Cross Wired E-Book

Jan Coffey

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 441

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

  TEENAGERS...OR TIME BOMBS? The nation is gripped by the shocking crimes: "good kids" who are suddenly, inexplicably lethal. When Connecticut doctor Dr. Lexi Bradley gets the call that her son has become one of those shooters, her life is turned upside down. Ten years ago, Secret Service agent Bryan Atwood became an expert on adolescent violence. Now the nightmare is back. Just as he is assigned to this new rash of killings, an MRI of the boy's brain reveals what must be pure science fiction. With Lexi's help, Bryan is determined to unearth the truth before more children die, but investigating a cross-country trail of buried horrors casts them both into a dangerous world where corporate greed can lead to sudden death.  Winner of the Gold Leaf Award for Best Fiction 

Leseprobe

CROSS WIRED

JAN COFFEY

withMAY MCGOLDRICK

Book Duo Creative

CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Preview of THE JANUS EFFECT

Also by Jan Coffey, May McGoldrick & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading Cross Wired. In the event that you enjoy this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Cross Wired. Copyright © 2013 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

Originally published as The Project. First U.S. Edition Published by Mira Books, 2007

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Book Duo Creative.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to the families of

Newtown, Connecticut

FOREWORD

Everyone who sends their child or their spouse off to school feels, at one time or another, the fear of what might await their loved one there. As parents and teachers and residents of Connecticut, we understand that all too well. An incident of violence, so often involving teenagers, can cause heartbreak. It can destroy families and communities alike.

Generations of psychologists and educators have tried to search out the reasons why violence in a school occurs. Clearly, there are no easy answers.

In our simpler, fictional world, we’re happy to pin it on a technological advance gone awry. We’re delighted to lay the charge against a few scientists who have lost their way, and against a few greedy businessmen. We write fiction, after all.

We only wish real life could be so simple.

CHAPTERONE

Thursday January 3, 2007. 6:57 p.m.

New York

Freezing rain, razor-sharp on the skin, continued to fall. Across the five boroughs of the city and into the suburbs, traffic moved at a crawling pace on every expressway. The Cross County was the usual parking lot, and the Henry Hudson was down to one lane, but the worst was the Cross Bronx, completely shut down because of a horrendous accident.

The driver of the limo leaned over and switched off the radio, apparently abandoning all hope of finding a reasonably clear route out of the city. Now they would simply inch along, one car in a line of the thousands of other commuter vehicles going north on the FDR Drive.

In the back seat, the passenger pushed aside the work he’d brought and glanced at his watch. He was going to be late for dinner. His daughter and her husband and three children were in from the West Coast until Sunday. Christmas week had been spent with his daughter’s in-laws in New Hampshire, and this week the gang had been with them in Connecticut. He’d have liked to have it the other way around. He’d been home most of last week. This week, though, with the exception of New Year’s Day, his schedule was booked.

His wife phoned him at the office to tell him their daughter was now considering staying for another couple of weeks with the kids in Connecticut. He looked again at his schedule and shook his head as he paged through it. There wouldn’t be any relief now until the end of the month. Not until the company’s big deadline. He wouldn’t be able to spend any time with them.

He started to call his wife. He had an eight-thirty breakfast meeting in the city tomorrow morning, and he contemplated telling the driver to turn around and take him to his apartment in Midtown instead. He could do without this commute tonight.

The cell phone rang before he could make the call home. He looked at the display and felt his spine stiffen. A bitter taste edged into his mouth, and he considered not answering the call. He wished that were an option, but it wasn’t. He knew he’d be answering.

He even knew what the call was about. His old partner had phoned him daily this past month. Old skeletons were peeking out of the closet. This wasn’t the first time; over the years, the episodes had come in waves. But this one was worse than anything they’d faced before. There was no getting around it. Still, they just had to put up with situations like this until the test samples were all gone. The last time he’d counted, there were only seven left.

Seven.

He pressed the button on the console and waited until the window between him and the driver slid shut before answering the call.

“Hello, Mitch,” he said, looking out at the blackness enshrouding the East River.

“Have you been watching the news this afternoon?” his partner asked without a greeting. The agitation in his voice was clear.

“No.” He reached for the TV remote and turned it on.

“There’s been another shooting, this time in San Francisco.”

He switched the channel to CNN and muted the sound. In a moment, the closed captions began to scroll across the bottom of the screen. “Was he one of ours?”

“Yes,” Mitch said, his voice rising.

“Did he live?”

“No.”

Six left, the passenger thought grimly.

“Then we don’t worry about it.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” his partner snapped before he could end the call. “This is different from anything we’ve seen before. The violence is worse.”

“That’s not because of us,” he said calmly. “All the test cases have been the same. The ones that remain are the earliest specimens. They’re older now than the others were. Adolescent hormonal shifts are complicating the equation. That can result in more damage.”

“Curtis, they’re flipping every couple of days,” his partner said, obviously trying to keep his voice down. “How could you be so relaxed about it?”

Unlike his old friend, who’d turned his back on industry and was quickly becoming fossilized teaching biology to imbeciles in the California state university system, he was having a late career resurgence. Over the course of this past year, all the doors were again opening. Money was pouring in. His name was the talk of the business. For a change, everything was going right.

