“Two-point-five million,” Kevin said. And he shrugged. “Last I checked, that is. But I’ve been having a weird day, and it’s been a long while since I went over the portfolio. Could be up or down a few hundred thousand. You know how it goes.”
Ron opened his mouth, then let it close. There was a drawn-out silence. Then Jean laughed. He threw his head back, put his hands up like a churchgoer in rapture, and laughed at the ceiling until there were tears in his eyes. It was a mischievous, delighted laugh. “Oh, I like this boy!” Jean sang out. He wiped his eyes and then pointed at Clemson, whose face had gone red. “This boy just took you home, Ronny. Took you home and put you in the drawer.”
Ron was still staring at Kevin. He seemed to be weighing his options. “Bullshit,” he said finally.
“I wouldn’t bullshit you, Ronny.”
“You’ve got over two million dollars in the bank?”
“I do.”
“Right this minute?”
“You want to go buy a boat with me or something? Commission a statue?”
Ron sighed. All at once it became too much for him. He repositioned himself in his armchair, a process that involved considerable grunting and grimacing and coaxing of balky hip joints. Then he waved his hands in front of him as if he had just been forced to look at an offensive picture. The color was very bright in his cheeks. “The hell are you doing here, then?”
Kevin smiled for the first time. “Like I said, Ron, I wouldn’t bullshit you. I don’t have the first fucking clue.”
Partial transcript from a closed hearing before the budget subcommittee for the Secret Service (New Initiatives Division)
Department of Homeland Security
September 17, 2011:
Q: But Dr. Levoir, you of all people should know how carefully we control our annual financial distributions. Why should we consider these new techniques? There are currently no fewer than 14 programs slated for cutbacks, and yet you suggest that funding is now necessary for this unorthodox and completely untested initiative. We are not supermarket consumers here, Dr. Levoir – we are not drawn to the “new” label for its own sake. And you’ll concede, I think, that terrorism is nothing new.
A: I agree in principle, Senator. But the meaning of that word has changed. Terrorism no longer means men with knives and bombs. It means men with anything. Men who will use whatever tools are available to accomplish their mission.
Q: I don’t think I see your point.
A: Terrorism is creative now. More than ever, it’s inventive and unpredictable. An I.E.D. is exactly what it sounds like – something that has been improvised.
Q: Dr. Levoir, few people are worried about encountering road-side bombs on their way to work.
A: And yet this is exactly my point. We have an irrationally inflated sense of security. Terrorism, meanwhile, continues to evolve. It has come to a turning point, a moment of transformation. And the U.S. should be willing to embark on a creative, transformative campaign of its own.
Q: Fine. So explain the initiative.
A: It is as follows: we will be creating scrubbed agents. In fact, we have the first one moving into position now.
Q: Yes, I’ve read your abstract. But I’m asking you to explain. Let’s start with the term “scrubbed.”
Beautiful Emily
Ron Clemson was still staring at Kevin. Jean pulled himself under control and stopped laughing. The two of them regarded him breathlessly, looking at Kevin now with wonder, as though they were in the presence of an unidentified species of snake. Rare and beautiful, but also possibly deadly.
Rich person in the house. Careful.
Kevin felt good for the first time that morning. He realized he didn’t care whether he had said too much. He could handle these people. They were odd and cliquish, but so was any group when you first arrived. It didn’t matter if he had unsettled them, because he wouldn’t be staying here for more than two or three days. Maybe he’d even be gone by tomorrow. He’d get out of here just as soon as he had figured out how –
But then he noticed the clock.
Shit.
The red hand was stuck again. And now he saw that Jean and Ron were not simply being quiet. Maybe that was how this had started, with them going silent as they grappled with the idea of a millionaire teacher in their midst, but now they were not even moving.
Not moving at all.
They were like the red hand, they were frozen, they were –
“Drinks are on this one!” Jean said suddenly, pointing at Kevin as if the three of them were in a crowded bar.
Kevin stopped himself from jumping, but only barely.
The clock was moving again. Everything was fine.
Son of a bitch. How am I supposed to know when –
He heard the door to the lounge open behind him, and Kevin became aware of a sudden change in the atmosphere of the room. Ron and Jean were both facing the door, and he could watch their faces as they reacted to the person coming in. Ron’s expression changed. There was a subtle brightening, a slow lifting of his features; in another man, this change might have signaled happiness. Jean, on the other hand, was more overt. He simply threw his arms open and beamed. “Ms. Beck!” he sang, as if welcoming a long lost relative.
“Jean, for the last time, call me Emily. There are no students in here. Good morning, Ronald. And hello – ?”
