For which he’s being counseled,” Trent argued, but scooted out a chair and straddled it as he gently lifted the pages and read the notes, Lynch’s personal profile on Rolfe, showing how Lynch regarded the boy as a sociopath. Even as a child, Eric Rolfe’s pattern of behavior was noticed. He’d wet the bed until junior high, his older brother noted
for making fun of him publicly. At a very young age, he’d been caught harming small animals for the pure enjoyment of it, and when in school he’d bullied and fought with younger, weaker kids as a thrill and had been kicked out of half a dozen schools. Eventually he’d beaten up a classmate so severely the boy had to be hospitalized.
There was even a charge of rape in Rolfe’s file, though that case had been dismissed. Somehow, though, Lynch had gotten his hands on a picture of the victim, a girl of thirteen who had changed her mind about who had attacked her on that dark playground. DNA evidence had somehow been compromised. The case never got before a judge.
“A real charmer,” Trent said, his coffee long forgotten, his eyes dark with a quiet rage.
“And supposedly, from his test scores, brilliant.”
“Who cares? He could be as smart as Einstein, but he’s still a sociopath.”
“Right.” Jules, too, was stone-cold sober. “You see this red tape on the inside of the file?” Carefully, so as not to have the charred pages crumble, she spread open the information on Missy Albright and Roberto Ortega. “These have the same strip of tape and similar observations. There might be other files as well, but these are the only ones whose covers weren’t burned, the information the most complete.”
As Trent compared the files, the corners of his mouth twisting downward, Jules added, “These two, Missy and Roberto, are like Eric and some of the others. They, too, have a long history of violence, and because of it, I think, they got special attention from the reverend, lots of notes in Lynch’s handwriting. He was fascinated by them.” She pushed some of the pages toward Trent, then indicated the detailed, handwritten notes in each of the files. “The common theme is that these kids are smart, but very, very disturbed. At a deep, core level. They’ve got uncontrollable rage, just
beneath the surface. They’re cruel without any morsel of empathy.”
Jules met Trent’s dark gaze. “They’re sociopaths, a danger to society. To themselves.” She lifted her fingers one by one as she listed several symptoms of a sociopath. “They’re charming, even glib; they show no remorse; they think the world revolves around them; they lack empathy; they live on the edge; and they don’t give a damn about others.” Letting out a deep breath, she added, “They can’t be redeemed, but that’s not what Lynch is about. I’m just not sure if he’s brought them here for the money, or if there’s some other motive. Maybe he thinks he can harness their evil somehow? I don’t know.”
“Jesus,” Trent whispered. “Most of them are as smart as whips, off the charts. That’s how they ended up here in the first place.”
“But they’re not all cruel. That’s why the weaker ones become victims.” She felt sick inside, horrified at her discovery, but she was certain she was right.
“Nona Vickers and Drew Prescott? What about them?” he asked, absently scratching at his jaw. “You think there’s a group of kids that Lynch culled out because they’re sociopaths, and somehow Drew and Nona got caught in the cross fire? Or became targets?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her darkest fears congealing. “But I think that it’s worse than that. I think that this group of sociopaths, put together, with so many of them having such a broad history of violence, they could very well be identified as homicidal.”
“You think they would kill willingly?”
“Some of them even eagerly.” She had to get up, walk from one end of the room to the other to release some of the tension deep inside.
“Lynch knowingly brought a group of them together. Psychopaths.”
Just the sound of the word, spoken aloud, seemed to echo through the room. Suddenly cold again, she walked to the fire and warmed the back of her legs, all the while trying to make sense of what she’d discovered. “What if no one else had identified them? What if Lynch was the only one who had?”
“So why bring them all together?” he asked.
“Worse yet, why arm them? You said some of those kids had access to weapons, permits to carry guns.”
His face drained of all color. “An army?”
“I don’t know. But you mentioned Flannagan had an ‘elite’ fighting force almost like special-ops. These are the kids who are guarding us—you know, the group that leads other students. How nuts is that?” She was really thinking hard. It was too bizarre, too far beyond the bounds of reason to think that Lynch would seek out rich psychopaths, give them weapons—all for what? Then again, who knew if he was sane.
“What about Lauren Conway?” he asked as the lights flickered, throwing the room into darkness for a second, the fire their only source of light.
“God, I hope we don’t lose power,” she said.
“We’d better be prepared.” He had already scooted his chair back and was rummaging in a sideboard drawer for a lighter. “How do you think Lauren fits into all of this?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be good; otherwise, she would have surfaced and called her folks, or someone she knew, at the very least a girlfriend.”
“No one’s seen or heard from her since she went missing.” He lit the kerosene lanterns.
“I know.” Sighing, Jules glanced over the files spread upon the table, none of which were identified by Lauren’s name. Had there ever been a file? Or had it been destroyed in the fire, or earlier when she disappeared? “I hate to say it, but I think Lauren’s probably already dead. Either she
got caught up in something she couldn’t have gotten out of, or she died while trying to make her escape, or something. I think if there had been an accident, say, she was lost in the woods or hurt on campus somewhere, her body would have been found.”
“I think so, too,” he admitted as the lights winked again. He placed one of the lanterns on the table and sat in his chair again. “But, from my understanding, she wasn’t weak, wouldn’t have been an easy victim. She was tough, smart, athletic.” His eyes narrowed as if he were exploring the possibilities. “Do you think that she knew too much? Maybe she stumbled on what was happening here?” He picked up Missy Albright’s file. “Missy was one of the TAs who was supposed to take Lauren under her wing, show her the ropes. If you’re right about all this—”
“I am.” Jules felt it. She finally got what was happening here at Blue Rock as the lantern glowed brightly.
