Cold Image

by Leslie A. Kelly

  “Mr. McMasters ran way. That’s all.

  He wasn’t giving up, not now that he’d worked up the courage to ask. He might never be able to catch Mr. Andrews off guard again. No way could he ask any other faculty members. Well, maybe his track coach, but he didn’t know Charlie and Andrews did. “Would Lennie have done that though? I’m just talking about the story here. I’m really curious.”

  One reason Andrews was one of the better teachers here was that he knew about what he was teaching. Unlike some, who always seemed like they were pulling stuff out of their butts, the English teacher liked his subject and read a lot. He sometimes got into real discussions with the students, rather than just lecturing and piling on homework.

  “Well, theoretically, I suppose I can see what you’re getting at. You are a reluctant leader, like George was. Much smarter than most people would think at first meeting.”

  Gee thanks.

  “You’re small and easy to overlook, but you’re protective of others.” Andrews crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against his desk. “Lennie and Charlie, now that’s a truly interesting comparison. I don’t think Charlie was, uh…simple.”

  “Nope, he isn’t.” Even if Professor Leggett called him a brick wall with hair. “He gets scared to talk in class because he doesn’t want to get it wrong and look like a dummy.”

  “He sometimes participated here.”

  “He liked this class. He was real happy about the grade he got on his test last week.”

  Andrews frowned. “He got a C+.”

  “He barely read before he got here, so that was good for him.”

  The teacher looked away, his mouth pulling down, but he didn’t look mad. Almost…sad.

  Eli decided to milk that. “Other teachers like to call on him, and he gets confused. He can think of the answers, but not fast enough, and then they make fun of him.” Realizing he might have gone too far away from the topic, he added, “I bet it was like that for Lennie.”

  “Charlie was a bit slow, that’s all.”

  Was again. Why did everybody already assume Charlie was gone forever?

  “Unlike Lennie, he certainly understood actions and reactions. Consequences.”

  The one minute warning bell clanged. “Right!” Eli said, not wanting to get off track. He had sixty seconds left before he had to be in his chair in the classroom next door for Algebra. “Lennie didn’t always know if he was doing something dangerous, but Charlie did. He knew if he ran away, he would end up lost. He didn’t like being alone, he was a little scared of the dark, and he hated the swamp. So why would he have done it, especially without talking to George? I mean, me?”

  Andrews went very still, and Eli really thought his words had sunk in. He looked deep in thought, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Will you help me find out what really happened to him?”

  The teacher’s head jerked up. “You shouldn’t be talking about this.”

  “But he’s my best friend. I think something bad might have happened to him.”

  Mr. Andrews studied his face for a few seconds, and Eli would swear he saw sympathy there. The teacher looked about to say something. Before he could do it, though, the classroom door opened, and boys started coming in. There was no laughing, no ragging on each other or noogeying. They’d formed a line, straight and precise, and entered in silence.

  Andrews cleared his throat. The moment was lost. “Get to your class, Mr. Winston.”

  Eli sagged with disappointment. He felt sure he’d come close to learning something important. Now, though, he knew he would never catch this teacher off guard by asking about characters in a book. He should have waited until he’d had more time, and students wouldn’t come in to interrupt them. It was just so hard to deviate from your daily schedule here.

  Already trying to figure out his next move, he walked away. He’d only taken one step when he heard Mr. Andrews say something behind him, really soft. “Watch out, Eli. Don’t ask questions you’re not supposed to ask. That can be a dangerous thing to do here.”

  Though his heart started thumping, he didn’t turn around. Mr. Andrews wouldn’t say anything else, not with students in the room. So he nodded once, letting the teacher know he had heard the warning, and left the classroom. He got into the next one and slid into his seat as the final bell rang. The Devil saw him and frowned.

  Craptastic. He was gonna get it. Maybe not now, but at some point during class, or after, Mr. Angel was going to make him pay for not being at his desk, with his book open and his pencil in hand, before the final bell.

