Deke opened the book, his brow wriggling as he struggled with the words. Freeman sneaked a glance at the boy with the strange green eyes. The boy flashed him a secretive wink. Dipes sat on a bunk in the front of the room, near the door, watching like the others.
Army Jacket shoved Deke's arm, making the boy drop the book.
'What'd you do that for, butterbrains?' Deke said, though Freeman noted a tone of relief in the bully's voice.
'You read that stuff, you'll turn into a pussy, too,' Army Jacket said.
After a moment, Deke said, 'Damn right,' and kicked the book across the floor again. It bounced off the leg of one of the bunks and slid near a redheaded boy's foot. The redhead gave the book a kick and it spun to Army Jacket. The teen stomped on it and then scooted it to another of the boys. The crowd spread out a little and the boys kicked the book back and forth, the particularly damaging blows drawing shouts of praise.
Freeman sat back on his bunk and crossed his legs pow-wow-style. He'd have to deal with Deke eventually, but at least he'd created a diversion for the moment. This way he'd have an opportunity to learn the ins and outs of Wendover before the inevitable face-off. It's not like he had anything else to occupy his time, besides fending off inquisitive counselors, watching out for the Trust, and trying to keep his thoughts to himself.
And keeping other people's thoughts away.
Bondurant's words of inspiration were still taking a licking when the house parents finally showed up.
SIX
Starlene sat on one of the flat gray rocks that jutted from the ground beside the lake. The water, which smelled of moss and fish, distorted the reflection of the tall trees. A leaf fell to its September death, sending low ripples out from where it floated along the silver-blue water. Starlene thought falling leaves were like angels, except she hadn't worked out the part about how leaves rose up to heaven again after they had fallen. An angel shouldn't just drown and sink and then lie rotting on the mud at the bottom.
The kids had a short break between classes and dinner. They were allowed out on the grounds in the company of their house supervisors, and soon would be scattered across the lawn, laughing, chasing each other, almost forgetting their world had walls. For the moment, though, she had the grounds to herself.
Starlene looked at the rear of Wendover Home, at the cold stones that were always in shadow. Behind those windows were tiny hearts, grown as cold and hard as the stones that walled them in. Society's children. The troubled, lost, and unwanted. Starlene hugged her knees to her chest. God didn't send you anything that you couldn't handle, though, so she must be here for a reason.
At least the staff seemed to care about the kids. She'd heard horror stories of the glory days when orphanages were little more than juvenile work farms. Though she'd only been at Wendover for three months, fresh off a Social Sciences degree at Appalachian State University, she got along well with the other counselors and house parents, especially Randy. Francis Bondurant was still a mystery, with something slippery behind his smile, but his reputation was solid with people who mattered. Dr. Kracowski was likewise elusive, keeping odd hours and holding private sessions at times when the young clients were supposed to be in class. Without Bondurant and Kracowski, though, she couldn't imagine such a difficult enterprise as Wendover ever lasting as long as it had. Better to offer prayers for them than to be suspicious.
Starlene took a granola bar from her pocket and peeled back the wrapper. She said a quick blessing and took a bite. She was about to take another, to convince herself that dry sweetened oats were tasty and not meant solely for horses, when she saw the figure on the far side of the lake. The figure stood at the water's edge, two hundred feet away, almost obscured by the branches of a weeping willow.
Must be one of the landscaping crew. She waved. The person didn't respond. On closer examination, the person appeared to be draped in some sort of gray-colored gown. Odd clothing for yard work. And didn't the landscapers get off work in the early afternoon?
Starlene squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the water. The wind had picked up a little and the golden willow branches swished around the shadowy figure. She waved again, the first unease fluttering around the granola in her stomach. What did the handbook say about reporting unauthorized persons?
The back end of the property bordered a couple of farms whose fields gave way to the steep mountain slopes that were coated in autumn's patchwork. A fence circled the Wendover lawn, but an adult could scale it without much difficulty. An adventurous local fisherman might have crept in for a try at the lake's bass, but casting a line would be awkward among those branches. She wasn't naive enough to think that clients never sneaked out of the home, but who would want to sneak into a place as imposing as Wendover?
She stood and shaded her eyes. The figure moved closer to the water's edge. She saw no fishing pole, and she was sure now it wasn't a groundskeeper. It was an old man, the sun glancing off his pale bald head. The breeze that skated over the lake ruffled the man's long gown. Starlene was reminded of a biblical movie, John the Baptist doing God's work in the water.
The man hesitated a moment, looking across the lake at the home. Starlene wished she had carried her walkie-talkie with her, but she had learned to treasure her rare moments of privacy. She thought of calling out to him or shouting for assistance, but something about the man's odd, hunched manner kept her silent. She crouched down on her rock.
Surely the man had seen her. But he showed no sign of being observed. Instead, he stepped forward into the lake. Another step, and he was in up to his knees. The water had to be forty degrees or so, but the man didn't hesitate. When he was waist-deep, an alarm went off in Starlene's head, the same alarm that warned her when a client was about to throw a fit or slip into a suicidal depression.
Starlene jumped from the rock and began hurrying around the lake. She broke into a full run just as the water reached the man's shoulders.
'Hey,' she shouted. Her sprint brought her to a trail leading through a small copse of white pines. The sunlight dappled crazily off her face as she forced air into her lungs, drove her knees high, pounded her feet against the packed earth.
By the time she came out of the trees, the man had disappeared. She shouted again, her breath rasping as she reached the willow.
Not even a ripple marked the surface where the man had gone under. Starlene knelt by the water's edge, peering into the murk. Surely some air would have escaped his lungs, bringing bubbles to the surface. The water along the bank should have been muddied by the man's footsteps, but the bed of sediment hung intact like a greenish skin.
Starlene gave one more glance at the home. The shadowed walls offered no help. What would Jesus do, if Jesus ever had to save a drowning man? A more immediate question, what would she do?
She peeled off her blazer and tossed it high on the bank. Shucking her sandals, she took a deep breath and arced into the water, praying that she and the man didn't meet headfirst.
The chill hit her like a fist, nearly causing her to gasp a mouthful of water. She opened her eyes to a disorienting universe of silver speckles.
Kicking her legs, she forced herself downward fighting the natural buoyancy caused by the air in her lungs. Aided by the weight of her soaked clothing, she touched bottom and spun around.
Judging by the pressure against her ears, she was probably twelve feet deep. Here the water was darker and bluer, with loose particles of algae drifting around her stirred by her dive. Starlene pushed with her arms and turned in a circle.
No sign of the man.
She stroked with cupped hands, skimming the bottom. Above, the muted sunlight played against the surface, creating the illusion that the sky, too, was water.
Her lungs burned with held breath. No man, only mud. The cold water stung her eyes. Finally she made for the fresh air waiting above.
A shout greeted her as her head broke the surface. She shook hair from her face and treaded water, trying to orient herself. Another shout came, its direction disguised by the flat floor of lake. Then she saw them running toward the willow tree: Randy, followed by the huffing, gangly form of Bondurant.
