by Tom Dolby
Nick nodded. Nothing more had to be said. Patch trusted his friend, and the rest of them did as well.
After everyone left, though, Patch kept wondering about the Society, about its methods, and how they had gotten to Lauren by threatening her sister.
All he had in his family were Genie and his mother. And he wondered which one of them could be next.
Chapter Seventeen
On Friday morning at school, the junior class had a meeting with Chadwick’s director of college advising, Mr. Gregory. He went on and on about the importance of their grades and extracurricular activities, particularly in the second semester of their junior year. This would be the second-to-last official set of grades that admissions committees could use to evaluate the candidates from Chadwick, and for those who were applying for early admission to places like Yale, it would be the last full set of grades available before an admissions committee would make its decision. Phoebe noticed some of the students sitting in the back, their feet perched rudely on the desks in front of them, as if none of this applied to them. Phoebe wasn’t going to make any assumptions; she knew she still had to keep her grades up. She had met with a few alumni who were on different admissions committees last semester at a meet and greet sponsored by the Society. It had all been done under the auspices of a “private gathering sponsored by a group of helpful alumni.” But she didn’t feel like she could just coast on through.
Phoebe tried to focus on Mr. Gregory’s talk, but something had happened last night that she couldn’t get out of her mind. When she asked to use the bathroom at Patch’s apartment, he had directed her to Genie’s, as he said that his own was a mess. Phoebe had developed a terrible habit of snooping when she was in other people’s houses, and she couldn’t help taking a peek into Genie’s medicine cabinet. Besides, she was curious about the woman. There was something Genie wasn’t telling all of them about her past, and Phoebe was anxious to know what it was.
Just a few weeks ago, Genie had told Phoebe and Nick about her broken engagement with Palmer Bell in the 1940s. But Phoebe sensed that there was more to the story. Why had Genie ended up in the same apartment building as Palmer’s son and his family? Was it simply coincidence that Nick and Patch had become such good friends?
Phoebe imagined that Genie’s secrets might help them unravel the mysteries about the Society that they had been trying to uncover. She hadn’t wanted to pry Patch when he was so new to the group, but there were things she had noticed: the wistful, far-off look in Genie’s eyes when she had talked about Palmer that afternoon a few weeks ago, the way she fiddled with the locket around her neck, how Patch seemed to have such a strange relationship with the Bell family, as if he were both an outsider and a close family friend.
“Phoebe!” Nick tapped her on the shoulder. “We have to go. The presentation’s over.”
She nodded distractedly, only able to think of one thing: as she had stood in Genie’s bathroom the night before, amidst cold cream, perfume, and prescriptions, she noticed a blue glass bottle of tuberose perfume. It was vintage, not something Genie would have bought recently. From the gold script on the bottle, it might have been forty or fifty years old. Phoebe gently opened the bottle and held it to her nose, and the smell brought her right back to the same scent in that velvet-lined sarcophagus in the warehouse on Gansevoort Street at the Night of Rebirth.
Chapter Eighteen
Adding to all the confusion over the past week, Patch had been unable to reach Simone Matthews, his producer on Chadwick Prep, the television show that they had been hoping to pitch to a number of network and cable TV outlets. In the fall there had been some real traction on the project, and they were getting interest from foreign as well as domestic networks. It had been everything Patch ever wanted, from the first time he had picked up a video camera: to have his own show. And now it had been so close, so within his grasp, it was almost as if he had already reached his goal.
Almost.
Ever since Simone had started putting together the footage that Patch already had, she had said she needed something more. Something more exciting, something with what she called “a throughline.” She wanted real drama, and the only way Patch could deliver that was by giving her access to the inner workings of the Society. She had been the initial impetus that had sent him to Isis Island, in the hopes of getting some footage of the Society’s retreat. Unfortunately, he had never had the chance to capture a single frame. While he had gotten an insider’s view, all he had were his own memories. And now, after having been kidnapped and becoming a member, the Society had the original memory cards of his footage. In addition to messengering them to the Society’s town house the day after the retreat, he had signed an affidavit that he no longer had any duplicate copies in his possession.
What he didn’t tell them was that a week ago, he had contacted Eliot Walker, the older of the two Walker cousins who were on the lobster boat he had taken out to Isis Island. As a favor to Patch, Eliot had set up a safe-deposit box for him at the Coastal Bank of Maine. The key had arrived in the mail today. In the safe-deposit box were several memory sticks containing all the raw footage, plus the rough cuts that Patch had put together.
Patch knew he wouldn’t be able to use any of it now, but at least he had it as leverage if he ever needed it. He figured he hadn’t technically broken the affidavit, as the material wasn’t in his possession.
Now, this afternoon, as he headed to the loft that housed Simone’s production company, he hoped he might be able to revive the project, even without the Society footage—to make the show more about Chadwick and less about the Society. He had tried to get back in touch with Simone, but she wasn’t returning his calls.
When he showed up at the building in the West Thirties, though, his key card no longer worked. He waited for a few minutes and then was able to gain entry as some members of a production crew left for the day.
