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

needed the answer though. He bore down on it and said, “Your dad ever swing at you?”

Benji shrugged. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Only when it’s good for me. When I need it or deserve it. Same as most guys, I guess.”

“Understood.”

“I gotta run to class. See ya, Mr. Jennings.”

Jennings followed to the door and watched him jog down the hall, where Ms. Pierce was demanding students hurry but not run.

Jennings couldn’t bring himself to eat more spaghetti.

5

The final bell rang and Jennings opened his laptop.

Look Mr. Lynch up on Google sometime.

Beats his boys to toughen them.

Handle him, Mr. Jennings.

He searched for Peter Lynch and got a browser full of the celebrated financial investor Peter Lynch, now pushing eighty. Wrong guy.

He searched instead for Peter Lynch, Attorney, Roanoke, Virginia, and the man’s hairy face invaded his screen. Jennings had seen this photo on billboards, that smile on television.

The saccharin voice from the commercials autoplayed in Jennings’ brain, “Were you injured in an automobile accident? Hurt at work or by the negligence of others? Here at the law offices of Peter Lynch, we know life can be unfair. We will fight for you and for justice. We’re concerned for your well-being.”

The result page was full of Lynch’s sponsored ads and his various legal websites, law articles he’d penned and announcements concerning settlements he’d secured for his clients. Nothing sinister.

Through search engine optimization it’s possible to bury stories within Google’s algorithms, Jennings knew, so he surfed to the second page. Then the third…

Attorney Peter Lynch, Disbarred in California, Moves his Practice to Virginia.

Local Attorney Settles Out of Court with Accuser.

No Comment from Judge Lynch, Brother of Accused.

Peter Lynch’s Ugly Battle Behind Closed Doors.

Jennings leaned back in his chair, article headlines shouting at him.

He read for thirty minutes, enough to get a bird’s eye view of the scandals.

The California state bar association revoked Lynch’s license ten years ago after he physically assaulted not one, not two, but three opposing counsels. His practice there had been lucrative. He moved to Virginia, aced the exam, and the bar somehow awarded him a license to practice. Unnamed sources expressed frustration, espousing Lynch’s brother had influenced the vote.

The Honorable Francis Lynch, Peter’s brother, sat on the bench for the 23rd Judicial Circuit Court in Salem, ten miles from the Academy.

Jennings’ eyebrows rose. High achieving family.

Four years ago, something happened. Kelly Carson, Lynch’s step-daughter, accused him of abuse and incest; Jennings found that on Facebook, not exactly the most trustworthy source. But then…nothing. Jennings couldn’t figure it. He followed broken links and nonexistent articles, pages redirecting to social media posts, mostly hearsay. For such a lurid crime it was oddly sanitary. The accusation had gone away. One little article mentioned the case was presumed to be settled with a financial payment and a nondisclosure agreement. But…that should be a bigger deal. Was child abuse and incest not a crime? Did that have no bearing on his right to practice law? The investigation stopped three years ago without a stated reason. Not only that but the story had obviously been scrubbed from the internet. Residue of headlines remained, as did some outrage, but no details. Articles about Lynch’s ugly battle behind closed doors led to deleted landing pages.

Jennings finished chasing another dead end and remembered himself. He glanced around his classroom, feeling like a peeping Tom and Lynch had caught him, grinning in the corner with his teeth too big.

Jennings closed the laptop and stood to stretch. The school felt hollow and lifeless but outside the world carried on. Students had left their classrooms for afternoon sports like a bee hive emptying its drones. Jennings followed the buzz in search of the sun and people and sports.

Instructors at boarding schools have afternoon duty—sports, theater, weight-lifting, etc. Hathaway was an assistant choir director. Because this was Jennings’ first semester, his duty was flexible. He ‘floated’ around the outdoor sports and subbed for coaches when necessary.

Valley Academy played football games at the Salem Stadium but practiced on campus in Roanoke. Jennings unzipped his windbreaker and carried it to the practice field. The team was working on endurance. Boys in red helmets jogged in place, then dropped, rolled, and hopped up. Over and over.

Jennings groaned and grinned. He’d played one year of football. That was enough. What the hell was wrong with people? Practices were awful and the games hurt. Two boys with broken legs watched from the bench, crutches resting beside them. A kid dashed off the field to vomit in the taller grass. How did this sport endure?

Because guys like him loved watching it, that’s how.

If the Academy won Friday, they had one final game, the championship.

Benji wasn’t hard to spot. Taller than most, broad and thick. Jennings had heard from Coach Murray that Benji would almost certainly play in college but not for a national contender. VMI was possible. Benji wasn’t light on his feet. He had his father’s plodding gait which kept him good instead of phenomenal.

Jennings sat on the grassy hill above the field and pulled a Kindle from his jacket pocket. The device blinked on and he continued Theodore Rex, a biography by Edmund Morris about his favorite president. Football practice was boring to watch but made great background noise; Jennings wanted to be near people.

He was deep in the plot, glowing with vitamin D, when Coach Murray sat beside him.

“You’re a book worm, huh,” said Murray.

Jennings clicked off the device. “I prefer book nerd.”

“I only read books written by coaches. Everything else’s a waste of time.”

On the field, his assistants had lined the boys up into offense and defense and they were demonstrating the proper way to kill each other.

“Read John Wooden?” said Jennings.

“Oh yeah, Wooden’s my man. My players have to memorize the pyramid.”

“I used to know it.”

Murray wasn’t a tall man, but he carried the imperial authority good coaches have. His hair was buzzed close and his spine was straight. “I hear you’re helping Benji Lynch. Thanks for that. We’d be soft up the middle