by Sandra Block
Nobody notices me.
The party is already in full blast, raucous and loud. It strikes me that James may not be able to hear anything, let alone Red Sox in the event of an emergency.
“Hey.” A young man sidles up by my side. My coat and scarf are dangling in my hand while I figure out where to put them. He snags them both. “Tom Burns,” he says. “Let me take care of that for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, actually appreciative, wondering if the place has changed. Though, a man can politely take your coat and still rape you.
When I turn around, Tom Burns is at my side again, ruddy-faced with orange-red hair and a face splattered with freckles. He has a purple bow tie. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” I say in what I hope is a sexy voice. Or a sexy shout anyway, because I can barely hear myself think. “You might know Whitney,” I add.
“Ah, Whitney,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “I do remember Whitney.”
“Everyone remembers Whitney,” I say, playing the jealous, always-the-bridesmaid friend.
“But frankly”—he looks me up and down in an appreciative way—“I’m surprised I didn’t remember you.”
“Sarah,” I say. I was worried someone might recognize me, but it certainly doesn’t appear that way. I hold out my hand for a shake.
Instead, he kisses it with mock gallantry. “Drink?”
“By all means.” Since I’m going to plant my lips on the rim and lose the thing whenever possible anyway.
“Be right back.”
I smile and look around the place. Again, nothing familiar. Though I’m not sure what I expected—a sudden burst of a memory dam perhaps. If so, it isn’t happening. The decor is pleasant enough. Walls painted pale gold with antique, cherry wood furniture, and a forest-green oriental rug over a scuffed but rich-looking wooden floor. Holly abounds, along with mistletoe conveniently in every doorway and silver ornaments laid around the table with an enormous bowl of rose-pink punch.
Punch bowl.
My brain stutters a second.
“Hey, this stuff’s killer,” Tom says. “Don’t go too crazy with it.”
“I won’t,” I say, taking the sweating glass from his hand. He throws back half of his, not taking his own advice. “Hear, hear,” I say and pretend to sip.
Looking around the room, my eyes soar up to an empty spot by the wall. I can see a pinpoint of an old nail hole. “Where’s the cuckoo clock?” I ask.
Tom scrunches his face in puzzlement. “How much punch did you have?” he jokes, peering into my full glass. “We’ve never had a cuckoo clock. Not since I’ve been here anyway.”
“Oh.” I can feel myself flushing. “Must have been a different place.”
“Yeah, must have been.”
And maybe there was something else up there. An old picture. The room doesn’t look at all like the one in the video anyway. There is an awkward silence as a Frank Sinatra Christmas song comes on and we both gaze around the room. “Hey, I’ll be right back, okay?”
I nod lightly, and he jets off to bear hug someone who just came in. I put my drink down on a corner table, figuring it’s as good a time as any to start investigating.
Up ahead, I spy a winding staircase.
Chapter Seventy-Five
James
The room whirs as she makes a sudden turn, as the computer speaker whomps with the music pulsing in the room.
This time, Dahlia moves more slowly, and I get a panning shot of the room. The car is hot and stuffy, and I feel an odd mix of nervous and bored. The scene is totally depressing. Well-dressed college students, drunk and laughing. Not a part of college life that I ever experienced, thankfully. The only time I ever came close was a D&D party where we decided to drink for whenever anyone had to use a saving throw. Everyone got totally sick and hungover the next day, and we never did that again.
“Okay,” Dahlia says. Her voice threads through the blaring music. “I’m going in.” Her voice is half-joking, and the screen bobs as she ascends a dark, winding stairway. The kind like in the The Wizard of Oz that you don’t see much anymore. A door squeaks on the computer screen, then a light flicks on, revealing a pile of coats stacked up on someone’s bed. Loud scratchy noises come over the speaker as she bends down to look under the bed. Then a creaking as she swings open a closet door, stuffed with hung-up coats. “Nothing,” she whispers, and the light turns off. I get a view of the hallway again, then another room opens and she flicks on the light.
“Hey!” a voice complains.
On the screen is the outline of a half-clothed couple on the bed. “What are you doing?” the female asks, annoyed and covering herself up.
“Sorry,” Dahlia says, then swooshes the door shut. Angry murmurs follow as she leaves.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Dahlia
After that close call, which appeared consensual at least, I tiptoe back into the dark hallway. The music is pounding downstairs, and people start drunkenly singing to some song, which means they probably can’t hear me at least. I open a door to a damp-smelling room, which appears to be a storeroom, with boxes and rolled-up posters tossed everywhere. I turn on the light, which flickers and then settles into gray overhead. A light, whining buzz.
As quietly as I can, I start rifling through boxes. They’re chock-full of all sorts of crap, one with gory Halloween decorations, rubber masks with protruding eyeballs, bloody stumps of fingers. The next box holds Hawk Club steins and a huge, folded felt banner in crimson with the navy-blue HC shield in the center. Dispirited, I glance at the dozens of boxes left. This could take forever, and Tom might start wondering about me. Though he’s probably getting some other girl drunk by now anyway.
