by Zoe Blake
“Two days! That barely gives me time to pack let alone to do background research!”
“You can research while you are there. They need you there as soon as possible. The term has already started.”
Jimmy handed Phoebe the file with her fake credentials and identification. Phoebe opened the file and immediately shot to her feet.
“What the fuck, Jimmy? Eustace Pringle? Seriously?” she asked incredulously.
Holding his hands up defensively, Jimmy rushed to explain. “We needed you to sound older so they wouldn’t question the hire. My grandmother’s name is Eustace so I figured that would work.”
“The idea is that once you are there, they won’t turn you away when they learn you’re barely twenty-one—” explained Henry.
“Twenty-six,” interrupted Phoebe.
“Whatever. The point is no one is knocking down their doors to grab the open teaching positions, so you’ll be in.”
Casting them both a disgruntled glare, Phoebe looked over the travel itinerary. “Buzzards Bay! You are sending me to a place called Buzzards Bay?”
Rising, Henry patted her on the shoulder as he ushered her out of his office. “Think of it as a vacation. I know you secretly hate the city.”
“Buzzards Bay is not a vacation, Henry. It sounds like a place where pirates hide dead bodies.”
“There you go! You already have the opening line to your murder article. See? You are perfect for this story.”
Phoebe turned to toss a harsh re-joiner over her shoulder, but Henry’s door was already closed.
Jimmy stood sheepishly by her side. “I got you a ticket with as few connecting flights as possible,” he offered as a feeble mea culpa.
“First class?” she asked hopefully.
“Yeah, right,” he snorted.
Phoebe turned to stomp off.
“Have fun in Buzzards Bay, Professor Pringle,” he shouted after her retreating back, laughing as she raised a middle finger in response.
Phoebe looked over the rim of her black, cat-eye sunglasses. They were really just for show. The weather beyond the taxi window was wet and dull. Grim would be a better word. The run down Camry with just a plain piece of white paper on the dash with the word ‘taxi’ written with a sharpie marker was the best she could find after landing at the local airport. It wound through countless country lanes before breaking out onto a two-lane highway that followed the coast. She watched as foamy sprays of water splashed up on the jagged rocks. Looking out over the Atlantic, the ocean appeared gray and bleak. In the far distance, there was a lighthouse. Usually cheery beacons for travelers, this one had an ominous appearance. As if a large black spider were floating above the salt spray.
“That’s the entrance light to Buzzards Bay,” the driver helpfully offered.
“It’s ah…pretty,” Phoebe politely responded.
They continued to circle round the bay.
“It’s a bit foggy today but to the left…that’s Puller Military Academy,” said the driver.
Phoebe eagerly slid to the other side of the backseat to get a glimpse. At first, all she could see were a pair of turrets peeking out above the dark trees. Then a clearing opened. Her teeth bit into her lower lip, a nervous tick to hide her trepidation. The misty fog and weak sun prevented a crisp view, but she could just make out the harsh angles of the imposing structure. It looked like a medieval castle rising high above the land. Somber and authoritative. Built of gray stone, it was at least eight stories high with two turrets that stretched even higher. The dark windows gave a hint of possible stained glass images. All that was missing was a drawbridge. It was surrounded by numerous lower buildings all built in the same drab stone. You would think a military academy would have neat and structured landscaping, rigid almost, but that was not the case. The surrounding area looked almost wild. It was a large tapestry of bright and dark green colors from the pitch pine, scrub oaks, ferns, red maples and blueberry bushes which grew unheeded throughout the grounds leading to a high cliff that overlooked the deep, churning bay.
“It’s actually an old monastery. Navy took it over sometime in the early 1920s. Been an academy ever since.” The driver chatted cheerily on as they rounded a curve and all that was left was a view of the academy flag, a brief flash of color, as it flew proudly above one of the turrets.
The rest of the drive continued in silence.
As much as she had an obligation to stay objective, Phoebe had to admit, it certainly looked like the type of place where murderers lurked in the dark shadows.
The taxi drove off, lightly kicking up dust and stones from the white gravel driveway.
Any hope Phoebe had that Herring Run was actually a quaint Massachusetts bed and breakfast was dashed. It was actually the Herring Run Motel. Funny how Jimmy left the motel part off the travel itinerary. When she got back, she was going to kick him in the shins or maybe tell him Ben Affleck was the best Batman there ever was…either option would hurt him.
At least it looked cute and clean, thought Phoebe as she surveyed the gray walls with black shingles and red doors. Although, what was with this area and the color gray?
The small bell over the door gave off a bright tune as she entered the motel office.
She greeted the older gentleman with a smile. “Hello, my name is…Eustace Pringle. I believe my office made a reservation.”
“We have you right here. Don’t get many visitors up this way in October. Will that be a credit card?”
“No. I’ll be paying in cash. Just the one night.”
“Visiting family?”
“No, I’m a new assistant professor at the military academy,” offered Phoebe. She might as well start working on her cover now and besides, it would be good to possibly get a local’s perspective on the school.
