Strange Flesh (18 page)

That prompted my rising early twice a week to stake out a cozy table at the always packed café at the Science Center so I could turn it over to her and her friends when they came out of Stats 139. After a couple weeks of this, she finally showed up alone, and I blew off my imaginary class to keep her company.

I was “delighted” by the coincidence of finding her in charge of the math/science tutoring program for Roxbury kids that I’d just joined to indulge my previously unexpressed need to serve the community.

I wandered Cambridge scanning for the minutest signal of her presence. Like a drug-sniffing dog let off his leash and free to pursue his fixations.

Finally, a breakthrough: I saw her coming out of the Harvard Provision Company carrying a box of liquor. In my first experience with dumpster diving, I fished her receipt out of the trash bin and found that she’d just purchased half a case of Laphroaig twenty-year. This fact evoked a memory of the slight tug of displeasure at her lips when the Hasty Pudding staff informed her that they only served Johnnie Walker.

The next Thursday, I stood in the Pudding rehearsing the details of my admittedly thin plan to start a conversation about scotch. Isn’t it funny we’re both Laphroaig fanciers? Perhaps she’d like to sample some rare Quarter Cask I have stashed back at my room?

As it happened, my contrived place at the bar simply allowed me an ideal vantage from which to observe our leading hockey stud, Pete Novak, asking Blythe to the next evening’s Mather House formal.

Novak was one of those rare athletes who wanted at least part of a fancy degree before exploring his prospects in the NHL. He had a testosterone-soaked pulchritude, and I guess he represented a passable antithesis of William Coles. But I was still mortified when I heard her say yes.

Seething with jealousy the next morning, I couldn’t help torturing myself with online pictures of him celebrating the winning goal in the Junior National Championship. But Novak was an academic all-star as well, so my rival had more substance than a mere well-marbled boy toy. He grew up in a tony suburb near Princeton, mother a professor, father a prominent local sportscaster.
Probably worked for her dad,
I thought bitterly.

Digging deeper, I learned that Robert Randall
had
in fact acquired Joe Novak’s station ten years ago, but had fired him in the first round of automatic layoffs. Novak’s parents divorced early the next year. Shortly after, Joe Novak killed two people in a DWI accident and was still in jail. So any relationship between Pete and Blythe would have heavier baggage than the First Armored Division.

Though I’d hesitated to invade Blythe’s privacy, I had no compunctions about Novak’s. He wasn’t a heavy emailer, but his browsing history
yielded an undue amount of research on powerful sedatives and queries about local doctors with liberal views on their use.

That seemed pretty dark, so I Photoshopped myself an invite to the Mather formal and started trying to figure out how I was going to warn Blythe.

But she didn’t even show. I stood there nervously sipping club soda for two hours until I heard a couple of her friends talking about how after pre-gaming with them, she’d “stumbled off” for some “steak and cheese.”

Where?

To get to Novak’s dorm they’d have to walk right by the party. Not another bar. The Pudding was closed. If Blythe was still conscious, she’d probably balk at a hotel room. So a plausibly innocent place he could take her that would nonetheless offer plenty of opportunity to get her alone?

I called Blake and then ran all the way to the Zeta house.

The front door of the frat’s dingy clapboard lair was propped open, and I could hear members bellowing out back. I sprinted up the stairs and wound through the dim hallway leading toward their den. Adjoining which I knew they had two former bedrooms pressed into duty as the “bong room” and the dismal “mattress room,” where I thought I might find Blythe.

But the mattress room’s door hung ajar, revealing only darkness. I turned back, trying to think where else she could be. Then, a bright light flashed from the alcove next to their most remote bathroom. Deep voices accompanied another flash.

“—society whore’s not so pretty now, are you?”

“Daddy Randall’s going to
love
this.”

I crept around the corner and saw Novak standing in the doorway taking pictures with a digital camera. He was flanked by two of his teammates, one of whom was struggling with his fly. I had to sneak right up behind them before I finally saw her.

Blythe hunched over the toilet, her lips resting on its soiled rim. Vomit covered the floor. Her backless dress had fallen to expose her breasts. I supposed she’d felt something wrong and tried to make herself sick but
was too late. As the flash went off again, she looked up in mute appeal and reached for the plunger in the corner. To use as a weapon? The effort destroyed the remnants of her balance, and her face made a splashy thump as it hit the floor.

I shouldered my way in and reached for her. “Jesus Christ, guys, what kind of shit—”

Novak checked me with his forearm so hard that the back of my head bounced off the wall, and if he hadn’t been holding me in place, I’d have joined Blythe on the floor.

“Who the fuck are you?”

As I closed my eyes against the next blow, I saw a pair of pale hands reach from the dark, fasten onto Novak’s neck, and rip him back out of the doorway. His minions turned to confront the better part of our heavyweight crew’s first boat. Several more hockey players followed just behind them. Seeing Blake and Novak wrestling viciously on the floor, they threw themselves at the rowers. Though the hockey team were surely the better fighters, the rowers had an average of twenty pounds on them, so the brawl escalated fast as more people kept coming up the stairs.

After wiping Blythe’s face, I hauled her out of the bathroom and pushed my way along the left-hand wall to a short, dark hallway that led to the back stairwell.

I set her down on the sidewalk outside and tried to revive her. Seconds later Blake loomed behind me, bloody and breathing hard. Without a word, he tenderly picked up his sister and stalked out into the night.

The wee hours passed while I hacked the Mather House key card security system to give myself access to Novak’s suite. At six in the morning, he and his roommates were passed out, presumably from celebrating their coup against the “society whore.” I found Novak in an almost adorable state of helplessness: snoring loudly on his futon mattress, still in his shirt and tie, but sans pants. One hand remained inside his dingy white briefs, the other cradled his camera.

