Promises to Keep

by Kathryn Shay

  “You’re late,” a voice from the other side of the room said.

  The remark came from his sulking colleague, who still looked like one of America’s Most Wanted in his torn jeans, flannel shirt, and unkempt hair. Joe refrained from snarling. Once again, he cursed his luck that Ludzecky was the only agent available to go into Fairholm High School with him on such short notice.

  “Traffic on Dupont Circle,” Joe said tightly. Shrugging out of the jacket of his pinstripe suit, he sat down on a table and picked up the remote to view a Power Point presentation the government had prepared for them over the weekend. “All right, Suzie Q, let’s see what makes you tick.”

  “How come we didn’t have all this information before we went up to New York on Friday?” Ludzecky wanted to know.

  “We had to move in fast, given what we found last week.” Joe clicked on the appropriate icon to get into the program. “The data wasn’t ready.”

  They’d been collecting information on Fairholm High School for months as part of STAT’s program to keep tabs on high-risk situations in the nation’s secondary schools. But two recent developments had propelled them to target Fairholm for immediate intervention.

  Mrs. Suzanna Quinn’s picture appeared on the big screen. He studied the blond hair, pulled back in a knot like she’d worn it two days ago, revealing gold hoops at her ears. Her light brown eyes were smiling. “This is Suzanna Quinn’s professional photo.” He noted she wore the same kind of suit she had on when they’d met. Tailored. Professional.

  “Buttoned up like a four-star general,” Ludzecky commented.

  “At least she sets a good example for her troops.”

  He clicked on background information; the screen split, and statistics came up next to her picture.

  “She doesn’t look forty-three.”

  Joe thought she did. A good forty-three, though. Smooth skin. Only a few laugh lines around her eyes. Sculpted chin.

  Married. Widowed. She’d been climbing the academic ladder, on her way to a college administration position, when her husband had died from a heart attack. She’d shied away from working at the local college where he’d taught the ethics of law. Instead, when she’d finished her doctorate in education, she called on her initial experience as a high school social studies teacher, then school counselor, and finally assistant principal and applied for and received the principalship at Fairholm High five years ago. She had one son, Josh, a senior at the school. He scanned the rest of the general information. “This isn’t what I need to know about her.”

  Ludzecky sighed dramatically. The kid should be on stage. “I don’t understand why we didn’t just tell her we were comin’ in undercover. She’s the principal, for Christ’s sake.”

  That got Joe’s back up. Superintendent Maloney had had doubts about Quinn accepting the undercover work without a fuss, and after Joe had read her files, he’d made the decision to keep her in the dark. Maloney hadn’t been comfortable with that, and Joe himself had had second thoughts about it. But his instinct had told him to wait, and on more than one occasion, those instincts had saved his life.

  “You read her mission statement for the school and her own personal essay on management style; she’d balk at covert actions. She’s preached democracy and openness and flexibility with evangelistic zeal.” He glanced at the screen. “What I want to know is why.”

  “Afraid she’ll interfere with your commando tactics?”

  “No, I was afraid her objections would make it harder for us to get into the school. You know time is of the essence, after the latest developments. I decided to go under covertly; when everything’s up and running, I’ll let her in on the plan. By then, it’ll be too late for her to do too much damage.”

  Ludzecky scowled. “Don’t you get tired of playin’ God all the time?”

  Joe ignored the sarcasm which came in a steady stream from the young agent’s mouth. He continued to flick through the files. Pictures came up of her son—he resembled his mother, with blonder hair but those same eyes. Her husband was next. Joe clicked on an icon labeled Lawrence Quinn. Fifteen years her senior. Second marriage. First wife deceased. Professor at NYU in legal ethics. Ah, maybe this was the source of her rabid belief in honesty at all costs. They moved to Fairholm when their son was born; her husband taught at a local college, and she took a teaching job at the high school. Assessment by team: good marriage, low-key, no known separations, seemed to love their kid.

  “Geez, look at that,” Ludzecky said.

