The Private School Murders

by James Patterson

  I’m making a promise to myself, and also to you. I will save lives. I hope I will save potential victims of the Private School Girl Killer. And, if I can, I will also save Matthew.

  And, of course, that’s not all.

  Wherever he is, whatever has happened to him, I will find James Rampling.

  Don’t worry, love of my life. I have not forgotten about you.

  26

  I was walking with James at the edge of the surf. The clouds blocked the moon and the stars, and the sky was coal black.

  I started to tell James about the phosphorescence of the one-celled animals, and he squeezed my hand.

  My heart caught. Dammit. This was supposed to be romantic and here I was giving a science lesson.

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just start spouting this stuff.”

  I could barely see his outline, but I knew his face so well. “I love listening to you spout,” he said.

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  “I want to spend the next ninety years listening to you. And I couldn’t care less what you want to talk about, whether it’s phosphorescence or what you ate for breakfast this morning. Sound like a plan?”

  I pretended to consider. “Would we also eat and sleep?”

  James laughed, and then the surf rolled in and covered our feet, so ice-cold it hurt. I squealed and danced away from the lapping waves, and James ran with me. He put his arms around my waist and hugged me hard. My breath hitched. It felt so good to be in his arms. It was where I belonged.

  The surf rolled back, and James pressed his lips into the crook between my neck and shoulder. “I’d like to stay here forever,” he said, kissing my skin. “Right. Here.”

  “Now, that sounds like a plan.” I sighed.

  He turned me around and pulled me to him, bending to touch his mouth to mine. His lips were soft at first, but then forceful and demanding. As he crushed me tightly against him, I shivered with excitement.

  “Are you cold?” James asked.

  I shook my head, unable, for the moment, to find my voice. He cupped my face with both hands.

  “Because we can go home, if you want to.”

  There was a little house up in the dunes, our house, with three cozy rooms and a porch with a glider and a view of the ocean.

  “Actually, I feel warm,” I told him. The wind whipped my hair as I fumbled with the tiny buttons on the long cardigan I wore over my little skirt. “Just being near you makes me feel warm.”

  That was when a roar came up like the sound of a typhoon. It was a heart-stopping, booming sound, loud and invasive, a noise that blocked out my very thoughts.

  “What is that?” I yelled.

  But before James could answer, the lights hit me from all directions, utterly blinding me. I reached out for James, groping against the brightness, but he was gone. From impossibly far away, I heard him call my name, then—

  Nothing. Nothing but indistinct shouting and the crackle of handheld radios.

  “James!” I screamed, still staggering, reaching out, trying to find him. “James! Where are you?”

  And then a heavy sack fell over my head.

  27

  I sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath.

  Oh my God. Had I been dreaming?

  “Tandy? Tandy. What’s wrong?”

  It was Harry calling me from outside my door.

  “I’m okay. I’m fine,” I told him, still struggling for breath. The doorknob twisted, but the door was locked.

  “Let me in.”

  “I’m on the phone with C.P.,” I lied. “What time is it?”

  “Six fifteen. Were you screaming?”

  “Um… singing,” I said.

  “You scared the crap out of me!” he said through the door. Then he blew out a sigh. “You’ve got no ear. Whatever you were doing.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  I heard his footsteps clomp off down the hall, and I leaned back against my pillows, trying to remember my dream, but it grew more vague and slippery by the moment. I did remember the feelings, though, and those I could never have made up.

  Was this dream of me and James on some beach, in fact, a memory? Or a fantasy? I closed my eyes and breathed, wishing I could trust my instinct.

  This dream had felt real. It had felt so very, very real.

  It was like James himself was inside me saying Don’t forget me.

  I shoved myself out of bed, my heart bounding around like an excited jackrabbit. If I was starting to remember, then everything was about to change. If I could remember James, remember what had happened to us, then maybe I could find him. Maybe, just maybe, we could be together again.

  As I reached for my bathrobe and headed to my private bathroom, I could practically hear Harry scoffing inside my head—Harry’s voice saying, “Oh, God, Tandy, would you get a life?”

  But suddenly there was no point in having a life unless James was in it.

  CONFESSION

  In the same way I get obsessed with the details of a case I’m trying to crack, ever since I got off my parents’ special cocktail of drugs, I’ve been obsessed with the mystery of a single word: love. I’ve read just about everything that’s been written on the subject. Poetry and literature, psychology and science. And I’ve located one certifiable truth. Are you ready?

  An emotional bond between two people can form in a fifth of a second.

  Think about that. You can’t take in a breath and exhale it in one-fifth of one second. You can’t form a cogent thought in that tiny amount of time. You can’t even blink.

  So I think I get it. I think love at first sight bypasses cogent thought.

  That is what that first moment was like for me.

  And that first kiss? Forget about it. It was just a kiss in the way that an earthquake is just an earthquake. It was life-changing, mind-altering perfection. My first kiss with James was so defining that nothing my parents did could wipe it from my memory. Even now, even today, I could still feel the sensation of our lips touching. They couldn’t take that from me.

  But they tried.

