by Sean Black
Gretchen would take more convincing. Especially with all the vultures that had been circling recently, ready to damage the reputation of everything her father and she had built over the years.
22
Ty Johnson had arrived at Broken Ridge ten minutes before he was scheduled to have his job interview. He’d been dropped off at the bottom of the long track leading up to the academy by a bus he’d picked up in town. His clothes were thrift-store smart. Cheap, slightly tired, washed and frayed, but neatly pressed and starched. The kind of clothes worn by a proud former Marine a little down on his luck, who needed a job and wasn’t all that particular about what it might involve. But someone who also wanted to make a good impression.
He’d measured out the length of the rutted road in a series of long strides. In the event that he wasn’t offered the advertised position at Broken Ridge, this visit could serve as reconnaissance. A tiny video camera clipped into his shirt transmitted a live feed to an app on his cell phone, ready for the footage to be dumped onto a laptop at a later date. Cell and data coverage out here was poor to non-existent, which prevented him being able to send Lock a live feed. Not that it mattered. Ty was fairly sure he could handle whatever lay ahead.
Up ahead lay a ranch house that stood next to a series of long, barrack-style buildings. Beyond that, open land was dotted with a couple of semi-derelict barns and outbuildings. Hundreds of acres without another house or person in sight. If he hadn’t known better, he would have assumed it was a dude ranch. One that had seen better days.
The email he’d received a few days before had told him to come to the main ranch house. Ty had decided to ignore that instruction, and take a little unscheduled tour. If he was challenged, he’d play dumb and cite the fact he was early. Tell them he wanted to get a feel for the place. Which would be true. He did.
Turning left at the ranch house, he sauntered across to the first dormitory building. Instead of going inside, he skirted around the perimeter of the building. There were single windows at regular intervals. Some had blinds drawn down. None appeared to have locks. They were simply plates of glass dropped into a frame. Good for keeping people in, or out, but really bad news if there was a fire, or other emergency.
Ty kept walking. At the far end was an emergency exit door. It was chained and padlocked. He took another left and walked back along the front of the building, taking his time, stopping at the windows that weren’t covered with blinds. All the while, the body cam did its work.
Glimpses of pin-neat dorm rooms crammed with mattresses and lockers were broken up by equally Spartan classrooms arranged with desks and chairs that all faced the wall. Each set was separated by a partition so the student wouldn’t be able to see the person either side of them.
Apart from the motivational posters there were no personal effects in the dorm rooms. There was no student work pinned up on the classroom walls. No charts. No certificates naming a student of the week. No gold stars or merit badges on display. And, Ty asked himself, so what? Kids should come to school to learn, not to spend eight hours being told how they were all special little snowflakes. Sure, by American standards, the set-up seemed basic, but he imagined that most kids in Africa or India sitting in schools just like this were happy for the opportunity.
“Can I help you?”
The question came from a lanky white guy in shorts and a blue polo shirt. Ty recognized him from the school website as Chris Fontaine, the academy’s deputy director. Lock had already background-checked the dude. What had come back wasn’t good, and he had used it to challenge Ty’s reluctance to take the gig. As a negotiation strategy, Lock presenting him with his findings about Fontaine and some of the other staff had proven effective.
Ty stopped, squaring his shoulders, and looked at Fontaine. “I’m here for a job interview.”
Fontaine’s hand shot out and he grinned. “Of course. Mr. Cross, right?”
“Correct.”
“Chris Fontaine. Deputy director. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
Ty looked at him, his expression blank, although Ty’s blank expression could be read by most people as one that ranged from low-grade threat to utterly terrifying. Not that he could help it. He just had one of those faces.
He and Lock had decided that if Ty was to assume a fake identity, he might as well do a little character work to go with it. They’d figured their best chance of gaining information about Broken Ridge was for him to play someone who would carry out orders without question, was smart enough to do what was asked of him, but no more than that.
Ty slowly extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fontaine. And thank you for giving me the opportunity.”
They shook, Fontaine repeating, “Great. Great,” over and over.
“So, as you’ll see, our little school is on the basic side, but that’s what we feel provides the most benefit to the young people who are sent to us. It allows them to focus on themselves. Set themselves straight without all the distractions they have at home.”
Ty went back to looking blank. Seconds passed.
“Well, great,” said Fontaine. “Let me take you on down to the ranch house and you can meet Ms Applewhite. And don’t worry, the interview process here is really informal so there’s nothing to be on edge about. Just be yourself. All we’re trying to work out is whether you’ll be a good fit. There aren’t any right or wrong answers.”
23
Ty stared across the deep wooden desk at Gretchen Applewhite. He was directly opposite her, on a hard-backed dining chair. To his right, Chris Fontaine sat with his hands on his knees, one toe tapping on the floor, a ball of barely contained energy. Gretchen was peering through pink-rimmed reading glasses at Ty’s, or rather, Mark Cross’s, job application.
It was only six pages long, but she must have been leafing through it for at least five minutes. She turned a page. She scanned. She flipped back. She flipped forward. Ty’s nerves were gone. Now he was just plain irritated.