Patch went up to the third floor and looked for Eyes Wide Open Productions. There was no sign on the door anymore, and the office was unlocked. Patch walked in to discover that it was as if the company had disappeared. All the editing decks had been removed; the same went for the file cabinets, the bulletin boards, the posters on the walls. All that was left was what the space had come with: empty cubicles, phones with dead lines, and the detritus of moving.
Patch called Simone on her cell. Perhaps they had recently moved, and she had been preoccupied.
He felt the lightbulb on one of the office lamps. Confirming his suspicions, it was still warm.
Simone picked up after a few rings. “Patch,” she said. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on.”
“Um, yeah, that would be one of my questions.”
She sighed. “I had to move my editing suite uptown. I was given an opportunity—it was something I couldn’t turn down.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
“I’m not really supposed to talk about it. I guess it’s okay to mention it to you. I got a grant from this group that gives out awards to filmmakers, sort of like the Guggenheim or the MacArthur grants. The Bradford Trust Association?”
Patch groaned. Even though the Bradford Trust Association was the parent corporation for the Society, everyone thought it was a philanthropic group that was improving the world by writing checks.
“Anyway, they gave me a hundred thousand dollars to work on my documentary, a pet project I’ve been doing.”
“What are their terms?”
“I had to sign a confidentiality agreement about where I was getting the money. And, well . . .”
“And what?”
“I had to commit to working in film for the next two years. It’s really exciting—they think this new project of mine could make it to Sundance next year. They don’t want me distracted by my television projects.”
“Where does that leave us with Chadwick Prep?”
“I’m sorry, Patch. We’re going to have to drop the project. Our option runs out on it in June. After tha
t, you’ll be free to pursue other venues. But to be honest, I just don’t know if I see it going anywhere. I mean, until you get some more footage of that secret group—”
“Simone! Don’t you see? That secret group is the Bradford Trust Association! They shut down the project by giving you that money.”
She laughed. “Um, right, Patch. And let me guess: they killed the Kennedys, too?”
“Simone, you’ve got to believe me. You really don’t want to get involved with these people. Is there any way you can get out of it?”
“The papers are already signed. I thought you would be happy for me. I’m sorry about your show, Patch. I really am. But it just wasn’t the right time for me. These things happen. It took me years before I got my first TV project on the air.”
“Simone, I have a limited amount of time in which I can do this! I’m graduating from high school next year. It’s not like I’m going to be able to go back to Chadwick and film stuff after I’m gone. If the option expires in six months, then I’ll have wasted my whole junior year.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Maybe we can work something out, let you out of your contract early. You might have to give back some of the option money.”
“How much of it?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to talk to my agents about it. Maybe half?”
Five thousand dollars. He had already spent most of the money on equipment and personal expenses. He had put twenty-five hundred into a CD at the bank, at Genie’s insistence, and he had about a thousand dollars left. The rest he had invested in a new AVID machine at home and a new computer monitor. And some new shoes and his new DJ equipment. Now he realized that it had been stupid of him to spend so freely. But he had thought Chadwick Prep was a done deal. He definitely didn’t have five grand to buy back the rights early. And he wasn’t about to ask Nick for the money. He was too proud for that.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, bluffing.
“So tell me one thing,” she said. “Whatever happened on that island? I’m dying to know.”
Patch paused. Should he tell her? What good would it do? She couldn’t produce his TV show. And he certainly didn’t want her knowing that now he was a member of the Society himself.
“Nothing,” he said. “The ferry schedule was off, and I never even made it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lauren was encouraged that her friends had immediately decided to back down upon hearing that her sister had received the creepy text message. They didn’t have any proof that the Society was responsible, but the mere possibility that there could be more violence in the future was enough to keep them all in line.
Of course, this was exactly what the Society wanted them to think. But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to work more covertly. Lauren trusted that Nick and the others would come up with some kind of plan. The best she could do was to play along once she found out what it was.
The next Society meeting was held on Friday night at a special location: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The twenty-nine Conscripts—the older class of fourteen and the younger class of fifteen—were asked to meet in the lobby of the museum at seven P.M. Claire Chilton’s mother, Letty, appeared when the group had assembled and motioned for everyone to follow her into the Egyptian wing. Security guards stood by the cases of artifacts, just as they would during museum hours. When the group entered the main area, the Temple of Dendur was lit up beautifully in a wash of red and lavender, as if for a special event. Four rows of chairs sat facing the temple, and everyone took their seats.
Letty Chilton stood in front of the group and began speaking.
“You’re probably all wondering why you’re here,” Mrs. Chilton said. “We wanted to bring you here tonight so that you could all see the beauty of the temple up close. I know many of you have grown up with Dendur practically in your backyard, but you may not have had the chance really to look at it. We’ll have the opportunity to do that later. For now, we’re going to discuss a very important event that is coming up.”
Nick yawned, and Claire glared at him as her mother continued speaking.
