Secret Society (23 page)

L
auren had felt distant from Phoebe and Nick since the start of the retreat. Although it was partly her own fault—she had been moody and withdrawn—it was as if they had been in their own private club of two. She knew they hadn't done anything deliberately to make her feel shut out—they had tried to include her in things, although she often declined. It was hard to be with them when all she could think about was Alejandro, about the night they had spent together, and the awful last moments when she saw him, being carried out of that club. She spent some of the first two days at the retreat trying to be sociable, but she found herself making every excuse she could to be alone.

On the third afternoon of the retreat, as she was leaving her cabin, Thad Johnson came out of his, bundled in a ski
parka. He looked as if he had just taken a shower; his blond curls were frozen on his head, and he was carefully applying SPF lip balm.

“Hey,” he called. “You going for a walk?”

Lauren nodded.

“No one our age really appreciates walks around here,” he said, as he hurried up to her. “It's like they're all too busy making connections or racing from one seminar to another.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Do you want company?”

Lauren was about to say no, but that would be a lie: She wanted company, but she wanted Alejandro's company.

“Okay,” she finally said.

“Don't think about it for too long.”

She smiled, realizing that he was teasing her.

“You seem a little down,” he said.

“I'm just wondering,” Lauren said, “if I'm the only one freaked out by this. I mean, we're part of this group, and two people are dead or missing.”

“Alejandro,” Thad said. “Have you heard from him?”

“No. And no one seems to know anything, not even his parents. Why would they do this to him?”

“What do you mean ‘they'?”

“You know, ‘they,' the Society.”

Thad stopped walking. “You think the Society did something to Alejandro?”

“It's like they decide when they want to protect us and when they want to destroy us.” She told Thad what she and Nick and Phoebe had discovered. “It's so screwed up, I feel like we're trapped here on this island, our phones barely work, we're all in this bizarre Stepford-country-club fantasy. I'm not sure I can handle it anymore.”

Thad put a hand on Lauren's shoulder, and she flinched a bit. “Hey, I get what you're saying. It isn't exactly what I expected, either.” He paused for a moment. “Listen, it's a bit chilly out. You want to go grab some hot chocolate?”

Lauren looked at him. It was sweet of him to ask her, but she wasn't sure if she should accept.

“Um, sure, but, Thad, you should really know, I'm not really in the market for—I mean, I don't mean to presume…”

“I understand—you're not looking to date anyone these days. That's okay.”

“It is?”

“Sure. I'm, well—let's just say I'm not exactly into girls. At least not in that way.”

Lauren laughed as relief flowed over her. Of course he was gay! How silly she had been not to see it—no decent guy would hit on her after what she'd been through. “Thad, you have no idea how happy that makes me. Because—” She realized what she was about to say and how childish it sounded, but she decided it didn't matter. “Because what I could really use right now is a friend.”

 

Phoebe felt terrible about the whole thing with Patch, though, admittedly, it was his fault that he had given her the images that had started all the trouble. It was a sneaky thing of him to do, especially when he knew it could get her into such a mess. But she knew he was trying to do his art, and she was trying to do hers, and she couldn't really fault him. After all, wasn't art supposed to provoke?

While everyone was in the main seminar for the day, off in one of the auxiliary buildings, Nick and Phoebe made their way down to the lower level of the cottage. Employees were moving trays and carts of food and drinks, all in preparation for afternoon tea. No one paid them much mind, Phoebe noticed, as long as they acted as if they belonged there. Each door was marked with a specific label:
MAIN KITCHEN, MEAT LOCKERS, WINE CELLAR, HOUSEKEEPING, LINENS.

“Do we check each room?” Phoebe whispered to Nick.

“I don't think we can,” he said. “Too suspicious. We don't even know if he's down here. He could be in one of the outbuildings. Or at the athletic center—I mean, each one of those buildings has a basement. Not to mention about five hundred other rooms.”

Phoebe heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie, and before they could react, Parker Bell came striding toward them.

“Nick, what is it now?” he said. “I had to leave the conference on global economic theory because I was told that my
son and his friend were poking around in the basement.”

“Dad, where the hell are you keeping him?” Nick shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway.

His ferocity startled Phoebe, but she realized that his tactic of causing a scene was working. Employees were staring at Parker Bell curiously and then looking away.

“You be quiet,” Mr. Bell hissed. “Come with me.” He took them to the end of the hallway, to an unmarked door. A security guard followed them.

“Do you want entry, sir?” the guard said.

Nick's father nodded. The security guard pulled out a ring of keys and opened the door.

“Come inside,” Mr. Bell said.