  But it was worth it. The English teacher hadn’t been telling Eli he needed to watch his mouth, like the other teachers did here. He was saying Eli might be in danger if he kept nosing around about Charlie’s disappearance. Which was exactly what Eli had already figured out.

  Something bad was happening. He’d believed it before, but now he was sure. If a teacher felt the need to warn him about Fenton Academy, it had to be true.

  Charlie hadn’t run away. His disappearance was scarier than that. If he kept asking questions about it, the same thing could happen to Eli. But he’d never been one to back down. Not to school jocks, not to bullies. The fire that had landed him here proved that. Despite his size, if pushed too far, he would fight back in any way he could.

  Doing something to his best friend was pushing too far. So even though he appreciated Professor Andrews’ warning, he wasn’t going to stop. He didn’t have his parents here to come to his aid, and he didn’t know if any of his other friends would be brave enough to help.

  It didn’t matter. He would find out what happened to Charlie even if it killed him.

  “You come highly recommended, Mr. Monahan, though I’m unsure why Senator Wainwright felt the need to get involved with our little school.”

  Sitting across from the man who’d bought this property with its history of horror and turned it into an equally horrifying school, Derek merely shrugged. “The Wainwrights keep track of unique programs in the state and like to support them. Yours is getting a reputation.”

  A shitty one.

  Richard Fenton’s chest puffed out. He laced his fingers together across his belly and leaned back in his chair. “I’m so glad to hear our good work here has been noticed.”

  “Oh, it has been. Definitely.”

  It would be a household name when this was all over. If Isaac had been murdered here, and other boys as well, he and the rest of the Extrasensory Agents would blow the news into a national scandal. Aidan’s girlfriend Lexie was a reporter; she knew how to take a story viral.

  “Well, you are qualified to instruct our boot camp session. You have military experience, correct?”

  Derek couldn’t prevent a reflexive stiffening of his entire body. “Yes.”

  “You did a good job, judging by your citations and medal.”

  He managed a nod.

  “I guess you saw some serious action.”

  He’d seen way too much. Not just action in which he was participating, but all that had gone before. It had been impossible to avoid certain areas when he was ordered to sweep them. He couldn’t close his eyes when driving through a neighborhood where a suicide bomber had taken out a wedding party or a school full of young girls. There was no way to pretend he wasn’t seeing a convoy being blown up by IEDs buried along a known route. Impossible to avert his gaze as his fellow soldiers bled out and died.

  Someday maybe he would forgive his young, stupid self for enlisting. Maybe.

  Someday he might forget that he’d been so careless with his own life at that point, that he hadn’t really cared on the day he’d signed the papers. Or maybe not.

  Despite their love and support, his grandmother and Aunt Kim couldn’t change what Derek had experienced from the day his parents had died onward. Nor could they understand it. The child therapist they’d sent him to flat-out didn’t believe it. Living with a constant nightmare of death—since his family lived in downtown Atlanta—from
twelve-to-eighteen had made him rebellious, angry, and careless of his own life. The military hadn’t seemed like such a bad choice.

  It had been. So very bad.

  “A boot camp for outgoing students, rather than incoming ones, is an interesting idea,” he said, schooling his expression and trying to hide his bad memories of his own military days.

  “We experimented with the freshmen.” The headmaster smirked. “They couldn’t handle it. Takes a while to get the arrogance drilled out of them.”

  Yeah, he’d bet it did.

  “We consider it a last wall on the obstacle course for seniors to scale before graduation. With your background, I’m sure you can imagine the pride the boys feel when they finish.”

  Pride? Maybe relief, not to mention exhaustion. “I’m sure.”

  “So, were you roped into this by the Senator?”

  “Not at all. It looked like I might be able to help, and I was happy to do it.”

  Fenton shook his head wonderingly. “I still can’t believe we’re getting statewide attention. Maybe next we’ll have to franchise nationally.”

