Chapter 30

Quentin Richards hadn’t felt so depressed since his time in the military. Now there had been two casualties associated with the school. Why was this happening? Who was behind it?

He walked out of his office on the ground floor of the main building, telling his secretary he was just stepping out for air. The school grounds were peaceful. It was nearing the end of the day. All of the children were inside, in their classrooms, awaiting dismissal.

Master Quentin walked around back toward the playground. Then he strode willfully into the cemetery where the lofty sycamores were just leafing out. In the children’s butterfly garden, new blooms would soon be attracting a variety of insects—hungry for nectar, spreading pollen around. All was still and calm. He looked around from the back of the school, across the play field, toward the meeting house and back to where he stood in the cemetery. Everything was right. Everything in its place. Except for the presence of the security guards in their black commando sweaters and berets, he could have pretended that all was well, nothing out of the ordinary at Gardenfield Friends.

But there was no escaping the fact: the guards were there—Quentin himself had asked for them the day following Gussie’s disappearance—and all was not well. He put his hand to his collar. Quentin realized he was feeling flushed and anxious. His skin was breaking out in sweat, and cold chills pulsed up and down his frame.

He mopped his face with a linen handkerchief and carefully replaced it in his back pocket. Then he walked quickly back to his office, clutching his suit jacket closed against the chill. He picked up the phone, and angrily punched the keys for the number he’d scrawled on his blotter.

“Nyew gawden buyo-sci-ences. Can you hold please?”

Master Quentin held, dabbing at drops of sweat as he waited.

“How can I direct your cawl?”

“I need to speak with Dr. Fischer,” replied Quentin, trying hard not to take it out on the receptionist.

“Cyanni tell him who’s calling?”

“This is Quentin Richards from Gardenfield Friends School. He’ll know what it’s about.”

“Hold please.”

The sound of children exploding from the building after six hours of compression greeted his ear. They were shouting, cheering, raving. Not a care in the world, in spite of everything.

Suddenly he realized he was listening to Fischer’s recorded voice. She’d dumped him into voice mail. OK. He’d talk to the machine. “Dr. Fischer, Quentin Richards here. I appreciate the use of your security people, but I have to say their uniforms are totally inappropriate for the school grounds. Can you please have them wear ordinary clothes while they’re here? I …” He nearly added a more personal message, then thought better of it.

He stepped out onto the front porch to watch the children leave the schoolyard. Most were getting on the bus. They weren’t letting kids walk home or ride bikes anymore, so that meant more parents had to pick up. The street was a hive of activity.

Alison and Icky walked by on the opposite side of Garden Avenue. They were holding hands. They released their grip long enough to wave to Master Quentin. He acknowledged them only with the slightest dip of his chin. He glanced nervously toward the commando from NewGarden, to see if he noticed. Some instinct told him that the less these people knew, the better. Now Alison and Icky were changing direction. They were crossing the street to approach the school. Frantic, Master Quentin ordered them away with a surreptitious shake of the head. It was definitely not the right time for a social call.

One of the last mothers to pick up her child that day was Judy Cohen. She was driving a Lexus hybrid SUV and was running late—mostly because of the baby. Mimi scrambled into the car without greeting her mother. She buckled herself into the seat next to her sister’s rear-facing crashproof contraption and announced, “I’m hungry. Let’s get Chinese food.”