Then came the crash and burn, and the next thing Jake battled was depression. Though he was busy with work, Lance never lost touch with his brother or his struggles. He returned to the family home in New Hampshire every Sunday for dinner, and he and Jake would spend hours talking about life and how Jake might find his footing once more. After Lance’s short marriage ended (he was childless, and vowed to remain that way), the brothers had even more in common.
Little by little, Jake got stronger as he dedicated more time and effort to learning survival skills. Lance might not have agreed with his brother’s beliefs, but he noticed the physical and emotional turnaround. Without reservation, Lance had offered to help get Jake a job as a custodian at his school.
After a lengthy interview process, Jake had accepted a position, but not Lance’s offer of financial help. Committed to the survivalist ethos of self-reliance, Jake and Andy moved to the double-wide trailer, all they could afford, a few miles from campus.
Lance’s only request had been that Jake would keep his beliefs private. Nobody needed to know that the school custodian was a dedicated survivalist and what some would term a doomsday prepper. Jake had no trouble honoring Lance’s wishes. He would keep lots of things secret, including his use of those underground passageways and chambers that would eventually function as his and Andy’s retreat, their BOL. Even Lance didn’t know about those.
After they ordered, Lance turned to Andy. “I had an interesting conversation with the dean of students about you today, Andy, my boy.” He ruffled Andy’s hair.
“What’d you hear?” Andy asked. He reddened and looked down at his lap. In three years at Pepperell Academy, Andy, now a junior with Carnegie Mellon at the top of his college choice list, had never violated the school’s disciplinary policies.
“Easy, honcho,” Lance said with a fractured smile. “She apparently spoke to Ryan, and he insisted you two were just roughhousing.”
The three looked at each other.
“Thank goodness for Ryan’s ego, eh?” Lance said with a wink and a smile.
“That guy is a major-league A-hole,” Andy announced.
“Well, that may be the case,” Lance said, his smile fading, “but his parents are major-league benefactors of the school. I’d advise you to try other approaches in dealing with any future confrontations. Understood?”
Andy said nothing.
“Understood?” Lance repeated, more sternly.
“Understood,” Andy finally agreed. “But he’s still an asshole.”
Jake was trying to hold down his grin, but the corners of his mouth lifted up anyway.
Andy gave a shrug as if to say, “Why should money make anybody special?”
While Jake was learning a new trade as the head custodian of the school, Lance had spent several years enhancing his credentials. He’d earned an Ed.D. from Amherst College through an accelerated doctorate program for working professionals. By the time Andy was old enough to enroll in Pepperell Academy, Lance had taken the job as head of school. In that role, Lance assumed responsibility for managing daily operations, overseeing curriculum, hiring and supervising the faculty, and implementing the operational mandates of the school’s board.
His biggest responsibility, however, was not included in any job description. A good head of school was a beacon for wealthy donors; and in some ways, Lance likened himself to a gold miner. Many parents could not afford the pricey tuition, some could just cover the cost, but plenty-well over 50 percent, Ryan Coventry’s folks among them-could lay out the cash for a year of schooling and not even notice they’d spent the money. Those were the parents Lance spent a great deal of time courting.
The three chatted like poker buddies while waiting for their meals. They talked about cars, the latest viral videos-Andy showed one on his phone that was essentially two people acting out the biological processes of the human digestive system. They talked of the teachers, as always, and Andy felt like a useful spy giving Lance the inside skinny on which classes were guts, which professors were dull, and which teachers were hot (as ranked by the students).
“How are things going with your computer club?” Lance asked.
A shadow crossed Andy’s face and he seemed to retreat into himself. “It’s fine,” he said.
Jake was well versed on the many meanings of the phrase “It’s fine.” Judging by his son’s response-eyes to the floor, and arms folded-he interpreted Andy’s reply as “Something’s not fine, but don’t ask about it.”
Diabetes had taught Jake to respect Andy’s boundaries. He trusted his son to come to him if a particular situation needed his counsel.
The food came; and for a while, nobody spoke-it was all about eating. But Lance wasn’t finished clearing the air.
“Look, buddy, about this Ryan Coventry thing-I get it, I really do,” he said. “Some of the students here have a pretty warped perspective on the world. They’ve never wanted for anything at any point in their lives.”
“Some of them? It’s most of them. Uncle Lance, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t really fit in here. Everyone has so much money-it’s like they don’t get it. Not everybody can have the latest-model iPhone.” Andy made a show of showing Jake his Samsung Galaxy Star, one of the cheapest brand-name Android smartphones currently on the market.
“And some of us could look at the school’s job board and earn some extra money for the things they want,” Jake said.
Lance nodded. “It’s not always easy for me, either, buddy,” he said. “I spend a lot of my time trying to get money from people who make more in a day than I do in a year. I see how they view money. It’s warped. They just don’t seem to appreciate their good fortune.”
“Yeah,” Andy agreed. “It’s like they have tons of money, but it’s still not enough.”
“All I’m saying is that I can appreciate that it gets frustrating to be surrounded by so much wealth, and, well-not have so much of your own.”
“Thanks for understanding, Uncle Lance.”
“Sure, but don’t take that as a license to start hosting mixed martial arts fights with the upper crust. I may be your uncle, and I love you like a son, but I’ll still expel your sorry ass if you violate the school’s disciplinary code. Capisce?”
“Yeah,” Andy answered, inhaling a mouthful of food. “Capisce.”
CHAPTER 10
All three chairs were occupied.
Stacey Hoyle Martinez and Gus Martinez were not tied up, but a man wielding an AR-15 proved to be as good as any rope. They were both easy to take down. No troubles there. Stacey had gotten home from her job as an administrator at a nearby culinary school an hour earlier than usual and entered her front door with an expression of someone about to take a surprise vacation. She was dressed nicely, and Fausto appreciated the way her clothes hugged her body in all the right places. He liked curvy women.
Her bright and excited smile dimmed with confusion as two armed men moved from either side of the front door to grab her from behind. One yanked her hair back; the other clutched her arm. Stacey’s eyes bugged in their sockets and she had tried to scream, but Efren flexed his muscled arm as he slapped a hand over her mouth. He pressed a retracted stiletto against her lower back.
“Gritas y mueres,” Efren said.
“Scream and you die.” Fausto emerged from the shadows to translate. She did not understand the order, he saw. Fausto was disgusted. Javier hadn’t taught his American wife how to speak Spanish.