I grabbed the camera, my primary objective, but couldn’t resist a little more payback. A quick sweep of their common room delivered the obligatory gay porn mag, always useful for infantile japery, which I opened on
his chest. Then I tightened his tie and placed the tensioning end in his free hand. The dawn lent enough light for several pictures without the flash.

But it still wasn’t enough. He’d gone after
Blythe
.

Inspiration struck, and I used Novak’s phone to send a quick message.

The Bat’s preferred Fulgencio-filler was eager to make a house call and supply me with the powdered methamphetamine that I slipped into the giant Gatorade bottle next to Novak’s bed. Not so much that he’d go to the infirmary, but enough that he’d have an invigorating morning. And difficulty passing a drug test. And a sharp end to his hockey season. And a big problem with his scholarship.

At midnight the next evening Blythe knocked on my door. She looked the opposite of how she did the last time I’d seen her, crisp jeans and an immaculate white blouse covering her pearls. Heavier makeup than she usually wore.

Rooted in place on my doormat, she started a stilted speech. “James, I thought I should stop by to express to you my deepest gratitude . . .”

This was not at all what I wanted. She obviously loathed that I’d seen her in such a state.

I interrupted. “Hey, come on in. I have something for you.”

She hesitated but stepped inside. As I closed the door behind her, I handed over Novak’s camera, cued to my early-morning photo shoot.

She flipped back to the pictures of her and asked the question with her eyes.

“I checked the log. He hadn’t downloaded them yet. I think everything will turn out fine. But you should be more careful.”

Her silence stretched on, so I asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

She stared at me for another moment, visibly reassessing. Finally she said, “Yeah . . . I’ll just need . . .” She glanced around abstractly, as though searching some alternate dimension for what could possibly redeem that awful experience. But then her gaze settled on my mantelpiece bar prominently stocked with exotic bottlings of her favorite alcoholic balm.

I guess its presence served as a celestial confirmation of my virtue, because her voice relaxed when she said, “I’ll just need a drink.”

She then drifted to my window and stared into the night. I couldn’t believe she’d turn her back to me as I poured.

Blythe arrives down at the club bar minutes later and inhales deeply from the lowball I ordered for her.

I raise my drink and say, “To victory.”

We tap glasses. “Kind of you. But one can’t really declare victory in a training exercise.”

“You can if you learn something. And you learned that you need a better class of opponent.”

“I think my opponents are talented enough these days. If I—” She stops herself and takes a sip of her drink.

I wait for her to resume, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Business, sadly. Though I hope that soon we can drink for pleasure.”

Lightning surges down my spine. But it dissipates as I realize she probably means that I need to move my ass on locating Billy. She’s also not necessarily implying that we’ll be drinking
together
at the end of it.

She continues. “How are you finding the new you?”

“Liberating. I’m thinking of installing some new holes in myself. Turns out your brother isn’t the only GAMEr with a soft spot for retro prep.”

I show her the croc pendant I got at the party. Blythe stares at it. “I won’t ask how you came by this.”

I laugh. “Nothing like that. He mailed them out to some of his colleagues. An advertisement for this place he’s set up in NOD.”

She says, “So another game . . . Just a little harmless fun?”

“Well, I wouldn’t—”

“Pardon my sarcasm. I know he’s always taken them quite seriously.” She thinks for a moment. Then changes the subject. “James, I also need to clarify a few things from our last meeting.”

“Okay.”

“Because of our past, ah, relationship, Blake thought it would be best if you worked mostly with him on this to prevent any . . . awkwardness.”

“I see.”

“I told him that was ludicrous, but he’s obsessively protective of me, and once he gets an idea in his head—”

“I understand.”

“But I just wanted to make sure you don’t have any difficulty—”

“Blythe, I’m here to help you. Not create new problems.”

She smiles. “Ah, good. The one we have is bad enough.”

“I get the impression this isn’t just an everyday sibling rivalry.”

“It’s beginning to display the hallmarks of a war of succession.”

I nod as she takes a long sip.

“My father badly wanted the enterprise he built to last for generations. He set up the estate so we’d retain voting shares and, therefore, control of the company. Dad was acutely aware that family disputes can lead to dreadful headlines, lawsuits, and sometimes fire sales.”

“And you see yourselves heading in that direction?”

“We’d have been there long ago, but my father took steps to prevent that. In his will, he divided financial ownership of IMP equally among the three of us, but not the supervotes. Coherence of control came before equal treatment.”

Though it’s forbidden throughout the club, she lights a cigarette. “So Dad gave each of us enough voting shares to guarantee a seat, but the full board decides which child will be placed in charge. A sort of meritocratic primogeniture. There wasn’t a set deadline, but Ger Loring has started flouncing around in Hawaiian shirts, so everyone thinks the decision will be made soon.”

“Sounds like a recipe for a strong company, but a broken family.”

A sad smile emerges from the lip of her glass. “Of course Blake and I have stayed quite close. We are twins after all.”

She tells me how they carved out separate spheres of influence in the company. Blake on the business development side, and Blythe in cable ops.

She continues. “Billy, on the other hand—”

“Is he even interested in IMP? I thought he dreamed of being a sort of Caravaggio two-point-oh.”

“Maybe so. But he never got to make a choice. Blake was so enraged at the publicity from Billy’s early legal troubles that he seized on a minor provision in the trust that allowed the board to delay giving Billy his seat
when he turned twenty-one. He got the money from his regular equity but no real voice in the company.”