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“Jesus,” Trent whispered. “Most of them are as smart as whips, off the charts. That’s how they ended up here in the first place.”
“But they’re not all cruel. That’s why the weaker ones become victims.” She felt sick inside, horrified at her discovery, but she was certain she was right.
“Nona Vickers and Drew Prescott? What about them?” he asked, absently scratching at his jaw. “You think there’s a group of kids that Lynch culled out because they’re sociopaths, and somehow Drew and Nona got caught in the cross fire? Or became targets?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her darkest fears congealing. “But I think that it’s worse than that. I think that this group of sociopaths, put together, with so many of them having such a broad history of violence, they could very well be identified as homicidal.”
“You think they would kill willingly?”
“Some of them even eagerly.” She had to get up, walk from one end of the room to the other to release some of the tension deep inside.
“Lynch knowingly brought a group of them together. Psychopaths.”
Just the sound of the word, spoken aloud, seemed to echo through the room. Suddenly cold again, she walked to the fire and warmed the back of her legs, all the while trying to make sense of what she’d discovered. “What if no one else had identified them? What if Lynch was the only one who had?”
“So why bring them all together?” he asked.
“Worse yet, why arm them? You said some of those kids had access to weapons, permits to carry guns.”
His face drained of all color. “An army?”
“I don’t know. But you mentioned Flannagan had an ‘elite’ fighting force almost like special-ops. These are the kids who are guarding us—you know, the group that leads other students. How nuts is that?” She was really thinking hard. It was too bizarre, too far beyond the bounds of reason to think that Lynch would seek out rich psychopaths, give them weapons—all for what? Then again, who knew if he was sane.
“What about Lauren Conway?” he asked as the lights flickered, throwing the room into darkness for a second, the fire their only source of light.
“God, I hope we don’t lose power,” she said.
“We’d better be prepared.” He had already scooted his chair back and was rummaging in a sideboard drawer for a lighter. “How do you think Lauren fits into all of this?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be good; otherwise, she would have surfaced and called her folks, or someone she knew, at the very least a girlfriend.”
“No one’s seen or heard from her since she went missing.” He lit the kerosene lanterns.
“I know.” Sighing, Jules glanced over the files spread upon the table, none of which were identified by Lauren’s name. Had there ever been a file? Or had it been destroyed in the fire, or earlier when she disappeared? “I hate to say it, but I think Lauren’s probably already dead. Either she got caught up in something she couldn’t have gotten out of, or she died while trying to make her escape, or something. I think if there had been an accident, say, she was lost in the woods or hurt on campus somewhere, her body would have been found.”
“I think so, too,” he admitted as the lights winked again. He placed one of the lanterns on the table and sat in his chair again. “But, from my understanding, she wasn’t weak, wouldn’t have been an easy victim. She was tough, smart, athletic.” His eyes narrowed as if he were exploring the possibilities. “Do you think that she knew too much? Maybe she stumbled on what was happening here?” He picked up Missy Albright’s file. “Missy was one of the TAs who was supposed to take Lauren under her wing, show her the ropes. If you’re right about all this—”
“I am.” Jules felt it. She finally got what was happening here at Blue Rock as the lantern glowed brightly.
“Then she probably is dead.” His scowl was deep, the lines in his face deep furrows as he studied the charred notes strewn upon the table.
She said, “Some of these files are not tagged with red tape. For example, two kids from your pod, Chaz and Maeve, their folders aren’t marked that way.”
“Great. So we’ve got two normal but ‘disturbed’ kids, is that what you’re saying?”
“There are probably more. A lot more. But either Lynch didn’t bother creating files on them, or they burned. I didn’t find a file for Shay or Ollie Gage or Crystal Ricci, to name just a few.” For that much she was relieved.
“Okay, I’ll play along with this. I’ve got nothing better. But unless he’s planning a military coup—of what, Medford? Oregon?—why would Lynch want all these kids here? To observe them? To try and mold them? What?” he asked, picking up file after file. “And why promote them to teachers’ aides?” He turned to Roberto Ortega’s file. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure it does,” she said, the implications of what she was thinking causing her stomach to sour. “When you cross-reference the psychological information with these,” she said, handing him several singed pages.
“What’re those?”
“Financial forms.”
He’d chosen Eric Rolfe’s parents’ financial report and studied the asset statement. He let out a long, low whistle, which was magnified by the moan of the wind.
“I know. I was surprised, too. Eric’s father is a multimillionaire, a German industrialist. And he’s not alone. Take a look.” She handed him Missy Albright’s family’s financial records. “Missy just happens to be the firstborn daughter of a socialite shipping heiress and her third husband. Sick as it sounds,” she said, pointing out the obvious, “it seems that most of the TAs have parents with a lot of money.”