Kevin stood and turned for an introduction, and suddenly he found himself off-balance. A moment ago he had been the master in this room. Not that being the alpha dog in a place like this was such a difficult thing; he was young, he was smart, and he was probably one of the few financially secure adults in the entire building. Plus, he had quashed Ron’s hazing attempt and had managed to turn Jean into an unabashed fan in a space of five minutes. But now the game had changed.
He had just re-acquired his second-fiddle status.
The woman before him was young, younger than he was, probably by three or four years. She couldn’t have been over twenty-five. She was dressed very simply in a light blue skirt and a white blouse, and she had her brown hair pulled back in a bun. There was nothing Kevin could put his finger on…
But there was no denying she was beautiful.
And there was something about the energy in her face. Her eyes were so bright, and her expression so animated, that she looked as if she might have just witnessed the birth of a child.
Or delivered that child herself, for all Kevin knew.
He committed himself to the task of recalling his own name. “Kevin Brooks,” he said finally, holding out a hand.
“Emily Beck.” She shook his hand and gave him a little nod, and then she turned and went to the refrigerator in the corner, where she retrieved a small bag of carrots before heading back out the door. “Recess on the roof,” she said simply to the three of them, and she left without another word.
The air in the room seemed to cool as the door closed behind her. Jean Lengard smiled and nodded his head slowly. “Lord,” he said in a hushed tone, “I am deeply in love with that woman.”
Ron puffed his cheeks out noisily. “Sure you are,” he said. “Bet your mother would be excited to hear it.”
Jean nodded sadly. “Poor mom,” he said, suddenly philosophical. Then he pointed at Ron, waving a finger. “Don’t get jealous on me, Ronny.”
Clemson ignored him. He turned his attention back to Kevin. “Hey,” he barked. “Wall Street.”
Kevin was still staring at the door. Still trying to regain his balance. With an effort, he returned to his seat. He sat down heavily. “Sorry?”
“They usually give the new guys a lot of the prefect duties. Sure you’re not supposed to be on the roof right now?”
Kevin looked surprised. “I don’t think –” he leafed through his stack of papers and found his schedule. “No. There’s nothing about it here.”
Ron was shaking his head. “It wouldn’t show up with the regular classes. Prefects get assigned later; you write them in yourself.” H
e raised a warning eyebrow. “Not good to miss a prefect on your first day. Better get up there just in case. Principal Stewart will probably be up there too. She likes to look in on recess during the first week or two. You can ask her when you see her, just to be sure.”
Kevin shrugged and stood back up. He tried to appear unconcerned. And uninterested. “Just straight up the stairs all the way?”
“That’s where they keep the roof here, yes.”
Kevin left his stack of papers on the snack table and headed out the door. There was a moment of silence as they waited for the sound of the stairway door swinging shut, and then Jean twisted in his chair. He was facing Ron now, and he gave the older man a wink. “Well now,” he said. “Just look at you.”
“What?”
“Don’t play.”
Ron wouldn’t make eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. You sent that boy after her.”
“He was going to miss his prefect duty.”
“As if – ”
“He might have prefect duty. You know it’s possible.”
Jean sighed. “Boy doesn’t have any prefect duty, and I know what I know.”
Ron shrugged. He adjusted himself more comfortably in his chair, letting his body slide back down into its customary slouch.
Jean smiled. “Ronald Clemson, you like that boy, huh? And after you tried to cut him down, too. Trying to fix him up.”
Ron shook his head slowly. He glanced at his wrist, as if looking for a watch that wasn’t there. “Well,” Ron said, “he didn’t seem like the typical candy-ass they usually hire around here.” He shot Jean a meaningful glance.
Like some people in this room.
Jean opened his mouth in mock horror, and then he laughed with renewed delight. “You do like him,” he said, nodding with approval. “I’ll tell you, I like him too.” He looked up at the ceiling, as though tracking Kevin’s progress toward the roof. “Think he’s got a chance with Lady Beck?”
Ron grunted again, this time with something that sounded like amusement. “Not really.”
“Said hi to him, didn’t she?”
“She says hi to everyone, Jean. She says hi to me.”
Jean nodded at this. It was a fair point. “And you’re a mean, ugly piece of shit.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s still got a chance.”
“Why do you think I sent him up there?”
“Because you’re a sweetie underneath.”
“Oh, zip it.”
Kevin climbed the flights of stairs from the third floor to the roof on the eighth in less than a minute. He was moving fast on purpose, trying to keep his head clear.
Only trying to make sure I don’t miss a prefect assignment. Don’t want to get in trouble.
And what about that stuff a minute ago, when he had been so sure he was getting out of this place? All that stuff about how he didn’t care what people thought of him?
