The Private School Murders

by James Patterson

  But then I saw Malcolm and Maud bursting into whatever room we were staying in and dragging me away.

  “We’ll get caught,” I said.

  “Maybe. And maybe we’ll outwit, outlast, and outplay them,” he said, the sunlight dancing in his eyes. “On our terms.”

  Our terms. I liked the sound of that.

  “I’m in.” I smiled. “Take me with you.”

  54

  James and I walked south, surrounded on all sides by speed-walking streams of office workers surging along the sidewalk toward the subway. The avenue was jammed with honking vehicles that shot ahead, then squealed to a stop at the next red light. Horns and sirens blared.

  I was quiet, clutching James’s hand, as my mind ranged over the undefined, wide-open possibilities. Running away. It sounded as impossible as eloping—like a thing from a storybook or a bygone era. But this was real. We were making it happen. Together. Right now.

  I’d never disobeyed my parents on this kind of scale. This wasn’t like wearing my mother’s tank top or sneaking a slug of vodka. This was huge.

  I was exhilarated. And I was scared.

  “We should text them,” James suggested as we turned to walk east along Sixty-Fourth Street. “Tell them we’re going over to friends’ to study or something. Then we’ll take the batteries out of our phones so they can’t track us. That will buy us some time.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  Except I didn’t really have any friends to speak of, so a text like that would instantly raise suspicions. Instead, I told Malcolm and Maud I’d been forced into a study group and was meeting the group at the library. Then we disabled our phones and kept walking until we got to Penn Station, the overcrowded, labyrinthine station that services three major rail lines. From there we could go to Chicago or Miami or Montreal—and connect in those cities to anywhere in the world.

  We descended by escalator two stories underground, and James led me to the Long Island Rail Road portion of the station, where thousands of people crisscrossed the gray granite floors to ticket booths and platforms, pulling luggage, carrying children, taking pictures.

  James told me to look down so our faces wouldn’t be caught on cameras of any kind. He bought tickets, and we boarded our train.

  55

  The train was a perfectly romantic getaway transport, with its sleek styling and luxurious bilevel interior. I felt like I was stepping into some classic black-and-white film as James and I settled into our double seat on the top deck. The conductor punched our tickets to East Hampton and hovered longer than necessary.

  “Weekend getaway?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  He smirked like he knew what I was thinking. I looked away because I didn’t even want to know what he thought I was thinking.

  “I’d like to be either one of you for a day,” he said, smiling as he moved on.

  “Personally, I think he’d rather be me,” James said with a grin. He leaned in and kissed me, pressing me back against the leather seat, until I was so flushed I could hardly think straight.

  And then my stomach growled. James broke off the kiss and we both laughed. “I think your stomach is trying to tell me something.”

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a gourmet picnic—provolone and prosciutto sandwiches from Zabar’s, with a side of olives and little squares of mozzarella, plus two cold bottles of springwater. We tore into the food as if it was our last meal. At one point I dropped half a slice of prosciutto into my lap and James scooped it right into his mouth and we both laughed. I thought of all those girls at school who ate nothing but greens when their “better halves” were around, not wanting to look like pigs in front of them, and it was one of those moments when I was glad to be with someone who let me be myself.

  “Do you think our parents are freaking out yet?” James asked as the train slid out of the station.

  I cuddled back into the crook of his arm and sighed. “I know mine are.”

  But I didn’t care. We were going to spend the night together. Maybe more than that. Maybe, just maybe, I’d never go back.

  “Do you love me?” James asked suddenly.

  “Yes. I do.” I didn’t even have to think about it. It was so freeing.

  “I love you, too,” he replied. “I’ve never said that to anyone before.”

  It was so hard to believe. “Really?”

  He grinned and gazed out the window. “Well, except my first motorcycle, Ramona. But she was a Ducati, so you can’t blame me. In fact, I think I might have loved her more than I love you.”

  I punched James in the spot between his chest and shoulder. Not as hard as I could have, of course. Just a love tap. He winced and laughed.

  “Kidding! You know I’m kidding.”

  “Yes. I know you’re kidding,” I replied. “I just thought you should know I can punch.”

  “Duly noted,” James replied. He rolled his shoulder back, winced again, then pulled me back into his arms. I rested my head against his chest and felt myself start to drift off slowly, lulled by the even tempo of his breathing and the rhythmic rattle of the train.

  I dreamed a dream that was soft and happy, peaceful and safe. A dream that was entirely un-me. Way too soon, I was gently shaken awake.

  “Tandy, wake up,” James said, his voice soft in my ear. “We’re here.”

  56

  The sky was dark with low-hanging clouds as we climbed down off the train and onto the platform of the elegant white station. A sea-scented wind quickly reminded me that I was still wearing the tissue-thin clothes I’d worn to school that day, and I shivered. James put his arm around me and we walked out to the taxi queue.

  I leaned into him and we smiled and I knew he was feeling exactly what I was feeling: free.

  A cabdriver—short and spry, wearing a ball cap low over his eyes—picked us out of the throng. He bounded over to the passenger-side door and opened it for us.

  “Got bags?” he asked.

  “We’re traveling light,” James said.

