Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book)

by Charles Harrington Elster

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  2910221 0966123 1528331-S 0966123

  1253312 2181134 0836228.

  “What about this group that ends with S?” she asked.

  “That was for the verb to meet,” Leo explained. “Prospero simply added the S to indicate the present tense form, meets, which doesn’t have a separate headword.”

  “Okay. So let me get this straight,” Caitlin said, turning to face Leo. “The first number group stands for page one, column one, fourth word down, right?”

  “Right,” Leo answered.

  “Which was A.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the second word, wild, was on page 2925, in column two, seventh word down.”

  “Exactly. You see how lucid and simple it is?”

  “Sure,” said Caitlin, “once you know the system.”

  It was almost two in the morning. Leo paced the floor in silence. Phil and Caitlin languished on the couch, staring dully at the piece of paper on which she had written the decoded message:

  A wild, indulgent place

  where flesh meets flesh in rude embrace.

  Phil yawned. “I still have no idea what this means. All I can say is it sounds a little kinky.” He poked his finger at the page. “Look at these words: Wild, indulgent, flesh, embrace. Do those suggest some conventional, everyday activity to you?”

  Caitlin folded her arms. “Maybe.”

  “Like what?”

  “A wedding reception.”

  Phil laughed. “Get out of here. That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “What’s so ludicrous about it? All the wedding receptions I’ve seen are wild and indulgent, and everybody’s hugging and kissing and embracing.”

  “Yeah, but what about the word rude before embrace? There are no ‘rude embraces’ at wedding receptions.”

  Caitlin pondered the question for a moment. “There’s the part when the groom takes off the bride’s garter.”

  “That’s not rude,” Phil said. “A little lewd, maybe, but definitely not rude.”

  Caitlin retreated to the corner of the couch and hugged a cushion. “All right, then. Since you don’t like that idea, how about a rock concert? Those can be pretty hedonistic, with everybody engaging in wanton behavior and ‘rude embraces,’ screaming and yelling and dancing and slamming into each other.”

  “Now that’s more plausible,” Phil said. He looked at Leo, who was still pacing and brooding. Then he turned to Caitlin. “You know what I think?”

  “What?” Caitlin said.

  Phil hesitated. “You won’t laugh, will you?”

  “I might. I can’t make any promises.”

  “I think it may refer to someplace in a red-light district, a striptease joint or a massage parlor or something.”

  “Oh, get off it, Phil! I’ll admit my suggestion wasn’t exactly scintillating, but yours is fatuous.”

  “No, I’m serious. Think about it. Wild, indulgent, flesh, embrace—doesn’t that suggest the kind of kinky stuff you’d find in a red-light district?”

  Caitlin made a skeptical face. “I think you’re just being prurient. Besides, Prospero would never hide the treasure—or a part of it—in a sordid place like that.”

  “Who knows. The guy was pretty eccentric.” Phil looked at Leo, who continued to pace incessantly. “Hey, Leo. Does the city of Holyfield have a red-light district?”

  Leo, apparently oblivious to their conversation, didn’t answer.

  Caitlin tossed the cushion at Phil. “I can’t believe it! You’re really serious, aren’t you? Well,” she scoffed, “if you’re so sure it’s something kinky, how about a sultan’s harem? That meets all your criteria. No, wait. How about a mud wrestling arena? That’s even better. Or maybe a—”

  “Football stadium!” Leo blurted. He clapped his hands and spun around, laughing. “It’s the football stadium!”

  Giddy with insight, Leo sat down in the armchair and leaned toward the two freshmen. “When the college built a new stadium back in the ’70s, Prospero helped bankroll the project. And in spite of his objections, they named it after him. It’s called Prospero Stadium, guys.”

  “Then this clue must be metaphorical, like the first one,” Caitlin said. “Football’s a violent sport, full of blocking and tackling. That’s what Prospero must mean by ‘where flesh meets flesh in rude embrace.’”

  “And the stadium is the ‘wild, indulgent place,’” Phil said, completing the thought, “where all the fans go nuts and do crazy, impetuous things to cheer on their team.”

  “Precisely,” Leo said.

  Caitlin gave Phil a mildly contemptuous look. “This makes a lot more sense than a stupid red-light district.”

  “It was just a hypothesis,” Phil mumbled. “You have to start somewhere.”

  “Listen,” said Leo. “Holyfield’s playing its first game of the season Saturday at one o’clock. I think you guys should go up there then and look around.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” Caitlin asked.

  Leo shook his head. “Unfortunately, I can’t. I’ve got an executors’ meeting at noon at the faculty club, then an appointment at two with Dr. Benson at CHS to have my stitches taken out.”

