by Paula Munier
“I’d like to see all the records that you have for the victim. And for Blake and Katharine Montgomery, Lea and Max Sanders, and anyone else around the academy at that time who interacted with them.”
“I understand all, with the exception of Max, were at Mr. Feinberg’s estate at the time of the murder.”
“Yes, at his invitation. A hunting party.”
“How very Victorian. Do please elaborate.” She waited for Mercy to enlighten her, practically purring along with her cat.
Apparently Dr. Wright was not above a good gossip, as her grandmother called it. Mercy changed the subject. “Where do you suggest we start?”
“Most of the original source material that might interest you was lost to fire long ago. Report cards, administrative forms, medical records, et cetera. I’ve gathered together what little is left.”
“Thank you.”
“There is a wealth of secondary source material to sort through—school newsletters, student newspapers, literary journals, club notes, that sort of thing—that could reveal something.” Dr. Wright pointed to a stack of boxes in the corner. “You’ll find those in there.” She looked at Mercy with something like relish. “Secrets. I suppose that’s what you’re after.”
She smiled. “It would be great if you could give me a sense of what they were like as students.”
“I’ve pulled out the pertinent yearbooks for the years in which they attended the academy. Let us take a look. We should begin with 1982, the year they were all here at the same time.”
The Elliott Academy yearbook was a richly produced, leather-bound volume with gold lettering that spelled out The Peak 1981–1982, with a gold embossed pine tree set against a mountaintop. The profile of a falcon—the school mascot—perched on a limb.
They flipped through the yearbook together. Mercy was struck by how little the students and the campus itself had changed. This was the kind of continuity only the rich could sustain for any length of time.
The opening pages chronicled school activities on campus and around the world that helped justify the exorbitant tuition: an athletic program that included sailing, mountain biking, and lacrosse, field trips to Europe and South America, volunteerism at home and abroad.
“We have mandatory studies abroad devoted to art and literature and good works,” said Dr. Wright with pride. “Students receive customized courses of study designed to help them realize their unique potential. They spend time at our campus near Lake Geneva, from which they explore the European continent and another at our campus in Oxford, from which they explore Great Britain. We do our best to instill an appreciation for the arts and dedication to service so that all that money might end up doing something good.”
“There seems to be an emphasis on sports as well.”
“We’re keen on exercising the body as well as the mind at Elliott. All students must participate in both team and individual athletics.”
“Archery?”
“Of course. Any activity that challenges the mind, body, and spirit.”
“So I’ve heard.” This meant that all the Elliott alums in the hunting party were at least familiar with the bow and arrow. Not just Ethan Jenkins.
On the following pages came tributes to the school’s most significant benefactors. One featured the Barrington Lodge. Two men stood in front of the striking modern take on a mountain cabin.
Dr. Wright tapped the photo with her fountain pen. “Blake Montgomery and his father, Barrington Montgomery. On opening day of the new Elliott Academy ski area—a gift from the Montgomery family.”
She recognized a young, good-looking Blake with surfer-blond hair. She recognized Barrington, too, as the man hosting her childhood vacations at Bluffing Bear Inn.
“What was Blake like as a young man?”
“An excellent skier. An adequate student.” She turned several pages and came to a group shot of several kids. The tallest, skinniest boy of the lot stood in the middle, holding court. He had long black hair, dark eyes, and an air of intensity that screamed artist.
“Let me guess. Max Sanders.”
“Maximilian Graham Sanders III,” corrected Dr. Wright. “Rebellious but brilliant. A truly original mind. One remembers those rarities.”
“I’m sure.”
“He was a leader from the day he set foot on campus, although I doubt that was ever his intent. Even then he wanted to change the world, not one person at a time, but one defiant work of art at a time.” Dr. Wright looked away. “You know,” she said quietly, “he was discovered here, at our annual student exhibition. He had his first show in Soho when he was only a senior. Galleries were clamoring for his work, and he was still in his teens.”
“He died too young.”
“Yes.” Dr. Wright’s voice cracked. “AIDS. Terrible what happened to him. To all of them.”
She waited for the professor to regain her composure. She knew how grief worked, how a photograph, a song, a smell, a conversation could trigger a memory out of nowhere and overwhelm you even years later.
Dr. Wright turned the page. “This is the seniors section for 1982. Here we should find Max and Lea, Blake and Katharine.”
There were eighty-six graduating seniors that year, each with a full two-page spread in The Peak, appearing in alphabetical order. First in their group was Katharine Butts, better known to Mercy as Katharine Montgomery.
“No wonder she wanted to marry Blake Montgomery. If only to change her name.”
“She was a talented equestrienne, and there were the inevitable adolescent jokes about posteriors and saddles and so forth.”
“She must have hated that.”
“If she did, you would never have known. Katherine held herself above all that.”
The largest of the dozen photographs was taken outdoors in a grazing pasture, with quarter horses in the background. Katharine in the foreground, behind the fence, leaning over, staring straight into the camera, her fair waist-length hair shining in the sun. Blinding blondness. Very Lady Godiva. A boy stood to the side, next to a graceful chestnut Arabian, his hand glinting on the horse’s neck, his eyes on Katharine rather than the camera.
