Dark Divide

by Sonja Stone

  “Come in.”

  Nadia entered, closing the door behind her. “I’m sorry to bother you. Jack mentioned I had mail.”

  “Yes, this came for you.” Shepard held out a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Of course, security opened it and examined the contents, but nothing was removed.”

  Nadia took the item from Dean Shepard’s outstretched hand. She peeled back the paper to reveal a shrink-wrapped copy of Homer’s The Iliad. She frowned. “Was there a note?”

  Shepard shook her head. “Just the book.”

  “What about the return address?”

  “No address, but it was postmarked from Honolulu, the same as your postcard. Did you figure out who sent it?”

  Nadia shook her head. “I forgot to ask.” Her second piece of correspondence from the islands. “Anyway, thank you.” As she reached the door, a familiar scent caught her attention. The whiff of a campfire drifted through the air, and Nadia looked back toward the desk. “Dean Shepard, do you smell smoke?”

  Late Tuesday afternoon, following his team’s mandatory study session, Simon strolled down the hill to the administration building. Hopi Hall, quiet this time of day, was draped in long shadows that played across the jute-colored walls. After confirming that no students were lingering in the parking lot, he hauled open the massive wooden door and trotted down the tiled hall.

  This jaunt to the dean’s office wasn’t exactly a fishing trip, in that Simon didn’t know quite what he was looking for. It was more like lobbing a hand grenade into the lake and hoping something edible floated to the surface.

  He approached the sitting room cautiously. Finding it vacant, he selected a leather-bound volume from inside one of the bookcases and tossed it onto a chair by the fireplace. Dean Shepard’s office door was closed. He double-checked the ceiling, making sure he hadn’t overlooked a security camera the first time round.

  Simon removed the plastic bag filled with damp newspaper from his backpack and carefully arranged the soggy pages under the logs in the fireplace. He added a fistful of cotton balls and reached inside the shaft to close the flue. He struck a single match on the back of a matchbook, then ignited the remaining matches and placed the blazing packet beneath the cotton; the flame licked upward.

  He grabbed his bag and crouched behind the overstuffed chair closest to the window. From this position, he had a clear view of Shepard’s door.

  Now to wait.

  Two seconds later he glanced at his watch. Waiting was not Simon’s strong suit, but this was his first lead in sixteen years.

  All Simon knew about his birth father was that he worked for the United States government—though he’d always assumed he was an American spy. His mum refused to say anything more—only that he’d been part of a team flown in from Washington. She’d told Simon that his dad had no idea she’d got pregnant, that she’d never informed him because she didn’t want anything from him. She promised Simon that when he turned eighteen, she’d tell him his father’s name.

  But during Simon’s conversation with Dean Shepard, he realized his mum had lied—his father did know about him.

  Shepard had said the man who’d arranged for Simon to attend Desert Mountain Academy was CIA. Shepard knew his code name. And soon enough, Simon would, too.

  The damp paper finally caught. White smoke billowed from the fireplace and began to fill the room. Simon pulled his shirt over his mouth. A minute later the smoke alarm sounded and the dean’s door opened. Simon pressed himself against the leather as Shepard and Nadia moved quickly toward the hallway.

  A few seconds later, Simon stirred from his spot and stole into the dean’s office. Circling the desk, he removed a thumb drive from his pocket. He popped the drive into the USB port of Shepard’s laptop and waited as his program uploaded. The fire alarm pulsed its obnoxious horn as the safety lights over the door flashed to the beat.

  “Come on,” he muttered, glancing from the monitor to the door and back again.

  The status bar read fifty, sixty, seventy….

  Simon scooted to the office door and peeked into the sitting room: still vacant. He rushed back to the desk as the sirens drew nearer to campus.

  The fire brigade responded faster than anticipated, especially considering the Academy was in the middle of nowhere. They must have off-site security close by. Good to know.

  Ninety, ninety-five…

  Simon tapped his foot.

  Ninety-six. Ninety-seven.

  Shouting outside, then from the lobby.

  Ninety-eight, ninety-nine. A thundering of boots running up the hall.

  One hundred percent. Simon yanked out the drive and dashed back to the sitting room. He reached the fireplace a fraction of a second before the firefighters stormed the room.

  Simon coughed and waved his hands to clear the smoke. “Sorry, mates—my bad. I was in here reading and thought a cozy fire would be so nice. I guess I forgot to open the flue.”

  “Did you use fresh wood?” a fireman asked, yanking Simon away from the hearth by his arm.

  “I’m not certain the newspaper was completely dry. Is that what caused all the smoke? So very interesting.” Simon coughed again. “Who knew?”

  “Everybody,” said the fireman. “Everybody knows that. Go outside and check in with the paramedics.”

  Simon obediently made his way down the hall. He slipped through the wooden doors as discreetly as possible and inhaled the clean night air. Dean Shepard was by the front gate, speaking with security. She hadn’t noticed him at all.

  * * *

  —

  After getting the all clear, Simon returned to his room.

