Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

“He told me about Peter Lynch’s past. Wild story about his step-daughter accusing him of sexual assault.”

“Oh yeah. I heard that rumor. It went down right as I moved to Roanoke and I didn’t know anyone, so I didn’t pay attention.”

“He said the wildest thing. He said he wished Peter Lynch was dead.”

“That’s not wild, Daniel, I wish that every time he clumps into my classroom.”

“Sorry, I quoted him wrong. Lewis said he wished someone would kill Lynch. Big difference.”

“Do you think you could?” she said.

“Kill Peter Lynch?”

She nodded. A goofy smile.

“Of course not,” he said.

“You were in the Army, though.”

“Oh. You mean, do I have the ability? Yeah I could do it.”

“With a gun? Do you have one?”

“I have two.”

“Big enough to kill that giant jerk?” she said.

“They’re big enough. But I’d go to jail the rest of my life.”

“What if you could get away with it?”

“I’d still choose not to.”

“What are we talking about?” She covered her mouth with both hands and laughed. “How did we get on this?”

“You’re homicidal, that’s how.”

She pushed her hair back. “Apparently. I’m glad no one heard that minute of madness.”

On the field, the Fork Union quarterback rifled a pass across the middle. Caught. The stadium volume ramped up. Benji Lynch lowered his shoulder into the wide receiver. A jarring collision. Benji wrapped his hands under the receiver’s legs, suspending him briefly in midair. Benji drove him into the turf, a pile-drive, all Benji’s weight landing on top. Illegal tackle. The fans went incoherent.

Benji stood and walked backward, the referee hurling a yellow penalty flag at him. The Fork Union receiver writhed on the ground and his teammates shoved Benji in retaliation. Whistles blowing, coaches shouting.

“Benji again? Oh no,” said Hathaway.

Coach Murray waved Benji off the field. He pointed at the deep sideline, benching him. Jennings watched it from a distance in pantomime. Watched Benji stomp and smash the bench with his helmet. Watched Benji’s teammates forsake him. Watched Coach Murray furiously chomp his gum and deal with the penalty yards.

Murray had to sit Benji. He had to.

“What happened?” said Hathaway. “Is Benji out?”

Jennings’ fingers were laced in his hair, eyes on the coach.

Murray now had to worry about losing the game and his job. A wife at home, a teenager nearing college. Lynch threatening him in the hospital. But no coach would leave Benji on the field after two unsportsmanlike penalties. No way. It wasn’t fair to anyone.

“Mr. Jennings? Daniel? What’re you looking at? I can’t see it, you’re taller than I am.”

Jennings eyes shifted from Murray to the titan suite at the peak of the stadium. Down to Murray and back up. In the light of the suite, high above the field, a big man stood at the window. A silhouette. Watching.

11

The next day Jennings woke to a rare commodity—an off day. A Saturday free from responsibility. Jennings’ coffee maker woke him at 7:30, the timer clicking on, and he stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes without moving.

His suite consisted of his bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen/living room. About the size of a small apartment. The sparse decorations were mainly photographs. A picture of his family smiling with Vice President Al Gore when Daniel was just a child. Another photo of his father shaking hands with Republican senator John Warner, the chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Another of him and his mother smiling brightly at the beach. His suite attached to the dormitory, so no feet pounded above him. Occasionally he’d let students in to demonstrate how a man should keep his room. There should be order, not chaos.

He got up and drank coffee and checked his phone.

His friends still in the Army had uploaded new photos on Instagram. A USO event at Camp Buehring, it looked like. Jennings felt the deep ache of an outcast. Standing on the lonely fringe looking in.

He allowed himself a moment of self-pity before engaging his will power. Reminded himself he hadn’t enjoyed the Army. He had felt like an outsider even when surrounded by these same men in the photos. Reminded himself he was content, and he was. Or close.

Behind the thoughts lurked another truth but he refused to acknowledge it—the aftermath of losing the foot and getting medically discharged had been something of a relief, an excuse for being out of the military.

Jennings hopped into the shower before the malaise of depression could settle. Before his ancestors could turn over in their grave and before his friends could bleed to death in the sand and rock.

He took the Erik Larson novel to Our Daily Bread. Ordered breakfast and ate in the corner. Lost himself and returned an hour later. Drove downtown to the farmers’ market next to Center in the Square. He purchased coffee roasted locally, plus homemade bread and cinnamon apple butter. In November, everything was pumpkin and spices.

His M4 carbine was housed in a climate-controlled storage locker downtown. An assault rifle similar to the one he’d trained with and carried. Leaving the Army, he’d purchased the M4 in a fit of panic—his buddies held a ‘retirement’ party for him and he’d been struck by how different from them he already was, by how his life was slipping away, and he made arrangements that very night to buy one.

He retrieved it and parked at Safeside Tactical on Shenandoah. From behind the seat he fetched the shotgun kept there in a tactical bag, and he took both weapons inside to the shooting bay he’d reserved.

The shotgun had belonged to his grandfather, handed down. A Browning BT-99. A single-shot 12 gauge, the wooden stock and the barrel polished and shining. A shooting range wasn’t ideal for the shotgun but he fired a few rounds because he enjoyed the booming recoil, the heady smell of burnt nitroglycerin, the connection to happy memories in his family’s forest. A weapon for hunting and sport, not war.

There was nothing beautiful about the M4. He jammed a loaded magazine into