Cold Image (Extrasensory Agents Book 4)

by Leslie A. Kelly

  Maybe his sister and the Extrasensory Agents would be able to find out what happened to him. But if Taylor could help—by gaining her sister’s help—she was going to do it.

  “I’m not going to die. I’m not going to do a single thing to put myself at risk.”

  “Oh, right, nothing except throw your soul out of your body and go on a walkabout around Savannah.”

  “Thought you said it wasn’t going to work.”

  Vonnie came over and took Taylor’s hands. “But what if it does, T? What if by some crazy, insane twist, you do manage to, well, leave your body…and you can’t get back?”

  Knowing Vonnie tried desperately to forget the paranormal elements of their rescue, Taylor knew that was a big fear for her to admit out loud. Although the other girl swore and argued that she didn’t believe in any of that paranormal “stuff” her anxiety now made it clear that somewhere deep down, she did.

  Well, she wasn’t alone in the anxiety part. Taylor was doing her best not to show that her own stomach was churning. “I’ve done a lot of research.”

  “Just because you read some old Lois Duncan book when you were twelve doesn’t mean you know anything about astral projection!”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. She hadn’t been convinced to try this from some book she’d read when she was in middle school. “In his book, Dr. Martin says if you give yourself a centering object, it will pull you back like you’re on the end of a rubber band.”

  “Dr. Martin should stick with making shoes.”

  “Ha. Funny. The man’s highly respected in the field of parapsychology.”

  “Then his name should be Venkman.”

  Taylor growled, knowing there was no use trying to convince her friend she knew what she was doing. “Look, I’m going to try. I have to. You can stay and help, or you can leave and come back later to gloat if I fail. Either way, you can’t stop me.”

  Vonnie’s big brown eyes looked wet with tears. She so seldom cried, it took Taylor by surprise. God, the last thing she wanted to do was hurt her best friend.

  Throwing her arms around Vonnie, she hugged her tightly, and whispered, “I love you. I love that you care so much about me. Please, let’s stop arguing.”

  Vonnie hugged her back, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. Pulling back, she looked into Taylor’s face. “I will help you if you’ll admit one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That this is more about finding Jenny than Isaac.”

  Sucking in a breath, she hesitated, evaluating that accusation. Was it true? Was her current obsession merely an excuse to try to connect with her dead twin again?

  “Maybe,” she whispered. “Maybe it is.” It was her turn to cry, and hot tears spilled from her eyes. “I never got to say goodbye, Von. I was knocked out, and I never even saw that monster…never saw what he….”

  “Shh,” Vonnie said, hugging her again, smoothing Taylor’s hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

  This time when they pulled apart, all the stubbornness had left her roommate’s face. Vonnie simply said, “Okay. I guess we’re doing this.”

  Sam Andrews had known for months something was wrong at the Fenton Academy.

  Taking the job at the start of the school year had been an act of desperation. With his wife, Shelly, having just had their second child, and no luck in the public school system since he was without tenure, the advertisement from the academy had seemed like his last hope. Being hired had been a godsend.

  Now, though, he had begun to wonder if he would have been better off being a stay-at-home dad. At least then he wouldn’t have to pretend to mistreat his students, and to not give a damn about their futures. Oh, and he wouldn’t have to fool himself into thinking there wasn’t something sinister behind the disappearances of three boys this year.

  Charlie MacMasters? A runaway?

  He couldn’t stop thinking about what Eli had said last week—about the two main characters in Of Mice and Men. Eli was a great kid, and his analogy was pretty spot-on. Why would Charlie, big but appearing to be scared of his own shadow, run away in the dead of night? If he really had done so, what horrible thing must have driven him to it?

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, not meaning to speak out loud.

  The other teachers sitting at a table with him in the faculty lounge, grabbing a meal before they went on second-lunch patrol duty, looked up in surprise that he’d broken the typical lunchtime silence.

  “What doesn’t?” asked Jerry Angel, the Algebra teacher whose classroom was right beside Sam’s. Close enough that he could hear the man regularly scream at his students.

