Secret Society (22 page)

P
atch had done his best to stay away from anyone he knew—the entire Bell family, other acquaintances, Phoebe and Lauren. Anyone who might identify him. But the next morning, he realized he was in trouble when he was put on breakfast line duty. The Society's Great Cottage served dinners with traditional table service, but its breakfasts and lunches harkened back to the days of prep school, which apparently many of the members enjoyed for its nostalgic value. Patch was stuck scooping out scrambled eggs onto people's plates as they went by his station in a long line. He was terrified Mr. Bell would look at him and identify him immediately.

The strangest thing happened, though: No one looked him in the eye. Nearly two hundred Society members passed by his station and mumbled that they would take some eggs or
simply handed forth their plate. Some even thanked him, but few really looked at him. Even Parker Bell was too busy chatting with the woman next to him even to glance at Patch.

Nick, however, noticed him, but didn't let on. When his friend came by, he put forth his plate, giving Patch a meaningful glance.

Underneath it, Patch felt something, a piece of paper. He held on to it, handing the plate back to Nick, and deftly shoved the folded note into his pocket.

No one noticed a thing.

 

The note had said for Patch to meet Nick at two
P.M.
, behind the tennis courts. Nick figured lunch would be finished at that point, and everyone would be in the afternoon session. Part of the Society retreat was a series of meetings, lectures, and seminars about finance, politics, the environment, and real estate. There were also lighter events such as wine tastings, discussions on art, a presentation on collecting vintage cars, and even a group that was putting on a short theatrical production. None of it was required, but it seemed to Nick that many used it as an opportunity—the information exchanged in these sessions could be invaluable, according to what his brothers had told him—while others saw the sessions more as social gatherings. The younger members enjoyed the wine tasting and the cigar seminar. And, of course, everyone was free to hang around the cottage, reading by the fire, chatting,
enjoying cups of hot chocolate or spiced cider.

The crappy thing about all of it, Nick mused, was that he actually thought the retreat was pretty cool. When else did you get to talk to so many interesting people in such a relaxed and remote setting? When did you get to learn stuff for free, not because you had to, but because you wanted to? There was even a seminar by—and Nick couldn't believe this—Carlo Ferdinand, who, while not a Society member, had been flown in, signed a long nondisclosure agreement (as was the case with all the staff members, apparently), and was going to give a seminar on how to make the best DJ mixes.

Needless to say, in the freezing cold weather, no one would be at the tennis courts.

Nick trudged out in his fleece-lined L.L.Bean boots to meet Patch. He didn't want to look suspicious, so he put on his iPod and pretended he was out on a walk. He had asked Phoebe to meet him here, and he saw her up ahead.

“Is he around here?” she asked.

“I don't see him.”

Nick motioned to her, and they went deeper into the woods behind the courts. “I didn't specify exactly which side of the courts,” he said. “I'm assuming he'll pick the part that's not visible from the cottage.”

Phoebe nodded.

Ahead of them, around the corner of the court, Nick saw some movement in the trees. Only a deer.

“Do you think he got held back?” Phoebe asked. “I think he was on clean-up duty in the kitchen, because I didn't see him serving.”

“It's possible.”

They heard a rustling behind them. To the rear of the cottage, on the hill where it sat, some of the Elder members were taking a walk. Dammit. This was not good. The Elders were too far away to see them through the woods, but they would certainly notice if Patch appeared in front of the courts.

“We can't let anyone see him talking to us,” Phoebe said.

“Just stay still. I have a feeling he'll be here.”

They waited for a few minutes. Phoebe's breath blew clouds into the chilly air. Nick loved how she looked in the cold, her nose slightly more pink than usual, her fair skin even more dramatic against her reddish-brown hair. It would have been romantic if they hadn't been so intent on finding—

There was a whistle. Nick recognized it: something Patch used to do, an annoying tune from some television show he would hum when they were walking along the dunes at the beach.