It was hard to imagine that the two of them had, at one time, worked so closely. They had always been like night and day in terms of composure, in their goals, in their hunger for results, in their willingness to take risks to succeed.

“Listen to me, Mitch. I’m not relaxed about any of this.” This was exactly what the other man needed to hear. “But there’s nothing we can do about it, just as there was nothing we could do about it three years ago when we lost a large sample size, or fourteen years ago when we found out everything was going wrong and we had to shut the project down.”

“You’re not hearing me,” the other man said, his voice now bordering on hysteria. “There are others who are getting dragged into this. Innocent people.” He spat out each word slowly. “And there is something we can do about this. We can identify them, pull them out of⁠—”

“Do you really want to tell the world what we did? It’s not only your neck and mine that we’re talking about. How about our investors? Do you want to expose them? And do you really think they would put up with it? Do you really believe that coming out into the open would solve all the problems?”

The pause on the other end of the line gave him some reassurance. His partner was still as timid as he’d always been. He needed to keep Mitch from panicking, but fear was good.

“I want you to stop watching the news.”

“I…I can’t.”

“You can,” he said forcefully. “There are only six left, Mitch, and they’re taking care of themselves. Time is on our side. All we have to do is sit tight, and everything will go away.”

There was another pause at the other end. He couldn’t understand why his old partner couldn’t quite fathom the probable consequences of this “coming out.” So many careers would be ruined. More than a few corporations and major hospitals would be rattled to the foundations, possibly irreparably. Some would go down. Politicians would lose their seats. Some of them would end up in jail. The Merck fiasco with Vioxx wouldn’t hold a candle to what they’d be facing. There’d be criminal charges in this case. He didn’t want to go there.

“Are you still on the line?” he asked.

“I’m here,” Mitch said heavily. “There’s one thing that I can’t shake loose.”

“What is it?”

“What happens if one of them does make it through after an episode of violence? What happens if one of them survives?”

There would be more detailed tests, interviews, close scrutiny. The intellectual and psychological conditions of the object would become unstable. And then there was the possibility of early memory being triggered. There would be no end to their problems.

“You leave that to me. I’ve taken care of those kinds of details before. I’ll take care of them again when I need to.”

CHAPTERTWO

Monday January 14, 11:56 a.m.

Wickfield, Connecticut

During the night, a thick crust of ice had formed on top of the six inches of snow that had fallen over the weekend. The pale disk of a sun had done nothing to soften it this morning. The street and the two driveways at the end of the cul-de-sac had been plowed, but the large pair of boots punching through the snow between the two houses carved its own path.

His head hurt. The pounding was louder. Voices, faces, places, numbers, all writhed in his pulsing brain.

He ripped a branch off a young oak tree that snatched at his jacket. Icicles showered down on him in retribution. He threw the branch fiercely to the side, and it bounced and skittered across the unbroken glaze of snow. He blinked through the gray haze that seemed to cover everything. Sky, snow, houses, everything was gray, and yet his eyes still stung from the light and the pain in his head.

He barely noticed the cold, but it was a labor to breathe. Somewhere, in a dark corner of his mind, the idea pulled at him that he wanted to lie down on the snow and just go to sleep. But he couldn’t. His feet kept stomping ahead of him toward his neighbors’ back porch.

The pounding voices in his head wouldn’t go away. He knew where he had to go, what he had to do, how to end it all.

He didn’t bother to knock on the door. Neither car was in the driveway. He turned the knob and pushed open the kitchen door. Wickfield was safe. Nobody locked their doors.

He’d been in the house many times. He knew they were in the basement. The cat appeared in the doorway leading to the living room and stared at him with distrust for a moment before disappearing. The pulsing flashes of light and the voices were getting louder. He had to stop them.

He stumbled across the kitchen, his boots leaving clumps of gray snow on the tiled floor. He yanked open the basement door with such force that it rebounded off the wall and smashed him hard in the shoulder. He didn’t feel it, not at all, and went down the wooden steps without bothering to flip on the light switch.

The cabinet was against the wall on the far side of the chimney. The four rifles seemed to call to him through the glass display front. The barrels, long and blue-gray, looked cool and smooth. The wooden stocks gleamed with a warmth that seemed unnatural. He pulled the knob. It was locked. He looked around him and saw the old fireplace tools against the basement wall. His fingers wrapped around the poker.

A phone started ringing upstairs. He didn’t pause. He didn’t care. His head hurt; that was all he knew. He took one big swing at the cabinet. Glass flew around him, blanketing the floor with glittering shards. He reached inside and touched the barrel of one of the guns. It was cool and smooth, just as they said it would be.

It would all work out now.

Finally, he could end the pain. Silence the noise.

CHAPTERTHREE

Monday January 14, 2:25 p.m.

Wickfield, Connecticut

The large lobby in the guidance office at Wickfield High School was packed with teachers, and the meeting was already in progress by the time Kevin Gordon walked in. The band room and the cafeteria were still victims of the school renovation project, and this was the next best space. It wasn’t too good.

