Ecstasy

by Beth Saulnier

  “I bet you do.”

  “So, you know, that was that. No big deal. Is that really what you wanted to talk about?”

  “That, and… Dorrie.”

  “Dorrie? What about her?”

  “Like I said, I was going through some pictures from last year, and she just looks totally different. I checked the yearbook, and it seems like she went for the goth thing practically overnight.”

  “Yeah, I guess she did,” Lauren said with a shrug. “So what?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little weird?”

  “What’s wrong with trying something new?”

  “Nothing, but…In those pictures she seemed so happy, and now she seems so miserable. Are you telling me you didn’t notice the difference?”

  “Dorrie’s always been kinda moody. It’s just her style.”

  “Yeah, but this seems like an extreme.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “Lauren…do you think it’s possible that something happened to Dorrie?” No answer. “Look, I totally understand if she swore you to secrecy, but this isn’t the kind of thing a person should just sit on, okay?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I think something happened to her, maybe at Melting Rock last year. I think …maybe she was sexually assaulted.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “So you’re telling me you don’t know anything about it?”

  “What? No.”

  “And you’re not just saying that to protect her? Because if you are, I swear it’s really not in her best—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she repeated. “You think… what? She got hurt by somebody at the fest?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.”

  “That’s nuts. Nobody at Melting Rock would ever do something like that. Never.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “There’s a hell of a lot of drugs floating around that place, Lauren. That doesn’t necessarily make for a whole lot of self-control. Who’s to say that the guys didn’t just lose it or something?”

  “Guys? What guys?”

  “Well…”

  “Do you mean our guys?”

  “Um…yeah.”

  She stood up, the shock on her face turning to anger. “Are you telling me you think that Tom and Shaun and Billy… They’d never…Tom would never…”

  “Come on, Lauren, sit down….”

  “How could you even say that? Tom would never hurt anybody. He was the nicest guy in the whole world, okay? Okay?”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lauren, listen to me. Somebody killed those guys for a reason. Axel probably sold them the drugs. Dorrie’s slept with him, for chrissake. Don’t you think it’s possible that—”

  “Oh, my God, you…you bitch.” She was shouting at me now, and every eye in the place was focused on our little drama. Clearly, it would’ve behooved me to pick a less public place. “You unbelievable bitch. I can’t believe you’d even…How could anybody even say that?”

  “Come on, Lauren, I—”

  She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “I never want to talk to you again, ever,” she said. “And you know what? I hope they lock you up in jail and throw away the key.”

  CHAPTER29

  If you’re thinking that Lauren rather overreacted, well…so was I.

  I mean, obviously, I was suggesting all manner of awful things about her closest friends, so I guess she was entitled to flip out. But even so, her attitude still struck me as pretty over the top. Maybe I was full of it, but I got the feeling that the reason she was so mad at me was that… well, maybe I’d said aloud something she’d already suspected herself.

  Face flushed from my most recent humiliation, I slunk out of Café Whatever with my tail between my legs and a half-eaten question-mark cookie in my backpack. Out of habit I headed toward the paper—until I remembered that I was temporarily jobless.

  And speaking of my legal woes …I knew I should probably call my lawyer and find out what was going on—but, frankly, I really wanted to avoid thinking about it.

  Honestly, the whole thing still had quite the air of unreality about it. Practically every morning since I got arrested, I’d woken up, poodled in bed for a while debating what to wear to work—and then remembered I was in a gigantic amount of trouble.

  This prompted me to ponder one Robert Adam Sturdivant; specifically, what the hell was up with him. Assuming he hadn’t sold any of the LSD—meaning he wasn’t guilty of killing anybody—why would he lie about me? Was I right in assuming that somebody had put him up to it, maybe paid him off?

  And, more to the point, were the criminal-justice powers that be really going to take his word over mine? Was there—okay, gotta face it—was there any real chance I was going to prison?

  I’m pretty sure it was this last question that prompted my car to go in the direction it went. Now, I’m not arguing that it was a smart thing to do, or even a legal one; I’ve spent enough time staring at my beloved TV cop shows to know there’s such a thing as “intimidating a witness.”

  But there I was, parked in the Sturdivants’ driveway, wondering just how much trouble I’d be in if the cops found out. I knew that Rob himself would almost certainly be home; he was, after all, on an ankle monitor until his plea agreement got approved. Then he’d report for a year in the county jail on drug-dealing charges—charges that had been much reduced, by the way, as payback for fingering me.

  That thought was enough to propel me out of the car and up to the front door of the Sturdivants’ well-appointed homestead. I’d already rung the bell when I remembered they had a live-in maid, the woman Rob had traumatized when he ripped off his parents’ stuff. So I decided to flee—and Sturdivant himself answered the door.

  He had a funny expression on his face, eager and sullen at the same time. Then he recognized me, and the combination morphed into disappointed, hostile… and sullen. And, come to think of it, maybe even a little bit scared.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said.

  “To talk to you.”

  He started to shut the door. “No way.”

  I stuck my foot out to keep the door open, but it didn’t deter him; he just slammed it on my ankle, which hurt. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

  He stopped trying to amputate my foot long enough to favor me with a nasty smirk. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “For the moment.”

