Blind School Read online

  She wasn’t going anywhere.

  THREE

  Ellis Kendell arrived ten minutes after the main network vans. Just as make-up and hair was being tidied for the first newscasts.

  Mid-forties, African-American, with twenty FBI years under his belt, he surveyed the scene with tired indifference.

  Tracy Fulton was already handcuffed in the back seat of a squad car, its lights flashing. And as the press of competing flash-lights from surrounding cameramen became too much, the squad car pulled away, fronted and tailed by two other squad cars. Their sirens wound up as they cut a swathe through the gathered crowd.

  Ellis sat in a black Econoline van, its windows tinted. Like every day for the past eight years, purely a silent witness. Unlike the other FBI agents milling freely among the people out front and inside the cafe, asking questions and taking notes, Ellis needed to stay invisible, a shadow.

  And so Ellis silently observed the scene ahead as he had scores of similar scenes every month. Tired indifference. But that didn’t make the thought that there might be another one out there any easier to take.

  Five detectives were given the task of interviewing Mocha Bocha customers about what they might have seen, so Ryan, Tommy and Ginge had to wait fifteen minutes before a detective got round to them.

  The detective sat opposite them at a table at the back of the cafe. He quickly ascertained that Ginge hadn’t noticed the girl until she started shooting, but the other two boys had noticed her earlier.

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Only as she approached the counter, mind you. And only briefly – I didn’t pay much attention to her either until that first shot.’

  The detective turned to Ryan. ‘And you?’

  ‘I noticed her as soon as she walked in.’

  The detective started making his first notes. ‘And what was it that made you first notice her. Her trench coat, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah, partly that. But it was mainly her wild look, and something else too...’ Ryan broke off. It would sound odd, and he doubted the detective would understand.

  ‘Her shotgun, perhaps,’ the detective pressed after a moment. ‘Did you see that beneath her trench coat as she walked in?’

  ‘No, no. I didn’t see that until she raised it at the counter.’

  ‘I see.’ The detective looked at him expectantly. His pen started to tap on his pad. ‘So what, then?’

  Ryan looked down for a second. It was going to seem equally odd now not saying anything. He smiled disarmingly.

  ‘I know it’s gonna sound kinda crazy. But I saw like a strange apparition swirling in her: half-angel, half-monster... and it turned to stare at me just a moment before she did.’ Ryan held a palm out. ‘That's why I think she fired our way rather than somewhere else.’

  The detective continued to stare levelly at Ryan. ­He lightly chewed his bottom lip after a second.

  ‘Incidents like this can be more disturbing than we're willing to accept – at least at any sort of conscious level. ­End up playing all sorts of tricks on the mind.’ He grimaced indulgently. ‘But there'll be a trauma counsellor here later if you want to talk to him.’

  ‘No, no. It's okay.’ Ryan shook his head. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything. Tommy and Ginge were now also glancing at him askew.

  ‘I'll point him your way when he arrives, if you like.’

  ‘No, really. It's okay.’

  It had been a long day for the forty-seven men in the upstate New York operations room. The first few hours of the day, most jackets would still be on. But now in the closing hours of their shift, seventy-percent were off and over their chair backs, and a fair few ties were loosened and sleeves rolled up too.

  The view on the screens across the room was the same: street security-cam views from across the nation constantly shifting and changing. Like many other FBI security operations rooms, except that each screen carried an added filter.

  A few of the men closest to the door looked round as Ellis Kendell, their department-head, walked in. Kendell approached his second in command, Josh Eskovitz.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Like a healthy margarine spread. Super-light. Only found one. First in three days.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Eugene, Oregon.’

  They turned to a screen to one side. Eskovitz tapped the keys and the image frozen on screen started moving again as the loop replayed. Ellis leaned over to look closer: fifteen year old boy amongst a milling group of shoppers on a busy street.

  As the boy turned towards the camera and an opaque light refraction became evident in his eyes, Eskovitz stopped the loop again.

  Ellis straightened up, eased his breath. ‘Better than our record of twelve days with none, I suppose. Okay. Usual watch on him for now, and standard prep before moving in. And how are we...’ Ellis broke off as his cell-phone started buzzing in his pocket. He looked at its display: his wife, Carla. He took a step away to answer it. ‘Yeah... Hi.’

  ‘Hi. This meeting is going on longer than I thought. They're still going through my portfolio.’ Carla glanced back at a couple of men at the end of an art gallery looking through a folder. ‘I might be tight getting to Santos's school on time. Could you pick him up?’

  ‘Er, yeah... I think so.’ He checked his watch. ‘Four O'clock, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Four O'clock. Thomas Edison's.’

  ‘I know which school my son goes to, Carla.’ He did his best mock offended. ‘I have picked him up before, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember that time. Reagan was still President and all the talk was who shot JR?’

  He chuckled. ‘Don’t push it now.’

  ‘Would I ever? Seriously, thanks. You're a lifesaver.’

  Her wry smile eased as she clicked off and looked back to see how they were getting on with her portfolio.

  Ellis brought his attention back to Josh Eskovitz.

  ‘And what news on Culverton?’

