The Long Game
Page 75
I didn’t lift my head until it closed behind him.
I blinked away the tears that blurred my vision. The headmaster came into focus, bound opposite me in this tiny office.
“Whatever they tell you to do,” the headmaster told me, blood crusted to his lip, his face swollen, “you do it, Ms. Kendrick.”
I was surprised by the fierceness in his tone.
“This is my fault,” Raleigh said, as much to himself as to me. “I brought them here. It’s my fault.”
I thought of Dr. Clark, watching, infiltrating, influencing, recruiting. I thought of the headmaster’s secretary, with her finger on the pulse of the school. “They were already here.”
When Henry’s grandfather died, Dr. Clark had tasked the class with choosing a replacement. Because she wanted to challenge us to think critically about the process? Or because she wanted to know what our parents thought? What they knew?
We see everything. We know all of your secrets. And we wait.
I forced my mind away from the memory of Daniela Nicolae’s words and back to the man across from me. “Why did you take the picture down?” That question surprised me almost as much as it surprised the headmaster. “The photo of you with the president at Camp David,” I continued. The photo of you with Vivvie’s father and one of the other men who conspired to kill Justice Marquette. “Why did you take it down?”
I’d thought the headmaster was in bed with the terrorists. When he’d read out the words they had written, I’d believed they were his. If it hadn’t been for that photograph, for a lingering sense of suspicion cast upon all the men there, would I have questioned that? Would I have realized that the person in the best position to influence the headmaster, to silently observe everything that went on in these halls, was someone non-threatening?
Someone who goes largely unnoticed.
“What interest could you possibly have in that photograph?” the headmaster asked, sounding more like the aggrieved man who’d sat opposite me in his office more times than I could count. “Really, Ms. Kendrick—”
“Please,” I said. “I just want to know.”
The headmaster sniffed but deigned to oblige. “I was told displaying that photograph so prominently was a bit gauche.”
I heard the doorknob turn a second before the door opened. My wrists tensed against the ties that bound them to no avail. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t fight back. I was helpless.
Henry had left me helpless.
Dr. Clark shut the door gingerly behind her. She knelt down in front of me. “Look at you, Tess.” Her voice was gentle. She murmured the words, like it grieved her to see me like this.
Like she hadn’t shot a Secret Service agent dead while I watched.
“This isn’t how I wanted this meeting to happen,” Dr. Clark told me.
“Moira, get away from that young lady or I will—” The headmaster’s threat cut off abruptly as he realized there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say.
Dr. Clark gave no sign that she had heard him. Her warm brown eyes were solely focused on me. “I know how this must look to you, Tess. I know that you cannot begin to fathom what I’ve done here today, or why. I know that you cannot understand why a boy like Henry would listen to what I have to say—”
“What did you tell him?” I asked, my body tensing against the ties again, causing the chair to jar slightly.
She didn’t jump. She didn’t blink. “I told him what I am trying to tell you. What’s happening here today isn’t who we are. This”—she gestured at me, at the headmaster—“is not what we do.”
Mine is a glorious calling. The tone I’d heard in Daniela Nicolae’s voice in that video was present to the nth degree in my teacher’s. This was what zealotry looked like.
This was a true believer.
“I came to this life when I wasn’t much older than you,” Dr. Clark said softly.
“After 9/11,” I said, cutting her off before she could say more. There’s nothing you can say that will make you anything less than a monster to me. I hoped she could hear that in my voice.
Whether she could or not, she continued, “After the attacks, I wanted to do something. The world wasn’t safe. Everything had changed.”
“So you became a terrorist,” I supplied, my voice razor sharp. “If you can’t beat them, join them?”
“No,” Dr. Clark said vehemently. “No, Tess. I would never—”
I tuned out whatever it was she would never do. She’d killed a man as I’d watched.
I blinked away the tears that blurred my vision. The headmaster came into focus, bound opposite me in this tiny office.
“Whatever they tell you to do,” the headmaster told me, blood crusted to his lip, his face swollen, “you do it, Ms. Kendrick.”
I was surprised by the fierceness in his tone.
“This is my fault,” Raleigh said, as much to himself as to me. “I brought them here. It’s my fault.”
I thought of Dr. Clark, watching, infiltrating, influencing, recruiting. I thought of the headmaster’s secretary, with her finger on the pulse of the school. “They were already here.”
When Henry’s grandfather died, Dr. Clark had tasked the class with choosing a replacement. Because she wanted to challenge us to think critically about the process? Or because she wanted to know what our parents thought? What they knew?
We see everything. We know all of your secrets. And we wait.
I forced my mind away from the memory of Daniela Nicolae’s words and back to the man across from me. “Why did you take the picture down?” That question surprised me almost as much as it surprised the headmaster. “The photo of you with the president at Camp David,” I continued. The photo of you with Vivvie’s father and one of the other men who conspired to kill Justice Marquette. “Why did you take it down?”
I’d thought the headmaster was in bed with the terrorists. When he’d read out the words they had written, I’d believed they were his. If it hadn’t been for that photograph, for a lingering sense of suspicion cast upon all the men there, would I have questioned that? Would I have realized that the person in the best position to influence the headmaster, to silently observe everything that went on in these halls, was someone non-threatening?
Someone who goes largely unnoticed.
“What interest could you possibly have in that photograph?” the headmaster asked, sounding more like the aggrieved man who’d sat opposite me in his office more times than I could count. “Really, Ms. Kendrick—”
“Please,” I said. “I just want to know.”
The headmaster sniffed but deigned to oblige. “I was told displaying that photograph so prominently was a bit gauche.”
I heard the doorknob turn a second before the door opened. My wrists tensed against the ties that bound them to no avail. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t fight back. I was helpless.
Henry had left me helpless.
Dr. Clark shut the door gingerly behind her. She knelt down in front of me. “Look at you, Tess.” Her voice was gentle. She murmured the words, like it grieved her to see me like this.
Like she hadn’t shot a Secret Service agent dead while I watched.
“This isn’t how I wanted this meeting to happen,” Dr. Clark told me.
“Moira, get away from that young lady or I will—” The headmaster’s threat cut off abruptly as he realized there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say.
Dr. Clark gave no sign that she had heard him. Her warm brown eyes were solely focused on me. “I know how this must look to you, Tess. I know that you cannot begin to fathom what I’ve done here today, or why. I know that you cannot understand why a boy like Henry would listen to what I have to say—”
“What did you tell him?” I asked, my body tensing against the ties again, causing the chair to jar slightly.
She didn’t jump. She didn’t blink. “I told him what I am trying to tell you. What’s happening here today isn’t who we are. This”—she gestured at me, at the headmaster—“is not what we do.”
Mine is a glorious calling. The tone I’d heard in Daniela Nicolae’s voice in that video was present to the nth degree in my teacher’s. This was what zealotry looked like.
This was a true believer.
“I came to this life when I wasn’t much older than you,” Dr. Clark said softly.
“After 9/11,” I said, cutting her off before she could say more. There’s nothing you can say that will make you anything less than a monster to me. I hoped she could hear that in my voice.
Whether she could or not, she continued, “After the attacks, I wanted to do something. The world wasn’t safe. Everything had changed.”
“So you became a terrorist,” I supplied, my voice razor sharp. “If you can’t beat them, join them?”
“No,” Dr. Clark said vehemently. “No, Tess. I would never—”
I tuned out whatever it was she would never do. She’d killed a man as I’d watched.
