Secret Society (16 page)

P
hoebe arrived midday on Friday at the Southampton house in the car that had been sent for her. So many different scenarios about the Society had gone through her head during the two-and-a–half-hour ride, she didn't know what was the truth. She knew she trusted Nick, but she was unsure about everything else. How was his family involved? Why was his father such a jerk? And what about her mother? How had she allowed herself to be romanced by this guy Daniel? To send her to a doctor who was clearly part of the Society? And now these pills: She had been taking them, although she knew she needed to stop. She hadn't wanted to at first, but they did relax her to the point that she no longer worried so much about things, that she could at least function, sleep through the night. They made her feel like
everything was going to be fine.

The house was a 1904 Tudor revival on eight acres of land, surrounded by an English parterre, a croquet court, tennis courts, a reflecting pool, and beyond that, potato fields to shield the property from onlookers.

Phoebe ran into Lauren in the entryway of the large home, and the two hugged. “Where have you been?” Lauren asked. “I left you, like, five messages.”

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said. “I'll explain later.”

Nick came up behind her and gave her a hug. She inhaled the comforting smell of his freshly washed hair.

“Everything's going to be okay,” he whispered. “I promise.” She wanted to hold on to him, to stay in his arms, grab onto his green wool sweater, and make everything else disappear.

The Administrator rang a bell for all of them to convene in the living room; Miss Stapleton seemed particularly anxious to get the meeting underway. It was the entire class of Initiates who had gathered, as well as all the Conscripts; apparently most had already been on the East End, and those who hadn't had cars sent for them.

The Administrator spoke, and Phoebe saw that her comments were directed at Nick's father, who was sitting in a leather wingback in the corner. “The doors are secured, sir.”

“Thank you, Miss Stapleton.” Nick's father stood up. “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Parker Bell, and I am representing all the Elders today. We are extremely distressed
by what happened to one of our current class of Conscripts. As you may know, the police announced an hour ago that the body found in the park was that of Jared Willson.”

The group gasped as Mr. Bell continued.

“The authorities are searching for the precise reasons behind Jared's death. I think we can firmly say that his passing can serve as a cautionary tale about the dangers of alcohol abuse. Jared, as some of you know, had issues with chemical dependency. One fact that young people don't realize is that copious amounts of liquor, combined with near-freezing temperatures, can be fatal. The sense we've gotten from the police is that that is what happened to Jared.”

A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd. Was Mr. Bell saying Jared had
frozen to death?

“Meanwhile, we are extremely concerned about all of your well-being. We have a world-renowned psychiatrist here to help any of you with your particular grief issues. You can see him if you have any problems or even if you just want to talk. Dr. Meckling, will you stand up?”

Phoebe felt her neck grow white-hot, as Dr. Meckling stood. She shot Nick a look, although she was sure he wouldn't know what it meant.

Dr. Meckling gave a friendly wave to the crowd. Phoebe doubted that anyone would want to speak to him.

“We will take questions individually after the meeting,” Mr. Bell said.

“I have a question right now, actually,” Thaddeus Johnson said, standing up. “Who is the leader of the Society? Will we ever find out who's running the show here?”

The crowd started whispering again. Phoebe admired him for speaking up.

“As the current class of Conscripts knows, much more will become apparent during the retreat at Isis Island. Now, why don't you all enjoy the buffet lunch that's waiting for you out on the sunporch?”

 

After the group broke up and started eating, Phoebe went to the powder room, which was halfway down a long hallway in the east wing of the house. When she came back, she saw someone sitting in the library, past an arched corridor at the end of the hall. It was a girl muttering something to herself. Phoebe walked closer to see that it was Anastasia, scribbling furiously in her notebook.

Phoebe didn't want to interrupt her, so she crept quietly into the room.

Anastasia was murmuring to herself,
“You join and they own you. They always try to phone you. Say something and then you're dead. Get a drug right in your head…”

It was like a childhood nursery rhyme, and it freaked Phoebe out. She turned away, hoping they wouldn't need to talk, when Anastasia called out her name.

She turned around slowly. “Hi,” she said. “Um, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Anastasia said. “I'm just upset. Jared and I were sort of…”

“Together?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes. And I—to have him gone like this. It's such a shock.”

“What was that that you were saying a second ago? I'm sorry, I overheard.”

“Oh, I was just writing something. Like a poem.”

“Sounded sort of strange.”