Right, but I don’t actually want to get fired. That never looks good on a résumé. And I do want to be a teacher, just not in a school with middle-school kids. High school first. Then maybe take a few years to get a PhD., so I can do college later.
Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to stay here for a little while.
That was what he told himself.
He pushed open the heavy metal door leading to the roof, and he emerged onto a battlefield. There were at least forty boys up here, 6th and 7th graders with their blazers off but their shirts and ties still on, and they were sprinting this way and that while a hail of rubber dodge-balls flew in every direction. The roof itself was paved in green concrete, enclosed on all sides by a brick wall and a high metal fence. There was not enough room for this many boys, especially not with them running around at full speed and rifling rubber balls at each other, but this was, Kevin supposed, exactly the point. They seemed to be having the time of their lives.
He spotted Emily Beck at the far corner of the enclosure, leaning up against the brick wall. She was having a conversation with a larger, older woman who Kevin supposed was Principal Stewart. The two ladies were chatting and smiling and laughing; neither one appeared distracted by the swarm of sprinting boys and rocketing rubber projectiles that seemed, at every moment, to miss hitting them by inches. Kevin noticed one boy standing directly in front of Emily; a moment later he saw that this same student was about to be hit by another boy holding a ball at close range. Except that Kevin knew the first boy would likely duck the shot.
Which meant that Emily Beck was about to be pegged.
There was no time to shout a warning, but Kevin’s concern turned out to be misplaced. The first boy did not duck. In fact, he stepped into the shot, taking the full force of a considerable throw straight to the face. There was a sharp, unmistakable spang! sound as the ball met his unprotected head; Emily heard it and stopped her conversation briefly, to be sure the boy was all right.
The boy staggered for a moment, and Kevin saw him wince as he struggled to fight off the sting and shock of the impact. But then Emily’s hand was on his shoulder, and she was asking him if he was hurt. The boy gave himself another half-second to bring his features under control, and then he turned to face her with a studied expression of calm and unconcern.
What’s that, Ms. Beck?
A fearsome shot to the head?
I’m not sure what you mean.
Well, I can recall the event to which you’re referring, but it’s nothing that should concern you. As you can see, I am wholly unaffected. I am made from the stuff of the rock, of the mountain.
Emily Beck smiled at the boy. She gave him a relieved little pat on the head, and then she sent him on his way. Back to the battlefield.
The student returned to the fold, beaming in reflected glory. He was now running faster than before, faster than he had ever run. His nose and one cheek were turning an angry red where the ball had hit him, but he did not seem to notice. The boy who had hit him, the one who had made the fateful throw in the first place, watched him closely, and caught his eye. They stopped and stood and looked at each other across the expanse of green concrete, both of them with their tongues far back in their mouths, trying so hard not to smile.
The chaos of the game, which had decreased imperceptibly over the last few seconds, resumed.
The principal noticed Kevin standing near the door, and she waved and moved toward him. Emily stayed where she was, putting a hand up briefly in greeting. Ms. Stewart walked straight across the enclosure, unflinching, like a general who has been wounded so many times that the sound of gunfire has lost its power to startle. She came to him and greeted him warmly, her large, strong hands nearly the size of his own.
“Kevin. Wonderful to see you again.”
He smiled and nodded and said yes, of course, you too. And hoped, privately, that they had not gotten to know each other too well over the last three months. The principal was a big, tan-skinned woman with an unmistakable air of authority. Confidence and intelligence shone in her eyes. She spoke with the casual assurance of one who has been in charge – of everything – from the very beginning. She put him immediately at ease.
“I don’t think you have to be up here right now,” she said. “But I do appreciate you going out of your way to come say hello on the first day. It’s thoughtful of you.”
“Not at all.”
“How were the first couple of periods? Kids okay?”
He nodded. “Good boys.”
“Of course. And what’s next?”
Kevin hesitated. He had to remind himself that the principal was not asking him about his life. Was not asking him how he planned to figure out what in God’s name had happened to him over the last three months; or why he seemed to be afflicted with some sort of relapsing-remitting hysterical anxiety, complete with voices; or why time itself had apparently decided that moving steadily forward was no longer a requirement.
She was only making conversation. Only asking about hi
s next class.
“I think I left my schedule down in the lounge.”
Ms. Stewart smiled gently. “Then I think you should be getting back down there. To find out. Yes?”
With that she dismissed him. She turned and strode back across the enclosure, not looking back. Kevin waited a moment to see if Emily might acknowledge him again, but she seemed wholly absorbed by the game before her. She was alternately gasping and shouting with delight as one boy or another performed some feat of bravery or skill, and the energy of the game had increased dramatically.
Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller) Page 3
