Dillon reminded himself with a quirk of his lips. First thing in the morning, in fact. But on this Wednesday evening, just after dark, the students were gone and silence was the order of the day.
Dillon didn’t make a habit of cruising the halls when they were empty. His purpose for having stopped by the school on this particular evening was to get his briefcase, which he’d forgotten. After that, he was headed to his sister’s, where he was expected for dinner.
But since he had some time to kill, he’d figured he might as well stroll down the main hall and check for new graffiti on the walls and lockers, something that never failed to raise his ire.
Dillon paused, feeling the silence close around him like a tomb. The place was downright gloomy without its usual hubbub.
What was wrong with him? He spent more than his share of time on the job, arriving way before the first bell rang and leaving long after the last one had sounded. In fact, he was on the premises a lot at night—the only time he could get his paperwork done—and the silence had never bothered him before.
What was different about tonight?
He wasn’t complaining. He loved what he did, loved every nook and cranny of this new building, loved every minute he spent walking the halls and grounds. He’d worked his way up through the ranks of the system, starting out as a teacher and coach, then moving up to guidance counselor, and now to principal.
He wasn’t content, though. He had his eye on a superintendent’s position. But he wasn’t in a hurry. Right now, he was content to remain hands-on with the kids. Keeping up with them kept him young in mind and spirit. When the time was right to make the move, he would know it.
However, he wasn’t interested in getting too far away from Hunter. This small South Carolina town of forty thousand plus, perfectly positioned between Charleston and Savannah, was home to him. And since he’d invested heavily in a chunk of land—land that he hoped to make into a profitable horse farm—he intended to be picky about future jobs.
A deep sigh escaped Dillon just as he reached his office and unlocked the door.
That was when he heard the noise.
When he couldn’t identify the sound, every muscle in his body tensed. He didn’t move; he almost stopped breathing as his military background booted his system into high alert. He listened.
Nothing.
Dillon almost wilted with relief. His imagination was obviously working overtime, which wasn’t a bad thing. Blatant mischief and much worse were problems that all schools had to contend with. It never paid to be careless, and he couldn’t let himself get overconfident that his facility was different simply because he ran it with an iron fist.
He had the door all the way open and had reached for the light switch when he heard the noise again. He stood still, feeling his heart up its pace and the hairs stand out on his neck. No mistake this time. Something was going on.
Suddenly a crashing sound, like that of glass breaking, interrupted the stark silence.
Someone else was definitely in the building.
The lab. That was his first guess. It was at the opposite end of this hall and full of plenty of breakable objects. Rage rendered him immobile for several more seconds before it hit his body like a shot of adrenaline.
He spun on his booted heels and charged down the hall, careful at the same time not to let the culprit or culprits know they had company.
Dillon had no idea what he would encounter, but it didn’t matter. Whoever was responsible for what was going down would pay dearly. No one destroyed Brookwood property and got away with it.
Another crash assaulted his ears just as he rounded the dark corner. He flinched, but his feet never faltered. Hoping to sneak up on the intruders unannounced, he hadn’t turned on the lights. That would have sent them scurrying out the side door of the lab before he could get to them.
When Dillon paused at the door and eased his head around, only the glow from a high-powered flashlight greeted him. Still, he was able to see two people, both males, both young, both wearing caps, masks and gloves.
Students, his instincts told him. Smart students, at that, having thought to shield their identity.
They were having a high old time, too, beating the hell out of the equipment. One had a baseball bat in hand, the other had a hammer. Broken glass, microscopes and computers were strewn about.
The place looked like a war zone.
After seeing the havoc the little creeps had wreaked, Dillon’s rage threatened to choke him. This was the first time this kind of malicious destruction had taken place at his school. But no more. He was about to bring their party to a halt.
“Hold it, boys. Playtime’s over.”
“Oh, shit!” one of them yelled, then tore off toward the door. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here!”
The other one obviously needed no second invitation as he shot over the debris like a sprinter and dashed toward the exit, almost running over his companion in the process.
Dillon followed suit, only to curse silently. The door. He’d underestimated their closeness to the side entrance that made a quick exit possible.
By the time he reached their avenue of escape, the boys were through the door and racing across campus. Dillon chased them, but he knew he was wasting his time.
A nondescript pickup was parked in an area of almost total darkness not far from the lab. They jumped in it and took off before he could get near them, much less get a license plate number.
“Damn,” he muttered, sucking in a deep breath.
He’d screwed that up royally, he admitted as he turned and made his way back into the building. If he hadn’t been so cocky, so sure of his ability to handle the situation, he would have called the cops the second he heard the sound of breaking glass.
By the time he’d have investigated and found out what was going on, the law would have been there. But no, he’d had to plunge in headfirst on his own.
“Dammit,” he muttered again out of sheer frustration as he strode into his office. Once there, he called the police, then waited for their arrival, but not patiently.
What was happening to kids these days?
He’d asked himself that question untold times, but he still didn’t have an answer. Years ago, when he first entered the fascinating world of teaching children, nothing like what he’d just witnessed had ever taken place—at least not that he could remember.
How times had changed. Breaking and entering was actually considered a mild offense. Now kids were killing kids. Kids were killing parents. God, it made no sense whatsoever.
What it did do, though, was frighten the hell out of him. He was of the opinion that youngsters should behave and be responsible for their actions. He loved “his kids,” but they knew better than to cross the line he’d drawn in the sand. Or at least he’d thought so, he told himself, mentally kicking his own rear.
Apparently he’d misjudged his control, refusing to have security guards in the halls