  Now he looked confused. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For chrissake, Sturdivant, think about it. Sooner or later, you’re gonna get found out. Do you know what happens to people who get convicted of perjury?”

  “What?”

  “Lying under oath, you moron. Let me spell it out for you. You are lying. I am telling the truth. That means that when this is all over, you are going to be in a world full of trouble.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Hey, it’s your word against mine,” he said. “You can’t prove a fucking thing.”

  “Jesus, is that the only word you know?”

  “Huh?”

  I was overcome with the desire to pop him in the snout. “Let’s look at it this way, shall we? I am a grown-up, taxpaying member of the community. You are a low-life drug dealer who pawns his dead grandmother’s jewelry for travel money. Maybe the cops are swallowing your crap right now, but do you really think your story’s gonna hold water in the long run?”

  “Fu—”

  “And when it comes out that you lied, you’re gonna be in way more trouble than you are now, trust me. So come on, just tell me who put you up to this, and—”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  I crossed my arms, trying to look all tough and nonchalant. It didn’t come naturally.

  “You know what?” I said. “I think you know damn well
what I’m talking about. I think somebody who wanted me out of commission got you to rat me out. So, did they pay you off, or just strong-arm you into it?”

  “I don’t know what the—”

  “Oh, come off it. We both know I didn’t sell any drugs to you or anybody else.” He glowered at me, and the snout-popping urge increased. “Hey, it’s bad enough that you lied to the cops. But until you swear to the plea agreement in front of a judge, you haven’t actually perjured yourself.”

  Now, from a legal standpoint, I wasn’t sure this was actually true. I also didn’t give a damn.

  “You better pay attention,” I went on, “because whether or not you’re smart enough to figure it out, I’m doing you a favor here. I’m giving you the chance to get yourself out of this before it’s too late.”

  He smirked again, then looked me up and down; I was reminded of the predatory way he’d checked out the girls at Melting Rock. Yuck.

  “You know something?” he said. “You are one ballsy bitch.”

  I was momentarily speechless.

  Eventually, I recovered myself and said, “Do you really want to end up like Axel?”

  “What are you—”

  “Use your head. We both know Axel sold the LSD to those kids. Now, maybe he knew what he was doing, but—”

  “No way, man. Axel wouldna done that on purpose.” He kicked at the doorframe with a house slipper. “That’s some fucked-up shit.”

  “Fine. But if Axel didn’t know what was in the LSD, then somebody set him up to do their dirty work, and now he’s dead. Somebody set me up to get me off the story. And somebody set you up to make sure I was totally screwed. What are the odds we’re not talking about the same person here?”

  “Get—”

  “So whatever deal you made to get yourself off the hook, you better believe it was a deal with the devil. And whoever this person is, they’re using you just like they used Axel. You really think they’re gonna leave you breathing so you can rat on them later on?”

  The wisp of fear I’d noticed on his face before came back, and in spades. I decided to exploit it.

  “And don’t go thinking you’re off the hook with the cops, either,” I said. “You and I know you didn’t sell those tabs, but who’s to say the cops won’t change their minds and drag you into it again? There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know.”

  His mouth fell open. “Murder? Are you shittin’ me? I just deal, okay? I wouldn’t fucking kill nobody.”

  “Yeah, but who’s gonna believe that? Once you get busted for perjury, the cops are never gonna swallow another word you say.”

  “But—”

  “Count on it.”

  He pondered that for a while, the expression on his face turning petulant.

  “This isn’t fair, man,” he said finally. “I’m bored as shit cooped up here all fucking day, and then I gotta go to jail? And I never moved half the product Axel did. Not half. That dude started selling when he was in fucking junior high.”

  “And look where it got him.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well, he had a pretty good ride. Got a ton of chicks, hardly ever got busted. Axel was goddamn Superman.”

  “Yeah, right, some—Wait a second. Axel got busted? When?”

  “How the hell do I know? It was some juvie thing. Now will you get out of my fucking house?”

  “Not until you tell me who put you up to this.”

  “Get lost.”

  Sturdivant went to close the door again, and I reinserted my foot. “Were you not even listening to me before? Perjury’s a felony.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I grappled for some leverage, both literally and figuratively. “Did you know that my boyfriend’s a cop? A goddamn police detective?”

  He eyed me warily. “So?”

  “So cops stick together. They had to arrest me when somebody planted the coke in my car, but you can bet your ass that every cop in this town is going to be busting his hump to prove I’m innocent—which means proving you’re a liar.”

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

  “His name’s Detective Brian Cody,” I said. “I understand you’ve met him.”

  Sturdivant finally stopped trying to slam the door on my foot. It made me wish I’d played the Cody card to begin with; it would’ve saved me both time and ankle pain.

  “That guy? You’re fucking him?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, running a hand over his closed eyes and atop his bald pate. “I am so fucked.”

  “So tell me who put you up to this.” He shook his head. “Come on, Sturdivant, just—”

  “You don’t get it,” he said. “I’m screwed either way. I might as well put a goddamn gun in my mouth and get it over with.”