“Who’s the boy?”
Dr. Wright peered at the picture. “The stable boy. I can’t recall his name. He wasn’t here long.”
“Looks like he had a crush on Katharine, too.”
“They all did.”
The professor traced the curve of Katharine’s curtain of hair with her pen. “As you can see, she was a stunning young woman.”
“She still is.”
“Yes, she would be. She’s the sort who takes good care of her assets.”
“She was a scholarship student.”
“Equestrian scholarship.” Dr. Wright nodded. “I keep my eye on the scholarship girls, as I was once one myself. Katharine was the daughter of a dairy farmer from up north. She not did see cows in her future.”
“So, Blake’s good name was not his only appeal.”
“No. She was disciplined and ambitious. More ambitious even than Caspar Farrow. But far subtler. Always a Katharine, never a Kate.”
“I can see that.”
“She had her eye on Blake from the beginning. Beauty is currency, and she spent hers wisely. That young man didn’t have a chance. I suppose they’ve been happy?”
She shrugged. “They have a son, William. A good life together, at least from the outside.”
Dr. Wright nodded. “The Boston Brahmin keep their unhappiness under wraps.”
She flipped to Blake Montgomery’s page, remarkable only for the striking photo of the young man surrounded by slalom trophies. Next up was Lea Sanders, née Person, whose two-page spread was a gallery of photos of Elliott Academy, the woods and the lake and the ski slopes, and her fellow students. The only picture of Lea herself was a small self-portrait, in which she looked decidedly uncomfortable, despite a well-executed pose against a beautiful backdrop of blue lake and white clouds, the Elliott crew rowing in the distance
. Lea’s features were sharper than they were now, her face having softened over the years. She reminded Mercy of a Modigliani model, all angles and curves and guarded emotion.
“Lea was in my biology and chemistry classes.” Dr. Wright rustled in her seat, disturbing Newton, who stretched every direction, then curled back into a circle on her lap. “Compared to the others, she was quiet and low-key.”
“She looks uneasy here.”
“She was always happier behind the camera than in front of it.” Dr. Wright pointed to the self-portrait. “I did worry about her when Max died. He was the sun and she was caught in his orbit, like everyone else. I wondered how she’d cope on her own. But she found her way.”
“She still mourns him.” She told the professor about the conversation at dinner the night before. “They all do.”
“The four of them formed a very tight clique.” Dr. Wright kept going through the yearbook, moving onto the sophomores and Caspar Farrow. “He was two years behind the others. They were the proverbial cool kids, and he was … not.”
She could see why. At sixteen, he looked like the same florid-faced bully he’d been as a middle-aged man. Thick lips, broad features, dull eyes under bushy brows, and a sour expression.
“He had an unerring understanding of power.”
“And the other kids were the power?”
“In the social hierarchy of the student body, they were at the top. The peak, as it were.”
Mercy smiled. “What did Caspar do to try to fit in?”
“He was a pest. He dogged them wherever they went. I seemed to recall there was some kind of incident.” Dr. Wright shook her head. “I can’t remember the details. But maybe you’ll discover it in these files.” She shooed Newton off her lap and rose to her feet. The cat flounced past Elvis, who ignored her. Two could play that game.
“And now I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Whatever happened to your Ezekiel Watkins?”
“He was killed in a training exercise gone wrong. He died saving a new recruit.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dr. Wright nodded. “I thank you for your service and for that of your sergeant.”
Mercy bowed her head. “Much appreciated, ma’am.”
Elvis bent his head, too, and Dr. Wright laughed. “That is a rather extraordinary dog.”
“He is that.”
Dr. Wright gave the shepherd a good scratch between the ears. “While I prefer the company of cats at this stage in my life, I do so admire a good dog.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“I hope you find whoever committed these horrible murders and that none of our alumni played any part in it.” Dr. Wright hesitated. “One never knows. One watches and over time one sees that the rivalries and resentments of childhood often cast long shadows.”
* * *
MERCY SPENT THE rest of the afternoon going through the yearbooks and box after box of other material, snapping photos on her cell and taking notes. She learned that Blake and Max climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, Katharine served as the captain of the Elliott Academy’s equestrian team, Lea took a nature photography workshop during spring break in the Alps, Caspar Farrow broke his leg snowboarding, and they all spent a semester sailing from New England to the Caribbean on Elliott Academy’s schooner, Victory.
Nothing like high school as she remembered it. At the Catholic girls school she’d attended, they played volleyball and basketball and tennis. Helped the nuns with charity work. Snuck out to meet boys at football games at the public high school on the weekends. Although she rarely did that, library nerd that she was.
She was repacking the last box when Elvis leapt to his feet, curlicue tail wagging. The door opened and Dr. Wright peeked her head through. She was wearing a bright orange toque, and her face was flushed from the cold. “I’ve remembered something. Are you about finished here?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s take a walk.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow this one.” Mercy slipped into her coat and pointed to The Peak 1982 yearbook.