  Used to being ignored by the other teachers, who he suspected thought he was too soft on the boys, Sam wasn’t sure how to reply. He certainly didn’t trust the other two teachers at the table, or the third faculty member who’d just walked in—the gruff ex-military one. The guy was big and dangerous-looking, probably a bully who included torture in his boot camp. Apparently Coach Emerson’s hadn’t been brutal enough.

  Having stayed out of it this long, though, he didn’t think he could do it anymore. He couldn’t be the only one who thought there was more to the disappearances than rebellious teens running away. He hadn’t known the first two, one a senior and one a sophomore, but Charlie had been in his class, and had struck him as the type who would pull his pillow over his face at a strange noise in the night. Running into the swamp where there were snakes, alligators, bats, and insects? No way. No frigging way.

  Shelly, the only person he’d talked to, had been urging him to go to the police with his suspicions. How could he do that, though, when he had no proof, or even a good theory about what was going on?

  The new guy was over by the microwave, completely ignoring them, so Sam responded, keeping his voice low. “That Charlie MacMasters would run away.”

  Angel sneered. “Weakling.”

  The oldest member of the staff, Everett Leggett, nodded in pious agreement. “Indeed. Too weak for our school, without doubt.”

  “He made it through eight months of his freshman year. Eight. Why would he run now, three weeks before school lets out and he can go home for the summer?”

  “Some boys take longer to break,” Angel said with an unconcerned shrug.

  “Breaking them?” Sam sneered. “Is that what we’re doing? I thought we were educating them, and trying to help them straighten up.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?” asked the history teacher with a smile that revealed crooked, yellow teeth. The man seldom smiled, probably because he looked more menacing than amused.

  Steeling himself against his revulsion, knowing that was the only way he would get answers, he pushed harder. “Charlie was afraid of his own shadow. What would be bad enough here to make him sneak out in the middle of the night and run into the swamp?”

  “Boys run,” a new voice said. Coach Emerson had pushed into the room, sweaty and red-faced. Although it could be because he’d come from an energetic class, Sam suspected the heavy, out-of-shape man would be gasping from walking up a flight of stairs.

  “Of course they do, but this many?” Sam asked.

  The door opened again. Mr. Slate, the custodian, entered, eyeing them all suspiciously, as if ready to pounce on any dropped crumb.

  “You ever see the statistics on teen runaways?” Emerson grabbed a wad of paper towels and wiped his sweaty brow. “Three a year ain’t nothin’ in a school with three-hundred kids. Especially three-hundred punk kids who are bein’ told no for the first time in their spoiled lives.”

  Three this year. Four last. Some in previous years, too. That’s what he’d heard from the students, anyway. He hadn’t been able to confirm that in any kind of records or reporting, and the school certainly didn’t tout its “low runaway rates” on its website. But he suspected the boys were correct. In his opinion, that was far too many.

  “I didn’t find Charlie to be a punk. Just easily led and a little weak. He had to be desperate considering if he
had been caught, he would have been severely punished.”

  “Hello, building 13,” Angel said with a smirk.

  Sam knew about the headmaster’s special punishment for the most extreme infractions, and he’d been forced to visit the hell hole as a new faculty member. One glimpse had been enough to make him vow to never report any boy who acted up in class. He preferred old-fashioned methods of discipline like essay-writing over psychological torture.

  “That’d scare the sass out of any of them,” Leggett agreed.

  “It scares me,” mumbled the custodian, who was obviously eavesdropping.

  “Scared the shit outta me too the first time I saw it,” replied Angel, his smirk becoming a laugh. “Surprised those kids don’t come outta there white-haired.”

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” said Slate, no longer pretending he wasn’t part of the conversation.

  “Right you are, Chester,” said Leggett. He nodded hard, sending his thin hair flapping above his sun-spotted scalp. “Personally, I think some of them should be kept there for longer than one night. It would toughen them up.”