  “What?”

  “The guy died on their fifteenth wedding anniversary.”

  “Yeah?”

  The younger man snorted. “Not surprised you didn’t notice,” he grumbled.

  Joe knew Luke’s, and others’, attitude toward him. They called him Iron Man, Stone Man, the Ice King. Not that he cared. His restrained personality was a hell of a lot better than mimicking his parents. Besides, he hadn’t always been like this.

  Joe nodded to the section on Quinn’s husband. “It could be just her husband’s views that’s got her so jagged on honesty. Your typical liberal couple.” He tried to hide the disdain in his voice, caused by the memory of the liberal couple who raised him. Clicking the remote, he brought up the section labeled parents.

  Her family grew up right here in D.C. Mother, Joanna Carson. Schoolteacher. Raised four children on her own after father died—two months before Suzanna was born. Father’s career path...bingo!

  Even Ludzecky leaned forward and read with interest. “Holy shit.”

  “Nathan Carson was brought down by one of the ubiquitous Senate special committee hearings,” Joe said, finding the last piece of the puzzle.

  They read the report together. Nathan W. Carson was a captain in the army when his platoon had gotten incorrect information and stormed a village in the Middle East. He’d been one of the several U.S. Army officers brutally questioned in thirty-six hours of televised hearings. Though they had no punishable evidence against him, he’d been disgraced.

  “I wonder if the superintendent knew about Carson and that’s why he thought she’d balk,” Joe commented, almost to himself. “Those investigations included undercover work, phone tapping and infiltrations.”

  “Not to mention that he was found innocent.” Ludzecky’s tone was grave.

  “There was almost no proof against of them. Didn’t matter, though, the damage had been done.”

  “Click again, see what happened to Carson.” Ludzecky straightened and peered intently at the screen.

  Joe brought up the next slide. “Damn.”

  Luke sighed again, this time sympathetically. He had yet to develop a hard veneer, which was one of the things that got him in so much trouble. That and his lack of plain common sense.

  Suzanna Quinn’s father had committed suicide two months before she was born. He’d “involuntarily resigned” from the army and never bounced back.

  “Well, I’m sure she can be managed effectively,” Joe commented.

  “Goddamn it, Stonehouse, don’t you feel any sympathy for the poor woman?”

  Sick of the kid’s needling, he snapped back. “Sympathy gets in the way, Agent Ludzecky. It’s what keeps getting you in all that hot water.” He fiddled with the computer. “Let’s look at the other school personnel.”

  o0o

  Luke stared ahead blankly, but inside he was seething. He tried to hide it, tried to pretend interest in the parade of teachers that came across the screen, but Stonehouse’s words hit a hot button. He could still see the big boss’s face, hear his irate words...

  “You’re on thin ice after the last operation, Ludzecky. If it hadn’t come out all right, you would’ve been booted out on your ass.”

  Luke’s hands had fisted with the effort to keep from responding. He hadn’t botched it. Jesus Christ, he couldn’t stand by and watch a girl get raped. The perps weren’t from the targeted school, but they had a gun. Luke had jumped one of them; Stonehouse had been nearby and had gotten into t
he fray. The gun went off, and Joe had been superficially wounded. It took a while to regain their low profile at the school, crucial to fitting in and gaining kids’ trust. Luke’s interference had set the entire project back weeks, but it was a side effect that couldn’t be avoided. Stonehouse hadn’t agreed with him, though, that the girl was in real danger.

  Instead of arguing with the brass, Luke had resorted to the inbred insolence that made him such a good undercover agent. “Yeah, I’m still here because it turned out all right, and because it’s hard to find twenty-six-year-old agents who look nineteen...”

  Though he did wonder about his future. Because he was getting older, this would probably be his last assignment as a teenager. Given his rebel roots and unorthodox views—truthfully, he sympathized with Suzanna Quinn—would there be a place for him in the Service after this job? Did he even want there to be? He’d joined for complicated reasons, which he questioned every day.