“I have some exciting news that I think will send you all over the moon! On February 13, Valentine’s Day eve, the museum is throwing a benefit party, a revival of the Dendur Ball, an event that last occurred in the early 1990s. The Met will be celebrating the renovations on the new Egyptian wing—work that, as you know, was funded by the Bradford Trust Association. Anonymously, of course. The museum has asked us to take a leadership role in the planning of this event. And I know it will be a lot of fun!” Letty Chilton punched the air with her wrinkled fist as if at a pep rally, and a few members of the group twittered at the intense awkwardness of the presentation.
Lauren shifted in her seat. How could the Society be so cavalier about hosting another event after so much had gone awry? She focused on Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad, which gave her the courage to stay.
Mrs. Chilton continued. “We’re excited to announce that all of you will be serving on the Junior Committee. My daughter, Claire, will be chairing the committee and handling its meetings. Your job will primarily be to get the younger generation involved in the museum. You can sell tickets to your classmates, to your friends. We have a special price for the under-twenty-ones. Remember, patronage of the arts starts at a young age. This is our cultural heritage, this museum and others in the city. It’s our job to make sure that it is preserved.”
Not another committee. It all seemed like a ruse to steer people’s attention away from the awful things that had happened in November and December. Lauren cast a sideways glance at Phoebe, Nick, Patch, and Thad. They all looked bored.
Later, over refreshments—sugary punch and stale butter cookies—she talked to Phoebe. “What do you think about all this?” she asked.
“I guess going along with this is part of our keeping in line?” Phoebe said.
“Something like that.”
Claire came up to Lauren. “How are you, Lauren? It’s nice to see you here.”
Lauren nodded.
“I was so sorry to hear about the little incident at Giroux this week. It must have been a mistake, right? I mean, when I was talking about it to Sebastian, I told him I know you, and there is no way you would ever steal a pair of earrings!”
She gave Claire a frigid look, but it didn’t stop Lauren from reddening. “Sure, whatever, Claire. Thanks for having my back.”
Phoebe pulled Lauren away, rescuing her. “Let’s go talk to Nick.”
Lauren gritted her teeth. “Claire just makes me so angry, sometimes I feel like I could kill her.”
“I know, we all do,” Phoebe said. “She’s a loser; you can’t let it get to you.”
They walked up to Nick, who was drinking a glass of punch.
“You really sure you want to be drinking that?” Phoebe said.
“If I die of cyanide poisoning, I guess we’ll know what happened,” Nick said.
Lauren and Phoebe gave him blank looks.
“Sorry, bad joke,” he said.
At that moment, Patch joined the group. “Nick, there’s something I need to show you.”
“Now?” Nick put down his glass on a side table.
Patch nodded. “Right now.”
Chapter Twenty
Before grabbing Nick, Patch had been roaming around the portion of the Egyptian wing that had been kept open while the last part of the renovations were being completed. In the main room, there were large placards along the wall that explained the history of the temple and how it came into existence. The story centered on the area of northern Nubia, along the Nile, where the Temple of Dendur was built. The temple, removed from its original site in Egypt in 1963 and opened at the Met in 1978, was considered a smaller temple, though it was still thought to be one of the prime examples of Egyptian architecture in the world. The temple had been erected in the year 15 B.C.E. to honor Isis, Osiris, and two brothers, Pedesi and Pihor, who had drowned in the Nile during Roman times.
But this wasn’t what Patch wanted to show Nick.
“You’ve got to see this,” Patch muttered to his friend. “Just don’t be too obvious about it.”
Nick followed as Patch led him to a skirted table that was displayed with a scrapbook, invitations, photographs, and clippings from Dendur Balls in years past, specifically the last one, which took place in 1992. Claire’s mother had said the display was there to provide some background and get everyone excited about the party.
“It’s just a bunch of New York socialite stuff,” Nick said.
“Right, well, look at this,” Patch said, pointing to a picture of a woman.
There was a spread from the New York Times’s social pages, a grouping of pictures by Bill Cunningham, the well-known photographer. At the center was a picture of a woman, identified as Esmé Madison Evans. She was wearing a simple column dress and was staring straight at the camera, her eyes wide, a strange combination of an otherworldly spirit and a deer caught in the headlights. Her photo was next to those of prominent socialites of the time, names Patch recognized as important social leaders, the types of women who chaired committees and would find their names, along with those of their husbands, carved above the doorways of the Met’s galleries.
“It’s my mom,” Patch said. “From before I was born.”
“Wow,” Nick said. “She looks beautiful. I mean, I always knew your mom was beautiful, but I—well, to be honest, I don’t remember that much of her, since she, you know—”
“I know,” Patch said. “Neither do I.” What he did recall was mostly from after her breakdown: when they had to shave her head to keep her from pulling her hair out, and the baggy hospital-issue clothing that she was forced to wear. His mother had probably spent the last ten years wearing nothing more glamorous than a stained nightgown.
“Look,” Nick said, pointing to another spread from a magazine. “Here’s a picture of my parents.”