  The program he’d installed on Shepard’s computer would perform two critical functions. In addition to logging her keystrokes, which would enable Simon to record her usernames and passwords the next time she signed onto the CIA’s server, his program also provided remote access, so he would be able to view anything on her screen, whether she’d actually typed it or not.

  He’d designed the program himself—well, with the help of a mate back home, who now happened to be serving time in juvie for an unrelated incident.

  He waited an hour or so, then booted up his laptop and logged into the program. He scrolled through Shepard’s history and randomly selected a file. The email she’d typed a few minutes earlier materialized onscreen: a reminder to the security guards to carefully track the visiting firefighters and file all log-in sheets at the end of each shift.

  He sat back and smiled—perfection.

  Horrible things happened all the time; surely Shepard would have cause to log on soon enough. And once inside, with a little time and luck, he would discover the code name of the agent who got him into Desert Mountain—his father. From there, Simon was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from righting the scales of justice.

  Of course, if Shepard took too long before checking into the black-ops mainframe, Simon would happily speed up the mission by organizing a calamity of his own.

  Nadia arrived a few minutes late to breakfast on Wednesday. Through the doorway into the main dining room, she saw Libby and Alan, already seated at their usual table in the back corner. She made her selections and joined her friends. Before sitting she asked, “Do you guys know anyone who went to Hawaii over the break?”

  Alan shook his head. “I already told you my holiday was long and dull. Do you not think I would have mentioned visiting our nation’s most remote state?”

  “Still don’t know who sent the postcard?” Libby asked, spreading her napkin across her lap.

  “Or The Iliad, as of yesterday,” Nadia said.

  Libby looked over her shoulder toward the entrance. “Where’d we lose Simon?”

  “How should I know?” Alan answered. “I am not his keeper.”

  Nadia glanced at Alan. Knowing he didn’t adjust well to change, she asked, “How’s it going with Simon? Is everything okay?”

  Alan shook his head. “I do not believe we are well suited.”
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  “What on earth is your objection to Simon? He’s charming, personable, handsome….” Libby trailed off as she wiped the rim of her water glass with a lemon wedge.

  “These are not requisite qualities of a satisfactory roommate,” Alan said. “He likes to read in bed, but I need a completely dark room or I cannot sleep. He is loud, slovenly, and apparently feels very strongly about never hanging up his wet towel.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Nadia said, nodding toward the buffet line. As Simon made his approach, his eyes scanned the perimeter of the room, lingering on the exits.

  That was the second time she’d seen him case a room.

  Simon set his plate and napkin roll on the table. “Guess what I just heard?”

  Alan shook his head. “We really do not have enough information at this time to make an educated guess.”

  Simon laughed. “Good one, mate.” Alan stared blankly at his roommate, and Simon said, “Oh, you’re serious. All right then, how about this: you’re not going to believe what I just heard.”

  “What’s that, honey?” Libby asked, as she straightened his silverware.

  Simon smiled at Libby, Alan glared at his roommate, and Nadia once again realized why Damon had always insisted on the corner chair. From this angle, she missed nothing; her classmates walking through the buffet line, groups gathered in conversation at the intimate tables, security cameras on the ceiling, the kitchen staff as they restocked the beverage station.

  “As I was leaving Dean Shepard’s office, after solemnly swearing never again to touch a match while on school property, I heard something extraordinary.”

  “You were there last night?” Libby asked. “My goodness. I’m so grateful you weren’t hurt.”

  “I may have been partly responsible,” Simon said. “It was touch-and-go for a while.”

  Nadia raised an eyebrow. “That seems an exaggeration. As I recall, it was mostly smoke.”

  “Did the sprinklers go off?” Libby asked.

  Simon shook his head and leaned toward her. “Contrary to popular belief, sprinkler systems are heat activated. And quite localized—most often individually controlled. The release of water begins when the head actually melts.”

  “Fascinating,” Libby said.

  Alan rolled his eyes. “How is that fascinating? Everybody knows that. Just because he has an accent you think everything he says is brilliant.”

  Nadia shook her head. “I didn’t know that.”

  Libby shot Alan a look and then turned back to Simon. “You said you heard something extraordinary. Go on.”

  “Professor Hayden.” Simon paused and snapped open his linen napkin. “He’s the old poli-sci instructor, right? One of the dodgy ones?”

  “How do you know about that?” Alan glared at Simon.

  “What about him?” Nadia asked, trying to prevent Alan from sidelining the conversation.

  “He’s dead.” Simon dropped his napkin on his lap, formed a steeple with his hands, and lowered his voice. “Murdered.”

  Libby flinched. “That’s awful.”

  “Libby, he shot at us. It’s not that awful,” Nadia said, feeling a twinge in her gut. She couldn’t quite identify the sensation. Fear? Relief? She turned to Simon. “How did it happen?”

  “He was thrown out the window of his flat, which, sadly, was on the eighth floor.”

  “Oh my God.” Libby pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “But that was probably not what killed him,” Simon said. “By the time he was tossed from the ledge, he’d already been shot.”