The principal, Scott Peterson, paused mid-sentence and looked around the room for an empty seat. There were none. Kevin shook his head at him and took the weight off his bad knee, leaning a shoulder against the door.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” the principal asked.

Kevin nodded again. He’d survive. He was going in for knee surgery over the spring break. Everyone knew it, and Peterson's question prompted two teachers who had their backs to him to start to get off their chairs. He placed a hand on both of their shoulders.

“Stay where you are,” he said quietly. “I'm okay.”

The email had said a fifteen-minute meeting. Thanks to the justifiably nervous mother of one of his flunking juniors, Kevin was five minutes late. She’d been waiting for him at the office when classes ended. Ten minutes on the old knee wasn't too bad.

“Since we have everyone we need here,” Peterson told the group, “let's go back to the agenda item we skipped and finalize the award recipients for the end of term assembly on Friday.”

The room was filled with the sound of notes being shuffled. Kevin didn't need to look at his. He knew who had his votes.

“The academic awards are straightforward,” Peterson said for the sake of saving time. “You have the names. No surprises there.”

Everyone in the room was in general agreement. The one interesting new variable was the “effort” grade that they were now assigning.

“Okay, let’s go over this semester’s citizenship award. I have everyone's submissions.” Peterson leafed through a folder before him. “We've got some passionate recommendations on this one.”

Kevin pulled on his invisible boxing gloves. He was ready to go to battle. Before the fur began to fly, he shot a quick look across the room at Sally Michelson. She was in charge of guidance, and she nodded to him. Sally was on his side in this. She’d only come into the discussion later, though.

“To bring everyone quickly up to date on this.” Peterson said, addressing the three first-year teachers. “The citizenship award is given twice a year at the end of each semester to the student who has shown, through their words and actions that they possess the qualities and characteristics we hope to instill in all our students.”

“And the award has always been given to a senior,” one of the music teachers interjected.

“That’s correct,” Peterson agreed. “That has been the tradition.”

“And because of that, I don’t think we should be thumbing our noses at this graduating class.” Ed Torangeau, a history teacher, was Kevin’s biggest opponent in this. “The recognition should go to an upperclassman. This is a moment in the sun for one of these kids.”

“But not their only opportunity,” Kevin corrected. “These students have plenty more chances to win all kinds of awards before they graduate. And last night I went through the awards we’ve given. Every senior worth his or her salt has gotten numerous awards, and next month we sit down to decide on the graduation prizes.”

“What’s your point, Kevin?” the music teacher cut in.

“Well, by giving the citizenship award to a deserving sophomore—like Juan Bradley—we’re sending the message that recognition for effort and accomplishment is not simply tied to the fact that you’re graduating. It reinforces the importance of making significant contributions to the school and the larger community throughout the four years a kid is here. This will send the message that being prepared for class and getting good grades isn’t the whole picture for underclassmen.”

“I’ll settle for just having them stay awake in class,” a young woman who was teaching two sections of general math said under her breath.

A few laughed, and others looked sympathetically in her direction.

Sally stepped in. “I agree with Kevin. We should look for and reward good citizenship with the same diligence that we correct mistakes. Giving a citizenship award to Juan Bradley will definitely hammer a point home.”

“Make up another award,” Torangeau suggested. “Give him a ribbon or something.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Kevin argued. “There’s recognition that already goes along with the citizenship award. Students talk about it. The name of the winner goes on the plaque by the office next to all the past winners. Everyday, kids go by and are reminded why those students’ names are there. There’s status and he deserves it.”

A few started talking at the same time. Sally had warned Kevin that the old guard wouldn’t go along with his suggestion without a little kicking and screaming.

Another teacher took Torangeau’s side. “We need consistency here. There’s nothing to indicate that Juan won’t keep up the good work he’s doing and earn it by the time he’s a senior. He should wait for his turn.”

“If we give the award to Juan now, what’s going to stop him from winning it two or three times more before he graduates,” someone else suggested.

“And why would that be a bad thing?” Sally responded before the principal could speak. Her expression clearly conveyed what she thought of the last question. “If he’s ‘walking the walk’, why not give it to him? We need to get away from thinking that seniors are the only ones who should be rewarded and given a pat on the back. Let’s start early, even let freshmen win that award if they deserve it.”

Kevin jumped in where Sally left off. He didn’t want to let the group get distracted with small talk.

“If we could just take a minute, let’s go over Juan’s qualifications,” he said. “First thing, his grades. He’s always been at the top of in his class. Extra-curricular activities, he plays two varsity sports in addition to being a section member in the school orchestra. Consider his achievement in civics and government courses, his performance in civics and government-related extracurricular activities. He’s a member or an officer of a half-dozen clubs. His community service is exemplary. I’ve lost count on how many places in and out of school that he volunteers.”

The room went silent for a moment. Faculty discussions didn’t usually get this animated.

“All I’m asking,” Kevin said, taking it down a notch, “is that we judge his qualifications against the seniors who applied and see where he stands.”