In the corner is a tall, narrow closet door. I open it to find yet another box, this one overflowing with tinsel and ornaments. On my tiptoes, I reach for the top shelf to feel for a cigar box, but my fingers barely graze the wooden slat.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, more for James than me, and drag a somewhat sturdy box over to stand on. Finally, precariously balanced on the wilting box, I peek onto the top shelf, which is completely empty.
I’m turning back around when the box crumbles and I fall down, smacking my tailbone right against the floor. Something clatters off to my side. “Fuck.”
Suddenly, a shadow looms in the doorway. “Hello?”
I look up at the shaded figure, my heart slamming into my chest. “Hey,” I say, slowly standing up, my tailbone bleating out in pain.
The young man assesses me. He’s wearing a pale-blue shirt and has blond hair that falls into his eyes. He’s handsome in the self-assured way of those who have always been handsome. “You lost?”
“Guess so,” I say with a fake smile, painfully speed-walking to the door. “I was looking for Tom.”
“Well, he isn’t in here.” He stands in the doorway so I’m forced to rub against him. “Who did you say you were?”
“Sarah,” I say, trying to calm my breathing.
“Christian,” he says with a smile that is close to a sneer. “Christian Ford.”
“Well, Christian Ford,” I say, tugging his arm and throwing a slur in my words. “Let’s go back to the party and dance.”
“Sure, Sarah,” he says, putting his arm heavily around me to slow me down. “After you tell me what you were looking for.”
I guide us toward the faint light down the hall, wishing I hadn’t gotten so far away from the party. Patting my skirt pocket back for my phone, I find it missing and realize what the sound of the clattering was. Shit. “I told you,” I say, trying to sound jokey and casual. “I was looking for Tom. I lost him somewhere.”
“See, now, I don’t believe you.”
“Oh no?” I ask, light and flirty. I try to shrug off his arm, but it isn’t easily removable.
“I think you were lookin
g for something else.” There is menace in his words.
I stop suddenly to throw him off stride, but it doesn’t work. “Okay, you got me,” I say. “I was looking for something else.”
He stares at me.
“A skull.”
His look turns skeptical. “A skull?”
“The hundred-year skull.”
He narrows his eyes, still smiling. “What are you talking about?”
I start walking again. “So here’s the thing. I write for the Crimson, right? So when I was invited to the party, I just had to check it out for myself.”
“Okay?” He stays right with me.
“And you know the rumor about the Hawk Club and the hundred-year-old skull.” I am talking too fast.
“No, I didn’t know that one.” Then he grabs my wrist, not lightly.
“What?”
“You missed a room,” he says. We are standing in front of a wooden door. I’m not sure if I tried this one or not. “Maybe the skull’s in here,” he says, leaning in toward me, almost pinning me against the wall. I’m not certain if he’s trying to be sexy or aggressive. And sometimes it’s a fine line. My options race before me. I could flatten him outright, but I wouldn’t gain anything. I don’t have the cigar box yet, if there even is one. And I can’t exactly shoot him.
“So, you’re admitting there’s a skull after all?” I ask, figuring it’s a good a play as any.
“No,” he says and opens the door. “I thought you might be looking for something else.” He fixes his cold, blue eyes on me. “Dahlia.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
James
Something went wrong after she was in the closet.
She fell or something and the screen shook, then went blank. And she’s not answering her phone. I stare at the black screen, my neck sweating. I have a bad feeling. A bad, bad feeling.
Think, James. I smack my forehead. Don’t panic, I am commanding myself.
Think, think, think.
This can’t happen again. I won’t let it. God wouldn’t do that. Twice in a row would be too coincidental. Lazy coding. Maybe she’s fine, she’s probably fine. She might be pissed if I call the police and ruin her chances to get the stupid, fucking cigar box. She might be fine, but what if she’s not. What if she’s not?
I smack my face again, hard. Fuck.
Leaving the computer on in case the camera starts working, I jump out of the car into the frigid air. I slam the door shut and the sound echoes into the night. I’ve parked a bit away from the club and I start running, looking for the right door. My breath is too fast, and panicking won’t help, but I can’t help it. All I know is I won’t forgive myself if something happens to her. If something happens, and I don’t save her this time.
Finally, I find the right building and start smacking the door, slamming it as hard as I can. The cold wood stings my palm.
“Hey,” a voice cracks out over the intercom.
“My friend’s in there,” I say to the speaker. “Sarah. I need to talk to her.” Then, I remember. “Magna Carta.”
“That’s not for dudes, man. Get lost.”
“I need to talk to my friend,” I insist. My brain flicks through the best scenario to get ahold of someone quickly, no questions asked. “Her mom just died.”
“Oh.” There is a pause. “Jesus. Okay. One sec.”
I stand there on the sidewalk, watching the crack turn into a Y shape and considering the angle it makes, and the night is too quiet, and I smack on the door again.
“Chill, dude,” the voice bursts out through the speaker. “You got the wrong place. There’s no Sarah here.”
“She’s in there,” I yell, my voice squeaking. “You’ve got to get her.”