Anastasia smirked. “Well, I guess I have permission now to be a little strange, don't I?”

Phoebe gave her a hug, because she didn't know what else to do. The whole goth artist act had never really appealed to Phoebe. She hated herself for thinking it, but it was almost as if now Anastasia really had something that would make her the center of attention, more so than reading her diary on the train or making films of herself sitting on the toilet.

“Anastasia, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” She smoothed away her black bob.

Phoebe lowered her voice. “Can you tell me what's going on here? I mean, who is running this whole operation? Thad asked the question, but no one wanted to say anything. Clearly, Nick's dad is a big part of it. But whose house is this? Where
does all the money come from? Like, who pays for the lunch that everyone's eating right now?”

“Phoebe, I can't talk about stuff like that. You know I can't.”

Phoebe groaned quietly. “This is so frustrating, though! Why are they keeping so many secrets from us?”

Anastasia put her hand on Phoebe's, as Phoebe noticed her bloodred nails. “You have to trust me on this. A lot will become clear during the retreat. The whole class of Conscripts and all the Initiates are together, along with a lot of the Elders. It comes out to something like two hundred people. They explain to you more of what's going on.”

“Why can't they make it clear now?”

“They're testing you,” Anastasia said. “They want to make sure you can be loyal, to make sure you can survive in a group. Of course, with what happened to Jared, I don't think they'll have any problem with our class.”

“What do you mean?”

Anastasia looked down the hallway, toward the sound of the voices in the other rooms that were chattering on. She spoke slowly. “Jared was with all of us on the night that he died. We all saw him.”

“How is that possible?”

“There was a dinner for our class, followed by a ritual in the park. It's something the Conscripts do every year, or so we were told. It was a freak accident—we didn't know what
to do when we found Jared collapsed like that. It was Charles who found him, and he tried to revive him, but it was hopeless. It's not normally that cold at this time of year, and most people don't drink like Jared does. It was a horrible combination of circumstances.”

“Why was he almost naked?”

“That was part of it. One member was to be nominated to say a purification ritual in front of the needle, to atone for the sins of the group, while the rest of us waited nearby, under Greywacke Arch. Charles and the other guys nominated Jared to do it.”

“So Jared was your martyr.”

Anastasia looked at Phoebe as if she had insulted her. “Yes, but in a symbolic way—nothing was supposed to happen to him!”

Phoebe was silent.

“We were all drinking,” Anastasia continued. “We were all drunk. I mean, how would he have known?”

Phoebe nodded, although she was hardly satisfied by the answer. “So will you all be questioned by the police?”

“We can't. The publicity is too much. We all want to get into college. Imagine what the media would say—they would want a list of everyone who was there.”

Phoebe was already picturing the headlines about cultish rituals and last suppers.

“So you all have to stay silent,” Phoebe said.

“That's what they're saying. Charles called us all individually. The case will be closed in a few days. They're very connected, you know. All it takes is one call to the right person and the case gets shut down.”

“But that's impossible!”

“Think about it, Phoebe. You know how there are certain deaths where no one ever really knows what happened?” She named an actor who had died the previous year of mysterious causes in his hotel room. “Remember how there was a big scandal for a week and talk of an investigation, the cover of
US Weekly,
the whole works? And then everyone just forgets about it? The same thing will happen. People will forget about Jared.” She started crying.

“You have to stop that from happening!” Phoebe said. “You have to fight for what you believe.”

“I can't do that, Phoebe,” Anastasia said. “I know from past experience that it doesn't pay. The only person who gets hurt in the end is the one who speaks out.”

O
n Friday afternoon, Patch and Genie took the train up to Westchester to visit his mother, Esmé, at the Stoney River Psychiatric Hospital. Patch had dreaded the visits ever since his mother had been institutionalized. The facility had steel doors with double-glazed panes, bars on the windows, and no locks on the restrooms, in case someone tried to kill herself. Adding to the fact that the hospital was depressing in and of itself—and it was known to be one of the nicer ones in the area—it was awful to see his mother in such a state.

Esmé had her own room, and she spent her days reading newspapers and magazines; she had ten different subscriptions. She refused to go outside, which Patch always thought was odd. The facility in Ossining had landscaped grounds (albeit grounds that were surrounded by a chain-link fence),
but she wanted to stay inside, content to look out her window.