Kevin Gordon wouldn’t admit it to anyone in that room, but this campaign was personal. He’d been the one who’d brought this up at the parent-teacher conferences in November and encouraged Juan to write the qualifying essay for the award. Kevin had asked the principal’s opinion on it back then. Peterson had been open to the idea.

When it came right down to it, Juan Bradley was a very special human being. His gifts transcended his intelligence. He didn’t only shine as a student, he brightened the existence of everyone in the classroom and everyone, it seemed, who knew him. He extended himself to help others. Whoever, whenever.

Kevin was driven to reward the fifteen-year-old. And as an English teacher who taught mostly honors courses, he’d had most if not all of the seniors who were possible nominees for this award. None of them came close to Juan.

Kevin Gordon surveyed the room for those teachers who’d already had Juan in a class.

The geometry teacher quickly took the hint. “I think that’s only fair,” she said. “Give Juan a chance to get compared against seniors. Frankly, I believe he holds his own.”

“His essay was very impressive,” another member of the English department announced. He’d had Juan second semester last year and had also been one of the judges for the writing. “I’ve read all the personal essays, and his was the best by far. A lot of the seniors simply rehashed their college admissions essays.”

The senior member of the faculty, an older teacher who had Juan for Algebra II, stirred. “Juan was absent today.”

Sally brushed off the comment as irrelevant. “It’s the time of the year. Kids get sick. And Dr. Bradley was on the phone before 7 a.m. this morning. Juan’s attendance is not a problem.”

Ed Torangeau shrugged his shoulders. “I think we should put it up for a vote.”

Kevin looked at Scott Peterson. He’d hoped that the principal would say a few words on Juan’s behalf. The boy was a good friend to Scott’s son, Jake, though. Perhaps Scott didn’t want his actions to be construed as a conflict of interest. Whatever.

“As someone who feels no pull one way or the other,” a science teacher said. “I’d like to know who the top three or four students are before I vote. We all agree that Juan is one, who are the other candidates?”

“That’s what I want to vote on,” Torangeau said. “We need to decide whether or not an underclassman should be a finalist.”

“We can do that, Ed,” the principal said before responding to the science teacher. “Kay, a finalist list was put in everyone’s mailbox last Friday.”

“I didn’t get one,” someone else mumbled.

“I must have misplaced mine,” she said. “Do you have an extra one?”

“We’re clearly not ready to vote on anything, yet,” another teacher commented.

Everyone was talking at the same time, complaining, others questioning the finalist list. Kevin shook his head and leaned more heavily against the door. The knee was killing him. He looked at Sally. She was clearly annoyed. They weren’t getting anywhere today.

Suddenly, he realized that the noise level outside had grown louder than the argument in the room. Nobody else seemed to notice it, though. Kevin opened the door slightly and peeked out into the hall.

When he’d come in, the usual athletes and after-school crowd were milling about. Now a dozen students were running full speed down the corridor. One girl was screaming and the sound of more screams came from the library, across the hall.

There was no fire alarm. No sirens.

“What’s going on out there?” He heard the principal say over his shoulder.

Kevin stepped into the hall.

“Don’t do it,” a woman cried. “Please don’t.”

He crossed quickly to the doorway of the library. Inside, Sue, the librarian, was standing chalk-faced behind the counter that separated her work area from the rest of the library. Her hands were extended in front of her, and Kevin could see them shaking.

“Put that down, right now. Please,” she spoke tensely.

Three girls were huddled on the floor by the wall of books, crying hysterically. There were other students under the tables and hiding behind the library shelves.

Without thinking, Kevin stepped in.

“Put the gun down,” Sue said more authoritatively. “Now!”

He should have walked out and sounded the alarms, called for help, but Kevin Gordon made the mistake of turning toward the assailant first.

“Juan!” he blurted, staring in horror at the fifteen year old. “What are you doing?”

The boy seemed to be stoned. No recognition registered in his pale face. The glassy eyes stared straight ahead.

“Juan, put that gun down,” he ordered.

As if it were happening in slow-motion, Kevin watched the barrel of the rifle swing in an arc away from the girls on the floor. In a moment, it was pointing at him.

Kevin was looking directly into Juan’s emotionless brown eyes when the boy started firing.

CHAPTERFOUR

Tuesday January 15

New York City

The nightmare was back.

Bryan Atwood had spent three years of his life working on these kinds of cases. He’d spent another five years seeing a shrink, trying to get over it. And here they were dragging him into the middle of it again. He couldn’t fucking believe it.

“December 11. Ten people, including a teen-age suspect, dead in this small town south of Chicago.” Don Geary, the FBI Special Agent in Charge who was heading the investigation, pointed to a thumbtack on the large United States map spread on one wall. “A quiet suburb of Pittsburgh. Five students and a teacher gunned down at a school dance on December 14. The female suspect—yes, female—kills herself on the scene.”

Bryan glanced at his old partner. Hank was looking at him and gave him a discreet shake of the head. He couldn’t believe it, either. With everything they had on their plates, with everything they’d been through in the past, it was incredible that they would drag both of them back to this.

Geary stabbed a fat finger at the next location on the map. “Four days later in Eugene, Oregon, a freshman opens fire with a semi-automatic rifle in a high school cafeteria, killing two students and wounding 22 others. He also kills himself on the scene.”