The man gave a low whistle and looked at her with concern. “It’s none of my business, but you seem like a sweet girl. I would hop right back in a taxi and get back to where you came from if I were you.”
“Why do you say that?”
The man gave a conspiratorial look to his left than right, despite their being the only two people in the tiny, cramped office, before leaning over the counter and beckoning her closer. “The place is haunted by the damned,” he whispered.
“My, my…haunted?” Phoebe played along with bemusement.
“By the mad monk. Back in 1666, two monks came to the area to convert the local Indians to Christianity. Story goes they got lost in the forest. Weeks later when they were found, one of the monks had gone mad. Eaten the other one. The mad monk turned into what the Indians call a wendigo, an evil spirit, who haunts the woods to this day.”
A mad cannibalistic monk. A haunted castle…or at least castle-like building. Her story was shaping up, thought Phoebe with a smile.
Phoebe leaned in closer. “Do you think that’s what happened to those two poor women?”
“Heard about that did you?”
Phoebe nodded her head.
Again the man took a cautious look to his left then right.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. There is evil in those woods. More deaths are coming, mark my words.”
On that happy, crazy superstitious note, Phoebe got her room key and went back out into the salty air. Rolling her large suitcase down the narrow sidewalk, she stopped at the crimson door with the gold metal plate, number three. Abandoning her suitcase at the door, she immediately grabbed her shoulder bag and pulled out the color-coded files and her laptop. Placing all the tourist brochures and to go menus to the side to make a clean working space, she laid out her materials and grabbed her notebook and started to scribble down some initial impressions.
Firing up her computer, she intended to research the history of Puller Military Academy but gave into the temptation to see what she could find about the mad monk online.
Chapter 3
Lieutenant Colonel Michael Lawson entered his new office. Compared to a tent in Fallujah, it was exceedingly luxurious. A large,
polished oak desk dominated the space. The walls were covered in a deep navy blue wallpaper with gold embossed anchors. The bookshelves were filled with old books no one had cracked a spine on in probably over fifty decades. His polished boots sunk into the thick Persian carpet that covered much of the heavily varnished hardwood floor. He hated that. He liked to hear the sound of his own footsteps and those of anyone approaching. He would have talked to his secretary, Mrs. Ludtz, about having it removed if he didn’t fear it would give the poor woman apoplexy. It was readily apparent this academy was her whole world. A world that should not be tampered with in any way, shape or form in her opinion. In short, she was a traditionalist. Despite her polite demeanor, he was fairly certain she hated him on the spot.
For starters, he was a Marine.
Puller Military Academy was a Naval College, and although the Marines pulled from the Reserve Officer’s Training Corp body of midshipmen upon graduation same as the Navy, it was primarily viewed as a naval institution. As such, the superintendent of the school, traditionally, had always been an admiral in the Navy.
In addition to not being an admiral in the Navy, Michael was also one of the youngest Lieutenant Colonels in the Marine Corp at only thirty-six. Instead of a distinguished and more appropriate for the Academy…sixty-five…in Mrs. Ludtz’s oft-shared opinion.
The final nail in his coffin where the secretary was concerned…Michael had been brought in specifically to put the school on lockdown since the murders. The Navy had stonewalled the local cops from investigating too deeply but that didn’t mean they didn’t want answers. If there was a murderer among their ranks, they wanted him found…quickly and quietly…before there were any more deaths. Michael’s previous experiences abroad made him especially suited to the task.
Michael assumed her objections were to even the slightest implication that a distinguished member of the academy would be involved with something as low-brow as murder. His presence underscored that the Navy thought it was a possibility and that probably rankled her.
So in addition to his age, rank, branch of service and stated purpose, already being black marks against him, Michael feared the removal of the rug would probably do the poor woman in.
Captain Mark Dobson rose from his chair in front of the desk the moment he saw Michael. Captain Dobson was his Commandant of Midshipmen. The equivalent of a dean of students at a regular civilian school. A smart, capable man…who also bitterly resented Michael’s new appointment to superintendent almost as much as Mrs. Ludtz, although he went to a great deal more effort to hide it than Mrs. Ludtz.
“Good afternoon, Mark,” greeted Michael as he waved the man back into his chair and took his own seat behind the desk. “I’ve been reviewing your report on the security measures at the school.”
“Yes, Commander. As you can see, I have a very qualified first class midshipman in charge of regular patrols.”
“Yes. Excellent but more needs to be done. I want surprise bunk checks each week. I also want to see the files on any midshipman who may seem…troubled…since arriving at the academy.
Mark fidgeted in his chair. “I’m not sure what you are referring to, sir.”
Michael gave Mark an assessing look. Slowly lowering the report he was reviewing, he turned his intense dark gaze on the man, all hint of the convivial conversation gone. “I want the files of any man you think capable of strangling a woman with his bare hands and then carving up her body, is that more clear for you, Captain?”
The academy had a stringent application process and accepted fewer than three percent of applicants but that didn’t mean a bad apple did not slip through. In fact, in his experience, the type of sociopath capable of this kind of murder was probably highly efficient and intelligent, something that would look good to the academy.