  Right. Like Chuck-E-Cheese, only with torture and anguish for the kids, instead of pizza and ball pits. “Well, a senator always has to be interested in the lives of his constituents.”

  Senator Wainwright had no idea what this was about, letting his staff do his cousin, Olivia, the favor of a single phone call. That was the extent of his involvement.

  “Just remember to report back only to him. Can’t have our competitors horning in.” Fenton wagged his index finger like he was scolding a kid. “It’s our little secret.”

  Derek would like to punch him in his little face, but managed to remain pleasant. “Certainly.”

  The seventy’ish man relaxed in his chair, which stood behind a massive desk that dominated the dark-wood-paneled office. Derek couldn’t imagine how scary it would be for a kid sitting in his seat, which felt like it had been intentionally lowered. Although a senior citizen, the burly headmaster would still look intimidating, especially in a room filled with signs threatening disinheritance, damnation, or incarceration for unsuccessful students.

  Fenton leaned back, self-congratulatory and smug. “I have no doubt the Senator will be pleased by what he hears. Not everyone could have pulled off a program this successful.”

  Derek managed not to glower. “Can I ask what made you do it?”

  “You might not know this, but my family has wealth, and a long history of philanthropy.”

  Of course he knew it. Research had told him a lot about the Fentons, founders of a lumber dynasty.

  “I have always felt a strong sense of duty, and a hope for our future through our teenage boys. I feel it’s important to whip them into shape, to create fine young men.”

  Campaign speech, though the whip them into shape part was probably too close for comfort. If Derek’s suspicions were true, this man wouldn’t be elected as ticket-taker once the truth came out. Although he only had Kate’s word for what her brother had telepathically told her about what was going on here, his first step into the building had confirmed it in Derek’s mind. It didn’t take any extrasensory powers to get it. This school was so damn quiet. Eerily so. He’d arrived when hundreds of boys were changing classes…in silence. Jesus. How terrified must they be to not exchange a single whisper, a nudge, a joke? These boys didn’t. Their heads were down. They walked alone.

  It had pained him to see such broken spirits. Delinquents or not, he doubted any of them deserved the kind of lives that would so subdue normally rambunctious teenagers.

  They certainly wouldn’t get any warmth from the faculty, or the man sitting across from him. Judging by the single personal photo in the headmaster’s office, he suspected Fenton didn’t even have kids, much less like them. The framed family picture was old-fashioned, and in black and white, appearing to be from Fenton’s own childhood: unsmiling parents, two unsmiling boys. Every other frame hanging on the wall contained a stern quote about discipline and resilience.

  “I’m sure you want to get started. I’ve arranged for Coach Emerson to take you on a tour,” Fenton said, straightening and pushing his chair back from his desk.

  Derek got the message. Interview over. Good. He wanted to get away from this ass ASAP. “Thank you,” he said, glad to escape the oppressive room with its warnings, and the officious headmaster with his arrogance and self-satisfaction.

  Of course, when he met Emerson a few minutes later, he realized he’d only exchanged one officious, arrogant prick for another. The man was an amalgamation of every blowhard PE teacher depicted in every teen-coming-of-age movie and TV show ever made. Barrel chested, gut hanging over the waistband of his too-short nylon shorts. White shin-high gym socks. Whistle hanging around his neck. Ball cap with buzzed grey hair showing at the bottom.

  He was a stock character walking. The blustering, bullying attitude was just the icing on the caricature.

  “I still can’t understand why you need to be here,” he said as he led Derek through the silent corridors of the school, heading toward the gymnasium in the back. Derek’s heavy boots hit the tile, sending strange echoes in all directions. The coach wore sneakers, his soles moving soundlessly through the building—the better to sneak up on you.

  The classrooms were silent. As they passed each closed door, he envisioned twenty boys at twenty desks, writing, “I’ve learned my lesson, so please don’t torture me,” twenty times.

  “I’m not here to step on your toes.”

  “Too late for that.”