  “Listen, whoever’s behind this, the cops can protect you from them.”

  He barked out a humorless laugh. “You don’t know shit.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I know what happened to Dorrie Benson, for one thing.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You mean Axel never told you anything bad happened to her?”

  “Goddamn Axel,” Sturdivant said. “Goddamn that skinny mother-fucker.”

  “I thought he was your hero.”

  “Yeah, well…I swear, if that shithead weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

  BACK HOME, I pulled the tape recorder out of my backpack and tossed it on the coffee table; so much for my foray into covert ops. I’d gone to Sturdivant’s house hoping he’d at least admit he was lying, but the closest I got was his acknowledgment (more or less) that he’d be in deep trouble if the truth came out. I seriously doubted it was enough to get a grand jury to rip up my indictment.

  I also doubted that my assessment of the Gabriel P.D. as my knights in shining armor was particularly accurate. Yes, Cody was obviously trying to get me off the hook, but the truth was that everybody was so hypersensitive about drug offenses at the moment, there was only so far he or anyone else could go on my behalf. Which left me exactly where I was before I went charging over to Sturdivant’s. To wit: screwed.

  After consoling myself with a frozen mac and cheese, I took Shakespeare for a walk, her leash in one hand and my infamous list of unsolvable questions in the other.

  But wait; if I was right about what happened to Dorrie, I could answer number seven—why Shaun, Billy, and Tom were murdered. And if that was really the motive, then who would’ve done it? Dorrie herself? How? Could she have somehow cooked up the ingredients herself, then given it to Axel to sell? But that didn’t make a lot of sense—unless Axel was in on it after all, how could Dorrie convince him to sell particular acid tabs to her friends? Did she tell him it was some kind of joke or something?

  I tried to picture Dorrie as the lone gunman, and couldn’t. Somehow, the idea of her getting assaulted and then secretly plotting her revenge over the course of an entire year just seemed… well, crazy. But if she didn’t do it alone, then who helped her? A relative, maybe?

  That thought stopped me cold. Dorrie was, after all, a Benson—a member of the richest and most powerful family in the county. Sturdivant had said he was screwed either way; it was obvious he was equally scared of the cops and whoever had made him testify against me. The extended Benson clan would definitely fit the bill.

  My thoughts returned to the subject of making the drugs themselves. If what you needed was a laboratory to whip it up in, Benson obviously had about a hundred of them. From what Ochoa had told me, you wouldn’t need a Ph.D. to pull it off—a working knowledge of high-school chemistry would do it.

  High-school chemistry.

  I stopped in midwalk, prompting a dirty look from Shakespeare. But I just stood there and stared at the list, my brain running a mile a minute.

  I knew somebody who was good—very good—at high-school chemistry.

  Somebody who was close to Dorrie.

  Whose parents offered
easy access to the Benson labs.

  Who seemed way more upset at Tom Giamotti’s funeral than anyone else’s.

  Who, in the days immediately following the killings, had stuck to me like glue.

  Who’d slept with Axel and could have easily lured him to a rendezvous at Deep Lake.

  Who’d recently flipped out at the mention of Dorrie being attacked.

  Even someone who, theoretically speaking, was smart enough to find a way to scare the living hell out of a dolt like Rob Sturdivant.

  I didn’t have a pen on me, but if I did, I would’ve scribbled down the following questions, again in no particular order:

  What if Tom never hurt anybody?

  What if the four tabs were meant for Shaun, Billy, Alan—and Axel?

  What if Axel messed up and sold them to Tom and Norma Jean?

  And here was the big one:

  What if the “mastermind” behind all this was… an eighteen-year-old kid named Lauren Potter?

  CHAPTER30

  I had to talk to Dorrie. There was just no other way. My entire theory—which, by the way, was seeming more far-fetched with every mile of the Gabriel-Jaspersburg Road—was based on the assumption that the boys had assaulted her. If I was anywhere near right about Lauren, there obviously wasn’t a lot of wisdom in interviewing her. And I had a feeling that Cindy and Trish, who’d always seemed the most fragile members of the group, probably didn’t know what the hell was going on.

  No, Dorrie had to be at the center of everything—didn’t she? But how could I get her to talk to me? My recent attempts to get information out of people (Lauren, Sturdivant, Dorrie herself ) had been less than successful—unless your definition of success involves getting slapped, yelled at, and summarily evicted. And although I’d previously thought of blackmailing Dorrie by proving that she’d been the one to swipe the Deep Lake Cooling key for Axel, now that I was thinking of her as a victim, I hardly had the stomach for it.

  And to top it all off, I wasn’t even sure where to look for her. It was eight o’clock on a Thursday night, so I figured she’d probably be home—but the idea of showing up on her parents’ doorstep didn’t seem very promising. Halfway to Jaspersburg, I pulled over and called her house on my cell; her mother answered, and I tried very hard to sound like a high-school kid. I said I needed to talk to Dorrie to get the math homework; she said she expected her home around nine. I crossed my fingers, said a little prayer to whoever is the patron saint of liars, and told Mrs. Benson I really, really needed the assignment right away.