Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia

Bennington Prep

Glenbridge, Connecticut

Wednesday afternoon

Mia canceled her afternoon plane reservation to La Guardia, rented a bright blue Audi after she left Juliet, and drove two and a half hours from Boston down I-95 to Bennington Prep, a half hour north of New Haven. She didn’t expect Bennington to look as glorious as the pictures she’d seen, all taken in the fall to show off the incredible autumn leaves. Now, toward the tail end of winter, the campus looked starker, all the plants and trees hunkered down in survival mode. It was still a marvel in person. Stately was the word that suited it perfectly. Bennington was known to be everything a parent could possibly want for their child, the incredible campus itself, the quality education, and the all-important “snoot” factor. If you went to Bennington Prep, enough said. It was part of the pedigree for politics, for Wall Street, for making it big in whatever you wanted to do.

She drove slowly, admiring the classical-style redbrick buildings, the open vistas. Students weren’t strolling to their classes, they were rushing, it was that cold, the wind sharp as a knife. She drove slowly by thick stands of maple trees, their branches swaying in the wind in a silent winter dance, and parked her Audi in a visitor’s space in front of a state-of-the-art athletic complex. She looked beyond toward a football field surrounded by high bleachers that doubled as their lacrosse field, she guessed.

Is this the beautiful place where you and Kent got started, Alex?

Mia pulled on all her winter gear, braced herself, and walked toward the main athletic building where she’d managed to snag an appointment with one of the two lacrosse coaches at Bennington who’d been there long enough to have coached Alex Harrington and Kent Harper.

She had to get through a department secretary and a student trainee before she was shown to Mr. Hodge Wiliker’s small office that looked toward the tennis courts. He was a big man, well into his fifties, still trim and fit, his black-framed glasses pushed up on his bald head. He beamed at her, greeted her enthusiastically, pumped her hand. Mia imagined he rarely got to take center stage at Bennington Prep, and now he was meeting a reporter who was interested in writing about him and about lacrosse because he’d coached Alex Harrington sixteen years before.

Mia knew the drill. She complimented him on the lacrosse trophies she’d seen on display when she’d walked into the building, admired his family in the photos on his desk. She let him assist her to remove her coat, turned down the offer of a cup of coffee, and settled in. “I was looking at the students and wondering if I’d ever been that young.”

He laughed. “You’re still a young sprout. Imagine what I feel at my age.”

She smiled, leaned forward. “As I told you on the phone, Coach Wiliker, I’m writing a background article on the New York City mayoral candidate Alex Harrington. You were his coach during his years here at Bennington. You may remember you also coached his best friend, Kent Harper, also from Boston?”

Wiliker beamed out a smile. “Yep. They were some of our best years at Bennington Prep, championship years, because of them, especially Alex. I knew that boy would go places. I’m pleased he’s running for mayor of the Big Apple. Now, Ms. Briscoe, what exactly would you like to know about Alex?”

“May I record this, sir? I want to be sure I’m completely accurate.” At his nod, she set up her iPhone. “I hoped you could tell me your impressions of him—his habits, his strengths, his friendships, that sort of thing. Whatever comes to mind about him and Kent, in your own words. I know it’s been a long time, but it seems you have fond memories of both of them. I’ll ask questions if I need more.”

He nodded, leaned toward her, clasped his big hands on top of his desk. “I remember Kent and Alex were the greatest of friends, smart boys from the best families. Both were into those computer games at the time, every spare minute—you know boys—but both were really popular, with the boys and the girls.” A wink. “Alex wanted something, he’d go after it.”

“And Kent?”

“Kent was the more thoughtful of the two, maybe more careful, but Alex threw himself into an activity, his goal always to win. Kent might dip in a toe first, if you get my meaning. I guess I’d say Kent was more the junior partner of the friendship, but again, it was a long time ago, and boys become men and change. I remember Alex was a superb athlete and was one of the most competitive students I’d ever met. I do remember in lacrosse he always took charge, never quit out there on the field; only winning was good enough for him. Of course that rubbed off on his teammates, and that’s why we won those championships. As I recall, both Alex and Kent were looked up to by their teammates for their skill, their desire to win. But maybe it’d be fair to say Kent wasn’t as much in-your-face.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean that exactly as it came out. Alex was—is—as I’ve said, a natural leader, that’s all I meant.”

“Of course. Now, Alex was the captain of the lacrosse team in both his junior and senior years, right?”

“Yes, well, he was named captain his junior year only because the senior-year captain, Jordan Jeffers, was injured in an automobile accident and couldn’t play.” Wiliker shook his head. “An awful thing, I remember it clearly, a hit-and-run, left the boy on the side of the road. He might have died if a jogger hadn’t found him. Broken arm, broken leg, internal injuries, poor kid. It’s a miracle he survived.”

Your work, Alex? Because he had something you wanted?Mia jotted down Jeffers’s name.

“Do you remember if Jordan and Alex were friends?”

“Of course they were. I remember Alex and Jordan’s younger sister were chummy for a while—sorry, can’t remember her name, been too long.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your memory is amazing, Coach. So after the Jeffers boy was injured, Alex became the captain?”

Coach nodded. “I remember how hard he worked out with the trainers in the weight room to improve his strength and endurance, encouraged his teammates to do the same. That and his never-say-die leadership, that’s why we won those championships.”

