It didn’t help that everyone knew about the book. The book that reminded me that I was nobody except Rachel McMahon’s little brother.
Most of the kids left me alone. They probably thought I was going to blow up the school. I guess I looked like the type of kid who would do that-short; shaggy hair; dressed in black; friendless; and a geek. Sometimes, I thought about doing something big. Not blowing up the school, I didn’t want to hurt anyone, except one person. My mom. Or maybe something bigger, like blowing up the prison where Rachel’s killer sat filing appeal after appeal in his attempt at gaming the system.
Someone, though, had it out for me. All that year, watching me.
It started with the note in my locker, but it got worse. I never knew when-sometimes weeks would pass, sometimes only a day or two. A picture of my sister. Copies of the articles from the murder investigation. And on the anniversary of Rachel’s death, the creep filled my locker with worms.
But on the last day of school, I think my latent instincts kicked into high gear, and I believed for the first time that someone wanted to kill me.
I hadn’t planned on going to school. It was a half day, everyone was signing yearbooks, and there wasn’t anyone I cared to sign mine. But Mr. Doherty had graded our English essays, and he said he wanted to talk to me about mine. So I rode my bike to school, kept my head down so no one would feel like they had to ask me to sign their yearbook, and went upstairs to Mr. Doherty’s class. I waited until he was done talking to some students; then when they left I stepped inside and cleared my throat.
“Hey.” Mr. Doherty was my favorite teacher. His was the only class I really liked. He loved to read and loaned me books. I never talked to anyone about what happened to Rachel, but I told him about Grams. Having him listen helped, and every time I thought about running away I remembered I had a book I needed to return or an essay I wanted to finish. He always wore a blazer with leather patches on the elbows, either a tweed coat or a dark blue coat, and the familiarity was comforting, like the smell of my grams’s soap.
He smiled. “Peter, come in, please.”
I stood in front of his desk, still and silent, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I slid back my hoodie as a sign of respect, the most I’d do for a teacher I liked.
“Sit down.”
I didn’t want to, but I pulled one of the desks up and sat on the edge of the attached chair. “Do you have my essay?” I had my grades already. The school mailed them to my mother, but since my teachers liked me I just asked them. All A’s except a B in P.E. and a B+ in honors physics. I could live with that.
Mr. Doherty smiled. “You have a lot of talent, Peter.”
I shrugged. I liked writing. I was good at it. But that didn’t make me talented.
He slid the essay over, upside down. I took it, looked at the cover page. A+. I smiled. I knew I’d nailed the assignment, but the validation felt good.
“I’m a little concerned about the pessimism in your story.”
I shrugged.
“A couple other teachers have come to me and asked if they need to be concerned about you.”
Why’d anyone talk to Mr. Doherty about me? I was quiet and maybe antisocial, but I wasn’t a troublemaker. Didn’t these people have anything more important to worry about? Like the kid who brought a knife to school last month or the group who smoked pot on the roof nearly every Friday?
“I’m fine,” I said. Fine. I suppose I’d never be fine, but really, what else could I say? I showed up, I got good grades, and I didn’t bother anyone. What more did these people want?
“I know this year has been hard on you-”
“No shit,” I said. Then I thought of Grams and how much she hated swearing. “Sorry.”
“I told them not to be concerned; then I read your story. I could see you in your character Thomas. I was completely hooked by the story, the depth of character, your keen sense of description, the emotions you evoke in just a few words. Then Thomas kills himself. And the comments from your teachers made me concerned that I’m missing signs. I like you, Peter. You have a lot to offer.”
I thought a lot about death and dying. And maybe sometimes I thought about being dead. I wondered if Rachel could see me, wondered if there was a heaven and if she was happy. Or if there was nothing. That death was final; there was no more.
“It’s fiction, Mr. Doherty.”
He stared at me. I didn’t know what he saw, but he was worried. “I think I should talk to your mother.”
My heart skipped a beat, but it was only anger I felt. My mother had no right to know anything of how I felt.
I stood. “No.”
“If not your mother, maybe I can find someone for you to talk to.”
“I’m not going to kill myself. It’s a story. That was the assignment, right? A work of fiction?”
Mr. Doherty looked away, then changed the subject. “What are your plans this summer?”
Stay out of the house as much as I could. “My dad’s making me visit him for a month.”
“Maybe that would be good for you.”
I shrugged.
“People change, Peter. You should forgive them.”
I walked out.
I could forgive Benjamin John Kreig easier than I could forgive my parents. I thought Kreig should have gotten the death penalty for killing my sister. I think my parents should get worse.
But I couldn’t do anything about it. And I wouldn’t. I just wanted my mom and dad to disappear. I didn’t want to talk to them; I didn’t want to see them; I didn’t want to be reminded of what happened in our house.
I went to my locker to get the last of my things. I opened it and a vile smell assaulted me. I stared at the bloody mess in front of me, not knowing at first what it was. Then I saw. A dead cat. Flattened, like roadkill. Flies buzzed; bugs burrowed in its wounds. Tears came fast, for the poor animal, for me, for Rachel-I had never felt so alone. Not even when Grams died. Not even when I found Rachel’s empty bed.
