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

Wednesday, Coach Murray took his family to see relatives in Virginia Beach and they stayed three days.

On Thursday Craig Lewis walked in the Roanoke Rescue Mission’s Drumstick Dash and afterward helped serve food at the cafeteria before his sister and her husband arrived from Savannah.

Not all Academy students returned home. The campus remained open for the boys with nowhere to go and Jennings had volunteered to be the campus parent over the break; he made plans to see his mother next week, and they’d celebrate Christmas when his brother flew in from Italy in December. He served turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and apple pie in the dining hall, all purchased from The Fresh Market.

Hathaway and the three men remained in contact during the break, texting daily. From Peter Lynch they heard not a peep.

Jennings passed his free time researching shotgun suppressors. For amusement purposes only, he told himself, feeling feverish with the items on his screen.

The trouble was, attaching a suppressor—sometimes called a silencer—made the shotgun ridiculously long and cumbersome. The final result looked like a cannon. Until he stumbled upon the Salvo 12.8, Saturday afternoon.

A suppressor much smaller than its competitors. Good reviews. Jennings opened the manual online and read.

At some point halfway through, Jennings decided to place an order with the nearest Class 3 firearms dealer. He bypassed the ATF tax stamp with his Top Secret SCI clearance, a perk from the Green Berets. Looking back on it later, he didn’t remember filling out the paperwork, his functions running on febrile instinct.

The confirmation email shocked him; there it was in black and white, like the headline on a newspaper declaring war—congratulations on his purchase of a Salvo shotgun suppressor, ready for pickup in three days.

37

Sunday morning and Roanoke woke to a bitter frost.

Peter Lynch’s Jaguar pulled into the Carilion Wellness Center at 8:30 a.m. The lot was largely vacant but he parked in the farthest spot and walked. Over the holiday break, the Jaguar’s rear windshield had been replaced and the upholstery of the passenger seat repaired. Lynch wore a blue peacoat that reached his knees—the collar turned up—plus a scarf, sunglasses, and a Yorkshire driving cap.

Lynch never wore hats.

The Carilion Wellness Center was the gym for Roanoke’s finest. Where a subculture of wealthy retired guys played racquetball. Where the young and ambitious jogged the track and chatted at the lockers. Gossip and business deals swapped in the steam room.

Lynch opened his locker. Despite only patronizing the gym once every few months, he’d paid to have a locker reserved and adorned with his name. He changed into a sweatsuit, deposited his peacoat and other clothes, and closed the locker door. The padlock, however, remained open. He lumbered to the relative privacy of the cardio room, where he mounted a stationary bike in the far corner and watched the clock.

Homer Caldwell arrived thirty minutes later. He wore a scarf too, just like Mr. Lynch had ordered.

Caldwell’s mind was sharp and he kept Mr. Lynch’s orders foremost in his thoughts. Anything to make Mr. Lynch happy. He wanted to pause at the cardio room and wave to his employer, who should be on a bike, but he didn’t.

In the locker room, Caldwell kept his head down and avoided eye contact. The two strangers there took second glances at him. He withdrew a slip of paper and read the number again. He found the right locker, the one with Peter Lynch’s name on it.

Beneath Mr. Lynch’s locker was an empty one. Caldwell undressed to his underwear and placed his clothes into that empty locker. He plucked a clean towel from the bin and plunged into the steam room. It was vacant, a relief for Caldwell; he understood his large size and the distinct shape of his face sometimes caused distress. Mr. Lynch told him he was an ugly mongoloid but hadn’t kicked him out.

Caldwell looked at his watch and grinned. He’d got himself into the steam room two minutes early.

The watch face fogged over.

In the cardio room, Peter Lynch got off the exercise bike. This was the portion of his plan he dreaded, a step fragile and easily broken—he could walk into the locker room and find his Giant Mongoloid confused and crying. A distinct possibility and he was prepared to walk away if it happened.

The room was clear, however, and his teeth ceased their gnashing.

Lynch grabbed a toiletry bag from his locker and a towel from the bin, and he pulled the door for the white-tiled corridor, warm and wet. Eight shower stalls, a whirlpool, and a steam room branched off the corridor. Caldwell should be in the steam room but Lynch wouldn’t risk looking in.

His preferred shower stall was open and he claimed it. The stall consisted of the outer dressing area and the inner shower. He twitched the privacy curtain closed, sealing himself into the stall, hidden from the hallway. He twisted the water nozzle and aimed the spraying head toward the wall, away from him. He undressed, stepped into the shower, and pulled across the waterproof plastic lining curtain. He’d left a gap sufficient enough to see through his private dressing area and into the hallway beyond. He could see both corridor entrances.

In the steam, Homer Caldwell sweated for thirty minutes, wiping his watch face over and over. The instant the minute hand reached 10:00, Caldwell left the steam room, weak and withered from the heat, and he showered.

Trying not to grin, he opened Mr. Lynch’s locker and dressed in Mr. Lynch’s clothes. Caldwell had eagerly looked forward to this since last night. Mr. Lynch was a little bigger than him but the clothes fit fine, nicer than his own. He inexpertly wrapped the scarf around his neck and tugged on the Yorkshire cap.

As he neared the locker room exit, he remembered his instructions. Check your reflection, Homer. Don’t you dare forget to check your fucking reflection. Caldwell returned to the mirror. Sure enough, he’d buttoned the peacoat