“Up here!” They heard a whisper and looked up, to see Patch waiting ten yards away, up a small hill that was covered in scrub brush and a thicket of birch trees.

Nick and Phoebe climbed the hill to meet Patch. It was strange seeing him, after all this time. His hair was completely shorn, like an army recruit. He wore the catering uniform
under his snow parka.

“Hey,” Patch said.

“We come all the way out here and all we get is a ‘hey'?” Nick said. “Come on!” He stepped forward and offered Patch an awkward hug.

“Hi, Patch,” Phoebe said.

“I guess we're in a bit of a sticky situation,” Patch said.

“Yeah.” Nick sat down on a tree stump. He hoped the Elders they saw didn't decide to go on some kind of nature walk. “We don't have much time.”

“Are you okay?” Phoebe said. “Your grandmother is concerned about you.
We're
concerned about you.”

Patch nodded. “I'm fine. Never washed so many dishes in my life. Do you have any idea how much food is wasted in this place? It's insane.”

“All right, look,” Nick said. “What's your deal? Are you here trying to spy on everything?”

“Hey, don't be a jerk about it. You know there's some messed-up stuff going on here. Someone needs to find out what it is.”

“We know,” Phoebe said. “We're trying to figure it out for ourselves. Something happened to Alejandro, but we don't know what.”

“Might be the same thing that happened to Jared Willson,” Patch said, looking at Nick.

“We don't know that,” Nick said.

“What I'm saying is that I don't think Jared's death or Alejandro's disappearance were accidents. I think they were both planned. And I think the Society did it.”

“We have no proof of that,” Nick said. “We're trying as hard as you are to figure all this out.”

Patch scoffed. “Oh, while you enjoy your wine tastings and cigar smoking and—oh, guess what—tonight there's a sundae bar. That'll be awesome. More plates for me to clean.”

“Hey—you got yourself into this. I wasn't the one who asked you to sneak into the Night of Rebirth and film it.”

Patch nodded. “I know. I sort of wish I had never planned the whole thing.”

“Wait, what do you mean,
planned?
” Nick said.

Patch looked down. “Nothing. I just mean, I shouldn't have done it.”

“No—you said
planned.
What did you do? How did you know—oh, my God.”

“What?” Phoebe said. “Nick, what's going on?”

Nick looked at Patch. “You called the DJ. You told him not to come, or that the gig was canceled or whatever. You must have. That's the only explanation. It was too perfect: you being up in that booth, the only one with access to the air shaft. Admit it, you did it. Your grandmother must have told you about it beforehand.”

“Patch?” Phoebe said. “Is that true?”

Patch said nothing.

“You son of a bitch!” Nick lunged at Patch, toppling him over. He punched his friend square in the face and then started wailing on his chest.

“Nick! Stop it!” Phoebe shouted. “Dammit, do you want to get us all in more trouble than we're in already?”

“Jesus Christ!” Patch said. “That hurt!”

“You deserved that,” Nick said.

Patch's eye was red. “Here, take some snow,” Phoebe said, making a snowball for Patch to hold up to his eye.

“Patch, you need to stop screwing around,” Nick said. “We don't know what's going on with the Society, but you need to accept that you're not going to be the one who's going to figure it out. And you're certainly not going to be the next Michael Moore with your camera.”

“I haven't done anything with my camera,” he said. “I don't think I could get away with it. I still can't believe they didn't check my bags when I came in here.”

“How did you get a catering job here anyway?” Phoebe asked.

“Long story,” Patch said. “Or really, I guess, more like dumb luck.”

The three of them stood there, not knowing what to do.

“Look,” Nick said, “I don't have some great plan or anything.”

Patch looked up through his injured eye. “Don't sweat it, Nick. You don't have a plan? Well, I do.”

P
atch hadn't shared many details with Nick and Phoebe, but he told Nick to keep his cell phone on him, albeit hidden, at all times. He would let Nick know if and when he needed them. There was something strange he sensed in Nick and Phoebe: It was as if they suspected what was going on in the Society, whatever dreadful things it had accomplished, and yet felt completely powerless to do anything. It was like the Night of Rebirth, when his friend, the guy who would never join something like a secret society, so willingly had allowed the back of his neck to be tattooed.