  The lack of compassion these men exhibited didn’t surprise Sam, but it did disappoint him. Across the room, still with his back to them, the new guy stood extremely still. Sam wondered if he was listening. Maybe Fenton knew this latest disappearance would cause rumors and had set a spy among them. The man, Monahan, had tried to speak to him alone twice last week, which had only aroused Sam’s suspicions.

  This had been the wrong time and place to bring up the subject. And the wrong people with whom to do it. There were a few other teachers and staff here who the kids seemed to like, which might be a good indication they would be safe to talk to. Angel and Leggett were loathed, almost as much as that downright evil school nurse, and the headmaster himself. If something was driving these kids to try to escape, they might not only cheer it, they might be in on it.

  Lowering his eyes, he finished his sandwich, knowing it was time to shut up.

  “Okay, I think we’re on deck,” said Angel, who rose and tossed his trash in the can. One piece missed. He didn’t pick it up, ignoring Slate’s mutter.

  “You do enjoy these lunchtime duties, don’t you?” asked Leggett, following him. His trash actually went where it was supposed to go, but Slate still muttered.

  “You bet I do.” Angel rubbed his hands together. “Want to place bets on how many kids I can get put in detention today?”

  Leggett laughed. “What is your record up to these days?”

  Sam slowly got up, too, following them to the door, zoning out, and wishing again that he’d said screw it and stayed home with his daughters this year. No job was worth this. Educators who truly hated their students…who would hire people like that? Only somebody like the sadistic sonofabitch who ran the place.

  Angel and Leggett went out the door. Slate pushed his broom past Sam’s feet, forcing him to step aside and remain in the lounge. Emerson was now splashing water into his face at the sink—how the man hadn’t yet had a heart attack on the field, he didn’t know.

  Before Sam could leave and go to the cafeteria to serve as prison guard for thirty minutes, the new guy, Monahan, caught his eye from a few feet away. He was putting his own lunch on the table, but his focus was all on Sam. The man looked like he wanted to say something. Maybe warn him that he’d better keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him?

  “You’re not alone.”

  Sam froze, his hand on the doorknob. “What?”

  “Something’s going on. I see it too.” He looked over his shoulder at Emerson, whose whole head was now under the tap. Stepping closer, almost whispering, he added, “Can we go somewhere to talk privately?”

  Sam’s heartbeat leapt. This was cloak-and-dagger stuff. He didn’t know this man, who had been listening. Monahan looked like a bad-ass, not a concerned teacher. Why would he want to talk to Sam? How could he have even noticed anything was going on at Fenton when he’d only been here a week?

  “I’m on duty.”

  “Please, Mr. Andrews. Eli says you’re one of the few teachers who gets it.”

  “Eli Winston?”

  “Yeah. He’s scared, with good reason.”

  Emerson switched off the faucet and rose, shaking his burly head and rubbing paper towels against his wet hair.

  “Please, it’s important.”

  Andrews shook his head quickly, casting a glance at the coach. Then he twisted the doorknob and turned to leave. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Good luck with the boot camp.” Right before exiting, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder, whispering, “Six-thirty p.m.” That was after the camp ended. “My room. 204.”

  The other man had already taken a seat at the table and was looking down at his food. His slow nod said he had heard, and that he would be there.

  With one last nervous glance at Emerson, and at the new guy, Sam left the lounge and headed toward the cafeteria. He wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, or if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  Stirring the pot could mean the loss of his job. Then again, it was a shitty job, he hated it, and he had no intention of coming back here next year. So screw that.

  Getting caught up in something that involved missing children could be dangerous. He had Shelly and the girls to think about. There was no way Sam could stay out of this any longer, though. Not when a kid he’d known, taught, and was certain would never have run away was involved. Financial insecurity and fear might have driven him to become exactly the kind of teacher he had sworn he would never be: Uninvolved, uncaring, and unconcerned.

  That was all over now.

  He only hoped he’d placed his trust in the right person, and that this new instructor wasn’t about to spy on him and then stab him in the back.

