Without Mercy

  His eyebrows knitted as he hit the ON switch, and the Mr. Coffee machine gurgled to life. “She’s sure?”

  “Sure enough to mention it to me.”

  “Far-fetched.” He shook his head, but she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, considering Shay’s theory. He lifted the wood carrier and its charred contents, carrying it into the nearby dining area. “So let’s see what you risked your life to retrieve. You know, Lynch is gonna be pissed as hell when he walks into his office tomorrow and sees that the ash has been disturbed. He’s gonna know by the color, content, and amount of debris in the fireplace that something’s up.”

  “And the carrier’s gone. I’ll worry about that later.”

  “Takasumi and Taggert saw you. There’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  “I said later.”

  For once he didn’t argue and led her through an archway that branched in two directions, one to bedrooms and a bath, the other to the living area where a square oak table surrounded by mismatched chairs occupied a space near the windows. Nearer to the front door, a faded love seat and beat-up leather recliner were grouped around a blue rock fireplace flanked with bookcases. Within the grate, a fire was banked, red embers visible through a thick layer of ash.

  Trent kicked out a chair and placed the carrier on it, allowing Jules to sort through the charred remnants of Lynch’s private documents.

  “Cozy,” she remarked as he double-checked that all the shades were drawn.

  “That’s one word to describe it.” He almost smiled, relaxing a bit as he fiddled with the thermostat again while Jules willed the warmer air to heat the chill in the marrow of her bones. Slowly she started to thaw.

  As Trent worked on the fire, Jules tackled the files. Her jacket was bulky, so she stripped it off and tossed it over the back of one of the dining chairs. Warm air was humming through the air vents, chasing away the cold.

  She began working by separating out the pages that weren’t totally destroyed, placing them in some kind of order. The files that were intact were easy. Other loose pages were singed and blackened, some falling to pieces when she touched them. That part of the job was tedious, those fragile pages taking much longer to sort.

  “Find anything?” he asked, looking over his shoulder as he knelt at the fireplace.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  He tossed thick lengths of oak from a stack that filled a metal carrier, which was identical to the one she’d stolen from Lynch’s office—apparently standard issue here at Blue Rock. The wood caught quickly, the fire beginning to pop and crackle against the mossy oak. Soon the smell of wood smoke mingled with the tantalizing aroma of hot coffee.

  Trent brought her a steaming mug as she sorted the pages, but she was suddenly not interested in the coffee, not when she was starting to see a pattern emerge.

  At first she wasn’t certain.

  Surely not …

  But as she worked, she became more and more certain she was right, and if she was, then evil truly reigned at Blue Rock Academy.

  All of the Leader’s worst fears were confirmed.

  He stood in the shadows outside Cooper Trent’s cabin and knew that he and Julia Farentino were inside. He’d caught them together, Trent chasing her down, Julia running as she carried what looked like a heavy basket. Only metal. It had glinted a bit, catching in the light of a lamppost she’d tried to avoid. But he’d seen it, that little metallic flash.

  What was it?

  And why was she carrying it to Trent’s bungalow?

  Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. Wasn’t planned.

  Worry tangled his insides.

  The Leader had observed the way Trent had taken the crook of her elbow in a proprietorial fashion, shepherding her toward his cottage. He’d noticed how they huddled close, as if they’d known each other a long time, even though she’d been at the academy only a few days.

  But Trent had called her cell phone, had her private number.

  The Leader had listened to his message.

  It had been curt and professional, just a quick, “This is Cooper Trent, Ms. Farentino. Would you please call me as soon as possible?” Trent had left his number, as if Julia didn’t already have it in her memory, and certainly it wasn’t an entry on the contact list of her cell.

  The message had bothered the Leader, like an itch under his skin that he couldn’t quite scratch. He’d told himself not to think too much about it. He had bigger things to worry about.

  Now, of course, he’d changed his mind.

  From his hiding spot in a copse of redwood and madrone, he observed the snug little cottage. There hadn’t been much to witness, just Trent squinting into the darkness as he’d drawn the shades and the smell of wood smoke from a fire. Lights glowed from within. Shadows played upon the shades, fuzzy silhouettes that moved but offered him little in the way of knowing what was going on within the walls of the cabin.

  Whatever it was, he had to stop it.

  Tonight.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jules couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Was it possible?

  Was Reverend Lynch—a man of God who always portrayed himself to be the benevolent guardian of troubled youth, a paragon of faith—a fraud? Worse than that, could he really be a twisted, cruel madman, a duplicitous pious Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?

  What was it his wife had said the night that Jules had listened at the preacher’s door?

  You seem to gain some perverse pleasure in persecuting and torturing me.

  Now Jules understood.

  Insides quivering, she scanned the burned pages quickly, gently swiping away ash, reading what she could, stacking the information in piles. Despite the papers singed in the fire, there were enough legible documents to paint a sick, almost diabolical picture of Blue Rock Academy.

  “This is a little scary,” she whispered to Trent, who was tossing another log onto the fire as she looked at a file that proved even more disturbing. “I think I’m beginning to understand what’s going on around here.”

  He stood and dusted his hands, the fire burning even brighter. “So show me what you’ve got, Nancy Drew.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I know, but humor me.” He stood behind her, reading over her shoulder.

  She reached for her coffee, and cradling the mug in her fingers, she said, “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I figured that much.”

  She took a sip, turning her attention to the information in front of her, and summed up what she’d found. “From what I can decipher, Lynch kept a file for each student and teacher, separate from the administrative files Charla King locks away in a file cabinet in her office at the admin building.” She motioned to the blackened documents in front of her. “These files, or dossiers or whatever you want to call them, are separate and hold very different information such as personal material, arrest records, and psychological data that’s been collected on the kids. These”—she tapped a finger on a blackened page with the name Bernsen, Zachary typed across the top—“are not your standard personnel files. That’s why they were locked away.”

  He was listening, his brow furrowed as he scanned the documents. “There’s no crime in keeping a second set of more detailed files.”

  She nodded, ignoring a gust of wind that rattled the windows and caused the fire to dance. “No crime in that, right, but here’s the kicker: These files contain information deliberately excluded from Charla King’s computerized files. For example, if you look here”—she indicated a few pages that, aside from singed corners, were intact—“we have a psychological profile for Eric Rolfe. Right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Here are his test scores and grades, all neatly computerized and printed out. There’s even some sketchy information about his family and a quick assessment of his social problems.”

  Trent nodded, eyes dark, as he studied the printout.

  Jules said, “I’ll bet this is what shows up in Charla King’s fi
les, 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.”