I slammed my locker shut and ran to the bike cage, ignoring the stares of my peers. Go to Hell! I wanted to scream at all of them. Instead, I got on my bike and rode away fast. I didn’t want to go home, so biked south, through one old Newark neighborhood after another. I didn’t have a destination; I just wanted to get away.
But maybe my heart knew best, because two hours later I ended up at the cemetery where Rachel was buried.
I found her grave. There were no flowers on it. I walked back to the office and bought her a white rose. Not because she liked them-I don’t know that she had a favorite flower-but I only had three dollars in my pocket and the rose was $2.49.
I went back to her grave and put the flower in a little cup in the ground. It looked small against the large headstone. I sat on the grass and talked to her. I told her everything that had happened at school, told her about Mr. Doherty, told her I missed her and I was sorry I hadn’t visited her since she was buried.
I think she understood. At least, I felt better. Like maybe I would get through this whole thing, that there was hope. A future.
I didn’t know how long I’d been there, but it was after six when I looked at my watch. I traced her name with my finger. “I love you, Sis.”
Three more years until I turned eighteen and could get out of my mom’s house. Then I’d never have to see her again.
It took me an hour to ride my bike home, faster than it took to get to the cemetery, but I’d taken the long way there, probably because I hadn’t planned on it.
I glided up the driveway and frowned. My mom had a visitor. I didn’t want to talk to any of her friends. Or worse, what if it was a date? She went out every weekend, so I wouldn’t be surprised if some jerk had come to pick her up.
I dropped my bike in the side yard and went in through the kitchen door. Saw a meal on the table. Two plates, both empty. A bottle of wine, also empty.
I walked through the kitchen to the living room and stared at the familiar jacket draped across the c
ouch. A tweed jacket, with leather patches at the elbows.
A copy of my essay was on the coffee table.
Someone laughed upstairs. Then came the all-too-familiar sounds of sex.
If I’d had a gun, I might have shot them both. Right then, at that moment, I would have done it. I could see my hand with a pistol aimed at my mother, aimed at the traitor, pulling the trigger over and over and killing them.
But the murderous rage passed as quickly as it crept over me, and I broke.
Broken and free.
I went upstairs, passed her room, and quietly entered mine. I packed a backpack with everything I could carry, and stuffed in a small, framed picture of Rachel, Grams, Grandpa, and me. My family, my only family, and they were all dead.
I took all the money out of my mother’s purse-a hundred dollars-and her ATM card because I knew her code. I went into Mr. Doherty’s jacket and found his wallet-he had only forty-nine dollars. I took it, too. I packed cheese, crackers, granola bars, and water to get me through a couple of days. Then I went to the garage, got a sleeping bag from the rafters, and tied it to the back of my bike.
Then I left. It was three days before Mom canceled her ATM card, and by that time I had fifteen hundred dollars.
I never would have gone home, except the cops arrested me six months later.
And this time I was unlucky enough to be sent to live with my dad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FBI Academy
This was supposed to be Class 12–14’s first weekend with forty-eight hours of freedom-they could leave, visit home, go away for R amp; R, or hang around campus without obligations. But because of the extra weapons training their forty-eight hours of freedom had been nearly halved.
For two hours Saturday morning, Lucy’s group learned more than most wanted to know about firearms. Even those who enjoyed the history of weapons left the classroom sleepy and frustrated.
“That was an effective punishment,” Carter Nix groaned.
They’d been granted a forty-five-minute early lunch break, then would be required to fieldstrip and reassemble the FBI standard-issue Glock. Everyone would be required to perform the task in less than two minutes. For former military, two minutes was a joke; for most of the class, two minutes made them sweat.
Eddie said to the group, “Want to bet who’ll win?”
“It’s not a competition,” Margo said.
“It’s more fun if it is.”
“Gordon Ellis wins, hands down,” Carter said. “He was an Army sniper, he hasn’t scored less than perfect on the range, and he’s the only one who wasn’t half-asleep this morning.”
They went through the line in the cafeteria. Gordon was behind them and said, “I was a Ranger. I learned to sleep with my eyes open.”
They laughed and Carter invited Gordon to sit with them. Lucy said, “Maybe you can help Sanchez with her shooting. I offered, but she turned me down.”
“Ditto here,” Gordon said. They glanced over to where Alexis Sanchez sat alone.
“What else can we do?” Reva asked. “We’ve all invited her to hang out, and she dismisses us.”
“What do we know about her?” Eddie asked. “She doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“She does fine in class,” Lucy said.
“How do you know?” Reva said. “She never talks.”
Oz picked up his tray. “If Mohammed doesn’t go to the mountain-” He looked around at the group.
Lucy stood up with her tray. “If we all go over, we’ll overwhelm her. I think she has social anxiety, and the crowd will make her more nervous.”
“Good luck,” Reva said without confidence.
Oz led the way to where Alexis sat alone. She looked up at him and Lucy, and Lucy wondered if it was anger or fear that crossed her face. “Mind if we sit?” Oz sat before Alexis could answer. He downed his milk.