Phoebe looked at Nick cautiously, but Nick nodded that it was okay. Phoebe figured Nick's father wouldn't do anything to her while his own son was around.

The guard shut the door behind them. Phoebe was startled to see the sarcophagus from the image Patch had sent to Nick, rigged up with an IV bag and a tube leading to it.

“Oh my God,” Phoebe said.

“I'm bringing you in here as a courtesy,” Mr. Bell said. “You two have caused enough trouble over the last few weeks and months, and I thought that by clueing you in to what is going on you might be willing to cooperate.”

Nick said nothing, so Phoebe decided to do the same.

“Now, you're probably wondering who's in the coffins. The
first one contains your friend Patch.”

“Dad, if you have done anything to him, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life,” Nick said.

“Nicholas, relax. He's being monitored by a doctor. The IV tube is keeping him asleep, but feeding him vital fluids and nutrients. He's perfectly fine, probably healthier than half the people on this retreat.”

“What are you doing with him?”

“That remains to be seen. I assure you he will not be hurt.”

“How can I trust you? You've lied to me so many times before. How do I know this isn't just another one of your stories?”

“Nicholas, have some faith.”

“What about Alejandro? What did you do with him? Is he in the other coffin?” Nick spat the words out at his father.

“No, he is not. The second coffin is empty. There is something you two have to understand. You were on the verge of discovering it the other evening. Each Society class is different. The ideal class, theoretically, is a group of fifteen members, all working harmoniously for the right goals. But sometimes members step out of line, members who do not reflect the highest beliefs of the Society.”

Phoebe looked at Nick. His face was like stone.

His father continued, “You two, I'm sorry to say, fall into that category. It is not unusual—it's a recent trend, actually.
Youth today are so much less obedient. Even the best and the brightest, which you both certainly are, step out of line these days. It's part of your maturation process. And we understand that. But what we cannot tolerate is insubordination.”

“Insubordination?” Nick asked.

“Disobedience. Not paying attention to the rules. Your entirely willful disregard for the rules is very troubling. And that is where the Power of Fourteen comes into play.” Mr. Bell paused. “I am going to explain something to you before the other Initiates find out about it this evening. You must promise me that you will keep it to yourself.”

Phoebe and Nick looked at each other. Nick gave her a shrug as if to say,
What choice do we have?

“Good. So now we come to the matter of Mr. Calleja.”

Phoebe felt a lump rising in her throat.

“In many classes, there is a weak member. It is almost unavoidable when you have to pick fifteen people. Sometimes they are legacies; sometimes they are people whose promise does not deliver in actualities. The weakest member is often not a threat. In Mr. Calleja's case, however, he was.”

“How was he a threat?” Phoebe asked. Alejandro seemed harmless to her, much more harmless than she or Nick had been.

“You may not be aware of this, but Mr. Calleja had a serious drug problem. His behavior was out of control. His family had sought treatment for him multiple times, with little suc
cess. When he had his incident over Thanksgiving break and was quoted in several gossip columns making oblique references to the Society, we realized that something had to be done.”

“So why not bring him in and talk to him?” Nick asked.

“We would have, if your class had been a normal class. But little did I know that my own son and his friends would be the insubordinates we always fear.”

“What do we have to do with it?”

“It's the Power of Fourteen. If you would listen, you'll understand.”

Nick stayed silent, as his father stood in front of the sarcophagus.

“Mr. Calleja is dead.”

“No!” Nick shouted. “You did not do this!”

“You're exactly right. I didn't do this at all.”

“Then who did?”

“All of you. You were the ones who let him die.”

N
ick looked at his father in amazement. “What the hell do you mean?”

“On the night Mr. Calleja was last seen, all of you were out partying with him—illegally, against the rules of your school and the laws of our state. He imbibed enough alcohol to black out, and he was carried away. All of your fingerprints are on the glasses that were found at the scene of the crime.”

“Where is he now?”

“Mr. Calleja was taken to a facility where he was allowed to binge on drugs to his heart's content. He spent the last week consuming quantities of drugs that before he could only dream about.”

Nick's father checked his watch. “If everything is on schedule, Mr. Calleja's body would have been deposited on
the Lower East Side exactly fifteen minutes ago in an area, appropriately enough, known as Hell Square. He will be found, I imagine, by the authorities within the hour. When they examine him, they will find lethal doses of alcohol and other drugs, all consistent with the story that Mr. Calleja started partying on the nineteenth and went on a drug binge in the area. You see, sadly, people are almost always done in by their worst vices.”

“How are you going to prove that? They'll know he was at your party at the club, won't they?”