  His attention was snagged by a photo on screen. He whistled. “Wow, a fox. She a teacher?”

  “Ms. Kelsey Cunningham,” Joe said dryly. Man, the guy was made of stone if this chick didn’t rock his jocks.

  “Damn it to hell. None of my high school teachers ever looked like a harem girl.” Those dark eyes and hair were something else.

  “Control your hormones, Ludzecky. She’s your homeroom teacher, your U.S. Government teacher, and you’re going to sign up for her Psychology elective.”

  “I’m gonna take two classes from her a day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, it’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”

  “A variety of kids you need to zero in on are in those classes this semester.”

  “All the boys are takin’ her course, right?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, she has a reputation for getting along with the girls, too. She coaches the women’s track team.”

  “Put up her bio.”

  Hmm. Thirty-one. Been teaching for eleven years—some kind of gifted child. Ah, Suzanna Quinn’s protégée, brought to Fairholm by her former teacher. On the fast track to administration. “Too bad,” he said aloud. “Too many good teachers leave the classroom.”

  Stonehouse didn’t respond. He scanned her information. “Father, professor at Yale. Mother died when she was five. Look at the Research Team assessment.”

  Geez, Luke hated this section of the bios, hated these boxes they put everybody in. The beautiful Ms. Cunningham was categorized as a perfectionist, bordering on overly involved in school activities. Close to father. Shared many interests.

  Luke refrained from commenting. He wondered if Stonehouse knew how Luke had let his own father down. Shit!

  He pushed back his chair. “I need a cigarette,” he said, and headed for the door, his boots scraping the wood floor.

  “We’re not done here.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Feeling smothered, Luke escaped the conference room and strode out of the building. He found a pack of Marlboros in his pocket and lit one. Hell, he’d gotten hooked again, working undercover with so many kids who smoked. As he took a drag, he tried not to think of his father, but the images ambushed him...

  “You will not drink or smoke in my house, Lukasz.”

  “Okay, Pop.”

  “And you will go to school. Be successful. Take advantage of the gifts God has given you.”

  Luke had rolled his eyes.

  “You will be the man of the family someday, son. The only boy to carry on...”

  Luke hadn’t listened then, and cut off the remembered words now. But his query slipped out into the night. “Would you be proud of me, Papa? I’m in the Secret Service.”

  Stash Ludzecky had been dead by the time Luke was done with his teen rebellion. As the only son, he had indeed been left to watch over his mother and seven younger sisters. Damn it. He didn’t want to think about why he joined the Secret Service and the fact that most of the time he felt he didn’t belong there.

  Something he was afraid Stonehouse sensed. Clearly, the older man disapproved of Luke—they were as different as fire and ice. Though Stonehouse’s seniority in the Service, and the fact that STAT was his pet project, made him the boss, Luke resented being ordered around and avoided working directly with the man as much as he could. They paired up this time only because of the urgency of this particular job. Well, it was supposed to last for a few months at the most, he thought, stubbing out his cigarette. He could handle it that long.

  When he returned to the conference room, the computer was off and the lights glared from above. Stonehouse was gathering a pile of papers from the printer. “Here. Do your homework on the plane. Read the rest of the bios.”

  “What time do we leave?”

  Stonehouse glanced at his watch. “Sixteen hundred hours.” He looked at Luke. “I assume you have your stuff.”

  “I got what I need.”

  “We have to discuss something.” If possible, Mr. Stickup-His-Ass’s posture got even more rigid.

  “What?”

  “Your living accommodations are different this time.”

  Often Luke went under as an emancipated minor. That way he could live alone and not endanger anybody else. “No shit.”

  Stonehouse sat on the edge of the table and folded his arms over his chest. Briefly Luke wondered if he slept in those suits of armor. “Since we’re going under as uncle and nephew, you’ll live with me.”