Bryan watched the news. He knew all of this. It was the worst outbreak of school violence the country had ever witnessed. The most widespread. It was a horrible tragedy. He flexed his neck and his jaw. The pain in his head was threatening to split it open. Bryan had gotten it the moment he received the message from his director about being put on a new assignment, starting immediately. No details. Just turn over the work he had to the others in his office. He’d be helping the FBI until further notice.

Bryan’s suspicions about the assignment had been confirmed the moment he’d walked inside this packed conference room.

“Two days later, on the day before the Christmas school vacation in Las Vegas, Nevada, a fifteen-year-old student kills two classmates and wounds another thirteen people during a shooting spree before taking her own life.” Geary was relentless.

Nearly ten years ago Bryan Atwood, a senior agent with the United States Secret Service, and Hank Gardner, a forensic psychologist, were assigned the task of conducting an inquiry into a series of high school shootings spanning fifteen years.

As part of this investigation, the two agents had worked with CDC, the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, as well as the Federal Department of Education and the National School Safety Center to identify common features of school-related violent deaths. They’d investigated and analyzed a total of thirty seven incidents involving forty one student attackers. The study involved the extensive review of police records, school records, court documents, and other source materials, and included interviews with ten school shooters who were serving various sentences in jail. The focus of the study had been to develop information about the school shooters’ pre-attack behaviors and communications. The goal was to provide information to educators about characteristics that may be identifiable or noticeable before the violent act occurs, to inform those at risk just how to prevent school attacks.

The Secret Service Safe School Initiative had been the study published by the group. There’d been a lot of press coverage afterward, and a few politicians had patted them on the back. But they obviously didn’t have all the answers, for a decade later violence in schools was back with more intensity and frequency than ever before.

Geary moved to the other side of the map. “January 3. San Francisco, California. A fifteen-year-old guns down eight students as they walk to school from the bus. The crossing guard is shot dead. The suspect kills himself on the sidewalk by the front door of the high school,” the SAC continued with the same intensity.

Bryan saw Hank sink lower in the chair. He had a good idea that his friend hadn’t been given any say, either, on whether or not he wanted to work on this case.

They both had said never again. The prison visits, interviewing the kids, parents of the victims and accusers, the grief that surrounded everyone associated with these tragedies had been overwhelming, even for reasonably tough guys like them. Because of what was going on in his life, Bryan had taken the hit harder than Hank. It had been more than just feeling low. It has messed with his head.

And on top of it all, they hadn’t been able to solve anything. It was back.

“Wickfield, Connecticut. Yesterday, another fifteen-year-old male opens fire on a teacher and fellow students in the school library. Seven injuries, two critical. Miraculously, no deaths. More amazing, the suspect is alive but in critical condition.” The FBI Special Agent stopped and looked around the room.

This was his chance, Bryan thought. His seniority should count for something. After twenty three years in the Service, he was practically ancient. He could say screw it and walk out. He’d been here, done this. Bryan wasn’t the right person for this case. He could cite medical reasons if they tried to force him. Hank would support him. So would the department shrink who’d spent months observing him and talking to him. Outside doctors would attest to it, too. His department had kept him away from these kinds of cases since the study was published. Why was he back in now?

“Everyone has already met Secret Service Agents Atwood and Gardner,” the SAC continued.

There were nods across the room. Most of them were half his age, Bryan thought. Green and tough. They would bounce back…most of them. A case like this was a young person’s game.

“Last week, we were going over the reports you wrote on this topic,” a female FBI agent announced, sounding impressed. “The process you outlined for threat assessment in schools is still the benchmark.”

She didn’t look much older than his eldest daughter. How old was Andrea? Seventeen. Bryan ran a tired hand through his hair.

“Years ago, I sat in on one of the talks you gave to discuss your research,” Geary said to Bryan directly, as if knowing he was the more resistant of the two. “I recall the results being very well received.”

Bryan nodded. “I think I can speak for Agent Gardner when I say that you’ve seen, read, or heard everything Hank and I have to offer on a project like this,” Bryan said. “I really don’t know why we’re here.”

“Reports can never replace firsthand expertise,” Geary said.

“True, but we weren’t really involved in the initial investigative stage of those cases,” Hank put in. “We were the Monday morning quarterbacks. Paperwork shufflers. We analyzed data and wrote the reports.”

That was a lie, but Bryan wasn’t going to correct his old partner. He understood what Hank was trying to do. It was the same thing that he would do himself. Neither of them wanted to be involved with this.

“You’re too modest, Agent Gardner,” Geary said in the smooth tone befitting a true paper shuffler. “But your reputation precedes you. This is a very high visibility case. Everyone, going up as far as President, is sensitive and anxious about results. People all over the country are nervous about sending their kids to school. There have been six shootings, all within a month. It’s as if these kids are like time bombs, ticking away, and they’re going off too close to one another.”

For ten days of that period, most school districts across the country had been shut down for the Christmas holidays. What other acts of violence had been committed by kids in the same age group—acts that didn’t occur on a school property and as the result weren’t on that map?