“We wanted you to know you’re always welcome to eat with us,” Lucy said.
“Thanks,” Alexis said quietly, focused on her food.
Oz said, “Gordon, our resident gun expert, said he can train anyone to shoot.”
“And I need it?” she said defensively.
“Yes,” Lucy said, “and you know it. Why won’t you take the offer?”
“I’m not like everyone else. I never touched a gun before I came here.”
“But you knew you’d have to, right?”
“I didn’t think about it,” she admitted. “I don’t fit in.”
“Obviously the FBI recruiters thought you did, otherwise you wouldn’t have made it this far,” Oz said.
Alexis didn’t meet their eyes. “I appreciate the effort, but it’s not a good time for me.”
“Did something happen?” Lucy asked. When Alexis didn’t say anything, Lucy added, “Something at home? You’re married, right?”
Her eyes watered. “How’d you know?”
“Good guess.” It made sense. If there were stresses at home, maybe Alexis’s way of dealing with it was to shut down.
“I missed my daughter’s fourth birthday last week. And I started wondering why I’m here. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now?”
“You’ll get through this,” Lucy said. “We want to help.”
Now that Alexis had opened up, she let it all pour out. “There’s only four other new agents who have kids, and all are guys,” Alexis said. “It’s different being a mother. My husband wanted me to wait until Missy was in school, but I’m thirty-two. The physical training is hard enough now.”
“Where do you live?” Oz asked.
“Colorado. Not easy to go home for the weekend. I have a ticket in October, but I can’t stop thinking about Missy and Carl. And Carl has a full-time job, so Missy is spending more time with his mom, which is just great because she hates me enough already. What if my daughter hates me when I return?”
“She won’t,” Oz said.
“Do you have Skype?” Lucy asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Right after we’re done today, if you want, I can download it to your computer and show you how to use it. Maybe if you see Missy instead of just talking to her it’ll make separation easier. I can walk your husband through it as well.”
“He’s much more technically savvy than I am.” Alexis smiled for the first time that Lucy had known her. “Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been such a pill.”
Lucy laughed. “It’s been an adjustment for everyone. You know, Carter Nix has two girls and it’s hard on him as well. You’re not alone.” Oz said, “Now, will you please take Gordon up on his offer to work with you? I promise, you won’t regret it.”
The last two hours of weapons training were almost as difficult as the first two, but in the end Agent Kosako said, “Good work.” Praise was sparse at Quantico, and it meant something coming from him.
Lucy walked with Alexis to her room and set up Skype on her computer. She wasn’t certain it was the solution to the problem, but at least she felt that she’d done something to help the new agent get through these difficult months.
“You ready to see your daughter?” Lucy asked.
“Do it,” Alexis said. “Wait-give me a minute.”
“You call when you’re ready. Just click here, then here. The computer on the other end will show that there’s an incoming Skype call.”
“Thank you-I really mean it. Thank you.”
She was glad she’d taken the time to help Alexis. No one wanted anyone in their class to be booted, and Lucy hoped this temporary solution would help Alexis and her family.
Lucy packed her overnight bag and called Sean, letting him know she was free until 6:00 p.m. on Sunday. He was already on his way. She needed the night off, to get away and clear her head.
She left her room and crossed the courtyard to the main building, but before she reached the security wing she found Rich Laughlin standing, as if waiting for her.
Of course that had to be her imagination.
&nbs
p; “Kincaid,” he said with a nod. “Finding Agent Presidio like that must have been difficult for you.”
Kindness? From Laughlin?
“He was a terrific teacher. I’m going to miss-”
Laughlin cut her off. “He took a special interest in you. Why do you think that was?”
Lucy didn’t know the purpose of Laughlin’s question but she replied, “Maybe a kinship, since I’m the only new agent here with a master’s in criminal psychology.”
“That’s right-I forgot you were a psychologist.”
Lucy doubted that was the case.
“I figured because he and Chief Vigo were such good friends that Presidio was assessing you.”
“You said yourself opening day that all staff were constantly assessing new agents; never let our guard down, right?” She tried to speak lightly, but she intently monitored manner. There was something odd in his demeanor, an intensity that seemed unwarranted.
“Yes, I did. Keeps you all on your toes. But I think you know what I meant.”
Lucy didn’t, and she called him on it. “Agent Laughlin, I don’t know what you mean. I don’t understand what I did to irritate you. If you clue me in, I’ll fix it.”
“Maybe you want this too much. I just have to ask myself why.”
“Why I want to be an FBI agent?”
“Why you want it so badly.”
His pale eyes didn’t leave hers, and if this was a test, he was the perfect person to throw her off-kilter. But she stood her ground. Laughlin was essentially a bully, and bullies wanted their victims to cower. Lucy refused to let him make her a victim.
“Maybe I did before,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “but not now. If something happens and I’m forced to leave, I have other options.” She wanted this because she’d been working toward becoming an FBI agent for the last seven years. Though the why was different now from when she first made the decision, it was no less important to her. And no way was she discussing her reasons with a man who disliked her.
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