  “I guessed as much. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out the arrangements.” He added, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  A sigh. “Look, we think this will work better. You hate your uncle. You can use that to get in with the kids and gain teacher sympathy. Maybe even the beautiful Ms. Cunningham will help you deal with that bastard you have to live with.” Stonehouse stood and gave him a long-suffering look. “We shouldn’t have any problem convincing people we can’t stand the sight of each other.”

  Luke glared at him but summoned his professionalism. Grabbing his battered bomber jacket, he turned and stalked out the door. He waited until he was down the hall, out of sight and earshot, to kick a wastebasket across the corridor and let out a curse.

  He was wrong. This was going to be a long few months.

  Chapter Three

  “Is he in, Carol?” Suzanna asked the new crisis counselor’s secretary when she stepped into the guidance suite, which buzzed with activity at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  One of the first renovations Suzanna had pursued when she became principal was to enlarge this area. She’d created bigger, individual offices with soothing blue and green walls and new furniture. She’d also insisted on conference rooms and comfortable waiting and secretarial areas, as well as carpeting for the whole space. To her, counseling could make or break a school, and the facilities should encourage kids to come down; there should also be room to deal with them privately.

  The always harried secretary nodded. “Yes, he’s just finishing up with a student.”

  “I’ll wait, then.”

  Sitting in a chair, trying to relax, Suzanna thought about the other things she’d done at Fairholm: implementing a mentor program for new teachers; setting up peer mediation and a Student Court for kids; in-servicing the hell out of the staff on flexibility, openness, and honesty in their dealings with students. Then, she’d hammered into them the need for a healthy respect in their interactions with each other. Suzanna staunchly believed both were the backbone of a good, safe school.

  And now she had Joe Stonehouse, the enigma, to help her.

  Once he started work, he’d hit the ground running and in the two weeks he’d been at Fairholm, he hadn’t stopped. She admired his diligence and how well he worked with kids. Still, there was something about the man that didn’t set right with her. Maybe it was just the way he’d been forced on her.

  Don’t let your pride get in the way, love, Lawrence would say. She’d remembered her husband’s advice after her showdown with Ross, which had been
tense and unpleasant. Ultimately the superintendent’s explanations made no further sense, so she’d dropped the issue.

  She pasted on a smile when the door to Joe’s office opened. Ben Franzi stepped out. Tall and thin, with dark hair and eyes like onyx, he smiled at Suzanna. “Hi, Mrs. Q.”

  “Hi, Ben.” She pointed to his armful of guitar. “How’s the music going?”

  “It’s awesome. My mom bought me this Gibson for Christmas. I’m heading to the music rooms now to play.”

  “Good for you.”

  Stonehouse appeared behind the boy, towered over him, really, even with Ben’s height. He was dressed meticulously as always—this time in a navy suit with a light blue shirt. His expression was friendly, yet somehow affected. Watchful, maybe. On guard.

  “Mrs. Quinn? I was coming to your office, but Ben here got to telling me about his music and I...” He offered a look that was supposed to say he was sorry, but didn’t.

  “No problem. I was out and around, and decided to stop by for our meeting.” She said good-bye to Ben, noting the Wiccan pentacle around his neck and his sweatshirt, which read, Freedom of religion means any religion. “Don’t be a stranger,” she called after him, thinking about Zach Riley.

  Inside, Stonehouse’s office was Spartan. No knickknacks. No pictures, not even one of the sister he’d cared enough about to take on her troubled son. There were a couple of psychology degrees on the wall from Stanford and UCLA, but that was about it. Though she was grateful to get his help after Zach’s suicide—it was so recent the wounds were still raw—she wished she knew more about Joe, but hadn’t been able to unearth much in the way of a personal side to him.

  Smoothing down her slate gray suit, she took a chair next to his desk while he sat behind it. She fingered the gold bangle at her wrist. “I’d like to discuss the group you’re starting Monday and the others you have in the works.”

  “I—” There was a knock at the door. Frowning, he got up and opened it.

  Lester Wells, Suzanna’s assistant principal, was huffing and puffing at the entrance. “Look, I know you’re busy...oh, I didn’t realize you were with Suzanna.”