Allison Brennan - Fear No Evil

She sighed. “Originally, I wanted to join the air force. I needed a way to pay for college.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She glanced at him, smiled again. “A problem with obedience to authority.” She looked over at Jack. “I think your brother understands that.”

Jack just grunted and closed his eyes again.

“What happened to your parents?” Dillon asked.

“You my shrink now?”

“I’m making small talk.”

“Right. What happened to your parents? How do you feel about that ?” She frowned, staring straight ahead, out the window.

Dillon tensed. “That’s not fair, Kate. I haven’t done or said anything to make you feel uncomfortable, other than question your motives and reasoning.”

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “I don’t know who my father was. My mother left me with my grandparents when I was five. Couldn’t stand me.”

“I’m sure that’s not-”

“Don’t placate me, Dillon,” Kate snapped. “My mother was raped, okay? And I’m the end product. She went in twice to have an abortion but couldn’t go through with it. When she left me with my grandparents she told me, ‘I’m sorry, Katherine, I tried to love you but I can’t.’” Kate took a deep breath. “I must look like him, because I look nothing like my mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“I can’t believe I said anything,” she mumbled and fidgeted with the controls. “Shit.”

“What?” Jack asked from the back.

“I don’t think we’re going to make Red Rock.”

“It was those headwinds outside of Phoenix,” Jack said. “They ate up the fuel. How long?”

“Fifty miles before I start getting really nervous.”

“That’s almost there.”

“Almost ain’t good enough.”

“It’ll have to be. I’d offer to jump and lighten the load, but you’d probably be shot down. My friends are a little sensitive.”

“Great.”

“Trust me, we’ll make it,” Jack said. “My license isn’t expired.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

“Nice friends.”

“I have a lot. Surprised?”

“It sure isn’t for your bedside manner.”

“Ouch,” Jack said. He leaned over and whispered in Kate’s ear, “Just because I’m for hire doesn’t mean the government doesn’t hire me.” He looked at the controls. “Ten degrees north, we’ll come at Red Rock from the east, which should help with the fuel. The wind will be behind us.”

“It’ll add another fifteen miles that we don’t have fuel for.”

“Trust me.”

“Right.”

Dillon had always assumed Jack was still in the military, one way or the other. “Who do you work for?” he asked his brother.

“Mostly the good guys,” Jack said, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes again, but he wasn’t fooling Dillon.

“So you’re not in the military anymore?”

“What does it look like to you?”

“It looks like you won’t answer my damn questions.”

“Double ouch.”

And he didn’t answer Dillon’s questions.

Stonebridge Academy had a gated entrance, ivy-covered brick walls, and a huge, stately brick mansion in the middle of the grounds, flanked on either side by long, two-story buildings. In the center was a large grass area where young men were playing polo. Sports for the rich youth, not the urban hellhole Special Agent Abigail Resnick had grown up in.

During the two-hour drive, which she’d done on personal time, Abigail hoped Hans Vigo was right and she wouldn’t be answering to anyone for what she was doing. She didn’t mind breaking rules-she didn’t much care for rules anyway-but she didn’t want to get caught.

She took the circular drive up to the mansion, but before she could get out of the car, a tall, distinguished man- butler , she thought-came down the stairs and held her door open for her.

“Thanks,” she said and flashed him a smile that had melted icier men.

No dice. Heart of stone in this one.

“Who do you have an appointment with?”

She flashed her badge. “I need to speak to the headmaster. George Fleischer.”

The butler frowned almost imperceptibly. She’d done her homework while on the road-gotta love wireless Internet-and knew Fleischer had been the headmaster for the last twenty-eight years.

“Follow me.”

She did.

The inside of the mansion was even more opulent than she’d expected. She almost gawked. Her pathetic public school in the heart of Richmond, Virginia, was functional. Metal, wood, desks, graffiti. None of this Victorian furniture, oil paintings-which had to be real-or polished wood.

Instead of being embarrassed or intimidated, she grinned. “So, how much to send my kid here?”

“You have an applicant?”

“No. Just curious.”

He didn’t answer her. Maybe it wasn’t just money. A poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Richmond sure wouldn’t cut it here, nor would her kin.

She smiled wider. “Mr. Fleischer, please?”

“I will see if he’s available. Please be seated.”

She sat, watched where the butler went. Checked her watch. Ten minutes passed and she followed the same path. Almost immediately the butler emerged from down the hall.

“Ms. Resnick, I’m sorry, only students and employees are allowed beyond this point.”

“Special Agent Resnick,” she corrected, “and I need to speak with Mr. Fleischer now or I’ll be back this afternoon with a warrant. And I won’t be smiling.”

“I don’t threaten easily, Special Agent Resnick.”

“And I don’t make idle threats.”

“What is this regarding?”

How to play it? Vigo had given her so little information, but apparently she had learned something juicy from Morton.

“Trevor Conrad.”

The cadaver of a butler paled, if that was possible. “Wait.”

He left again, but less than a minute later he returned and escorted her to a parlor. Not the headmaster’s office, but private. Progress.

George Fleischer entered by another door, younger than she expected. If he was sixty, she’d eat her badge. He had dark, graying hair, was impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, and his eyes were clear blue and focused.

For the first time she felt a tad nervous. She had no authority to be here. But if he even smelled that she was hesitant, she wouldn’t get the answers Vigo needed.

“Mr. Fleischer, thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy day to-”

“Stop the game. What’s going on?”

“I don’t-”

“You come in here and drop a name and expect us to jump through hoops? I demand an answer or I will call your superior.”

“Fine. Call him. I’ll wait.”

He hesitated. Call his bluff.

“Perhaps you don’t know that there is a warrant out for the arrest of one of your former students, Roger Morton.”

“I didn’t.”

Liar.

“And in the course of investigating his whereabouts, I learned that he may be in contact with some of his old friends from this school. I was speaking with Charles Morton and-”

Fleischer’s head shot up higher, if that was possible. “You spoke with Mr. Morton?”

“Yes, this morning. And he suggested that I come out here for answers. He’s still angry with what happened with his son.”

“His son was reinstated in school and graduated with his class. Mr. Morton has no cause-”

“He’s not upset with the school. He and his son are estranged. He told me his closest friends were Paul Ullman, Adam Scott, and Trevor Conrad.”

Fleischer nodded. “That would be my recollection.”

“You would have a recollection about friendships formed nearly two decades ago?”