Bryan realized what he was doing. He was already thinking about it.

“Frankly, there hasn’t been enough time for us to go over all the background on what you two accomplished in working up that report. We doubt we’re asking the right questions. We all know what the post-911 shakeups have done to our organizations. Terrorism has been the priority. Now, we need expertise on this.” Geary turned directly to Bryan. “And your names are the ones that have come up over and over again. The latest call I had came from the White House.”

Geary was lathering it on thick. He was one of the new generation of SACs. Some of these guys spent as much time learning to be politicians as they did learning law enforcement. Of course, there was also the fact that their asses were being held over a bonfire with these shootings.

“Similar to the panel you worked on before, we need group intelligence to crack the case,” Geary explained.

“I keep hearing you repeat the word case. There have been six shootings. Are you saying that you’ve already established a tie between all of them?” Bryan asked.

“I think we may have, but we’re not sure,” Geary said motioning to an agent to his left to pass two thick files to them. The younger agent had straight shoulder length black hair, pierced ears, and an untucked shirt over blue-jeans. He’d been introduced to Bryan as Nick Luna when they’d first arrived. Christ, things were changing.

“They were all honor students,” the younger agent explained. “And by that, we don’t mean the top ten percent, but absolutely the very top of their class. The top one percent of the national population IQ rate.”

As father of two very bright students himself, Bryan knew about the battle gifted kids faced. The school systems didn’t want to hear it. The taxpayers remained deaf to it. But at the time of cuts, gifted programs topped the lists. They didn’t understand that they had to keep these kids active, challenged, busy, or they got bored and robbed your houses or became ax-murderers.

“They were all the work of fifteen year olds,” Nick continued.

“Tough age for kids, especially for boys,” Hank commented. “Their brain capacity makes them so smart that they become stupid. What else?”

“There’s more to the age thing,” Geary broke in. “They all turned fifteen within this past month.”

“These teenagers have different toys to play with today than what was available ten years ago,” Hank said. “Internet, cell phones, X-Box 360, all kinds of shooter-type video games. We were told the shootings were widespread across the country, but were these kids in contact with one another in any way? Could it be a cyber-gang of some sort, tied to their birthdays? Maybe the violence is even part of a ritual?”

A few of the agents started scribbling down notes furiously. A couple of others leafed through the folders before them.

“Another thing, has anyone compiled a list of the prescription drugs these teenagers were taking?” Hank continued.

Bryan leaned back against his seat. Hank was in. But it wasn’t like they had any options.

“Put up what we have on the board,” Geary said to Nick Luna. He looked like he’d just eaten the canary. “We’re ready to go to work.”

Bryan wished that was true. He hoped it would be easy to zip shut the bag of worms he could feel wriggling deep inside of him.

Whatever happened, he had to stay strong enough to make it through this investigation without losing it.

CHAPTERFIVE

Wednesday January 16

Yale-New Haven Hospital

New Haven, Connecticut

Her son needed help, but Lexi was helpless. Her feet were planted in soft, wet cement. She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her throat. They were taking him away, and no one saw her. There was no one to help her go after him. Darkness was closing in around her, and Juan was being swallowed by it.

Her leg jumped uncontrollably and Lexi’s eyes opened wide. She’d fallen asleep. It was only a dream, a mishmash of every nightmare that had ever haunted her sleep.

The cold vinyl seat was stuck to the back of her sweatshirt. Her neck was sore, her bones ached. She looked around. The sterile hallways of the hospital stared back. The smell of disinfectant was familiar and instantly sobering. Reality was much scarier than the nightmare she’d just had. She didn’t know what had become of Juan. An invisible hand was thrusting itself into her chest, grabbing her heart and squeezing so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Tears rushed to her eyes as the events of the past two days played in her head.

She’d arrived here on Monday. She’d left a patient on the examining table and two more in the waiting room and had walked out with the police officer who’d arrived at her practice bringing the horrific news. Her denial had been instant. The son she’d raised was incapable of violence. They had the wrong boy. This couldn’t be happening to Juan. Not to her son. This whole thing had to be one massive mistake.

Leaning her head back against the wall, Lexi tried for the zillionth time to make some sense out of all of this. Two days later, she still had no answers. The shock of hearing that Juan had shot his teacher and classmates had been more devastating than anything she’d faced in her entire life.

Not her child. He couldn’t be capable of such an act. They’d told her he’d collapsed after the shooting, passing out and slipping into a coma. Two days later, he was still the same.

Lexi rubbed her pounding temple. She wanted to know exactly what tests they’d run on him so far. She wanted to see the results. As a doctor, she knew too much. She’d been contemplating too many scenarios, all of them scary. But the officials gave her no answers. Her background didn’t matter a bit to these investigators. Being Juan’s mother seemed to matter even less. He was the assailant. Period. And they were in this alone.

Lexi’s brother, Allen, had arrived yesterday and stayed overnight. He had to go back to New Jersey tonight, though. His wife, Donna, was having her second chemo-therapy treatment for breast cancer tomorrow. His family needed him.

