Sunken Graves, Alan Lee [all ebook reader .txt] 📗

12

A maintenance crew measured Jennings’ window the next morning while he reviewed camera footage in the security office.

The Academy had cameras aimed at each building and parking lot. Sitting in the glow of five screens, Jennings scrolled backwards in time until dusk fell yesterday evening. He located his dorm, Moffett Hall. He didn’t understand the software well enough to transfer that camera feed to the largest monitor so he leaned in and clicked 4x speed.

What would Lynch have done if I’d been home? Did he know I was out?

At 7:15, Jennings spotted the prowler. He rewound and watched again from all angles but couldn’t determine from where the guy had arrived. The vandal hadn’t walked from a campus parking lot, that was obvious. Was it Lynch? A big guy. But it could have been any big guy. The lighting wasn’t good.

The prowler crept to Jennings’ window. Looked like he was dressed head to toe in black, including gloves. Maybe a beard? Maybe not. He threw the brick sidearm but the window held. It took him twice. Jennings leaned in further, watching the second throw. The vandal ran. Jennings searched every monitor but the guy vanished. He watched it again and made a note of the exact time.

That might be Peter Lynch.

Or it might be Benji Lynch obeying orders. Slipping back to his dorm, Humphries Hall.

Jennings would report his findings to Dean Gordon but nothing here was conclusive—he wouldn’t mention the note or squirrel, not yet. He wasn’t ready for that firefight. He slumped backward in the swivel chair and checked his iPhone.

A message waited in his old email account. A message from Kabir Patel.

Tell me who you are and perhaps I’d be willing to discuss my articles over a phone call.

-Kabir

Jennings’ skin prickled. Kabir needed to vet him first. Everyone was terrified they were walking into a trap. That fear had a source.

He returned to his suite. The maintenance crew was gone, having replaced his makeshift cardboard window covering with a wooden plank. They left him a note—the new window should arrive Wednesday.

Jennings opened his laptop and replied to Kabir Patel.

Mr. Patel, my name is Dan Jennings. I teach history at the Valley Academy. Benji Lynch is one of my students. I was given your name from a reliable source and I understand your need for discretion. For various reasons, I’m looking for information on Peter Lynch and on Modern Monsters. I’m happy to chat by phone at your convenience.

Jennings listed his phone number and sent the email.

The sheet of plywood over his window blocked out the sunlight in his bedroom. He sat looking at it a long time, and at the brick beneath it, and at the note pinned beneath the brick.

13

As students filed out of Jennings’ classroom Monday afternoon, Dean Gordon walked in.

Gordon looked great on television. He had the gray hair and wise face of a winning politician, good for fund-raising. Today he looked tired.

“Good day, Mr. Jennings?”

“Yessir, they usually are.”

“Glad to hear it. Come step outside with me.”

“Sure.” Jennings felt less of the nerves most instructors did around an almighty head of school. He was inured from the military. The hallway was vacating quickly as they walked through.

“How did Benji look today?” said Gordon.

“He’s somber. Benji’s never been chatty but today he looked like he was carrying extra weight. Wouldn’t look at me during class.”

“That young man has a lot on his mind, I expect.” Gordon reached the exterior doors first and held them for Jennings.

“Everything okay, sir?”

“I have some bad news, Mr. Jennings, and I thought you’d like to see it yourself. Your truck was vandalized last night.”

The Tacoma’s windshield was splintered and the driver’s window entirely shattered. The letters RIP were spray painted in bright red across the passenger side. The seats were slashed, probably by a knife.

Some fear and anger churned in Jennings. He didn’t say it but he was glad he’d removed the shotgun.

“It was reported during lunch. No one saw it this morning. First your window, now this. A crummy few days, Mr. Jennings.” Dean Gordon’s voice sounded commiserative, soldiers discussing wounds. “My car was vandalized once. Unfortunately it comes with the job if you anger enough students.”

This wasn’t because I angered a student, Dean.

“I viewed the security footage already. You’re welcome to do the same. It happened this morning around four. I can’t determine the culprit from the silhouette. Big guy, whoever it was. My eyeballs say he’s the same person who broke your dorm window. Do you have any educated guesses?”

Jennings didn’t answer. He was angered by the rips in his car seat, ugly cuts.

“I reviewed the logs from last night,” continued Gordon, referring to the dorm locks. After lockdown, students couldn’t get in or out without using their electronic keycard. “The doors weren’t opened. Which makes me think it wasn’t a boarding student.”

“It wasn’t a student.”

“You know that definitively?”

“Did you call the police already?” said Jennings.

“They’ll be here soon. Plus a tow. You have insurance, I assume, as does the school. You won’t pay a dime.”

“I’ll talk to the police about this. And fill you in as soon as I can.”

“You can talk to the police but not me?”

“That’s right, not yet.”

Gordon was taken back. It was his job to know and he didn’t. Gordon regarded him, hands in pockets, and Jennings quickly felt like a student who’d broken a rule. The man was good at silence.

Then, “Mr. Jennings, I hesitate to pry into your private affairs. But are you in some trouble? Perhaps I can help.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m able. And I say that with all due respect.”

“The two attacks strike me as personal.”

“They’re school related.”

“Hell, Mr. Jennings, I should—”

“You should trust me.” A pause and Jennings wondered how quickly the titans would find out about this, whether or not he confided his suspicions with Gordon. The dean of a school was beholden to his board of trustees, but was he also terrified of them? Completely in their pocket? Lynch had broken