He sat there quietly, and reminded himself that while Ty didn’t do interviews, the fictional Mr. Cross needed this gig. Another minute passed. Gretchen let out a sigh.
Ty leaned forward in his chair. It creaked. “Everything okay with my application?” he asked. “Anything you’d like me to clarify for you?”
She looked at him over the top of her reading glasses. “No, thank you.”
Ty shot her a shit-eating smile. “Well, if there is, you only need to ask.”
Gretchen smiled back and returned to flipping back and forth through the pages. Ty had the feeling this was a power play. She was the boss, which meant everyone else could wait. That worked for him.
Finally, she took off her glasses, placed them in front of her and propped her elbows on the desk so that her chin was resting on doughy knuckles. “Well, Mr. Cross, I must say I’m very impressed.”
“Thank you,” Ty replied. He’d also been impressed when Lock had handed him the completed application to sign, complete with a detailed bio, social security number, and bankcard, all with the name of someone who didn’t actually exist. The whole package had cost them, or rather their client, Donald Price, around five Gs to put together.
Price’s contact, who specialized in what he euphemistically termed as ‘surrogate identity formation’, was apparently one of the most accomplished forgers in the country. He’d done time in the joint for any number of scams and cons, until the United States government, in the form of the State Department, had made him an offer he would have been crazy to refuse. That was how Donald Price had known about him. This was an off-the-books job that would cost his career, if it came to light. Having someone fake identities for the United States government was one thing, doing it for your own purposes was frowned upon. Lock and Ty had promised to make sure it stayed on the down low.
“Have you worked with young people before?” Gretchen asked.
“Not quite as young as those you have here, but with young recruits, yes,” said Ty. “The young men and w
omen who enlist often come from challenging backgrounds.”
Chris almost bounced out of his chair. “Exactly what we do here. Forge character.”
Gretchen cut him off with a single withering look. Chris cleared his throat and went back to lounging in his chair, and tapping his foot.
“You’ll find some of the behavior you may encounter here is particularly difficult. Even for a man such as yourself. Often by the time young people reach us they’ve been all but ruined by a lack of boundaries. Drugs, alcohol, under-age sexual activity, you name it, we have to deal with it. And the way we do that is by applying a strict policy of discipline. Where there is chaos in their life, we see it as our mission to bring order. Which isn’t to say it’s all negative or about punishment. They have the chance to complete their education via directed independent study, they learn to appreciate and value their bodies through physical exercise, and they are encouraged to examine the bad choices that placed them here.”
She stopped, looking pleased with herself. Ty had the feeling she was hoping for a round of applause. He also had the distinct impression that this was a well-rehearsed speech that she’d given to worried parents hundreds of times. He had to admit, it didn’t sound too bad. If you had a teenager who’d gone off the rails those were the words you’d want to hear. It made Broken Ridge sound like a one-stop solution. Roll ’em in wrecked, and pick ’em up all shiny new and fixed.
“It sounds like an excellent program,” he said.
“Something you feel you can get on board with?” Gretchen asked him.
Ty reminded himself that Cross needed this job if he wanted to eat that week. He tried to interject just the right amount of enthusiasm to reflect that fact. “I’m positive that I can.”
“And you have no problem with it being a live-in position? Obviously you’ll have certain periods free, but we do expect dorm fathers to be here overnight on a regular basis.”
“No, ma'am, that’s fine,” Ty said. There wasn’t much an older white woman on a power trip liked more than being called ma'am by someone like him.
Gretchen stood up. She tidied the papers in front of her and set them to one side. “In that case, welcome aboard. Mr. Cross.” Then she flattened down that weird-ass 1950s plaid dress she was wearing, patted at her hair, and stuck out her hand.
Ty shook it as, next to him, Chris beamed like someone whose mom finally approved of one of his friends. “Thank you for offering me this opportunity to see what this wonderful program is really all about,” said Ty, without a single hint of irony.
24
You are going to love it here, Mark. You mind if I call you Mark?”
“Not at all, Chris,” Ty said.
They were walking toward one of the dormitories. According to Chris, this block housed a dozen or so young men who ranged in age from thirteen to almost eighteen. Ty was going to fill the role of housefather. No one had mentioned why the last person in the role had left, and Ty had known better than to ask. Mark Cross wanted the job too much to ask a lot of questions. He wanted to be a team player. And Ty Johnson wanted to be inside, seeing what was really going down. Right now, they had both achieved their objectives.
A group of teenage girls marched past them in single file. Ty scanned their faces for Ruth Price. He didn’t see her. One of the girls did look at him, though, one of the older ones, holding his gaze before he looked away.
Chris must have caught something of it. “You’re lucky, getting assigned one of the boys’ dorms. The girls are the ones you really have to watch out for. Manipulative as hell, especially if you’re a dude, if you catch my drift . . . Plus they really band together.”
Ty could feel his skin start to crawl, but he tamped it down. “I hear you.”
“And they’re all in sync, if you catch my meaning,” Chris went on. “So, like, for four or five days of every month all hell breaks loose. It’s like my old man used to tell me, ‘Never trust anything that bleeds once a month and doesn’t die.’”