“Dude. Go away. There’s no girl by that name here.” The crackling noise of the speaker cuts off, leaving silence again. I stare at the door. I call Dahlia again and hear her chirpy voice—“Hi, sorry I’m not here to get your call”—on the voicemail for the hundredth time.
“Please call me,” I plead into the phone. “Please call me back. Please.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Dahlia
The word echoes in my ears. Dahlia.
How does he know my name?
“Red Sox,” I say as loudly as I can, though it sounds like a whimper. “Red Sox.”
Christian shoves me into the room, and there are four other men in there. A sound makes my breath catch, and I look up to the noise. A little, yellow cuckoo bird, tipping out of the clock, dipping its beak down. On the mantel, there is a large, rectangular, mahogany cigar box with a shiny brass clasp.
And in the corner, a bare mattress.
“Yo, Christian, what up?”
“Got the girl.”
“Who dat?” asks a skinny white kid trying to talk gangster.
“The girl they talked about. Dahlia.”
“Oh yeah?” The skinny kid observes me with interest, like I’m a healthy-sized pig at a county fair. “You sure it’s her?”
“It’s definitely her,” he says, insulted. “She’s got the tattoos and the hair and everything.”
Another young man strides forward, his belly straining his black leather belt, which is cinched on a screwdriver-made hole. “What are we going to do with her?”
Christian shrugs. “What should we do with her?”
Another man, his hair buzzed into a faux-hawk, turns to me. He is light-skinned something, maybe Italian. “Let her go. It’s not even the right party.”
My eyes glimpse the cigar box again, then back down at the gaggle of men. Christian’s grip is tight on my bicep.
“I say we do her,” the skinny kid says, and his pants are obviously bulging at the thought.
“Whatever,” the one by the corner says, trying to play it cool.
“Just you,” I say to Christian, deciding this is my best shot. If the others leave, I can beat the crap out of Christian and make off with the box. Otherwise, I have to use the Beretta, which I didn’t want to do. I hold on to his arm. “Just you, okay?”
“You don’t make the rules, bitch,” the skinny kid says.
A man with a ponytail approaches from the corner. “I’m up for it,” the fat kid says, looping a finger around his belt.
Faux-Hawk sighs, as if I were a nuisance. “Fine, let’s just do it.”
Pretending to itch my leg, I reach down toward my boot, but the backhand catches me clean, out of nowhere.
The room tilts and then goes black.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
James
I stare at the door, willing it to open. A cold wind waters my eyes.
I could call 911.
But what if she’s okay? What if the necklace isn’t working and I ruin her chance?
I start pacing up and down the sidewalk when a man comes out of a convenience store a few houses down and starts walking towards me. He is in some kind of black uniform, a plastic bag swinging in his hand. And as he walks by me, I see the large, silver reflective letters on the back of his coat.
CAMPUS POLICE.
I don’t believe in God, but God has answered. “Sir,” I call out to him. “Can you help me?”
He turns to me. He’s African American, overweight but not obese, with chipmunk cheeks. “What is it, son?”
“My…my girlfriend.”
He steps toward me. “Your girlfriend what?” His coat has a huge fur hood that smells like a million cigarettes.
“She’s in there,” I choke out. I can barely breathe. I point at the unassuming black door.
“What about her?”
I swallow. “I’m afraid they might hurt her.”
He squints like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Who might hurt her?”
“The men in there. In the Hawk Club. We need to get he
r out.”
He looks at the door, then back at me. “How do you know she’s getting hurt?”
I decide that this is useless. I can’t waste another second of time and start wailing on the door again. “Hey!” I am yelling at it, but my voice echoes uselessly into the night. “Hey!”
“Hold up,” the campus police says. “This is private property. You can’t go barging—”
“They’re going to rape her,” I say, quietly but forcefully. “Please. Help me.”
Chapter Eighty
Dahlia
When my vision clears, I’m on a mattress.
“Bitch,” a voice says. The sound is warped. I can hear out of only one ear.
Rough hands against my shoulders, holding me down. I start fighting, reaching for my boot when a half punch catches my chin and lip. I can feel my lip starting to swell, and I struggle to catch my breath. “Red Sox,” I moan.
My head feels heavy, woozy. I strain to reach my boot, but someone is sitting on my arm, the elbow joint hyperextended. A knee jams into my crotch, making me gasp. “Red Sox,” I am shrieking. “Red Sox, James. Red Sox!”
The skinny kid starts giggling. “Why the fuck does she keep saying that?”
Hands are prying my legs open.
“Who knows,” Christian says. “Just grab her other arm.”
Someone is licking my thigh. I will myself to be present. I am not drugged. I am not drunk. I don’t need to panic. I will remember this. I will remember everything, and I will stop it this time. I slam my leg against the licker’s face, which is answered with a solid punch to my hip.
“Jesus Christ, this cunt is on steroids,” Christian complains. Sweat runs down his sideburns. “Somebody grab her fucking leg.”
A hand tightens around my ankle like a clamp, and my leg is whipped back unnaturally, wrenching my hip socket. I can hear it clicking as I struggle to keep my leg closed.