  ‘The old man survived his op – so no grand power-plays yet.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘And apparently the family pushed to get him out the hospital early.’

  Ellis nodded thoughtfully, a shadow of concern crossing his face. ‘But I daresay not well enough yet for the upcoming air-show?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  The four girls stood in front of Williamstown high school: Jessica Werner with her friends Denise, Tammy and Briona, discussing what to do now school was out.

  All tenth graders in their mid-teens, Jessica appeared older for her years, though not through choice; that had come from the last two years of coping with her mother’s illness.

  Briona’s suggestion of heading to her place for a ‘study session’ was getting more support than the usual of going to the local mall. She turned to Jessica.

  ‘You going to join is? Should be good.’

  Jessica smiled tightly. ‘Thanks. But last study session you had ended up karaoke practice for the next American Idol.’

  Denise mocked petulant offence. ‘We got in at least a good hour's study before that.’

  ‘It's okay. I gotta get home anyway. Ben will be back soon, and mom will have trouble on her own if I’m not back to...’ Jessica's voice trailed off as she was distracted by something: a man across the inter-section ahead about to get in a black van.

  He was almost a hundred yards past the inter-section and with intermittent passing traffic and his back to them, it took her a moment to focus and get clear again what she thought she’d seen: a hazy, demon-like apparition within him, gently swirling.

  She blinked slowly, as if unsure what she was seeing or expecting the apparition to as quickly clear. The man started to turn her way – but then a passing city bus braked for traffic at the inter-section and blocked her view.

  ‘You okay?’ Denise asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Sure.’

  ‘Your mom's doing all right, isn't she? Not any worse?’

  Jessica forcibly brightened. ‘Yeah. She's getting on fine. Fin
e. Catch you guys later.’

  She looked back across the inter-section as her friends headed away. The city bus had shifted and the black van was starting to pull away.

  Jessica shook her head. Probably nothing.

  Ellis Kendell was sat in his car in front of the school looking out for his 12-year old son, Santos, as the kids streamed out.

  He had an easy-listening station on the radio and was singing along to Bill Wither’s ‘Ain’t no Sunshine’ when he spotted Santos with his friend, Timmy, amongst the milling throng.

  Ellis got out and lifted a hand in greeting.

  But as Santos beamed back in response, Ellis's gaze was drawn to a man forty yards along the road. The man's eyes appeared to be fixed on his son. Ellis's attention was still lost with that observation as his son approached.

  ‘You okay, dad?’

  Ellis finally pulled his attention from the man, opened the back door.

  ‘Er, yeah... yeah. Fine. You?’

  ‘Yeah, good. No mom today?’

  ‘No. No mom. Just good old trusty dad.’

  Wry smile from Santos. As he got in the car, he lifted an air-high-five towards Timmy. ‘See ya, Timmy.’

  ‘Yeah. Later.’

  Timmy continued past them as Ellis started up.

  But as Ellis went to pull out, he noticed that the man along the road was still staring towards his son.

  FOUR

  The Culverton mansion was one of the most resplendent in the Hamptons. When Joseph Culverton had originally bought it thirty years ago, he’d insisted to the real estate agent that he wanted something with two distinct wings, ‘to aptly reflect my trade.’ For the past six decades, three generations of Culvertons had been one of the main suppliers of fighter jets and missiles to the US military.

  Now a shadow of himself from those glory years, his wife Marisa at his bedside looked on with concern. Tubes fed and monitors beeped a reassuring progress, but Marisa looked anything but assured.

  ‘This problem between Alex and John – it's beginning to concern me.’

  ‘Alex can be spirited at times, I agree – but I’m sure it's no more than sibling rivalry. And he wouldn't dare go against me.’

  ‘But what might happen when you're not around, Joseph? A mother knows her sons, and –’

  ‘Come on...’ Joseph cut in, tapping his chest. ‘Got a new valve now. Good for another fifteen, twenty, the doctors say. Another few weeks care and physio and I’ll be running a couple of miles a day.’

  Marisa offered a strained smile. Perhaps she should have waited before saying anything.

  ‘Also, outings such as this upcoming air display at Andrews without my presence should help,’ Joseph commented.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Probably in the past they’ve felt intimidated with me there. Now they’ve got to think more for themselves. Also, they’ll need to work better together or at least put on a show of unity to nail those contracts.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. There is that.’

  ‘And Alex has his many good points. He cared enough to get me out the hospital and back home, didn't he?’

  Marisa nodded, touched her husband’s hand in reassurance.

  ‘Yes, you're right. He must have cared to do that.’

  The makeshift stand at Andrews air-force base was built to take fifty to sixty spectators. To one side was the control tower and main hangars, and at the far end stood five old turbo-props from an aircraft graveyard. Behind them, forty yards of red-carpet led to a large marquee.

  Above the airfield, three Falcon F-35’s put on a warm-up display as the air force brass, government officials and arms representatives took their seats, amongst them Alex and John Culverton.

  As Alex slid along the second the third aisle in the display stand, he turned to John.

  ‘I even managed to arrange your seat next to your favourite Senator.’

  ‘Thanks. I didn't know you cared.’ John offered a taut smile.