  He gave the driver an address and we slid into the backseat. I nestled into James’s arms and watched the lights flash by outside the windows until the cab turned into a long pebble driveway. The black car behind us zoomed past, its engine revving, and I turned to see it careening off into the night.

  The cab pulled up in front of a magnificent estate, all white stucco and arched doorways and tiled peaks. The windows seemed three stories high, and the wide porch stretched across its many wings.

  James paid the cabbie and held my hand as we got out. “Nice, huh?”

  I stared up at the second-floor terraces, the wrought-iron railings, the bursting flower boxes.

  “Oooh…” I searched for the right word. “It’s very nice.”

  “Just nice?” James asked, pretending to be shocked at my lack of praise.

  “Yes. The house is nice,” I said, smiling. “But honestly, I wouldn’t care if it was a shack with an outhouse. Being here with you is what’s incredible.”

  He grinned. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  Instead of heading inside, James led me across the landscaped grounds and around the side of the mansion, between walls of evergreen shrubs. When we got to the back lawn, I saw an Olympic-sized pool and heard the muted roar of the ocean close by. And there, right in front of us and centered behind the pool, was a small shingled house with a little porch and quite a few doors and French windows.

  James lifted a flowerpot from the front step and showed me the key. He fitted it into the lock and threw open the door.

  “After you,” he said with a cocky little bow.

  “Wellll, I do declare,” I joked, putting on a southern accent.

  I stepped into the sweet, sparsely decorated pool house. The living room had timbered ceilings, pale blue walls, and painted furniture clustered around a blue enamel woodstove. Two easy chairs faced it, and there were two more chairs at a small dining table near the
alcove kitchen.

  It was a cottage made for two.

  “My friend’s parents will be away until Christmas,” James said, sliding his arms around my waist from behind. “We can stay as long as we like.”

  “How about forever?” I said.

  “Works for me,” James said.

  We both knew we were living in a dream world, but for the moment, I chose to set that aside. I was having way too much fun to care.

  I crossed the living room and stepped into the small bedroom. The queen-sized bed practically filled the space and was covered with a downy white spread and a dozen pillows. In the petite armoire hung basic clothes of various sizes, stocked for unexpected visitors.

  James walked up behind me, took my hand, and tugged me toward the bed. We fell on top of the soft comforter together, and he pulled me against him without a word, kissing me like he’d been waiting all day, all week, his whole life just for this. Our legs entwined, and I ran my hands up his torso, clutching the fabric of his T-shirt against his back.

  James’s hands were everywhere, and my breath caught each time he found a new spot to explore. My hips, my chest, my legs, my neck, the small of my arched back.

  I’d never been touched like this. Not even close.

  And I wanted more. More of James, more of his body, more of his kiss.

  More, more, more.

  Then, suddenly, James held me away from him. I searched his beautiful blue eyes.

  “James? What’s wrong?”

  “Maybe we should slow down,” he said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because, I just… I think we need to make sure nothing goes wrong,” he told me, fiddling with the hem of my shirt, which was halfway up my chest by now. “We need to consider our next move. If we keep going right now… all thinking will go out the window.”

  He leaned in and kissed me again, deeply, searchingly, and I couldn’t believe that, on any level, he actually wanted to stop. But when he broke away again, I sighed.

  “Okay. You’re right. We have all night for… this,” I said. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  James’s eyes traveled over my body covetously. “Good idea.”

  Still, it took a gargantuan effort for us to get off that bed, a huge amount of self-control.

  I grabbed a cozy cardigan from the armoire and pulled it on over my clothes.

  James took a blanket from the bed. “Maybe we’ll sleep on the beach.”

  I smiled. “I like that idea.”

  The beach. The beach would be the perfect setting for my first time. We’d go for a walk, talk things out, and then we could finish what we’d started. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait to show James exactly how much I loved him. I couldn’t wait to feel what it was like to be completely loved.

  As we slipped out of the pool house into the night, I didn’t think the wait would be long.

  57

  No exaggeration, the moment our feet hit the sand was the happiest I’d ever been in my life. It was like stepping out of the densest fog imaginable and finding myself in the rainbow world of Munchkinland. No parents and no pills could suppress what I was feeling. I was overjoyed. I was alive.

  James and I were walking, hands clasped, hip to hip, at the lacy fringe of the ocean. The night was utterly black—no moon, no stars. Suddenly I realized I didn’t want to think about our next move. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted to be with James. I wanted to live in that moment with the sand between my toes and the breeze whipping my hair around my face.

  I paused and James looked down at me. His breath was short, and I touched his chest. We were idiots to think that just getting out of the house would take our minds off each other.

  He dropped the blanket in the sand and pulled me to him. I threw my arms around his neck and we kissed. Passionately, desperately, fiercely…

  I was just tugging up his shirt when engines roared out of the black void and headlights pinned us to the beach.

  “What the hell?” James said, breaking away.

  Loud voices cracked like gunfire.

  “Don’t move!”

  “Hit the ground! Hands where we can see them!”

  I dropped to my knees and shielded my eyes, blinking against the blinding lights. Rough hands grabbed me from behind and wrenched my arms behind my back. Sand blew up, pelting my eyes and lips.

