"What'd you do that for, butterbrains?" Deke said, though Freeman noted a tone of relief in the bully's voice.
"You read that stuff, you'll turn into a pussy, too," Army Jacket said.
After a moment, Deke said, "Damn right," and kicked the book across the floor again. It bounced off the leg of one of the bunks and slid near a redheaded boy's foot. The redhead gave the book a kick and it spun to Army Jacket. The teen stomped on it and then scooted it to another of the boys. The crowd spread out a little and the boys kicked the book back and forth, the particularly damaging blows drawing shouts of praise.
Freeman sat back on his bunk and crossed his legs pow-wow-style. He'd have to deal with Deke eventually, but at least he'd created a diversion for the moment. This way he'd have an opportunity to learn the ins and outs of Wendover before the inevitable face-off. It's not like he had anything else to occupy his time, besides fending off inquisitive counselors, watching out for the Trust, and trying to keep his thoughts to himself.
And keeping other people's thoughts away.
Bondurant's words of inspiration were still taking a licking when the house parents finally showed up.
SIX
Starlene sat on one of the flat gray rocks that jutted from the ground beside the lake. The water, which smelled of moss and fish, distorted the reflection of the tall trees. A leaf fell to its September death, sending low ripples out from where it floated along the silver-blue water. Starlene thought falling leaves were like angels, except she hadn't worked out the part about how leaves rose up to heaven again after they had fallen. An angel shouldn't just drown and sink and then lie rotting on the mud at the bottom.
The kids had a short break between classes and dinner. They were allowed out on the grounds in the company of their house supervisors, and soon would be scattered across the lawn, laughing, chasing each other, almost forgetting their world had walls. For the moment, though, she had the grounds to herself.
Starlene looked at the rear of Wendover Home, at the cold stones that were always in shadow. Behind those windows were tiny hearts, grown as cold and hard as the stones that walled them in. Society's children. The troubled, lost, and unwanted. Starlene hugged her knees to her chest. God didn't send you anything that you couldn't handle, though, so she must be here for a reason.
At least the staff seemed to care about the kids. She'd heard horror stories of the glory days when orphanages were little more than juvenile work farms. Though she'd only been at Wendover for three months, fresh off a Social Sciences degree at Appalachian State University, she got along well with the other counselors and house parents, especially Randy. Francis Bondurant was still a mystery, with something slippery behind his smile, but his reputation was solid with people who mattered. Dr. Kracowski was likewise elusive, keeping odd hours and holding private sessions at times when the young clients were supposed to be in class. Without Bondurant and Kracowski, though, she couldn't imagine such a difficult enterprise as Wendover ever lasting as long as it had. Better to offer prayers for them than to be suspicious.
Starlene took a granola bar from her pocket and peeled back the wrapper. She said a quick blessing and took a bite. She was about to take another, to convince herself that dry sweetened oats were tasty and not meant solely for horses, when she saw the figure on the far side of the lake. The figure stood at the water's edge, two hundred feet away, almost obscured by the branches of a weeping willow.
Must be one of the landscaping crew. She waved. The person didn't respond. On closer examination, the person appeared to be draped in some sort of gray-colored gown. Odd clothing for yard work. And didn't the landscapers get off work in the early afternoon?
Starlene squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the water. The wind had picked up a little and the golden willow branches swished around the shadowy figure. She waved again, the first unease fluttering around the granola in her stomach. What did the handbook say about reporting unauthorized persons?
The back end of the property bordered a couple of farms whose fields gave way to the steep mountain slopes that were coated in autumn's patchwork. A fence circled the Wendover lawn, but an adult could scale it without much difficulty. An adventurous local fisherman might have crept in for a try at the lake's bass, but casting a line would be awkward among those branches. She wasn't naive enough to think that clients never sneaked out of the home, but who would want to sneak into a place as imposing as Wendover?
