Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

“It’s a good thing you were there, Mr. Jennings. Poor Mickey might be dead.”

After the Army, Jennings had traded his Nissan Frontier with manual transmission for a Toyota Tacoma, an automatic. He itched to shift gears but the clutch pedal was cumbersome with a prosthetic. A necessary concession.

That evening Jennings drove the Tacoma off campus and into the purpling dusk. His old dog tags dangled from the mirror. He parked at 419 West, a steak and seafood restaurant in the county, and found Craig Lewis already there. Set up at a table in the corner.

Lewis raised his glass and said, “Already started. You better catch up, Mr. Jennings.”

“Dan.” He sat.

“Sure, you better catch up, Dan.”

Their server was a former student of Mr. Lewis’ and she claimed he was the best teacher she ever had. Jennings ordered a Dogfish Head IPA and Lewis asked for another Tom Collins.

“How’s teaching so far, Dan?”

“The first year is like the Q-course. Only the strong survive.”

“Q-course?” said Lewis.

“Part of special force selection.”

“Do you miss the Army?”

“I miss the Army. Parts of the Army. But I wouldn’t go back.”

Lewis gave him a sad smile. “Not even after watching two boys attempt murder?”

“Only one of them attempted it, Mr. Lewis.”

“Craig. Call me Craig, please.”

The server took their orders, both men getting bacon cheeseburgers.

“Not high class, are we,” said Lewis.

“Never have been. I’d eat a peanut butter and jelly if they served it.”

“Have you made any friends in the faculty yet?”

“Coach Murray. You’re my second,” said Jennings.

“Not Daisy Hathaway?”

Dammit. Was he ogling Hathaway and didn’t know it? Were people talking? Lewis was old enough to be his father and it felt like a paternal ribbing.

Jennings said, “It’s hard to function around her. I keep my distance. How’d you know I was talking to Principal Pierce about Benjamin’s father?”

“I pay attention.” Lewis drained half his cocktail and set the glass down. Leaned forward, hands clasped under him on the table. “Tell me what you know.”

“About Peter Lynch.”

“About Peter Lynch, yes. That’s why we’re here.”

“You said it’s worse than I realize?”

Nodding. “Oh yes, Mr. Jennings. Dan.”

Jennings looked around the restaurant. They had space, a buffer of secrecy. Two tables over, a group celebrated a fiftieth birthday with volume.

“I know he was disbarred in California for attacking other lawyers. I know he insulted my profession and my past and my masculinity. I know he bought off Mickey’s mother to keep the attack quiet. I know he bullies the coach and faculty, and makes inappropriate sexual comments at Ms. Hathaway. I think he hits his boys to toughen them. I think something happened a few years ago involving a sexual abuse scandal.”

“You’re right, Dan, something did happen. I don’t know the whole story but I know more than you. I’m from Roanoke, after all, my ear to the ground.”

“There seemed to be a big story and then…there wasn’t.”

“That’s precisely it. Then there wasn’t,” said Lewis.

“Is Lynch from Roanoke?”

“No, he grew up in Craig County, just north of here. Do you believe in evil, Dan?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Do you believe people are evil?”

Caught off guard, Jennings stared hard at his beer, at the trails of carbonation. “The distinction is important?”

“Oh yes.”

“People are evil.”

“You’re sure?” said Lewis.

"I know it.”

“How?”

“Because I feel it in me.”

“Good. And you see it in others. What is the source of the evil, do you believe?”

“Is this important?”

“You’re an impressive guy, Dan. I can tell you’re thinking about taking on Peter Lynch. I hear it in your voice. Lynch scares everyone but none of them consider standing up to him, much less follow through. And I’m curious, once you get past his offenses, will you see him as a broken man? Or an evil one.”

“It’s his offenses that I take exception with, Craig. I’m not going to get past them.”

“Why’d he commit the offenses? That’s a harder question than it seems. Answering it causes young men to turn into old men, so don’t answer now. Instead it’s my turn to tell you what I know. Peter Lynch’s first wife left him in California. She filed for divorce, citing spousal abuse. She took half the money but she left him the two boys and a daughter. He was disbarred soon after and he moved to Roanoke, probably because that’s where his brother was. Do you know his brother, Francis Lynch?”

“I don’t.”

“He’s a judge in Salem. An impressive man. Similar to his brother, but Francis isn’t cruel. Anyway. Soon after moving back to Roanoke, Peter married again. A widow older than him. A rich widow. Good-looking woman. She has one daughter, a knockout, older than Junior, his eldest son. Following me so far?”

“Lynch gets divorced in California, returns to Roanoke, and marries an older woman. He marries into money and a step-daughter. Good to go.”

Lewis nodded and drew designs on the table with condensation. “I know through friends that his second wife and her daughter were in and out of rehab. All the fabulous problems that come with boredom and wealth. Drugs and alcohol and eating disorders. Two or three years later, his step-daughter Kelly turns eighteen and she immediately goes public with accusations that Lynch fondled her and beat her mother.”

“Kelly Carson. I caught hints of this online.”

“Right, Kelly Carson. You’re doing your homework.”

“I’m pissed off,” said Jennings.

“Now the waters get murkier. She hires a plaintiff’s attorney. Her accusations spark instant outrage online against Peter. There’s an article in the paper. Supposedly the police begin an investigation. Everyone’s talking about it. And then, like you said, poof, it stops. Kelly drops the lawsuit and moves away. Philadelphia, I heard. The police investigation ceases. But the thing that puzzles me the most, me and my gossiping cohorts, is the lack of additional articles in the newspaper. And there was never coverage on the local news channels.”

“Why not?”

Lewis spread his hands. “I don’t know. It’s the damnedest thing.”

“He paid Kelly off and she signed a nondisclosure?”

“That part is almost a certainty. But the absolute silence is curious. No, curious isn’t