Bad luck came in waves. The past couple of months had been surreal, worse than a nightmare. Donna was fighting for her life. And now Juan and the shooting. Lexi felt like her life had become entrapped inside a snowball rolling down a steep hill. The farther down she went, the faster and more out of control everything became.

She reached deep inside the front pocket of her slacks and found the business card she’d stuffed there this afternoon. An attorney. A stranger that Allan had found for her. Judith McGrath’s specialty was juveniles. Her brother had called the attorney for Lexi, even met with her this morning. Judy, he’d called her. She was coming over to the hospital tomorrow to see Lexi. By then, maybe Juan’s condition would have improved, too. Maybe he’d be awake.

But then what? She knew the end of Juan’s coma was only the beginning. Panic started to close her throat again. Her son’s medical recovery would be the last of these people’s concerns. There would be a trial. Lexi wondered if they’d move Juan to a prison. He’d be scared. Tears rushed in again. She wiped them away. She couldn’t let her mind go there. Not yet.

“I’m going down to the cafeteria, Dr. Bradley. Can I get you something to eat?”

Lexi recognized the voice. One of the third-shift nurses. Her name was Linda. She’d been here last night, too, and had asked the same question of her and Allan. She wiped her face with the bunched tissue in her hand and looked up at the softly wrinkled black face. She’d been so kind from the very start. No judgments at all. “You don’t have to call me Dr. Bradley. No one else around here does.”

“Those cops have forgotten their manners. And the nurses will know better from now on. I gave every one of them the whole scoop on you.”

Lexi rubbed her stiff neck. “And where did you get the scoop on me?”

“I have my sources.”

Lexi shared an internal medicine practice with three other doctors. There were half a dozen nurses and physician’s assistants who worked with them. But she also worked with both Waterbury and St. Mary’s hospitals. The state of Connecticut was too small for people to not know one another. “How bad was the scoop?”

“I’m mentioning no names, but the word out there is that this shouldn’t be happening to you and your son.” Linda patted Lexi gently on the shoulder. “Everyone is really worried about you.”

Lexi choked up. For the most part in the past couple of days, she’d kept a tight rein on her emotions in front of other people, but kindness got to her.

“So how about some food?” Linda said repeating her original question.

“Can I see my son?” Lexi asked instead.

“I’m sorry, Doc, but that’s not my call,” the nurse said in a hushed voice and pointed with her head in the direction of two uniformed officers stationed outside Juan’s door. “And I wouldn’t ask that bunch over there, either. They don’t make any decisions on their own. You’ll have to wait for one of the detectives in charge to come in.”

Juan had been wheeled out of that room on a gurney once today. Unlike Monday, when she’d been forced to stay in the waiting area of the emergency room, or yesterday, when the hospital staff had kept her an arm’s length away, Lexi had been allowed to hold his hand and walk next to him when he went to MRI. He’d slept through it all, only waking up for the first time momentarily when he’d been inside the machine. But there had been no recognition. He’d only touched his head and said, “It hurts,” before going back to sleep.

Yesterday, when they told her he was in a coma, she had also learned that all his vitals were excellent. Then, Lexi had been able to coax one of the residents last night to show her Juan’s charts. Everything she’d seen looked normal.

Today, no one explained whether or not anything was different. But the fact that he’d opened his eyes and spoken a couple of words, even though it was only for a moment, meant nothing. A few possibilities had been running through Lexi’s mind. Juan could have had a stroke. Or perhaps he had a brain tumor. A sudden, dramatic change of attitude was one of the symptoms, as were seizures. As scary as the prospect of a tumor was, it made it easier for her to rationalize his actions on Monday.

Over the past couple of weeks he’d been complaining of headaches. She hadn’t done anything about it, blaming it on his allergies and a respiratory virus that was making its way around school.

She’s been blind to whatever it was that Juan had been fighting. It was right in front of her, and she’d not pursued it. Guilt was a constant companion to all other emotions raging inside of her.

“Has he shown any more alertness?” Lexi asked knowing she had to make good use of any direct information she could get from the hospital staff.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll double check with other nurses when I go back.”

“Are any doctors going to see him again tonight?” Lexi persisted.

“One of the residents will make the rounds in another hour.”

“Do you know who’s on call tonight?” Lexi asked, hoping that the same doctor as last night would be on staff.

“I’m not sure. But I can check on that, too.”

“Whoever it is on,” she added quickly. “Will you ask them to talk to me? Just to answer a couple of questions?”

She hadn’t heard anything about Juan’s imaging tests. By now, they had to have some results. Lexi knew she wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list to get answers.

Allan had relayed Attorney McGrath’s explanations. Because of the shooting and his arrest, Juan was now in the custody of the state, and Lexi had practically no say in anything when it came to her son’s care and condition. She was at the mercy of whatever government agent or detective happened to be in charge at the hospital.

“I’ll try to do whatever I can, Dr. Bradley.” Linda patted Lexi’s hand gently. “How about some food? You haven’t left the hospital for two days now. Your brother was very concerned about you when he left. How about a nice sandwich or at least a salad?”