  I screamed over and over, and I heard James calling my name, but I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything but blinding white light.

  Then a bag came down over my head.

  I didn’t know what was happening, only that I had to fight. I strained against the plastic strap binding my wrists, but it held tight. When I tried to stand, I fell forward into the sand and was then yanked to my feet.

  “James!” I shouted as loudly as I could.

  “Tandy!”

  I lunged forward, and a needle jammed into my thigh. It took two seconds for everything to go black.

  58

  The sting of a needle going into my hip snapped me awake. I was on the hard floor of a vehicle, hands still cuffed, a black bag over my head.

  “Where am I? What the hell are you—”

  The vehicle braked hard, and I was thrown forward, my head slamming into the back of a seat. The cuffs and hood were removed. I tried to get my bearings, but the sunlight nearly blinded me. I must have been out for a while. A pair of grubby hands grabbed me by the arms, the doors opened, and two husky men hustled me out of a white van. I went boneless, trying to make it harder on my captors, but they just dragged me across the asphalt.

  “Let go of me!” I shouted. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Someone stifled a laugh. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could just make out mown grass fronting wide steps up to a Greek-style portico. The building was white stone and fairly grand. I’d never seen it before.

  My mind spun as the two thugs hauled me up the steps. Who were they? Why had they grabbed me? Was James okay? How had they found us?

  And then the flashes started. James glancing around nervously on Seventy-Fourth Street, like he was afraid he was being followed. The overly familiar train conductor. The cabdriver who hailed us. The black car trailing behind the cab from the East Hampton station to a narrow, unlit road.

  Someone had followed us all the way from the city. Someone had kidnapped us, two of the wealthiest kids in New York City, and were probably planning on holding us for ransom.

  But where were we? And where the hell was James?

  A man with thin black hair and a mustache walked over to where I was struggling in the clutches of the thugs. “I’m Tandoori Angel,” I told him, resisting the urge to spit on his polished shoes. “My parents are powerful people, and they’re not going to pay you off. They’re going to call the head of the FBI. They’ll call the president, and he’ll take their call. If you don’t take me home right now, you’re going to go to prison. For life. Nod your head if you understand.”

  Wispy Hair Man smiled and said, “Now, now. You’re upset. But trust me, Tandoori. Your parents know quite well where you are, and they are quite happy about it. Mission accomplished.”

  My vision went hazy. My parents had arranged this? “Where is James?”

  He cocked his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  I screamed as loudly as I could and tried to pull away from the thumbheads who were gripping my arms. One of them had close-cropped white hair and a flattened nose. He smiled as I thrashed and struggled and used language that I’d never used before. F-bombs fell thickly on the driveway and also on deaf ears.

  Nothing worked.

  When I was bruised and scraped and heaving with exhaustion, the man with the mustache leaned down to look me in the eye.

  “I’m Dr. Narmond. Welcome to Fern Haven, Tandoori,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  59

  I was taken into an office, strapped to a chair, and force-fed bitter, horrid-tasting medicine. When I spat it
out, my head was tipped back and the medication was poured directly down my throat while I gagged and choked. After that, I got a shot in the arm and passed out.

  Later, the weaselly Dr. Narmond sat in a chair across a desk from me. I can’t recall what the office looked like. Not even part of it. I was fixated on Dr. Narmond—his tiny eyes, his stringy hair and mustache, his long-fingered white hands tapping the desk like he was playing piano scales.

  Then the interrogation began. And as soon as I heard myself answering his questions, I knew I’d been doped with sodium thiopental, also called truth serum. It’s an evil drug used on prisoners of war so the interrogators can get information. It’s also used in psychiatric hospitals, to help doctors do exactly the same thing: gather information against their patients’ wills. Bottom line, if you’re on a hypnotic like sodium thiopental, you tell the truth and are perfectly primed to be indoctrinated.

  Think of me, dear friend, strapped into a chair, the conscious part of my brain reduced to a perfectly malleable chunk of organic tissue. The real me—feisty, nerdy, analytical, bossy, intellectual, sarcastic—had been smothered. Canceled out. And I didn’t even own enough of my mind to care.

  I answered the doctor’s prying questions until he was satisfied.

  “Your mind is quite responsive, Tandoori,” he said finally, sounding impressed and a tad gleeful. “I believe you will do well with us and will be much better equipped to be a proper citizen than before your visit.”

  I didn’t have enough will to protest, but I had enough in me to hate myself for it.

  In the following days, I saw only my keepers. No unkempt insane people, no muttering wanderers or crazed addicts looking to score. There were no gross smells, unless you count the eye-watering aroma of chlorine disinfectant. I didn’t hear screams. It was a very quiet place, this home for the insane elite. An exclusive and restful stop for the seriously nutty one percent.

  I was dressed in white cotton pajamas and white socks and given a slim little room with a slim little bed and an overhead light that was always left on. My cell had barred windows and a locked door with a spy hole. I stayed in my bright box most of the time, forced into a heavy, drugged sleep. It was as if I’d been wrapped in a cocoon of white light and was waiting to be reborn as something less than myself.