She stood and shaded her eyes. The figure moved closer to the water's edge. She saw no fishing pole, and she was sure now it wasn't a groundskeeper. It was an old man, the sun glancing off his pale bald head. The breeze that skated over the lake ruffled the man's long gown. Starlene was reminded of a biblical movie, John the Baptist doing God's work in the water.
The man hesitated a moment, looking across the lake at the home. Starlene wished she had carried her walkie-talkie with her, but she had learned to treasure her rare moments of privacy. She thought of calling out to him or shouting for assistance, but something about the man's odd, hunched manner kept her silent. She crouched down on her rock.
Surely the man had seen her. But he showed no sign of being observed. Instead, he stepped forward into the lake. Another step, and he was in up to his knees. The water had to be forty degrees or so, but the man didn't hesitate. When he was waist-deep, an alarm went off in Starlene's head, the same alarm that warned her when a client was about to throw a fit or slip into a suicidal depression.
Starlene jumped from the rock and began hurrying around the lake. She broke into a full run just as the water reached the man's shoulders.
"Hey," she shouted. Her sprint brought her to a trail leading through a small copse of white pines. The sunlight dappled crazily off her face as she forced air into her lungs, drove her knees high, pounded her feet against the packed earth.
By the time she came out of the trees, the man had disappeared. She shouted again, her breath rasping as she reached the willow.
Not even a ripple marked the surface where the man had gone under. Starlene knelt by the water's edge, peering into the murk. Surely some air would have escaped his lungs, bringing bubbles to the surface. The water along the bank should have been muddied by the man's footsteps, but the bed of sediment hung intact like a greenish skin.
Starlene gave one more glance at the home. The shadowed walls offered no help. What would Jesus do, if Jesus ever had to save a drowning man? A more immediate question, what would she do?
She peeled off her blazer and tossed it high on the bank. Shucking her sandals, she took a deep breath and arced into the water, praying that she and the man didn't meet headfirst.
The chill hit her like a fist, nearly causing her to gasp a mouthful of water. She opened her eyes to a disorienting universe of silver speckles.
Kicking her legs, she forced herself downward fighting the natural buoyancy caused by the air in her lungs. Aided by the weight of her soaked clothing, she touched bottom and spun around.
Judging by the pressure against her ears, she was probably twelve feet deep. Here the water was darker and bluer, with loose particles of algae drifting around her stirred by her dive. Starlene pushed with her arms and turned in a circle.
No sign of the man.
She stroked with cupped hands, skimming the bottom. Above, the muted sunlight played against the surface, creating the illusion that the sky, too, was water.
Her lungs burned with held breath. No man, only mud. The cold water stung her eyes. Finally she made for the fresh air waiting above.
A shout greeted her as her head broke the surface. She shook hair from her face and treaded water, trying to orient herself. Another shout came, its direction disguised by the flat floor of lake. Then she saw them running toward the willow tree: Randy, followed by the huffing, gangly form of Bondurant.
"Are you okay?" Randy yelled.
Starlene nodded and took a gulp of air, then dove back under. This time she stayed shallow, peering through the gloomy water. The man
was gone. If indeed he had ever been.
By the time she rose for her next breath, Randy had stripped his shirt and was at the water's edge. He waded into the water, eyes wide from the shock of cold. Starlene waved him back. After waiting to see that she was mak-ng steadily for shore, he climbed up the bank, then relieved his shirt and her blazer.
Bondurant had caught up with them by the time Starlene was standing, dripping and shivering, on solid ground. Randy gave her his shirt to use as a towel. Her nipples had hardened from the cold and he looked away.
"What's going on?" Bondurant said, shifting his gaze from her chest to the spot in the water from which she lad emerged.
"Some… man," she said, fighting to fill her lungs. 'He was here under the tree, then he just… walked in."
"A man?" Bondurant said.
"Dressed in a gray gown. Like a hospital gown. I didn't recognize him, so I don't think he worked here. I yelled but le didn't even look up, just went under and disappeared."
