Thatcher.”
He slid Brad’s test back into the folder. “I’m Brad’s father, yes.”
“We need to talk, Agent Thatcher.”
Friday, September 30, 4:30 P.M.
Leaning one shoulder to the wall, Victor Lutz watched the principal pace the threadbare carpet of his office with growing impatience. “It’s quite simple, Dr. Blackman. Overrule her.”
Blackman looked up, his scrawny face tight with anxiety. “I can’t do that,” Blackman said.
Lutz didn’t blink. “Why not?”
Blackman paced to the window and, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, looked through the glass to where the Friday night football crowd was beginning to assemble.
Lutz shook his head. Blackman was a fool and Lutz was growing very tired of having to deal with him. He pushed away from the wall. “Blackman.”
The principal’s head whipped around at the curt address. “I asked you a question. Why not?”
Blackman swallowed and pushed his glasses up his thin nose. Cleared his throat. “Because technically she’s right. Rudy is failing her class. School policy—”
“I don’t give a flyin’ rat’s ass about your school policy,” Lutz interrupted with a snarl. “I want Rudy to play. Today.”
“I can’t do that. Today,” Blackman added quickly. “I need time.”
“How much time?” Lutz asked, mentally planning to beat the shit out of Rudy for his sheer stupidity. It would have been so easy for him to pass that test. There were ways to manage situations like this. But did his blockhead of a son think? No. He walked into the class, unprepared, and handed in a blank sheet of paper. Idiot. Just like his mother.
“A few weeks.”
“Unacceptable,” Lutz bit out. “I want Rudy playing next week, Dr. Blackman, or you’ll find your plans for the new stadium severely underfunded.”
Blackman swallowed. “That stadium is not for my benefit, Mr. Lutz. It’s for the school.”
“Bullshit.” Lutz smiled and watched Blackman’s trembles creep up a notch or two. “Your promise to build a new stadium is the only thing keeping your contract negotiations open for next year. You lose your job, you lose everything.” He shook his head. “For a man who makes his living administrating, you’ve done a piss-poor job on your own finances. Here and at home.” Blackman’s face slackened in shock and Lutz chuckled. “I make my living based on obtaining information and using it most effectively. I know everything about you, down to the color of the boxers covering your pathetic skinny ass.” He placed his hat on his head. “You’d be wise to remember that.” He held up a finger. “One week. This time next week Rudy is back in the game.”
Blackman jerked a nod. “One week.”
Satisfied, Lutz took his leave, carefully closing the door behind him.
Friday, September 30, 4:40 P.M.
Steven helped Dr. Marshall to a chair at the worn table that dominated the teachers’ lounge and wordlessly pulled up a second chair for her foot. She lifted her foot to the chair, silently grimacing.
“You should ice that ankle,” he said.
She met his eyes, visibly smoothing her grimace to a smile, and once again he felt warmth curl around his heart. A man could get used to such a comfort. Unfortunately Steven Thatcher could not be such a man.
“We keep an ice pack in the freezer,” she said, gesturing to a refrigerator in the corner.
Easily he found it in the freezer door. Murmuring her thanks, she gestured to an empty chair.
“Please sit, Mr.—I’m sorry. Agent Thatcher.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He sat. And waited.
For a full minute she stared down at her hands before lifting her head. “You saw Brad’s test,” she said abruptly and Steven could only nod. His voice seemed stuck in his throat. She leaned forward, her expression now earnest. “Brad was in my basic chemistry class last year, Mr. Thatcher. He made it a year I’ll never forget. He loved to learn. He was always prepared. He was polite, alert. Now he’s
He slid Brad’s test back into the folder. “I’m Brad’s father, yes.”
“We need to talk, Agent Thatcher.”
Friday, September 30, 4:30 P.M.
Leaning one shoulder to the wall, Victor Lutz watched the principal pace the threadbare carpet of his office with growing impatience. “It’s quite simple, Dr. Blackman. Overrule her.”
Blackman looked up, his scrawny face tight with anxiety. “I can’t do that,” Blackman said.
Lutz didn’t blink. “Why not?”
Blackman paced to the window and, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, looked through the glass to where the Friday night football crowd was beginning to assemble.
Lutz shook his head. Blackman was a fool and Lutz was growing very tired of having to deal with him. He pushed away from the wall. “Blackman.”
The principal’s head whipped around at the curt address. “I asked you a question. Why not?”
Blackman swallowed and pushed his glasses up his thin nose. Cleared his throat. “Because technically she’s right. Rudy is failing her class. School policy—”
“I don’t give a flyin’ rat’s ass about your school policy,” Lutz interrupted with a snarl. “I want Rudy to play. Today.”
“I can’t do that. Today,” Blackman added quickly. “I need time.”
“How much time?” Lutz asked, mentally planning to beat the shit out of Rudy for his sheer stupidity. It would have been so easy for him to pass that test. There were ways to manage situations like this. But did his blockhead of a son think? No. He walked into the class, unprepared, and handed in a blank sheet of paper. Idiot. Just like his mother.
“A few weeks.”
“Unacceptable,” Lutz bit out. “I want Rudy playing next week, Dr. Blackman, or you’ll find your plans for the new stadium severely underfunded.”
Blackman swallowed. “That stadium is not for my benefit, Mr. Lutz. It’s for the school.”
“Bullshit.” Lutz smiled and watched Blackman’s trembles creep up a notch or two. “Your promise to build a new stadium is the only thing keeping your contract negotiations open for next year. You lose your job, you lose everything.” He shook his head. “For a man who makes his living administrating, you’ve done a piss-poor job on your own finances. Here and at home.” Blackman’s face slackened in shock and Lutz chuckled. “I make my living based on obtaining information and using it most effectively. I know everything about you, down to the color of the boxers covering your pathetic skinny ass.” He placed his hat on his head. “You’d be wise to remember that.” He held up a finger. “One week. This time next week Rudy is back in the game.”
Blackman jerked a nod. “One week.”
Satisfied, Lutz took his leave, carefully closing the door behind him.
Friday, September 30, 4:40 P.M.
Steven helped Dr. Marshall to a chair at the worn table that dominated the teachers’ lounge and wordlessly pulled up a second chair for her foot. She lifted her foot to the chair, silently grimacing.
“You should ice that ankle,” he said.
She met his eyes, visibly smoothing her grimace to a smile, and once again he felt warmth curl around his heart. A man could get used to such a comfort. Unfortunately Steven Thatcher could not be such a man.
“We keep an ice pack in the freezer,” she said, gesturing to a refrigerator in the corner.
Easily he found it in the freezer door. Murmuring her thanks, she gestured to an empty chair.
“Please sit, Mr.—I’m sorry. Agent Thatcher.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He sat. And waited.
For a full minute she stared down at her hands before lifting her head. “You saw Brad’s test,” she said abruptly and Steven could only nod. His voice seemed stuck in his throat. She leaned forward, her expression now earnest. “Brad was in my basic chemistry class last year, Mr. Thatcher. He made it a year I’ll never forget. He loved to learn. He was always prepared. He was polite, alert. Now he’s
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