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

Peter kills prostitutes.

Because he’s a psycho, Dan.

And that was before Dean Gordon called an emergency Academy meeting after school.

The faculty and staff filed into the auditorium, sitting in cliques like the students did. Hathaway lowered into the seat next to Jennings without speaking. She looked better for her time away.

He wondered why a few teachers were crying.

"Daniel, are you not sleeping?” Hathaway peered into his face with concern.

“It’s gotten difficult.”

Hathaway took his hand and squeezed, and a surge of serotonin hit his bloodstream. The intoxicating power of human contact. She said, “That’s the worst. Because of Peter Lynch? Or because of PTSD? Or because of…?”

When she’d taken his hand, she hadn’t laced her fingers between his. But some primordial awareness told him that if he tried it would not be unwelcome.

Dean Gordon took the microphone on stage.

“Good afternoon. So, uh, listen…” Gordon paused to clear his throat and pat at his tie. Ice trickled down Jennings’ spine; he’d been in debriefings like this before. “I wish I knew some gentle way to say this. There isn’t, but undoubtedly it shouldn’t be communicated through email or the speaker system. The Academy has suffered a great loss. Our friend and our humanities instructor, Craig Lewis, died over the weekend.”

Gasps around the room and from Hathaway. In the back, Jennings stood up and gripped fistfuls of his hair. No one noticed him except Gordon and Hathaway. His sanity ruptured with a pop, a sound he heard between his ears like a guitar string breaking.

“He was found at the Carilion Wellness Center Sunday evening in the shower. He’d been…dead for hours, apparently.”

“What happened to him?” said Jennings but his voice wasn’t working and only Hathaway heard his croak.

“I asked the police to let me break the sad news to you. They’ll be asking us questions soon because unfortunately…” Another pause. “Because unfortunately they suspect foul play.”

Another volley of gasps.

Someone in the front asked, “Murder?”

Gordon replied with a nod, dramatic. “They think so. Obviously, if anyone has information that could help the police identify the culprit…well, they’d like to hear from you.”

More questions from the audience. Gordon didn’t know anything other than what he’d already said.

Hathaway emerged from her fog and she discovered Jennings was gone. Thirty minutes later she left the auditorium and went to her classroom for tissues, passing Jennings’ room—he wasn’t there.

Oh no.

She hurried to his apartment and knocked. No answer. And his truck was gone from faculty parking.

Hathaway paced the lawn, crying and shivering, feeling small and alone. She called his phone. Ringing…voicemail.

“No no.” She called again, and he answered now. “Daniel! Where are you?”

“I’m killing Peter Lynch,” he said.

She barely recognized his voice.

The line disconnected and a cold drizzle began to fall. Hathaway tried again but it went straight to voicemail; he’d powered off the device. After the beep she cried, “No, Daniel, please don’t! You’re too important! Call me back!”

She hung up and dialed 9-1-1, her thumb shaking and frozen over the Call button…

41

Jennings hadn’t powered off his phone but he’d activated Do Not Disturb.

He had Lynch’s address but nothing was marked clearly in Bennett Springs. He motored Route 740 in the dark for twenty minutes with Google Earth open before deciding he had the correct unmarked driveway.

Windshield wipers smearing the rain. He kept the heater off because the chill was reviving him. Sanity was returning like the tide, inch by inch.

Killing Lynch still felt like the right thing to do in his enervated mental state but he’d arrived at Lynch’s ranch without a weapon. He’d violated the first standing order for Roger’s Rangers—don’t forget nothing. Maybe that was divine providence, maybe not.

He was furious with God and didn’t trust him.

Lewis murdered in the shower. Found hours later.

It had to be Lynch, and Jennings was equally culpable. He’d let Craig take the pistol and Craig had opened fire and now he was dead and it was Jennings’ fault.

Jennings parked in the mud off 740, sheltered by bare trees.

No. No it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t fired those rockets…

Clenched his eyes. No rockets! No Apache helicopter. He wasn’t in Afghanistan. He meant, he hadn’t killed Craig.

He bore some responsibility but now wasn’t the time for placing blame. Now was the time for…

Jennings had no idea. He’d never felt so entirely without a compass. Any way he turned he was being railroaded by Peter Lynch, an unstoppable force.

Craig Lewis’ words played on repeat.

Lynch scares everyone but none of them consider standing up to him, much less follow through. And I’m curious, once you get past his offenses, will you see him as a broken man? Or an evil one.

Now you’re dead, Lewis.

Was it worth it?

I’ll shoot him. I will. I told Daniel I wished someone would kill Lynch. Why not me? I’ve thought about it recently and I would. I’m twenty years late doing what’s right. Worst case scenario, Ms. Hathaway isn’t able to record anything useful and we have to bail her out, and a pistol would be handy. Best case scenario, Lynch gives me a reason to kill him.

No, we found a much worse scenario. Even more so if I go to prison. But I can’t do nothing…

Lynch told Daisy about a field. She’d asked him what he did with the girls and he said he had a field behind the stables. What did that mean?

Jennings grabbed his flashlight, opened the door, and stepped into the rain. He didn’t have a compass but he had satellite images.

The rain settled in and the forest was black and noisy with unseen terrors. Jennings marched for an hour, until he was sloppy with mud. His left leg ached, missing the support that calf muscles would’ve provided. He had no rain jacket and his truck was a mile behind him. These things didn’t bother him. The suffering gave him strength, lent him courage. It was supposed to be hard, he had to earn it. The life of Craig Lewis had to be earned. De