"How long ago?" Randy asked.
"Couldn't have been more than four or five minutes."
"Even Houdini couldn't hold his breath that long." Randy went into the water up to his knees, then put his hand over his eyes to shield the sun. "I don't see any bubbles."
"We should call the police or the rescue squad."
Bondurant pushed his glasses up his nose. "A man, you say. Just disappeared into the water."
"Yeah."
"Miss Rogers, you expect us to believe a man would voluntarily walk into water that's not far above freezing?"
"Why else would I jump in myself?"
"The sun off the water could have played tricks," Randy said. "Happens a lot around here, seeing things. You know that from talking with the kids."
"I know what I saw."
She hunched under the warmth of the blazer as Randy waded back to shore. Bondurant raised one eyebrow at Randy, who shook his head.
"This is a very stressful job," Bondurant said to her. "Someone with your limited experience must go through a period of adjustment. The practical applications taught in the classroom are far different from what we have to do inside those walls." He paused, then added, "In the real world."
Starlene gazed across the calm expanse of water. She expected a gray-clad corpse to bob to the surface at any moment.
"We'll say nothing of this." Bondurant turned and headed back toward Wendover.
"I'm not crazy," she said.
Randy looked at the lake.
"I'm not crazy," she repeated.
"Let's go," Randy said taking his shirt from her. "You better change before you freeze to death."
As they rounded the rocks on the far shore, Starlene looked back at the willow tree. Her legs and arms felt leaden, weighted by more than just her wet clothes. She hadn't imagined it. Had she?
Randy put a possessive arm around her. She let herself lean against him, all tan muscles and chest hair.
"I'm not making this up," she said.
"You heard Bondurant," Randy said. "Don't say anything."
"Oh, God. You don't believe me, either, do you?"
Randy didn't reply.
And she'd thought he understood her, that they shared the beginnings of a growing trust. "Randy?"
He faced her and put his hands on her shoulders. "One thing about Wendover is that you're not supposed to ask any questions. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be."
She looked into his ice-blue eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"That sounded like a question." He turned and walked up the path ahead of her.
She took one last look at the lake, shivered, then followed.
SEVEN
Dinner was barely recognizable as food. It was served on the same beige fiberglass trays that every other group home used. The beige always bled into the meat and gravy, muted the colors, and made it all taste bland. Could be worse, though. Could be Pepto-Bismol pink.
The dining room was small, but Freeman managed to find a corner table off by himself. Dipes came through the line with his tray and briefly caught Freeman's eye. Freeman looked away to dodge any lingering gratitude.
Just keep on moving. Nothing to see here, folks.
Freeman definitely wasn't in the mood to collect acquaintances. The thing with Deke and the book had been a convoluted act of self-preservation. He wasn't here to serve as Defender of the Weak, Protector of the Innocent. Leave that to the comic book heroes and Dirty Harry. His job was to survive long enough to figure a way to get the hell out, preferably in one piece.
One of Freeman's house parents sat at the table, a couple of chairs down. Randy. He had that weathered, beefy look, the kind of guy who was probably smooth with the ladies until they figured out his IQ was equal to the number on his old high school football jersey.
Freeman concentrated on his mashed potatoes. Powdered. Why in the world did they have to be powdered? It's not like real potatoes were that expensive. Maybe the staff dietitian wanted to avoid the dark spots. You couldn't have specks in your potatoes when you were trying to build perfect people.
Randy leaned toward him. "So, Freeman, what do you think of Wendover so far?"
The dollop of potatoes was too small to hide behind. Randy showed teeth, the kind that could bite through his own leg if he ever needed to free himself from a steel trap. A kindness that could kill if necessary.
"It's fine, sir." Freeman stuck a generous forkful of mystery meat into his mouth as an excuse not to say more.
"You'll like it here. We have a lot of success stories."
And I'm sure you 're about to tell me some of them.