The first visit was to her doctor, whom they always consulted. “She's doing better,” he said. “Your mother, as you know, has borderline personality disorder, which takes form in obsessive ruminating over one particular topic. Is she ready to come out anytime soon? I don't think so. The topics change, from month to month. But we can't have her out among the other residents for too long at a time, because she scares people. And if she can't handle that, she certainly can't handle the outside world.”

Patch and his grandmother nodded. He knew it was awful for Genie, seeing how her daughter had deteriorated over the years; although she was no longer immobile, as she had been when she was admitted ten years ago, she still lacked many of the basic skills needed to function in the world. Genie visited once a week, but she felt Patch should visit only every few months, as she said she knew how difficult it was for him to see his mother in this condition. Besides, the facility's visiting hours often conflicted with his class schedule.

When they entered her room, Esmé was surrounded by reading material. Apparently, she read everything cover to cover, but when the attendants asked her what her name was, she could answer them only half the time.

“Hi, Mom,” Patch said, sitting on the edge of her bed, where she was perched cross-legged like a child.

She pointed to the
Post,
to the story about Jared Willson. “They got him,” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘They got him'?”

“That poor boy. Didn't know what was happening. Got lost in the night. Dead in the morning.”

“Mom, you're not making sense. Maybe you shouldn't be reading this kind of stuff. It's too sad.”

“Don't tell me that!” she screamed. “Everyone tells me that. I don't even know why I'm here.”

Genie spoke firmly. “You're here because you hit your doctor in the face five years ago. Remember that? You're here because you ran away from home constantly. Because you lost Patch in the park one day.”

It was true: When Patch was six years old, shortly after his father's death, Esmé had forgotten to bring him home. Patch had spent three hours at the playground in Central Park, with no idea where his mother was.

“I am not fit to be a mother,” Esmé said.

“Oh, come on, Mom, nobody's saying that,” Patch said. “I think you're great. You just need to take your meds and get rest and be good to yourself. Are you going outside at all? Did you see the fall leaves?”

“No! No going outside! People get killed going outside. People get killed by groups. Groups of people killing.”

“Oh, dear,” Genie said. “Let's try not to rile her up.”

“We're going to go for a walk now,” Patch said. “We'll be
back in a little bit.”

He gave her a hug and then turned away. He felt tears welling up inside him, but he willed them to go away.

Genie reached the hallway, grabbing his hand. “You need to be strong,” she said. “You have to know that it's not her. She has no control over what she's saying. Let's go outside. If your mother isn't going to enjoy the grounds here, at the very least we can.”

They went downstairs and out the front door. The leaves had turned, and while many were on the ground, there were still a few sparse survivors hanging from the trees. Patch wrapped his wool scarf tightly around his neck.

“What do you think she meant, Genie, when she said, ‘They got him'?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. Esmé supposedly suffers from paranoid distortions. She says some variation of ‘They got him' or ‘They got her' every time she reads about a death or a murder. Doesn't matter who it is, where it happened. There's always a mysterious ‘they.'”

“I want to take her out. Being out in the world, getting some fresh air, might make her feel better.”

The leaves crunched under their feet. “We've tried,” she said. “You remember, two years ago.”

“I know, it was a disaster.” The first night she had stayed in the apartment, his mother had wound up naked and running down Fifth Avenue. When the police picked her up and
brought her back home (thankfully, the doormen recognized her), she claimed she was just going out to get the mail.

“She can't be outside,” Genie said firmly. “Not when she's behaving like this.”

“Do you think…” Patch paused, not knowing how to say it. “Do you think the Society has anything to do with this?”

Genie didn't reply as they headed back to the hospital's entrance. Before he could press her, something caught his eye. Carved into a wood panel on the lobby wall were the names of individuals and corporations who had donated to the hospital's renovation. Near the top of the list, one name stood out:
THE BELL FOUNDATION
. He wondered why they had made such a prominent donation. Patch knew that his parents and the Bells had all been friends once, long ago, but those days were gone. The Bells didn't like to associate themselves with anyone sick or infirm, and his mother most definitely fell under both categories.

When they got back up to her room, his mother was more subdued; Patch imagined that a nurse had given her a sedative. She sat at a makeshift dressing table in the corner of the room and was pinning up her hair.

Genie put her hand to her mouth, as if she were seeing a ghost of someone she had once known.

Patch saw what he had never noticed before.

Branded into the back of his mother's neck was a half-inch-tall scar in the shape of an ankh.