Ty had never heard any man, old or otherwise, say something like that. At least, not one who wasn’t a complete asshole. With young Chris there must be some weird genetic component to his personality, as well as whatever he had picked up along the way, in his lack of respect for females.
Lock teased Ty about being a ladies’ man, who dated women like he was trying to set some kind of record. Up to a point, it was true. Ty had dated a lot of different women. He enjoyed female company, and not only for the sexual part. He enjoyed the whole enchilada. A couple of women he’d dated said it might have come from him having been raised by a single mom. He didn’t know if that was true. He just knew he enjoyed female company. Enjoyed women too much to be disrespectful toward them.
But Ty was always clear going in with someone that he wasn’t looking to settle down. He was married to the job, like Lock was. But he sure as hell didn’t see women, or anyone else for that matter, as some kind of sub-species. He had no respect for men who did. He didn’t even think of it as sexism. It was just plain old insecurity that manifested itself as bar talk.
Don’t trust anything that bleeds once a month and doesn’t die, Ty repeated to himself. He glanced at Chris. I’d only need one shot to make you bleed.
Ty pushed down his distaste and they moved on with the official tour of Broken Ridge Academy. Chris talked more about the ethos of the program. About how it was a way to provide structure and discipline to teenagers who had suffered a complete absence of both at home and school.
“What you have to understand,” said Chris, as they stepped into an empty classroom, “these aren’t always bad kids. Most of them are good kids, or bad kids with a good kid wanting to get out, and break away from all that bad peer pressure. They’ve just never heard the word ‘no’—at least, not from someone who actually meant it, and wasn’t going to turn it into a ‘yes’ because that made their own life easier. It probably sounds crazy to someone who was in the Marines, but half our kids had never even made their own bed before they came here.”
That part didn’t sound crazy at all. While he’d still been serving he’d not only met FOB (fresh off the boat) recruits who couldn’t make their bed, but they didn’t know how to read or write beyond maybe second-grade level, and some didn’t know how to brush their teeth or shower properly.
Neither did anything else Chris had said about boundaries or discipline sound crazy to Ty. It sounded just the opposite. Leaving aside Chris’s eagerness to impress someone he obviously thought was a bad ass, some of what he was saying made a lot of sense. Kids, these days, did lack basic consistency because adults didn’t provide it. It wasn’t exactly the adults’ fault, because maybe the pendulum had swung too far the other way: away from the rights of parents and schools to set the rules and toward the rights of teenagers who weren’t yet developed enough to make good choices, or weren’t yet able to know what a good choice was.
As they stood in the middle of the empty classroom, with its single-student corrals, Ty noticed that not one desk looked out. They were all either facing a wall, or where there was a window, a board had been tacked up to obscure the view of the outside.
“We don’t like the students having any possible distractions,” Chris told him, seeming to anticipate Ty’s or, rather, Mark’s next question.
“So if they’re staring at the wall, how do they look at the teacher?” In fact, he didn’t see any kind of board or teacher’s desk for that matter either.
Ty hadn’t exactly been an academic star. Hell, back in the day where he grew up in Long Beach, graduating high school was pretty much like getting yourself into an Ivy League college. But he did know that students usually faced the teacher rather than a wall or a piece of wood.
Chris walked over to a tall metal cabinet. He opened it to reveal a series of metal shelves. He pulled a workbook from the middle one. “Study is self-directed. Each student comes in, takes a workbook, goes through their exercises, and a member of staff spot-checks that the work has been complete
d,” he said.
That sounded like a whole bunch of horseshit to Ty. Perhaps because, in the military, you were shown how to do something, and someone took you through it until they were satisfied. It was labor-intensive, but it was pretty much the only way. Handing a grunt an M16 a rifle and a booklet on how to use it would have been all kinds of bad news. But, thought Ty, maybe algebra was different. It seemed like a half-assed system to him, but maybe it was too early to judge.
“So what happens if they’re not getting something?” he asked Chris.
Chris spread his arms wide. “Then all they need to do is come ask. If the member of staff monitoring them doesn’t know, or doesn’t know how to explain it, they’ll find someone who does.”
Ty quickly reminded himself that he didn’t want to come off too critical. That didn’t fit with the role he was playing. He nodded. “That’s a relief. Because I’m not sure how much algebra I’d remember from high school.”
Chris grinned and punched his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I have you covered on that one. Hey, talking about everyone helping out, I know you haven’t officially started, but I have to take one of the girls’ Phys Ed classes. You mind giving me some help with it?”
Ty smiled right back. “Absolutely not. Tell you the truth,” he said to Chris, leaning in a little, a small sign that they were already buddies, “I’d be happy to get started.”
“See, that attitude right there. That’s what I told Gretchen having a Marine here would give us. Some positive vibes.”
The guy would have lasted about ten seconds in the Corps, Ty thought. His idea of a Marine was all about the external, of how you came across. Ty knew different. Being a warrior was all about the internal. It was a state of mind: a way of being.