“No, thanks. No food. I can’t eat,” Lexi whispered, planting her elbows on her knees and sinking her face into her hands. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t going to go home and take a nap, or have a shower. Her clothes were wrinkled. So what? She smelled like the antiseptic soap in the bathroom, but she didn’t care.

She wouldn’t call any friends and pour out her grief, either. She couldn’t ask for anyone’s help in this community. Her practice would run on its own. Her partners would take care of things. She had a couple of messages on her cell phone from the people at the office. They’d said the same thing, told her not to worry about things there. She couldn’t bring herself to call them back. Everyone was somehow affected by the shooting. Wickfield was a very small town. Everyone knew one another. They all knew those who were injured at the high school. Lexi wondered what would become of their future—Juan’s future and hers.

“You can’t be much help to your son if you let yourself get rundown like this,” Linda said softly.

Lexi had no answer. She was at a loss for what to do, where to go, whom to contact. This was totally unlike her. She was a person always in charge.

She heard Linda’s footsteps move down the hall, and unexpected tears wet the palms of her hands. Lexi didn’t know she had any left. Helpless, weak, confused, scared. She wished she could fight it. But there was nothing left in her. All she felt was empty and alone.

CHAPTERSIX

“So much for not being involved in the first stage of the investigation,” Hank Gardner complained.

He and Bryan sat in the black SUV on the second level of the parking garage. A dim spotlight at the far end of the row shone on the cars and illuminated wisps of steam escaping the building ductwork next door. The air outside was crisp. All day, the radio stations had been threatening significant snowfall for tonight.

Neither of the agents was ready to leave the car.

“One good thing,” Bryan said. “We have a survivor to talk to.”

“Yeah,” Hank said, not trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “That’s great.”

“Look, Juan Bradley is the only shooter who has survived the recent rash of incidents,” Bryan said. “He could shed light on whether there are any connections with the others or not.”

“That is, if he comes through alive.”

“Have you gotten any straight answers about his condition?”

Hank shook his head. “One report said it was a stroke.”

“Is that possible for a fifteen-year-old?”

“It is, but they didn’t send me any test results. Nothing to support it.” Hank looked out at the brick and cement wall of the hospital building next door. Yale-New Haven Hospital, together with its medical school, had to cover about ten city blocks. “So we’re here.”

“We’re here.”

Hank glanced over at his friend seated behind the wheel of the SUV. The two of them were close to the same age. They had around the same number of years with the agency. But they’d never met until they’d been assigned to the school violence program back in the nineties.

Perhaps it was the fact that they both had their own children. Or maybe it was the tragedy that surrounded those school shootings. But the two men had become good friends, and it was a friendship that had lasted through a lot of ups and downs, a couple of moves, and some personal tragedies. Bryan was a company man, higher ranking than Hank. The six foot four, square-built agent had given plenty in the service of his country. There used to be a time when Bryan never refused assignments. But that had changed over the past decade. This case was a sad exception and, for his friend’s sake, Hank wished he’d refused it.

“Did you get a hold of your wife?” Bryan asked.

Hank nodded. Cathy was speaking at a seminar in Florida. He hadn’t been able to get hold of her until very late last night. “She’s getting back to Boston tonight.” He glanced down at his watch. “Actually, she’s probably landed. The girls are picking her up at the airport.”

“She must have had a few things to say about what we’re working on again.”

Hank smiled. “She has a very colorful mouth for a psychologist turned academic.” Being in the same profession as him, Cathy never kept her opinions to herself. During the years of Bryan’s struggle, Cathy had been right there, helping and interfering as she saw fit. “Yeah, she called me a few names for letting you get back into this.”

Bryan shook his head and smiled. “I hope you took it like a man and shouldered the blame.”

“Of course.” Hank looked around the quiet garage before turning to his friend again. “In all seriousness, are you going to be okay with it?”

“No problem.”

“I can find a way out of this for us. We could argue that these cases are nothing like the ones we worked on before.”

“How is that?” Bryan asked.

“I spent the afternoon reading over the interviews with the witnesses and school officials,” Hank explained. “Unlike what we saw before, none of these teenagers appear to have planned out the attacks. None told their friends about it beforehand. They weren’t loners or Goth rebels trying to kill conceited jocks. Every one of them seemed to just snap. If everyone is telling the truth, then that’s a very serious pattern…and very different from the profile we worked up.”

“Geary’s group didn’t mention that,” Bryan said.

“That’s right. Because if he admitted to it, the cases would be out of our realm of expertise. The kind of adolescent killers we worked with before didn’t snap. They planned. They acquired weapons. They told their friends. They had websites.”

“That’s true. If Juan Bradley lives, his lawyer will have a clear insanity defense.”

“So you see,” Hank replied, nodding. “There’s still time to drive away.”

Bryan rubbed his neck. “What’s difficult to get a handle on is the frequency of these shootings. There could be more.”

“That’s true.”

“So, the fact is, they need us. Even though the profile is different, we could possibly do something to prevent more killing.”

“That’s possible,” Hank agreed.

He watched his friend frown and take a deep breath.

“Then let’s go.” Bryan pushed open his door. “Before I change my mind.”

CHAPTERSEVEN

Some of the