  “Oh my God!” Libby said again.

  “And stabbed,” Simon said cheerfully.

  Libby’s eyes widened further. “That sounds a little excessive.”

  Nadia felt sick to her stomach. “That sounds a little like Damon.”

  “Do you really think it was him?” Libby asked.

  Nadia nodded. “That kind of overkill? Yeah, I’m guessing Damon.”

  “Of course it was Damon,” Alan added quickly. “Who else would it be?” He scratched at his neck, now red and splotchy. “It could not possibly have been anyone else.”

  Nadia’s gaze lingered on Alan. He only broke out in hives when he told a lie, but he obviously hadn’t killed Hayden, so what was with the physical reaction? “I agree, a revenge killing seems right up Damon’s alley.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Simon continued. “Inside Hayden’s apartment, the police found his right index finger.”

  The color drained from Libby’s face. “Why would Damon cut off Hayden’s finger?”

  Simon shrugged. “I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  Nadia shaped her hand into a gun and pointed it at Simon. She bent her index finger and said, “Trigger finger. Any word on Damon?”

  Simon shook his head. “Didn’t sound like it, but apparently this happened days ago. Shepard was furious she was only now hearing about it.”

  “Well,” Alan said, breathing heavily. “Personally, I am grateful to be alive. Let us not forget that my life was constantly in jeopardy. I am the one who was forced to live with that psychopath.”

  “But you’re not the one he’s got a beef with, are you, mate?” Simon turned to Nadia. “You worried you’re next?”

  Nadia shook her head, irritated by his question. “Why does everybody keep asking me that? Why would I be? If he was going to kill me, he would’ve done it last semester when he was ordered to.”

  Simon looked a little surprised. “I was under the impression that you ruined his life.”

  “How? I didn’t do anything to him.”

  “That is false,” Alan said. “You cost him his entire career. He was faced with a choice: follow orders and execute you, or let you live, lose both his traitorous job and his place at Desert Mountain Academy, and become a target himself.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Nadia turned to Libby for confirmation. “Damon and I were friends. He could’ve killed me, and he didn’t.”

  Libby looked down at her plate.

  “Libby?”

  She winced as she looked at Nadia. “I’m afraid I agree with Alan on this one. Damon may have once considered you a friend, but when he refused to kill you, his coworkers tried to kill him. It’s possible he blames you for that.”

  “Well, that’s not fair,” Nadia objected, as though her teammates could change Damon’s mind.

  “Also, I believe Damon helped to support his mother financially,” Alan added, his face still flushed. “Which may be why he agreed to betray his country in the first place.”

  Libby nodded. “I can believe that. He’s very serious about family.”

  Alan continued, “Yes, I am certain Damon is responsible for Hayden’s death.”

  “And now he’s on the run,” Simon chimed in. “Unemployed and unemployable. He lost his job, his financial security, his safety. All because of you.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Nadia pushed her plate away and sat back, glaring at Simon. “Now I’m worried.”

  “I’m teasing,” Simon said. “I’m sure his killing spree’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “One person is not a spree,” Nadia snapped.

  Libby squeezed Nadia’s hand. “You’ll be okay. You’re safe here on campus, right?”

  “I guess you’re forgetting the time I got shot in Dean Wolfe’s office, huh? Being that it was so long ago? What, like eight weeks now?”

  Libby gave Nadia a sympathetic look. “Nothing like that would ever happen again. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

  “That is incorrect,” said Alan. “There are a number of people who have been struck by lightning more than once. It has something to do with the electricity—”

  “What is the matter with you?” Libby asked.

  “What?” Alan shook his head. “This is not me talking, Libby. This is science. I cannot change the facts because you find them inconvenient.”

  Nadia grabbed her plate as she stood. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.
”

  “Are you okay?” Libby asked. “You want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’m fine. I just need some air.”

  “I’ll come get you before class. We’ll walk together.” Libby offered a reassuring smile.

  At the far end of the buffet line, Nadia dumped the remainder of her breakfast into the trash can and went outside. She kept her head down so she wouldn’t have to greet her classmates on their way into the dining hall. Halfway down the hill, she ran into Jack.

  “I was looking for you,” he said, pulling her off the path around the corner by the girls’ dorm. “I have my meeting with Shepard later. How about a kiss for luck?”

  She feigned a smile.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

  Nadia relayed the entire conversation about Hayden. When she finished, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have unloaded on you right now. It probably didn’t do anything to help your nerves.”

  “I’m not nervous.” Jack rubbed his nose. “Not anymore. I’ve been preparing.”

  She smiled.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I know when you’re lying,” she said. “You have a tell.”

  “What are you talking about? What tell?”

  “When you lie, you touch your face.”

  “Seriously?” He laughed. “Thanks for letting me know. I should work on that.” He reached for her hands. “Are you really worried about Damon?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They made some good points about me ruining his life. I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”

  He gathered her into a hug and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

  Nadia pulled away, annoyed. “I don’t need you to protect me. I can take care of myself.”