But Freeman was wrong. Randy's fork went up and down as steadily as if he were pumping iron, packing away the beige food and building biceps at the same time. Freeman scouted the room.
Bondurant was nowhere to be seen. No surprise there. A warden could eat with neither the convicts nor the guards. Many of the counselors sat together at a long table. There were no empty seats there, and Freeman wondered if Randy had been forced to sit with him. Short straw gets the loser kid.
At the next table over, a group of girls hunched over their trays, giggling. All except the girl at the head of the table. Her skin was nearly as pale as her ash-blond hair. Black eyes, large and moist-looking, stared down at the plate before her. The food was untouched.
She suddenly looked up, directly at Freeman. An image flashed into his brain, a single word: Trust. He swallowed hard, sending the bland and thoroughly chewed meat toward his inner plumbing.
That was weird. It's not like I was trying to triptrap her or anything.
But she was already staring at her plate again. Freeman took the opportunity to study her face. Even though she was a little sickly looking, with dark wedges under her eyes, she was pretty. Except, thinking of a girl as pretty seemed a little freaky. Prettiness made his heart light and his lungs stiff, as if he couldn't get any air into his body. Prettiness was pretty damned scary. Luckily, prettiness had always stayed a safe distance away. Bogart in Casablanca, wrong place, wrong time, that sort of thing.
He recognized the suffocating sadness in her eyes, though. He'd seen it often enough in the mirror. Maybe she hadn't yet learned how to shut it off, to bury it. But that was enough about her. He didn't want to be caught staring again. And he definitely did not want to fool himself into thinking he'd read her mind when he wasn't even trying.
Across the room, Deke was using his spoon as a catapult, flipping navy beans at some eight year olds. That was a tired trick. Maybe Deke had been here so long that he was behind the times, not up on cutting-edge goon techniques.
Starlene, the counselor who had taken him to the Blue Room when he arrived entered the dining room. She had a towel around her neck, and her hair was wet. She was dressed in a red sweat suit, looking like a generous Christmas stocking. Freeman wondered if there was a gym here and if she'd been working out.
She collected a salad and a cup of coffee, then headed Freeman's way.
So much for splendid isolation.
"You feeling better?" Randy asked her as she sat between him and Freeman.
"No."
Randy waved a fork at her salad. "I'm surprised you weren't in the mood for fish."
"I only eat the ones I catch. Except for the undersized ones like you, then I throw them back."
That's when Freeman figured it out. Ms. Sweat Suit and Mr. Muscles. The perfect jock couple, a match made in SoloFlex heaven. They probably had his-and-her headbands back at their condo love nest.
Freeman concentrated on his butterscotch pudding. It blended perfectly with the beige tray, and was the first pudding in the history of the world that could have doubled as wall spackle. He could imagine Deke stowing some away for later pranks on Dipes.
"I don't care what you and Dr. Bondurant think," Starlene said to Randy. "I know what I saw."
"We can talk about it later."
Grown-up talk. Freeman tried to will himself into invisibility. Starlene noticed his discomfort and said to him, "Sorry. I'm having a bad afternoon. Even grownups have them from time to time."
"Except grown-ups don't have to apologize." Freeman immediately regretted smart-mouthing her. But Clint Eastwood mode wasn't something you could climb into and out of at the drop of a hat. You had to stay in character. Unlike Kevin Costner in practically anything.
"I did apologize, Freeman."
He tried to triptrap her, just for the hell of it. All he got were ringing ears and the jolt of a live wire slicing through his head. He might as well have slammed his forehead against the dining room's cinder block walls. Some people were like that, natural shields, and even with the ones he could read, there was no way to control which stuff he got. Sometimes it was whatever the person had watched on TV the night before, or a favorite character from a movie. Sometimes it was a sick relative or money and how to get more money. Sometimes…
Sometimes it was the kind of stuff his dad used to think about.
"Is something wrong?" Starlene asked, and Freeman blinked himself back into the dining room.
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