“I’m guessing you’re the father,” Doyle says.
“You know who I am, pal. I’m at a disadvantage with you because I don’t know who you are. Not yet. I know you’re military, but the rest will come eventually.”
“Looks like a special-forces type to me,” one of the cops says.
“And I know you carry a big stick for such a little man,” my father says.
“Leonard, let this go,” Irish Tommy says as he comes rushing forward. “This isn’t a fight you want.”
“No, Tommy. I want this fight. He’s messing with my daughter, and I want him to understand that if she gets hurt because of it, I’m going to kill him. He can have the mayor call me all he wants. I will beat him to death with my own hands.”
“I fully understand how important your family is to you, Mr. Walker,” Doyle says. There’s something a little too familiar in his words, like we’re expected to read between them. My dad is having none of it. He hammers his index finger into Doyle’s chest like he’s going to hang a picture frame. “I don’t care who you get your orders from. I don’t care what they sent you here to do. Your new job is keeping my daughter safe. Tell me you understand.”
Doyle looks up into my father’s face. “You’re going to want to take a step back from me.”
But he doesn’t budge an inch, and his police buddies surround Doyle. The principal looks over his shoulder at his own gang of soldiers but waves them off when they rush forward.
“Tell me you hear me,” my father says, unintimidated.
“Loud and clear,” Doyle says.
“Leonard, let’s get the kids inside,” Tommy begs.
My father gives me a hug. “If there are any problems, you can walk out of this school and call me. If anybody tries to stop you, take their name and I’ll deal with them myself.”
Then, without another word, he gives Doyle a final hard look and leads the other cops down the steps.
“The Big Guy is badass,” Bex says as we enter the school.
“I know,” I whisper.
Once inside, Doyle sends Bex off to the library because, as he admits, he “has no idea what to do with her until the first bell rings.” Then he escorts me to the nurse’s office, where he flips on each of his monitors. One by one they reveal every classroom and dark corner of Hylan High. I see the janitor scrubbing something off a locker. A lump grows in my throat when I realize it’s mine.
Doyle opens a cabinet and takes out a new mug, then pours himself another cup of coffee from a little machine set up in the corner. When it’s full, he sits in his chair, backwards.
“So, we both knew this might happen,” he says.
“No! I knew and told you. You ignored me.”
“Your father and I both agree that keeping you safe is important,” he says.
“Is it? Then why does everyone know about my meetings with Fathom? Besides you, the soldiers were the only ones who were supposed to know. So either I can’t trust you or I can’t trust the National Guard.”
“The soldiers are loyal, Lyric.”
“Then it’s you,” I say.
He looks at me for a long time, smiling all the while, then picks up a phone. He punches in a number, then waits. I hear a faint click from the other line.
“Yes, Ferris, this is Doyle. The second Mrs. Sullivan enters the building, I want her arrested.”
The English teacher!
“Yes, her son is a founding member of the Niners, and there is evidence that she was feeding him information about the Alpha students, as well as Ms. Walker. Ferris, this is important: when you arrest her, it’s important to make it a bit of a spectacle. Yeah, turn on the drama. I want the whole school buzzing about it. Take her into custody. No police, no FBI. This is military. Also, you need to confiscate her keys and pass card. If she won’t hand them over willingly, you have my permission to take them from her using whatever force you find appropriate. Thank you.”
He hangs up the phone and sips his coffee. Over the rim of the mug I can see a satisfied smile in his eyes.
“You knew,” I gasp.
He shakes his head. “I did careful background checks on every staff member in this school. I know more about them than they know about themselves. Mrs. Eleanor Sullivan graduated from the University of Michigan in 1954, she’s been divorced twice, at one time she was prescribed antipsychotic medications for a bout with depression, and her son is Charlie Sullivan, a captain and founding member of the CI9. I had hoped she would prove my suspicions wrong, but I couldn’t be sure unless I could test—”
I want to leap out of my chair and scratch his eyes out, but then I imagine him having me arrested too. “Do you know what you’ve done? I have to come to school surrounded by cops. Gang members followed me here today.”