The Society had that sort of control over people.

That evening, Patch had returned, after finishing work, to the caterer's quarters. There had been an awkward confrontation with his supervisor when he had asked Patch to verify
the mailing address that they had on file for him. Apparently there was a “Jeb Elsdon” who hadn't shown up for work, and they were assuming that Patch was him. The trouble was, Jeb Elsdon (who had, thankfully, already signed the nondisclosure agreement) was forty-two years old. Patch assured his supervisor that it must have been a mistake and that the address in rural Maine was fine to send the check to.

Great, he thought. He was working for the Society, and he wasn't even going to get paid.

The catering staff all slept in a series of cabins downriver. The beds looked as if they had been installed a hundred years ago, and the staff was grouped ten to a room. There was a draft, and spiders and mice had made the rooms their home, crawling along the beams at night. Patch assumed the pay must be good or else no one would ever want to take the job.

Around one
A.M.
, Patch woke up and crept out of bed, quietly putting on his clothes. The Great Cottage had a service entrance, and he wanted to take a look around. Before leaving that evening, Patch had made sure the door could be easily jimmied. The cottage didn't have an alarm system, and as far as he could tell, there were no surveillance cameras. It seemed that the Society was comfortable with old-fashioned lock-and-key security. Patch had noticed the two thugs in suits and a small group of guards on the daytime watch, but at night, there wasn't anyone on duty.

Or so he hoped.

The snow crunched in his ears as he walked up to the Great Cottage. His eye throbbed in pain and had swelled up to a nasty bruise; he had needed to make up a story for his supervisor about crashing into a doorframe.

He supposed that maybe he deserved the black eye from Nick. After all, he had nearly ruined Nick's club night, and he had been the cause of all this trouble.

But no, he decided he wouldn't see it that way. There was something going on with the Society, and Patch had to discover what it was. Surely the group was more than a bunch of privileged Upper East Siders who liked to hang out on an island in Maine, attending seminars and smoking cigars.

Patch was able to open the side service entrance with ease. It was a full moon, and he could easily find his way, but he had brought along a flashlight for inside.

The lower level of the Great Cottage was a labyrinth of tunnels, dumbwaiters, storage vaults, and service areas, all designed to serve the elaborate illusion on the upper floors that everything was running smoothly. The Society members had no idea how much went on down there to make sure their meals were delivered on time, that the cottage and cabins were kept clean, that there was always heat and hot water and freshly pressed linens.

One room, Patch had noticed earlier that day, was restricted. It was unmarked, at the end of a long hallway. Unlike the other rooms, its door was kept locked all the time.

He pulled out his file and started working away on the lock. The tumblers clicked, and the door gave way.

Once Patch was inside, he took a quick breath and let his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. He switched his flashlight on. It was some kind of strange prop room; there were costumes on hangers, all along one wall. Against another was a rack of swords and weaponry. He walked forward and nearly stumbled into something, a large object on two sawhorses.

It was a giant wooden sarcophagus, one of two. On them were carved Egyptian-looking symbols.

Patch recognized them. They were from the Night of Rebirth.

What were they doing here? Hadn't they already used them back in September? Was this where they stored them? If so, then why were there only two?

Patch tried to open the lid on one, but it was sealed shut. No lock, no keyhole.

He flashed his light at the sarcophagus and took a cell phone pic. It was blurry, but it would be clear what it was. He quickly sent it to Nick's phone. He had two bars of service, just enough for the image to get through.

That was when he heard footsteps outside.

T
he next morning after breakfast, Phoebe sat with Nick in one of the small, wood-paneled rooms off the cottage's foyer, next to a crackling fireplace. She had looked at the different staff members during breakfast, but didn't see Patch. Yesterday he had been on breakfast duty, so it was strange that he wasn't around this morning.