  ‘Oh, John. You don't appreciate just how much I care. Never have.’

  John's brow knitted, as if gauging hidden import. Then he turned with an open smile as he saw his pet Senator approaching.

  ‘Senator Finley. Good to see you again.’

  Culverton Industries newly rolled out Aquila was fourth in the display schedule. As its pilot took it up to Mach 1.5, its cockpit started to shake.

  ‘Just going into the roll now.’

  The sky and clouds tilted, and twelve hundred feet below practically every eye in the spectator stand was fixed on the manoeuvre.

  Each aircraft manufacturer at the show had their own visual co-ordinator in the control tower to guide their pilots. The voice of the Aquila co-ordinator came through the pilot’s earpiece:

  ‘Lock on just beyond the apex.’

  ‘Affirmative.’ But with the G-force, the pilot could barely move now; it took all his effort to manipulate the controls.

  Before the Aquila had fully straightened from its roll, one of its missiles fired. It streaked across the sky, and the spectators below observed it consume one of the turbo-props in a fireball.

  A ripple of applause ran through the audience, including Senator Finley. He turned to John Culverton at his side.

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘We like to think so. The Aquila is one of the only jet fighters that can lock-on and fire coming out of a Mach one-point-five roll.’

  Alex smiled tightly at the two locked in conversation. He leant closer to John's other ear to be heard above the jet roar.

  ‘Got something to see to. I'll leave you two to it.’

  Inside the marquee, a flurry of waiters were busily putting the final touches to its buffet.

  Alex headed towards the bar in the corner and his assistant, Coby, who also doubled as a bodyguard and chauffeur. Coby wasn’t that tall, otherwise Alex might have felt inadequate alongside. But he was broad and bull-necked with the usual De rigueur bodyguard fashion-accessory: a shaved head. Coby handed Alex his drink as he approached.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Alex perched on a bar-stool and looked thoughtfully towards the marquee entrance and activity outside.

  John Culverton and Senator Finley tilted their heads up as another jet fighter completed an impressive spinning dive and straightened out.

  ‘Nice to see our competitors raising their game.’ John smiled tightly. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Still doesn't seem appear to have the manoeuvrability of the Aquila, though.’

  John's cell phone started ringing in his pocket. ‘No, I daresay it doesn't. Excuse me.’

  But John appeared to have trouble hearing with the increased roar as the jet made another approach. He held his cell-phone out for a moment, pressing a button on it before bringing it back to his ear.

  At that moment in an SUV parked in a side street three miles away, its equipment inside suddenly came to life. Lights flashed urgently as its mass of circuits started speaking to each; but with its windows blacked out, an activity totally unseen by any passers-by.

  John Culverton had moved to the end of the spectator stand, still struggling to be heard above the roar of the jet. He nodded and gave a last glance towards the Aquila above, then headed towards the marquee.

  The Aquila pilot swept in low, centring on screen for the final missile lock-on – when suddenly the plane jolted and swept in lower still.

  He wrestled with the joystick, flicked some switches – but still no response.

  ‘I... I don't know what's happened. I don't seem to have control any more.’

  ‘Try manual re-set,’ the co-ordinator said.

  ‘Already tried’

  ‘Try again!’

  The pilot frantically flicked more switches, but still nothing. And now the plane was dangerously low and appeared to be veering towards the crowd stand.

  Muted gasps rose from the stand and those close to its edge started to shift.

  Inside the SUV, its monitor lights flickered wildly.

  ‘Ok
ay – bail out. Eject!’ The co-ordinator shouted.

  The pilot tried one last manual override, nothing – then hit his eject button.

  He flew into the sky above the jet as it careened towards the stand, more people now spilling out from either side.

  As John Culverton walked into the marquee, he scanned the five or six people already there as if looking for somebody specific. Then shrugged and started his way towards Alex at the bar. But halfway across, the urgent voice booming over the PA system made his head turn.

  ‘Clear the stand... Clear the stand! Aircraft incoming!’

  Gasps, more urgent shouts and some screams now from the spectator stand as people desperately tried to get clear – but only the people at its edge managed to escape as the jet scythed into it.

  The blast from the explosion ripped through the marquee, knocking John flat and taking out half the glass on the bar, some of it striking Alex and Coby.

  Alex quickly righted himself and walked out. Through what was left of the tattered ribbons of marquee canvass. Three fire trucks were already moving in, sirens blazing.

  He struck a lonely figure on the edge of the smouldering carnage, a few blood flecks on his face from glass cuts – so stunned that he looked almost impassive.

  FIVE

  Jessica Werner had just finished shutting the door after signing for the package from the UPS messenger when she heard the pad of small footsteps from above.

  She went into the kitchen and mixed two teaspoons of white powder in a glass of orange juice, stirred vigorously, and took the glass in to her mother in the front room.

  Early morning, Mrs Werner was still in her dressing gown and looked tired. But Jessica knew that it wasn’t just from shaking off sleep: her mother would look tired and worn and would stay in her dressing gown for most of the day. Barely fifty, but Jessica had watched her mother age ten years in the last three.

  ‘Ben’s up. I’d better get him ready,’ Jessica said.