Chapter 7

Quinn had used computers in libraries, but those had been institutional machines with restricted access and the wear-and-tear quality of things that belong to everyone and therefore to no one.

This one was his, or at least it was in his room on his desk. It was newer than anything he’d worked on before. He sat in the desk chair in the early evening quiet of his room and found his way around it with methodical patience. He loaded the updates along with Chrome. Within half an hour, he was able to open Google Maps and enter the school’s address.

St. Crispin’s Preparatory Academy sat four miles from the Colonel’s house. The walking route he picked threaded through two residential neighborhoods, crossed a main artery at a signaled intersection, then ran along a street named Walnut Street for the final stretch to the campus gates. Quinn checked the route twice, traced it with his finger on the screen, then found a satellite view and read it a third time, noting the landmarks.

Four miles. Forty-five minutes at a reasonable pace, maybe a bit more if the weather was bad. He did the arithmetic backward from the seven thirty appointment and landed on a departure time of six thirty to give himself the buffer he preferred. Enough margin that a delay didn’t become a problem, not so much that he was standing around waiting. He could do that.

He wrote the time on a legal pad he found in a drawer. 6:30. Underlined once.

There was a backpack hanging from the hook in the closet. It was dark blue, stocked with supplies: notebooks, pens, pencils, a calculator, index cards.

Someone had put some thought into what a kid would need and provided it without being asked, which seemed to be a pattern in this place. He put the schedule in the side pocket, along with the map and hung the bag on a hook on the door.

Then he went outside to explore.

The grounds were bigger than he’d expected, which was saying something. Quinn came out through the side door off the main hallway and stood for a moment on the flagstone path. The property opened up in three directions: straight ahead was the formal garden with a fountain in the center. The east side was an acre or so of lawn bordered by a low stone wall. To the west, the grounds were less formal with mature trees.

He walked for an hour.

He was methodical about it, working outward from the house in a rough spiral, not rushing, giving himself time to become familiar. Some paths were flagstone, laid with the same precision as everything else about this property, with benches at intervals. A greenhouse occupied the back corner of the property. When he looked through the glass, he saw rows of green plantings in organized stages of growth. A well-traveled dirt path led to an orchard of twelve trees, apple and pear, the last fruit of the season hanging heavy on the lower branches.