“Certainly. I know I can count on you to return it in good order.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She and Elvis followed the professor out of the library into the wintry weather. Dr. Wright wore a warm green wool coat and sturdy snow boots. She navigated the shoveled sidewalks of the campus with a confidence that belied her advanced age. They walked north, passing several modern dormitories built out of steel and glass and wood.
The paved sidewalk ended, and they trudged along a gravel path leading to a big equestrian compound. Elvis ran ahead, circling back to make sure they stayed on track. There were stables, an indoor arena, an Olympic-size paddock, and a fenced pasture beyond. The place seemed empty now, the horses all inside out of the cold and the wind.
“Not much happening here at this hour of the day,” said Dr. Wright. “The students have to feed and exercise the horses every morning, take their riding lessons in the afternoon after classes, then groom the horses. And of course muck out the stables.”
“No stable boy?”
“We do have a stable boy who helps out our trainers, but they’ll all be at lunch about now.” Dr. Wright pushed open the door of the stables and Elvis rushed by, startling her.
“Sorry,” said Mercy, steadying the professor. “He loves horses.”
“So do I.” The professor stopped to stroke the nose of a good-looking bay in the first stall to the right.
Elvis trotted up and down past the stalls, checking out his fellow four-legged friends.
“Speaking of stable boys. You remember the stable boy in the picture with Katharine.”
“Yes.”
“I think his name was Richard. Williams or Wilson. Watson, maybe. Something like that.” Dr. Wright fed the bay an apple from the bucket hanging on the outside of the stall. “Anyway, apparently he took his crush on Katharine too far. She accused him of assaulting her. She credited Caspar Farrow with rescuing her.”
Mercy thought about that. “That would explain how he went from stalker to insider so quickly.”
“Indeed.”
“What happened to the stable boy?” She dipped into the bucket and plucked out an apple for the dapple gray in the stall across from the bay.
“He took off.” The bay nuzzled the professor’s neck, pushing her toque akilter. “Preferred that to getting sacked, I suppose.”
“And no one ever tried to find him?”
“Why? I’m sure everyone was relieved he was gone.”
Elvis trotted back up to them, settling into his Sphinx pose right next to Dr. Wright, his nose pointing toward the bucket.
“What’s he doing?’
“He’s alerting to something.”
“Does he like apples?”
“He loves apples.”
Dr. Wright retrieved another apple from the bucket and held it out to Elvis in her gloved palm. “I think this is the last one, Elvis. Enjoy.”
The shepherd politely removed the apple from her open hand and then chomped it down in two bites.
“That was fast,” said Dr. Wright.
Mercy’s jacket pinged and she pulled out her cell. A text from George, asking that she return to Nemeton as quickly as possible.
Billionaire-speak for 911.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FORECAST: CONTINUOUS SNOW SHOWERS THROUGHOUT THE EVENING AND EARLY MORNING, WHITEOUT CONDITIONS.
SNOW WAS FALLING heavily again. As Mercy parked the Land Rover in the back of Daniel Feinberg’s mansion by Gunnar’s quarters, the blizzard was raging in Northshire. By the time they made it to the service entrance, both she and Elvis were covered in snow.
George greeted her as she stepped into the locker room that led from the service entrance to the kitchen. “Follow me.”
“Come on, Elvis.” The shepherd sprinted after them.
In the kitchen, she found Ethan Jenkins and Henry, flanked by officers Be
cker and Goodlove. Henry raced forward, embracing Elvis.
“What are you doing here, Ethan?”
“Henry kept freaking out,” he said.
“He seems fine.”
“Now,” said Ethan. “Now that he’s here with you and your dog.”
She turned her wrath on the rookies. “Becker, you were supposed to keep them safe at home. You too, Goodlove.”
“Sorry, Mercy.”
“Harrington told you to stay put.”
“Jenkins is right,” said Becker. “The kid kept freaking out.”
“He kept yelling, ‘Paladin, Paladin, Paladin,’” added Goodlove.
“Why would he say that?” Paladins were holy knights who protected the weak, meted out justice, and fought evil at every turn. “What’s it mean?”
Ethan regarded her with surprise. “He means you.”
“Me? How do you know?”
“He compares everyone he meets to characters in his game.”
“Henry’s Game.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Henry, who’d curled up on the floor next to Elvis. This child was full of surprises. “Mrs. Espinosa, do you think you could get Henry a snack? I need to talk to the grown-ups.”
“Of course.” The housekeeper bustled over to the boy and Elvis. “Henry, sit down at the breakfast nook. Time for you and the big puppy to have a peanut-butter treat.”
The Belgian shepherd jumped up at the word treat, and Henry laughed.
“We’ll be right over here, Henry.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said George, disappearing with characteristic speed and stealth.
“Ethan, we discussed this,” she said, moving the group out of the boy’s hearing. “You’ve got to get Henry out of here. It might not be safe.”
“Then you have to come with us,” said Ethan. “It’s not safe for him to be this upset. You’ve seen what happens. He starts stimming. He holds his breath. He runs away.”
“I understand, but—”
Ethan cut her off. “I don’t think you do understand. Not really. Henry only feels safe with you and Elvis. After all he’s been through, I think he deserves to feel safe. Don’t you?”