The Suicide Club. Gayle Wilson

shared. Half the department probably knew you’d been over there before you got back in your car.”

      “I’ll remember that. I thought maybe you had a friend who’d asked you to see if you could find out why I was there.”

      The grin wavered so that Jace knew he’d struck a nerve. It hadn’t taken a lot of deductive reasoning to figure out the reason “Deputy Dawg” here had stopped by to chat, no matter how subtle Carlisle thought he was being.

      “So you’re a friend of Ms. Sloan’s,” Jace went on before the man had a chance to think up an excuse.

      “Sorry.” Carlisle shook his head. “Don’t believe I know her. That the teacher you talked to?”

      “The gifted coordinator. I’m not totally clear what that means, but I’ll find out.”

      “Yeah? Me, either. They didn’t have one of them when I was in school.”

      “You go there?”

      “Everybody around here did.”

      “Know anybody there now?”

      “I might. You looking to talk to people? Unofficially?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Kids?”

      “I don’t care. Just somebody who’ll be candid.”

      “I’ll think about who I know. You believe whoever’s doing this is a genius.”

      “They burned down three churches without leaving physical evidence. Does that make them a genius?”

      “Might just make ’em lucky.” Carlisle’s grin was back.

      “That’s what I figure.”

      “’Course my daddy always said it’s better to be lucky than good.”

      “Eventually luck runs out.”

      On Jace’s orders, the remaining black churches in this county and the adjacent ones had been under patrol since the last fire. So far it had worked, but if he was right…

      If he was right, something else was going to happen. Sooner rather than later. And he intended to be on top of it when it did.

      

      The slight headache Lindsey had been conscious of when she’d awakened this morning, after another night of less-than-restful sleep, had become full blown. It was the Friday afternoon pep rally, and the entire student population was crammed into a gym that had been too small to hold it for at least three years. The band blasted away on the fight song, the sound of the drums throbbing through the prefabricated building like a toothache.

      She had thought about retreating to the quietness of her room until the dismissal bell, but faculty was supposed to supervise assemblies. As a compromise, she had moved to one of the two pairs of open double doors, so that she was actually standing out in the hall, looking back into the gym. Not only was the noise less out here, so was the heat and the claustrophobic press of bodies.

      In any case, this one was almost over, with only the obligatory speeches by the game captains and Coach Spears remaining on the program. After those, even the cheerleaders would give up, trailing out of the gym after the transported students, who’d be off to catch their buses.

      As soon as the fight song ground to a halt, the football coach, who had held his position for more than twenty years, took the microphone and began introducing the two boys standing diffidently beside him. Lindsey took a deep, calming breath, savoring the fact that the week was almost over. She could sleep in tomorrow morning. Right now, she couldn’t think of anything more appealing.

      “Will they win?”

      In spite of the brevity of the question, the accent was distinctive enough to allow her to identify the speaker even before she looked around. Detective Jace Nolan was beside her, his dark eyes focused on the three people standing along the midcourt line. When she didn’t answer, he turned his head, peering down at her.

      From this angle his lashes looked incredibly long. A hint of stubble that hadn’t been there Tuesday morning darkened his cheeks. The knot of his tie had been loosened, although the pale blue dress shirt still managed to look crisp. As did his midnight hair, which in the humidity was displaying a surprising tendency to curl.

      “What are you doing here?” Lindsey asked.

      “Watching the pep rally. I thought that was permitted.”

      Parents and others from the community always showed up at assemblies. At Randolph-Lowen they’d never imposed the strict security measures other schools now took for granted, given today’s climate of fear. At this moment dozens of outsiders lined the court, mingling with the faculty and staff.

      “It is. I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”

      “I’m interested in anything that goes on around here. It’s part of my job.”

      He refocused his eyes on the trio at center stage, appearing to listen to the senior captain’s stumbling rhetoric. Lindsey’s gaze followed his, but she heard nothing of what the football player was saying. She was examining the implications of Nolan being back at school so quickly, as well as those inherent in him once more singling her out.

      “And you’re on the job now?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the boy holding the mike.

      “Since the county’s paying me for a full day’s work.”

      “Why here? Why today?”

      “The fires occurred on a weekend. I’m trying to get a feel for what these kids do outside of school.”

      “So you came to school?”

      He glanced down again, a slight tilt at one corner of what she’d once thought of as a hard mouth.

      “Doesn’t make much sense, does it? What would you think about showing me?”

      “Showing you what?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Lindsey knew what he wanted. Despite that, she was unprepared when he put the request into words.

      “What these kids do on a Friday night.”

      She looked back toward the center of the gym, watching Ray Garrett pass the microphone to the second captain, their junior fullback. She eased a breath, unobtrusively she hoped, and then raised her eyes to Nolan again.

      His were on her face. Waiting.

      “They go to the football game,” she said.

      He laughed. “Yeah, I figured that. And afterward?”

      “That depends on the kids. They go out to eat. Or to a party.” She didn’t particularly want to discuss with him the myriad other actions she knew students this age engaged in.

      “Couples? Or groups?”

      “Both.”

      “Yours, too.”

      “Mine are like all the others. They date. They hang out. They drive around. They stay out too late—”

      “They burn churches.”

      She closed her mouth, fighting to control her surge of anger. She was pleased with how rational she managed to sound when she was able to respond. “Not in my opinion. And I’ve yet to hear any credible evidence to the contrary.”

      “Normally we don’t share that kind of evidence.”

      “But you have it?”

      She could hear the blatant need for reassurance in her question. Tuesday she’d been convinced that he was bluffing. Fishing for information. In the intervening days, for no reason she could pinpoint, that conviction had weakened.

      “Despite the acknowledged charms of Ray Garrett’s recent pep talk, why else would I be here?”

      And