“Oh, it was hardly the party that caused his death, but it started him on the downward spiral. His ATM card will show enormous withdrawals, enough to buy several hundred dollars' worth of drugs every day and to give him a place to stay, a flophouse in the neighborhood, the owner of which will verify his whereabouts. It's sad, but it happens.”

“They would see it on tape, then. ATM machines have cameras, Dad.”

“That's true, but unfortunately there's one at the corner of Rivington and Ludlow where the camera is broken. Mr. Calleja seemed to favor that one the most.”

“So what does all this have to do with us?”

“That is the Power of Fourteen. The fourteen of you are now bound together with this irrevocable secret. Although you may not be convinced, the others will know that it was their enabling that started Mr. Calleja on this journey. Your
class will be stronger than ever. You can't tell your families, you can't tell the police. You can only keep silent. We think it will put an end to all these shenanigans.”

Nick sat down on a box, his head in his hands. He couldn't believe this. Finally, he looked up.

“You are an evil, vicious man,” Nick said to his father, shaking as he uttered the words. “I can't believe I'm even related to you.” He looked at his father, at his dad's turtleneck and blazer and duck boots, all the familiar trappings that clothed a person he barely knew. He couldn't fathom that this was the man who had raised him.

“I'd watch your words, Nick. All this has paid for everything you've grown up with. You can thank the Society for many of the comforts and privileges you enjoy. And I don't think you'd want that taken away, would you?”

“But why, Dad? Why would you want to do this?”

“Because it's so easy, Nick. People in the world see only what they want to see. We have a way of life to protect. It's unfortunate when it comes to this, but we are living in difficult times. Extreme measures must sometimes be taken. That's why we have the Guardians. Hector here is one of them.” He motioned to the guard standing behind him.

Phoebe spoke up. “And this has been going on for how long?”

“Well, in recent years, it's happened more and more. The class of Conscripts, and the situation with Mr. Willson—that
was unfortunate. But that class has bonded together in an incredible way. It seems most of them never liked Mr. Willson anyway. Once they realized he could potentially ruin their chances for future success, no one batted an eyelash when he was found dead.”

“Jared died of exposure,” Nick said. “Everyone knows that.”

“Exactly,” Nick's father said. “But the fourteen Conscripts know that they were with him the night he died. We have photo documentation of that rather lurid event, and you have to believe me, I don't think any of them want that getting out, particularly when they are waiting on college acceptances.”

“When did this start?” Phoebe asked.

“In the 1960s was the first time,” Parker said. “The Society started having problems. A few of the members tried to defect. A solution was found quite by accident, through an initiation ritual that has since been outmoded. Students had to hold their breath underwater in the Society's pool at the townhouse, for as long as they could. Fifteen of them, all at once. It was a way of creating unity. Little did they know that one of them had a rare condition that caused his lungs to collapse. It was a terrible tragedy, and everyone knew it was an accident. But what they found was that the class bonded together more strongly than ever before. Thus, the Power of Fourteen came into being.”

“So you're saying this is our fault?” Nick asked. “That if
we hadn't messed with things, asked too many questions, whatever—that Alejandro might still be alive?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Nick, you can't blame yourselves. On the contrary, I'm actually very proud of you and Phoebe.”

“Why's that?” Phoebe asked.

“Because we have found in the past that those engaged in insubordination on the early side of their Society careers all turn out to be one thing.”

“What's that?” Nick said.

“They make the best leaders.”

 

Phoebe still couldn't believe what Mr. Bell was telling them. “So all this success, everything you've been offering us, it's all a charade?”

“Far from it,” Mr. Bell said. “Phoebe, your paintings are good. Really, they are. But do you realize that ninety percent of them were purchased by Society members? You're in some of the most prominent collections in the city. But we can have those pieces put in storage, even destroyed if we want. Your work will never be seen again.”

“Dad, that's absurd,” Nick said. “Phoebe doesn't need your help to succeed.”

“You may want to ask her how much attention was paid to her before we put in a special request at her mother's gallery.”

Phoebe was silent.

“And what about me?”

“Nick, your future, whether it's club promoting or something else—and God help us if it is club promoting, but I guess we'll see—we can affect that just as easily. The same with Ms. Mortimer and her jewelry line. Sebastian Giroux isn't helping her out for his own health. With all the losses he's had to take on the line so far, he could easily pull it.”

“So what if he does?” Phoebe said. “I know I'm stating the obvious, but none of that is worth you killing people.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Bell said. “That's why we engineered it so that the fourteen of you would be the ones doing the killing.”