  Okay, that was how it was going to be. He didn’t apologize; there was no point.

  The coach’s resentful attitude had been present from the moment they were introduced. He didn’t like losing control over the boot camp session, where he probably indulged in his most sadistic urges before letting the boys escape forever. This jackoff had probably been mentally rehearsing this conversation since the minute he found out somebody else would be handling it.

  “This is a private school, ya know.”

  “I am aware.”

  “I retired from the public school system. Got away from snotnose kids whining that they hurt themselves, and trashy girls complaining about period cramps. These kids know better than to complain about anything.”

  Teacher of the year material right here.

  “You better be dead or gushing blood if you wanna get out of phys ed.”

  Derek had never had much use for gym class himself. In fact, he’d been kicked out of school in tenth grade for punching a coach who’d tried to egg him on by taunting him about his dead parents. He’d never had to take PE again…though, of course, he’d had to change schools.

  “There’s no namby-pambying here, boy, I tell you that.”

  Boy grating on his ears, Derek merely murmured, “Obviously.”

  “I got these punks begging to do laps! No problems in my classes, by God.”

  “Nobody said there was a problem.”

  Emerson huffed. “So why’re you here?”

  He mentally apologized to the students. “Why wouldn’t state officials support schools filled with punks who need to be straightened out before they’re let loose on the rest of us?”

  The coach’s bunched arms relaxed slightly. “You ain’t kidding. You’d think after a couple’a years here those little bastards wouldn’t try any of their tricks. But I see them giving dirty looks, or rolling their eyes. They need one last good ass-kicking while we’ve got ’em.”

  An ass kicking for an eye roll. Jesus. If every teenager in the country were treated that way, there would be an entire generation incapable of sitting down.

  Swallowing his reaction, Derek followed the coach into the gymnasium. It had apparently been converted for this use, perhaps once a cafeteria for patients—victims—of the asylum. The high windows were paned with thick, shimmery glass. Metal bars set closely together made it clear they were designed to prevent escape rather than let in light. The prison aura was d
eeper here, the air almost smelling of despair and a longing for freedom along with sweat and smelly uniforms.

  “We meet here at three o’clock sharp this afternoon. They strip and begin with a hundred push-ups, then a hundred pull-ups. Once they’re finished, they’re allowed to get dressed and fall out to the field for drill instruction.”

  Derek gritted his teeth. “They’re naked?”

  “Hey, we all started out naked, didn’t we?”

  Humiliation was step one. Good lord, how was he going to get through this? “I’m surprised that’s necessary after the boys have been here for four years.”

  He snickered. “They get a little ballsy when graduation’s in sight. This helps knock the sass outta them before they even take the field.” He pointed toward a rack of camo uniforms hanging near the exit. “Boys change into these and fall out.”

  The uniforms were winter issue—heavy pants, long sleeved shirts, button-up jackets. Agony even in this springtime Georgia heat.

  “After warmups, they start with five miles on the track. Then there’s man-on-man fight drills, and then we move into the obstacle course. We finish with war games in the swamp. No catch-the-flag shit here; the winning team has to beat their opponents to reach, kill, and bring back whatever prey the other team is protecting.”

  “Like each other?” he mumbled.

  The coach heard and grinned. “Heh. Nice one.”

  Sure, let’s take the rebellious teens and encourage sociopathic behavior.

  “Usually gators. Maybe a dog or a goat.”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “If the losers don’t come back bloody and bruised to prove they put up their strongest defense, they don’t eat. Well, unless the other team lets them share in the bounty of the kill.”

  His stomach heaving, he asked, “They eat their kill?”

  “Only if they want dinner.”

  Derek was having a really hard time pretending he didn’t want to beat the crap out of this sadistic sonofabitch. So he instead strode toward the bleachers lining half of the gymnasium.

  That’s when he saw the kid—a boy, probably about fourteen. He had been hit so hard he’d flown in through a now-closed doorway onto the wooden floor of the gym.