“He could be on cleanup,” Nick said. “I need you to see something, though.” Nick handed her his phone, displaying a picture Patch had sent to him. It showed the side of a sarcophagus, the same one that Phoebe now remembered as part of the Night of Rebirth back in September.

“He took this last night?”

“Look at the time on it.” It was stamped from around two in the morning.

“So what do we do? More waiting?”

“We don't know what this means. This could be some storage area where they keep these when they're not using them.” Nick shut off his phone.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Phoebe said. “There could be people inside them. There could be—”

“Alejandro?” Nick said.

Phoebe couldn't say it.

“You can't be serious,” Nick said. “You really think so?”

A shiver ran up Phoebe's spine as she heard a voice. Dr. Meckling was standing in the entrance.

“Phoebe,” he said. “How are you feeling? I haven't seen you since our meeting last month. Your mother said you were doing better.”

“Screw you,” Phoebe said.

Nick looked startled and moved closer to Phoebe.

“Now,” Dr. Meckling said, “there's no need to be rude. You know that kind of behavior isn't tolerated around here.”

“You betrayed your profession,” Phoebe said. “Saying you're a shrink and then being part of this.”

He smiled. “I'm a board-certified psychiatrist. No question about that.”

“You know what I mean,” Phoebe said. “You're preying on innocent people. You're using your position to take advantage of them.”

“Phoebe, that's not true. We're trying to protect you.
Which is why I think you should know that we're taking care of your friend.”

“What friend?”

“Mr. Evans. He said he spoke to you yesterday.”

“We don't know what you're talking about,” Nick said.

“We suggest you lay off whatever it is you're looking for—if you want to see your friend unharmed,” Dr. Meckling said.

“Don't you dare do anything to him,” Nick said, standing up to meet his eyes. “I'll talk to my father—”

“I don't think you understand,” Dr. Meckling said coolly. “You see, Nick, this message came from your father himself.”

 

What had happened after he heard the footsteps was a blur to Patch. Some men grabbed him, possibly the same men from that night near the editing suite, but possibly different. He put up a fight, but was unable to break free. They took his cell phone and destroyed it. A man injected his arm with a needle, and he felt himself become faint before passing out.

Now he was lying in what felt like the inside of one of the sarcophagi. A needle that was connected to an intravenous drip bag ran into his arm. He had torn it out once, but they had opened the coffin again and stuck it back in. It was making him sleepy, as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

The odd thing was that the second time they stuck the needle in him, he realized he didn't want to take it out. It felt good.

He woke again as he felt one of the men lifting up his body and tearing away the Band-Aid at the nape of his neck. It didn't hurt at all.

“Bell should see this,” the man said.

“Which one?” the other said.

“Both of them.”

A moment later, Patch drifted off again.

 

Phoebe had said that if they were going to stick around, they should act as if they were normal Initiates, more like the other eleven in the group: drinking, playing games, hanging out, attending the occasional workshop, catching up on sleep. Nick wished he could be so relaxed. As they were sitting outside on the back porch of the cottage, their breath visible in the chilly air, he convinced her that they owed it to Patch to look for him.

“What are they really going to do if they catch us again?” Nick said. “My father isn't going to do anything to him. It's all just a big threat, to scare him into giving up that footage. My dad knows that I would never forgive him if he hurt Patch.”

Phoebe stayed silent.

“What, you don't believe me?”

“Nick, your father and grandfather have lied to you before,” she said quietly. “You don't really know what they're capable of.”

Nick felt his brow furrow. He didn't want to believe that
what she was saying could be true, but he was starting to trust Phoebe more than anyone else.

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said. “I know it must be the strangest feeling in the world, to be betrayed by your family. I mean, with me, it's just my mom, and I know it's because she's confused by who Daniel really is. But with you, well, it's your whole—”

Nick looked at her, and she stopped talking. She didn't have to say any more.

“So what do we do?”

Phoebe looked out at the snow-covered treetops. “I say we look for him. Carefully. Very, very carefully.”