  After lunch, Derek usually went to the gym to work on plans for the afternoon’s camp. Today, though, he had something else to work on: Andrews.

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune at stumbling into a conversation about the very topic he was investigating. The English teacher Eli had told him about had been standoffish when they’d met last week, but today, at least, he appeared ready to talk. Before they met this evening, Derek needed to prepare.

  Having spent so much time doing his fake job, and digging on Fenton, the school, the land, and the boys, he hadn’t really had a chance to dig deep into Andrews’ background. He wanted to know everything there was to know about the guy before they met.

  Though he had no set schedule, Derek had still been cautious about his comings and goings, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He had wanted to come hunt for building 13 over the weekend, using Robby’s map. Unfortunately, because they were close to the end of the school year, there were field activities both Saturday and Sunday. There was no reason for him to be on campus; showing up would have made him stand out. Especially if he went skulking through the woods.

  His plan B was to do it right after today’s session. Now it appeared the agreed-upon meeting with Andrews would postpone his expedition yet again. Not wanting to try to follow the ragged map in the dark, he only hoped he got to start the hunt before the sun set.

  With only a couple of hours before he started his work with the boys, he knew he was going to need some help. As he walked to the parking lot where he’d left his bike, he pulled out his cell phone and called Julia’s number.

  “Hey, Derek, is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” he said. “I need some background on a guy named Sam Andrews. English teacher, first year here at Fenton. Can you pull it for me?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I need it now if not sooner.”

  “Liv’s here. We’ll get to work on it right away.”

  “Great, thanks.” He got to his bike and slid on. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck finding old blues of the hospital?” Derek had found blueprints from the renovation of the school, but they only went back five years.

  “Nope,
sorry. I wish Mick was in town. Finding old stuff is his specialty.”

  Yes, it was, often to Mick’s own detriment. He could touch an old object and hear the thoughts of a person who’d handled it and also handled another item he was actually seeking.

  But that meant hearing the thoughts of everyone who had touched it.

  “Is his cruise stopping anywhere? Maybe he could do some digging online, at least.”

  “He’s on vacation.”

  “Do any of us ever really get vacation time?”

  “Considering how many times he has postponed his, and that I think he intends to propose to his girlfriend on this trip, I’d prefer to keep digging on my own rather than intruding.”

  Huh. So Mick really had found the right one. Having met Gypsy Bell, Derek could definitely understand the attraction. Especially since she had apparently altered her own lifestyle to accommodate Mick’s hand-thing. A woman who would do that…well, it seemed as though the rich playboy really had hit the jackpot at last.

  “Understood. I’m going to cruise by the guy’s house, get a feel for how he lives. Then I want to talk to Kate about her brother’s interactions with him, if there were any.”

  “Kate, huh?” she said, sounding amused. “Not Dr. Harrington anymore?”

  He shook his head, knowing that tone. “Back off, Julia.”

  “She is very attractive. She has that Dr. Sexy thing going on.”

  No shit.

  “Go for it, Derek!” another voice called through the phone. Olivia was obviously listening in on the call.

  “I totally would,” said Julia.

  It was all he could do not to laugh. If only they knew how far he’d gone for it in that bar Friday night. He still couldn’t believe that incredibly sexy interlude with Kate had happened. He also couldn’t wait for it to happen again…after the case was solved.

  “She’s our client, remember? We’re working together.”

  “Ask Aidan, Olivia, and Mick how it’s gone getting involved with people they were working with.”

  She made a good point. All three of his coworkers had found life partners while investigating one of the strange, dark cases Extrasensory Agents handled. Liv was even married and pregnant. None of them, though, had gotten involved with the actual client. Aidan had fallen for a reporter on the trail of a serial killer. Liv, for the Savannah detective investigating her own old kidnapping case. And Mick—playboy Mick who couldn’t touch a thing without being tormented by it—had reunited with Gypsy, a girl from the carnival where they’d grown up. Now a police chief, she’d enlisted their help figuring out who was killing carnies down in Florida.