Mia asked, “Any other girlfriends you knew of, Coach? For Alex and Kent?”

Wiliker tapped the side of his head. “Girlfriends—sorry, it’s impossible to remember the kids’ romances from sixteen years ago. I only remember Jordan’s sister because of the accident. There were probably other girls, sure, since both Alex and Kent were popular. I do remember the boys were always as close as fleas, did everything together.”

Mia said, “And that would include dating, no doubt?”

“Well, probably, but kids even then seemed to prefer going out together in packs. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.”

Mia had done some research on missing girls from prep schools, and had hit pay dirt. She said, “Do you remember Teresa Jacobs? She disappeared in her senior year?”

Wiliker scratched his bald head, dislodged his glasses, grabbed them, and slid them back up his forehead. “Of course, now you say her name. She was in that same class, I think. It was quite a hullabaloo; there were rumors, never substantiated, that she was doing drugs and ran away, common enough, but not here, not at Bennington. The local Glenbridge police weren’t ever able to turn anything up or I’d know about it. It was a sad thing, scared all the kids and parents.”

Mia said, “Do you happen to remember if Alex knew her? If the police spoke to him?”

Wiliker looked surprised, but said easily, “Well, the police spoke to everyone, me included, even the nutritionist, Ms. Busbee. No one knew anything. Of course Alex knew her, she was the captain of the girls’ lacrosse team, another reason she wouldn’t touch drugs. She was an athlete. Her parents—imagine not knowing what happened to your child? Living your whole life without knowing? I remember after Teresa disappeared I kept my own kids really close.”

“Ah, and did Teresa and Alex date?”

Coach shook his head. “I don’t remember. It was sixteen years ago—” He tapped his head. “Old brain.”

Mia pulled the two photos Dirk had enhanced out of her messenger bag, placed them on Wiliker’s desk. “Do you recognize either of these men?”

Wiliker pulled down his black-framed glasses and studied the two photos. He said, “These are older, aren’t they?”

“Yes, seven years old.”

She saw he wanted to be helpful, but he finally shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Briscoe, but it’s hard to make out their features since they’re not facing the camera, only bits of their profiles, and they’re a bit blurry. I can’t imagine why these particular photos are important to this article you’re writing about Alex Harrington.”

Mia held her breath, pointed. “Bear with me. Do you see the notch in this man’s ear? Like he was hurt, maybe playing sports?”

Coach brought the photo close. Slowly, he nodded. “I see it, looks like an injury that healed years ago. I’ve seen several like that when a boy gets hit on the ear with a lacrosse stick.”

“Do you remember if Alex Harrington was ever injured? An injury like this?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It was back in his junior year before the captain, Jordan, was hurt. He accidentally hit Alex with a lacrosse stick. The reason I remember his injury so well is because I was the one who took him to our nurse.”

“Tell me, what is Jordan Jeffers doing now?”

“Why do you want to know about Jordan Jeffers?”

“Again, Coach, just being thorough.”

“Jordan never played lacrosse again but he did graduate, probably went to some Ivy League college, no doubt, which is what the great majority of Bennington students do. I heard he’s fine now, lives in Montpelier, runs his family’s chain of restaurants.” He paused a moment, pointed to the photo. “You think this man is Alex? Why do you care? Why would anyone care?”

Mia shrugged. “Just a bit of interest, that’s all. Since you knew him very well for four years I thought I’d ask.”

“It could be Alex, but Ms. Briscoe, you should show this to Alex, not me.” He straightened in his chair, suddenly stiff, his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Why did you show me that photo? Why does it matter if Alex Harrington tore his earlobe? Surely an injury that minor can’t be important to your article.”

Mia gave him a fat smile. “A friend of his showed me the photo, name of Benny Holmes, said he’d been to a great party with Alex, celebrating something, he couldn’t remember, someone took this photo and he’d kept it. Before I used it, I wanted to be sure it was really Alex.”

Wiliker was getting suspicious. She couldn’t blame him, she’d gotten too heavy-handed. But she’d gotten what she wanted. Time to pack up her tent and go home. Mia tucked her tablet back in her messenger bag, slipped her cell into her coat pocket, and rose. She quickly pulled on her coat. “I won’t take any more of your time. Thank you, Coach Wiliker, you’ve added depth, some fine details I’ll be able to use in my article. When I see Alex, I’ll tell him I spoke with you, tell him how fondly you remember him.”

That bit of praise unbent him enough to shake her hand.

Mia was back on the road and headed to New York City a few minutes later. Now she could keep her promise to Pilar Kaplan, the administrative assistant she’d spoken to at Harvard when she had stopped there to talk to Alex’s professors. No need to give her name out to anyone as a witness. Pilar had been quite sure it was Alex in the picture, claimed she recognized his old bracelet, said he never took it off. Now Mia knew Alex Harrington’s earlobe had been torn by a lacrosse stick when he was sixteen.

You didn’t get it fixed until much later, right, Alex? Why? Was it when you took charge of your family’s business in New York?She could find the doctor who repaired his earlobe if he denied it, and Tommy Maitland could get the police report on Teresa Jacobs, the girl who went missing at Bennington, just as Serena did at the Delta Rho Phi rave.