Mark lowered his gaze. “Yes, sir,” he responded quietly. “There was no evidence it was a midshipman…Sir. You won’t make any friends on campus by treating them all as suspects.”
“I’m not here to make friends,” countered Michael with a frown as he tossed the report aside. “And I would thank you not to prevaricate in the future when I ask you a direct question. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. I will get you those files.”
Mark rose and departed, quietly. Damn that fucking rug. You could read a lot about a man’s inner thoughts by the measure and sound of his gait as he walked towards or away from you.
Although Michael didn’t need any additional clues to know what Mark was thinking.
He was appointed superintendent to oversee a complete overhaul of the school’s security and find a killer. It was the opinion of the upper brass and board that regulations had become lax under the previous superintendent. Standards lowered. Even if the murderer wasn’t a staff member or part of the student body, the murders themselves should never have been able to take place unnoticed on military property. It was an embarrassment.
They wanted fresh eyes and a fresh perspective on the place. Someone with authority and the energy to see the job done. After four tours oversees, Michael was more than ready for a domestic challenge. Besides his stated purpose, he liked the idea of helping shape the future of both the Navy and the Marines.
His only worry was what would happen once the task of finding the murderer and getting the school back on track was complete? Could he settle down into the quiet routine of the academy? Would he find it too boring and mundane to keep his interest? It was going to be difficult to compete with the constant excitement of being on tour, thought Michael.
There was something not quite right about this school, something almost dangerous. He would find out what it was and tackle the problem the only way a Marine knew how, head on.
“Commander, the new assistant professor is here to meet you.”
Mrs. Ludtz broke into his thoughts as she entered his office, unannounced and without permission.
There was a disgusted lilt to her voice that should have caught his attention but didn’t.
“Send them in,” he responded without looking up from his keyboard.
The office was silent save for the clicking and clacking of the keys as he rapidly typed his response to several outstanding emails.
Someone cleared their throat.
Michael lifted startled eyes to take in the woman standing before him. He had not heard her approach. Damn that rug. A man needed a warning before a woman like this approached him, if only to watch the sway of her hips as she did.
God damn, she was gorgeous.
Sleek, shiny blonde hair fell in waves past her shoulders. Creamy pale skin set off her full lips covered in a bright, fuck-me, red lipstick. She wore a light purple silk blouse. He could just make out the rippled impression of what was surely a lace bra snugly holding ample breasts. A straight black skirt that ended in some sort of ruffle just above her knees, emphasized the swell of her hips. He couldn’t believe he was thinking this but even her ankles looked sexy as hell as he took in her bright purple platform heels. He was gripped by a sudden need to see her ass. He just knew it would be generously curvy, the type of ass a man liked to take his bare hand to as he forced her to cry for mercy.
“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice husky with desire.
Her beautiful lips opened in surprise.
An image of her on her knees, smearing her perfect red lipstick on the column of his cock as he thrust it down her throat flashed before him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
Her voice was smooth and sweet. Dark honey.
“I said, sit down,” he replied, trying to recover from his initial primal response to her presence.
“Oh! Yes, of course!”
She smoothed an arm under her skirt and perched on the edge of the seat. He could hear the faint rustle of her stockings as her legs brushed when she crossed them. The way her skirt tightened over her slim thigh as she sat down, he could see just the barest outline of a garter. She was wearing thigh stockings, easi
er to access her…he ruthlessly cut off his own train of thought.
Michael crossed his fingers and rested his hands on the desk before him, mainly to prevent him from reaching out to grab her like some caveman. Christ, he had spent too long in the desert. It was like he didn’t know how to behave around a beautiful woman anymore.
There was also something else about her…it was at the back of his mind if he could only focus on the matter at hand and not his cock’s reaction to her presence.
“How can I help you, Mrs.—” He unconsciously held his breath, waiting for her to finish his sentence.
“It’s Miss, actually.”
He watched as she bit into the soft fullness of her bottom lip. Christ, she was killing him! The surge of possessive pleasure which hit his gut the moment she affirmed she was single certainly did not help. All he could think of was smacking that pert ass and making her scream as he demanded she call him daddy. Yeah, sick shit but a woman like this was made for kink.
“I’m not sure if you are the person I’m supposed to see. I was directed to this office, but when I told the lady out there that I was the new assistant professor, she just sort of sneered and a moment later hustled me in here.”
“The new assistant professor of what?”
“Of English Literature.”
Michael rifled through some papers in his inbox. “No. That can’t be correct,” he said as he pulled her application file from the stack. “I’m afraid there has been some mix-up. That position was given to a…Eustace Pringle.”
He watched her grimace slightly before her red lips parted to say. “That would be me.”
Michael’s jaw tweaked to the right as he suppressed a smile. “You?”
“Me.”
“You are Eustace…Pringle?”
“It’s a…family name.” She rushed on to say, “Actually I prefer Phoebe.”
