Secret Society (24 page)

L
auren was waiting in her bunk, unsuccessfully trying to take a nap, when Phoebe and Nick came to visit her. They had a look in their eyes, a look of pity and shame.

“He's dead, right?” Lauren said, her voice barely a whisper.

Phoebe reached forward and embraced her. “I'm so sorry, Lauren. We're going to figure a way out of this. We don't know what it is. But we're going to, somehow.”

“What about Patch?”

“They've got him hooked up to some kind of sedative, and they're holding him hostage,” Nick said. “The room is guarded by two guys, around the clock. I don't think there's any chance of getting in there.”

Lauren started sobbing. “Nick, they're ruthless—how do
we know they're not going to do something to Patch?”

“We don't,” he said. “That's the screwed-up thing about it all: We don't.”

 

Patch's body felt sore from being in the same position for so long. He had been in the coffin for nearly twelve hours. He was drowsy but otherwise fine—he wasn't hungry, he wasn't thirsty. It was as if all his emotions had been shut off. He had no idea what they were feeding him intravenously, but he had to admit that it was good stuff. Or so his muddled brain thought.

Several times in the afternoon, the coffin lid had been opened, and the two guards had stood over him while Dr. Meckling questioned him. They wanted to know where the footage was and how much of it there had been. The trouble was, in his drowsy state, he couldn't remember. The doctor made alterations in the IV, and Patch felt himself becoming more lucid.

Later, at a point that he guessed may have been early evening, the coffin lid opened, and Parker Bell stood over him.

“This is an unusual situation,” he said. “I don't want to have to hurt you, Patchfield, particularly since we have a—what's the right word?—a
history
together. But there's a lot at stake here. You need to tell us where the material is that you shot of the Society initiation. It simply cannot be floating around. You tell us where it is, and when the time comes, we'll make
sure you get home safely.”

“I don't believe you,” Patch said. “I heard about what you did to Alejandro and to Jared Willson.”

Mr. Bell looked troubled. “Meckling, wasn't he supposed to be in a near comatose state?”

The doctor spoke from across the room. “Parker, it drifts in and out. I explained that to you. It depends on each person's metabolism, and we haven't had time to run adequate blood tests. I've been telling you for years that we need a proper medical clinic on the island.”

“That's not important now,” Mr. Bell said quickly. He spoke as if he were discussing a troublesome legal case rather than a matter of life and death. “Patch, what do you want? We could do away with you, as we have the others, but that doesn't serve us. And it doesn't serve—well, it doesn't serve my son. The material could still be floating around. We know about your production deal, and we have the power to kill it. Once we take a majority stake in Eyes Wide Open Productions, we could effectively squash the release of the material.”

“You could never do that,” Patch said. “Simone would never allow it.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that. She's much more interested in us writing a check so she can do hard-hitting documentaries than she is about your little high school television program.”

Parker Bell was right. They had him in a neck hold and
weren't willing to let go. And yet, at the same time, they were asking him what he wanted.

Through the blur of the drugs they had been feeding him, he decided to tell them.

 

That evening, Nick sensed a grim reality settling in over himself and Phoebe and Lauren. They knew about Alejandro, they knew where Patch was being held captive, and they had no control over any of it.

It was the last evening of the Society's retreat, before the Elders would leave to spend New Year's Eve with their families. The Initiates and Conscripts were to stay behind and be fêted at a private bash in the cottage, which Nick wasn't particularly thrilled about. It seemed like every move was a game, every event an opportunity for exploitation.

There was an enormous banquet that evening in the dining hall, and everyone was dressed up smartly—dresses for the girls and khakis and nice shirts for the guys. After dinner, everyone except for the Initiates put on their coats and went outside. Through the windows, they could see that lit torches lined the pathways in front of the main entrance to the cottage.

The Initiates were asked to stay back and convene in an upstairs room. Called the game room, it was a meeting room on the second floor, at the top of the cottage's grand staircase. At first Nick thought it might be a room for people to play
chess or checkers or poker. Instead, it was a room filled with wild game: mounted heads on plaques; lion, zebra, and even a polar bear skin on the floor; a chandelier made of antlers. The room was dimly lit, flickering candles on the wall sconces the only illumination.

Nick's father stood in front of the group of fourteen. He started speaking slowly, about the power of commitment to the Society, of responsibility, of bravery in the face of adversity. Then he started talking about Alejandro.

“You all know by now of the disappearance of Mr. Calleja. Sadly, Mr. Calleja was not cut out to be a member of the Society. He was the proverbial bad seed, the rotten apple in the barrel. Mr. Calleja had a difficult night during your last Initiate gathering. The party triggered off a drug binge for him, an addiction he had tried to control for many months. Tragically, it got the better of him: He was found dead on the Lower East Side this morning.”