  A few weeks after I was released from Fern Haven, Maud told me that James and I had run away together. That was all she would tell me. No details, no reasons, no explanation of why she’d felt the need to tear us apart. Of course I tried as hard as I could to remember, to figure out why I’d done what I’d done, but in place of the images of James and me in each other’s arms, all I could see was that white room deep inside Fern Haven. All I could remember were the treatments that were like blackouts followed by whiteouts.

  By the time I was returned to the Dakota, my mind was filled with buzzing and snow, exactly like the static on a TV that’s lost its signal. I couldn’t remember where I’d been, what I’d done. At the time I couldn’t even recall James’s face or his name. Just a vague, shadowy, nebulous idea of him. And the pressure of his lips on mine.

  Not that I told anyone that. Of course I didn’t. Because I knew they would try to take that from me, too.

  Dr. Keyes, my therapist, became my personal coach.

  Dr. Keyes:“How do you feel, Tandy?”

  Me:“I don’t.”

  Dr. Keyes:“Good.”

  Someday I’d like to have a real sit-down with Dr. Keyes. She has a lot of explaining to do. But now that my memories are starting to come back, I’m putting aside my revenge plans. I’m focusing on the saying “Love will find a way.”

  I’m counting on it, because James and I were meant to be together. I know that what we had was the real thing, even without my bleached-clean and sanitized mind totally back to normal yet.

  But where is he?

  Where is James Rampling?

  Is there a chance that wherever he is, he’s dreaming of kissing me?

  This is a mystery I must solve.

  If I’m such a multitasking investigative genius, I ought to be able to figure it out.

  28

  When Malcolm and Maud found out what had happened between James and me
, they took quick, decisive action to make sure we were separated. Not just separated. They wanted to be sure that James Rampling would never be able to come near me or our family ever again.

  It would be quite reasonable to ask me, dear friend, if this forced separation happened in a small village in a time before electricity and running water and, oh, I don’t know, rational thought. Because honestly. How could this have happened in New York City, in the twenty-first century?

  Well, the Angels wanted it to happen, so it did.

  Dr. Keyes told me my parents were terrified that my relationship with James would derail all the grand plans they had for me, which in their opinion meant he would ruin my life. She said the best thing would be for me to forget him and move past this short, nearly devastating interlude. And she said her job was to help me obliterate the nightmare quickly. Thoroughly. Permanently.

  But apparently she didn’t do her job all that well. Because my memory is coming back. I know it is. That has to be what these dreams are—real memories trying to push their way through.

  After my parents’ deaths, I ransacked Maud’s office and found a hidden newspaper article with this headline: SON OF STORIED FINANCIER, 18, DISAPPEARS UNDER MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

  Below the headline was a photograph of James.

  Just the sight of him—the fully formed, non-nebulous, totally sharp sight of him—knocked the wind out of me. It also knocked any doubt out of me. At that moment, I knew. I knew for absolute certain that these little flashes I’d been getting, these memories and wisps of images, were real.

  So I took the article. I buried it in a file of research on the effect of nuclear waste on sea coral and locked it away in my room.

  Now I got out of bed and went to my desk, which was right near my windows, facing the park. I pressed my left ring finger to the biometric plate at the side of the pedestal and the locks thunked open. I opened the file drawer.

  I pawed through the file until my hand fell on the scrap of newsprint.

  There, under the headline, the photo jolted me once again. His handsome face, his light eyes, his sweet smile, and the strong line of his jaw. And then I saw him leaning in toward me, sliding his fingers into my hair.…

  No. Not now. I had work to do. I forced myself to focus on the article.

  Royal Rampling, billionaire financier and father of James Rampling, 18-year-old student at the Park Avenue High School, who was reported missing this week, has contacted this paper to say that James is living abroad.

  Said Mr. Rampling yesterday, “James is perfectly well and is attending a private school in Europe, where he is devoting himself to his studies.”

  The article went on to cite Mr. Rampling’s business expertise and the size of his fortune, but the last paragraph was dedicated to my mother.

  On July 14, Mr. Rampling reported Maud Angel, founder and CEO of Leading Hedge, a New York hedge fund, to the SEC for securities fraud. He is further suing Mrs. Angel personally for $50 million.

  Reading about my mother’s supposed crime still knocked the air out of me. Philippe had explained to me that Maud was, indeed, in serious trouble before her death. She had invested heavily in Angel Pharmaceuticals, telling her clients that the company was solid when it was actually nearing collapse.

  Furthermore, Maud had borrowed money and had issued false financial statements to hide losses, and when Angel Pharma’s crooked books were exposed, Maud couldn’t pay back her investors.

  Royal Rampling was her most damaged client, so he had called her out. On the night my parents died, Rampling had been poised to bankrupt her. I was sure Maud detested him. So it was no wonder she didn’t want me seeing his son. And maybe, just maybe, Royal Rampling didn’t want his son seeing me, either.

  It was about them, of course. Always. Always about them.

  A white-hot fury seared through me so fast I almost crumpled the precious article and its photo in my hand. But at the last second I stopped myself and instead flung the rest of the folder across the room as hard as I could, letting out a guttural howl. Papers fluttered to the floor. The folder smacked against my door. It wasn’t all that satisfying, to be honest, but it was something.