“Then she probably is dead.” His scowl was deep, the lines in his face deep furrows as he studied the charred notes strewn upon the table.
She said, “Some of these files are not tagged with red tape. For example, two kids from your pod, Chaz and Maeve, their folders aren’t marked that way.”
“Great. So we’ve got two normal but ‘disturbed’ kids, is that what you’re saying?”
“There are probably more. A lot more. But either Lynch didn’t bother creating files on them, or they burned. I didn’t find a file for Shay or Ollie Gage or Crystal Ricci, to name just a few.” For that much she was relieved.
“Okay, I’ll play along with this. I’ve got nothing better. But unless he’s planning a military coup—of what, Medford? Oregon?—why would Lynch want all these kids here? To observe them? To try and mold them? What?” he asked, picking up file after file. “And why promote them to
teachers’ aides?” He turned to Roberto Ortega’s file. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure it does,” she said, the implications of what she was thinking causing her stomach to sour. “When you cross-reference the psychological information with these,” she said, handing him several singed pages.
“What’re those?”
“Financial forms.”
He’d chosen Eric Rolfe’s parents’ financial report and studied the asset statement. He let out a long, low whistle, which was magnified by the moan of the wind.
“I know. I was surprised, too. Eric’s father is a multimillionaire, a German industrialist. And he’s not alone. Take a look.” She handed him Missy Albright’s family’s financial records. “Missy just happens to be the firstborn daughter of a socialite shipping heiress and her third husband. Sick as it sounds,” she said, pointing out the obvious, “it seems that most of the TAs have parents with a lot of money.”
“And social connections,” he thought aloud, eyeing Roberto Ortega’s file. The Ortega name was synonymous with a chain of fast-food restaurants stretching from El Paso, Texas, to Seattle, Washington.
“Lynch would never want anyone to make these connections, at least not easily. I’m sure the authorities would be able to put it all together, just like Lynch did, but it would be a helluva lot more difficult with these files destroyed.”
“And he wouldn’t want his private notes about the students’ mental conditions made public.”
Jules rubbed the back of her neck, trying to work out the knots of tension that had developed as she’d pored over files that had survived the fire. “It makes sense for the parents in a perverse way. Enrolling the problem kids here at Blue Rock into the college programs would be a way to keep them out of trouble and jail.”
“And their names out of the papers. Less media attention, less scandal,” he said.
“It’s a win-win situation. The parents believe their twisted little darlings are safe and”—she made air quotes with her fingers—” ‘getting help.’ Their kids can graduate from college and appear ‘normal.’”
“Sick, that’s what it is.”
Jules agreed. But there was still a lot to learn. All of the puzzle pieces weren’t dropping neatly into place; there were lots of holes she couldn’t quite fill. “I’m just wondering if these ‘red-taped’ kids are placed in that elite force you told me about, the one run by Bert Flannagan.”
He considered. “It’s possible, I suppose. Hell, after what you’ve shown me, anything is.”
She was already thinking hard. “It only gets worse, I think.”
“How could it possibly get any worse?”
“I already told you that Shay suspects there’s a secret cult on campus. What if it’s not just TAs? What if members of the staff are involved? Probably Lynch. Maybe others.”
“Wait a second.” He tossed her a look that accused her of finally going around the bend.
“Just hear me out. I know it sounds really out there, kinda insane, but think about it. The cult would need a leader.”
“Come on, Jules. These are qualified educators with degrees and awards and years of experience. Just because you might not like any of them doesn’t mean they’re criminals.”
She felt as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders, but she was certain she was on the right track. “Hey. I’m not making this up. Look for yourself.” She scooted another slim stack of blackened pages his way and pointed to the top file, where the name
Flannagan, Bert
was visible. Near his name was a piece of singed red tape. “Some of the faculty files are marked, too.”
“You’re right. It’s worse.” He shoved his chair back and stood. “Lynch sure knows how to pick ‘em.”
“That he does.” She reached over the table for a stack of files, suddenly conscious of her arm brushing his, the rising heat in the room, the clean smell coming off his skin, a mixture of soap and sweat. “I’d be willing to bet my cat’s nine lives that they were recruited for just that purpose.”
“Then he’s as sick as the rest of ‘em.”
“Sicker,” she said, “if that’s possible.”
“A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing …”
Maeve’s voice was the barest of whispers as she sang a song from her youth group and trod steadily through the snow. It seemed as if she’d been walking for hours, but the truth of the matter was she’d chosen to plod along at a slow pace. She had to be wary. Already she’d dealt with Mr. Taggert, convincing him and Tim Takasumi that she was returning to her room, when, really, once they were out of sight, she’d left the dorm again.
Did they really think they could stop her? No one could stop love.
She knew that Ethan would have trouble getting away. He was on security detail, so she’d had to kill time, walking in the snow, thinking about what she’d say to him, how she’d confront him, how she’d make him love her again.
He does, he does, he does love you. You just have to show him, prove it.
Now she was at the stable, and she let herself into the building that smelled of horses and hay. This hadn’t been her choice. Why would she want to meet where Nona and Drew had been killed? Or maybe it was fate to be here, where they had made love for the last time.
There was something romantic about that, right?
It wasn’t creepy or weird.
Dimmed security lights gave off an eerie blue glow, illuminating the aisle between the stalls like runway lights. It was warmer inside, but darker without the snow’s white reflection. Rakes, harnesses, brushes, brooms, buckets, and feed bags became dark figures, fuzzy in the umbra of the unlit corners. She saw embodiments of evil in the shadows. The bit of a bridle reflecting the blue light, the tines of a pitchfork glinting evilly as Lucifer’s weapon.