People in the room gasped. Nick saw Phoebe holding Lauren tightly.

“It is absolutely imperative that none of you mention to anyone the Society event where you last saw him,” Nick's father said. “It could jeopardize everything you've been working for.”

“Why not?” Thad Johnson said. “Shouldn't the police know about it?”

“Thaddeus, you must believe me when I tell you that the
authorities should not be contacted. You see, all of your fingerprints are on the glasses from the party. The police will want to question each one of you. It will be in the newspapers, your parents will find out, and so will your schools. Believe me, it is not the kind of publicity that you want to have. The media feasts on this kind of news like vultures. All of you would be in the papers for months.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “You are now all bound together by this secret. If one of you tells, you put at risk not only yourself, but the entire group.”

 

Lauren felt numb with pain as Phoebe gently led her outside with the others.

“We don't have to do this,” Phoebe whispered. “We can go back to the cabins and talk about it.”

“It's fine,” Lauren said. “I need to see what this is all about.” That Alejandro was dead had been the worst possibility, but she had suspected it all along, a horrible, awful sensation that she had tried to push from her consciousness. Now it was a reality, confirmed not only by Nick and Phoebe, but also by Parker Bell. She felt an icy chill in her heart, the truth of him being gone, of being betrayed, of having been so foolish as to cling to any hope that he might have been alive.

How stupid he had been with his life, and how stupid she had been to follow him.

Ahead of them, outside the cottage, the entire group of
Elders was gathered. In the center of the main clearing stood a wooden platform with a podium. To the side of the platform, ten yards away, a crackling bonfire reached two stories high. The Initiates were herded to the front of the group, where they were made to stand in front of the platform.

Parker Bell now walked up the staircase to the structure, his breath visible in the cold air. Behind him sat Palmer Bell and the members of the Council of Regents.

At the side of the Great Cottage, there was a commotion. A group of men carried two different sarcophagi on pallets, moving them toward the fire.

“No!” Phoebe screamed. She tried to push her way through the crowd, but the Elders stopped her.

“Settle down, young lady!” an older man said. “They're empty!”

Parker Bell spoke into a microphone. “Tonight, at the final evening of the Bradford Trust Association, these symbolic sarcophagi are burned in memory of the lives of Jared Willson and Alejandro Calleja, two of our youngest members whom we lost this year. It has been a time of sadness for many. We must remember, however, that there has been light as well.”

A group of men brought a figure, all in black and wearing a hood, up the stairs to stand next to Mr. Bell.

“Oh my God,” Nick said. He appeared to be readying himself to jump up onto the platform.

“What is it?” Phoebe said.

“Rather serendipitously, we have a new member of the class of Initiates this year,” said Parker Bell.

The hood was lifted from the figure. In front of them all stood Patch.

H
is eye was still purple and swollen. With his shaved head and newly toned body, he looked like a prize fighter after a tournament. He was blinking wildly, as if he hadn't seen the sun in days. A bright spotlight slowly came on from behind them all, giving everyone on the platform the appearance of gods.

“Patchfield Evans III has gone through an unusual and nontraditional initiation this fall, but the Council of Regents has voted for him to take his place among the class of Initiates.”

Nick's father handed Patch a list of rules, one Nick recognized as the same they had all been given on the Night of Rebirth.

“Patchfield, do you accept these rules as the tenets for membership?”

“I do.” He nodded, but his voice was weak.

“Patchfield is a promising young filmmaker, and we are delighted to have him as part of our group. Patch, you may now join your class.”

Patch was led down to stand next to the group of Initiates. Nick looked at him, hoping he was okay.

“And now, by the power of the
crux ansata,
I pronounce all the Initiates as having advanced to the level of Conscripts.”

A cheer rose up from the crowd as the Elders rushed toward the group. Everyone popped open bottles of champagne, spraying them in the air, and the somber event became a party once again. Nick left Phoebe and rushed over to Patch, two stoic figures amidst the pandemonium. He didn't know what to say to him.

Nick reached forward to embrace Patch, hugging him tightly, making a silent promise to his friend that never again would he let him go.

Secret ankh tattoos to everyone who has supported me during this novel's creation: friends, colleagues, and mentors.

To my agent, Kate Lee at ICM, who championed this idea from its inception.

To my editor, Brenda Bowen, whose passion for this series has inspired me.

To Sarah Shumway, Katherine Tegen, Molly O'Neill, and everyone at HarperCollins who has worked on this book.

To my assistant, Susanne Filkins, who has proven herself to be a crack researcher.

To Melissa de la Cruz, who never doubted for a moment that I could write fiction for teens.

To Tom Williams and Corey Lambert, born and bred Upper East Siders, for their insight.

To the Dolby and Frist families, for their encouragement.

And of course, to Drew Frist, who knows where all the bodies are buried.