  Clenching my jaw, I grabbed my robe and walked into my bathroom, turning the hot water in the shower as high as it would go. Then I stood under the punishing spray as long as I could, trying to catch my breath, thinking about the Capulets and the Montagues.

  But James and I were different from Romeo and Juliet. While Malcolm, Maud, and Mr. Rampling had succeeded in separating us, I wasn’t dead.

  All I could do was hope that James wasn’t, either.

  29

  I had once defiantly told Capricorn Caputo that I slept like a stump. This was three months ago, during the days when arcane chemical compounds were both focusing and numbing my mind. Now my brain was free at last and fighting for a comeback. Which meant that that night, I couldn’t sleep. I could almost feel the neurons seeking out unused connections, spanning voids, plugging in, powering up.

  The glowing clock next to my bed read 1:14. I couldn’t quiet my mind no matter how many sheep I counted or lines of poetry I recited or digits of pi I recounted.

  Where was James? Had he bailed after we were separated or had his parents sent him somewhere? Was his memory wiped as well? Did he remember me at all? If he did, why hadn’t he tried to get in touch? He must have had my phone number, my e-mail, my family’s address, something.

  And then, at exactly 4:30 in the morning, I sat straight up in bed. Maybe James had tried to get in touch with me but his messages hadn’t gotten though. It wasn’t like Malcolm and Maud to go to all that trouble to wipe my brain and then just let a letter or a text or an e-mail get to me. They were nothing if not thorough. Maniacally so.

  If his texts or e-mails had somehow been blocked, the next logical thing for him to try would have been writing. Good old-fashioned snail mail.

  I pushed myself out of bed, intent on searching Malcolm’s and Maud’s things again, but I paused. I’d already gone through all their stuff. If there had been anything in this house from James, I would have found it.

  And then it hit me, like a smack to the forehead. Not everything we’d once had in this house was still in this house.

  After Malcolm’s and Maud’s bodies had been removed and the crime-scene unit was wrapping up, the CSI people had carried off four cardboard boxes full of my parents’ personal files.

  Those files had never been returned.

  I clutched the post at the end of my bed. Where were those boxes now? Had they been stored in some kind of evidence locker? Or even destroyed?

  Panic gripped my insides, and I reached for my cell phone. I needed to go through the files. I was sure there was something important inside those boxes. A journal, or a letter exchanged by Maud and Rampling agreeing to the separation of their kids.

  Maybe even a letter from James.

  Those boxes held answers, and I’m all about answers.

  That’s one thing about me that hasn’t changed at all.

  30

  My mind was revving like a race car engine as I joined my brothers in the kitchen that morning. I had left Philippe a message at 4:36 am. So far, I hadn’t heard back. I glanced at the clock on the stove. It was now 7:57.

  I reached for the coffee and almost knocked it over. Harry gave me the squinty eye, trying to assess my body language and read my mood. After a couple of minutes of me fidgeting and his eyes getting narrower, he actually took away my coffee, emptied it into the sink, and brought me a glass of milk.

  “What’s with you?” I asked.

  “What’s with me? You’re like a zombie on crack.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “A zombie on crack. What would that look like, Harry?”

  Hugo stuck his arms out in front of him, fixed his eyes on nothing, and took a few speedy laps around the dining table. He was still going at it when Jacob entered.

  “I don’t even want to know,” our guardian
said in a lighthearted way.

  Harry and I laughed, and I was glad when Harry didn’t press me on what I’d been obsessing about. At this point, I had nothing more than an idea—a hope. Even if the boxes were safe, I didn’t know where they were, what they might contain, or if I could get my hands on them.

  I drank my milk and ate my oatmeal while Jacob quizzed Hugo on the Spanish-American War.

  Ten minutes later, Jacob stood at the front door and hugged each of us good-bye. I’d never been hugged good-bye in my life, and I started to squirm. I mean, group hugs after arguments are one thing, but this was a tad outside my comfort zone. Jacob, however, wasn’t having it. He gripped my shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said: “Have a good day, Tandy. I’ll be right here when you get home.”

  “Good to know,” I told him. But inside, I did feel a little bit squishy. No one had ever promised me that before, either.

  Hugo and Harry took their hugs and promises like men, and then we hightailed it to the elevator.

  I got through the morning at my desk in the choir loft at All Saints, asked sharp questions, and even stood up to present my opinion of the effects of electronic communication on the teenage brain.

  “Not good, but highly necessary.”

  But the whole time, a huge chunk of my mind was fixated on an image of four cardboard boxes.

  At lunch, I sat on the stone front steps of the school with traffic whizzing by and texted Phil. He was in court with Matthew, of course, but he texted me back half an hour later, while I was in class.

  Call me when you can.

  I texted back.

  Just tell me if u have the boxes

  His text back was almost immediate.

  Call me. Too long for text.

  Ugh. I texted back.

  So leave me a vm!!!!

  By the time the dismissal bell rang, Phil had left me a voice mail. I clapped my phone tight against my ear and heard the murmur of crowds moving around him in the courthouse corridor, breaking up his words. I could just barely make out what he said.