  “Maybe we should go sometime tomorrow, when you can come with us,” Phil said. “There’s bound to be a big crowd during the game, which will hamper the search. Wouldn’t it be better if we went when there were fewer people around?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes,” Leo said, “but there’s another consideration. Whoever’s on our trail is not exactly the urbane, cultivated type who’s going to ask you politely to hand over the merchandise. If he follows you to the stadium, it’ll be harder for him to try anything with lots of people around.”

  Phil nodded, remembering the knife.

  “That’s a good point,” Caitlin said, yawning. “Which reminds me. It’s really late and there aren’t a lot of people around. Would you guys mind walking me back to LaSalle again?”

  Chapter 25

  Up a Tree

  Saturday

  It was a perfect day for a game. Above the media booth Old Glory flapped in a cloudless blue sky, and the stadium, which consisted of two levels of bleachers on both sides and one end of the field, was packed. According to the announcer, 5,237 people had turned out to see Holyfield and Stratford College battle it out for the region’s bragging rights.

  Caitlin and Phil stood in the aisle between the two levels of bleachers, overlooking the fifty-yard-line. For more than an hour they had been conducting a desultory and fruitless search of the stadium, wondering where in all this space and confusion they might find a tiny scrap of four-hundred-year-old paper.

  “Pennants, get your Holyfield pennants here,” shouted a young vendor walking toward them with his abundant bag of wares.

  “Hot dogs, soda!” chanted another, carrying an unwieldy tray from the opposite direction.

  They found some empty seats and sat down. Phil looked at the scoreboard, which stood behind the end zone at the open end of the stadium. The teams were tied at fourteen with two minutes to go in the third quarter. Down on the field, a Holyfield linebacker emerged from a writhing pile of bodies with the ball. The Grangers’ quarterback had just fumbled and the Crusaders had recovered deep in their opponents’ territory.

  “Hey, 22. Try using your hands!” taunted a pennant-waving yahoo two rows below where Caitlin and Phil sat.

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!” whooped a vociferous band of weekend warriors wearing matching sunglasses, baseball caps, sweatsuits, and jovial grins.

  Phil frowned. “Caitlin, are you sure there wasn’t some kind of number attached to the due?”

  “No, why?” Caitlin replied. She had removed a small set of binoculars from her jacket pocket and was scanning the sea of raucous fans on the other side of the field.

  “If I wanted someone to find something in a stadium, you can be sure I’d provide some coordinates.”
r />   “Like what?”

  “Row, seat number, yard line, something like that. As it is, I don’t see how we’re going to find it. This place is huge. There are several thousand people here. It could be anywhere.”

  “Don’t worry,” Caitlin said, still peering through the binoculars. “We’ll find it. We just have to keep looking.”

  Caitlin’s gaze settled on an older man. A dilapidated hat was perched on his head and a maroon and gold button that said “Holyfield 1950” embellished the lapel of his weathered overcoat. She watched the old alumnus jump up and vehemently shake his fist in the air, a look of exultation on his jowled face. No wonder they call them fans, she thought. The word is probably short for fanatic.

  A loud whistle blew, signaling the end of the third quarter. As the players headed to the sidelines for a pep talk and the referees repositioned the football, Caitlin proposed that they check the perimeter of the stadium.

  “You walk around one way, I’ll go the other, and we’ll meet on the other side by the statue,” she said.

  “What statue?” Phil asked.

  “It’s outside the main gate. We passed it when we arrived.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” he said as they made their way out of the stadium.

  They split up and Caitlin ambled along the broad sidewalk. Phil’s complaint was valid, she thought. The stadium was indeed massive, with a myriad of potential hiding places. How could they possibly scrutinize every one? she wondered. The more she thought about how problematic their task was, the more she felt her enthusiasm for the search wane.

  Nevertheless, she continued to scan the periphery of the stadium, stopping frequently to make at least a cursory inspection of each obscure nook or cranny that looked as though it might contain the minute piece of paper she hoped to find.

  In the commodious parking lot to her left, she saw several impromptu parties taking place. Pennants fluttered from aerials and music blared from car speakers. Tailgates were down and barbecues were smoking. Copious amounts of food and drink were being served and consumed.

  A collective roar rose from inside the stadium and a tinny voice came over the P.A. “Touchdown, Holyfield. Extra point, good. Holyfield leads Stratford 21–14.” In response, a dissonant chorus of horns swelled from the parking lot—a cacophony of cars, Caitlin thought. The jarring, discordant sound reminded her of the notoriously sluggish traffic back in New York, where the horn often was employed more than the accelerator.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Caitlin noticed a big man wearing an olive drab army jacket and sunglasses strolling along the stadium fence about twenty-five yards behind her. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar—and vaguely ominous. What was it?

  She casually walked over to a souvenir stand and took in the gaudy array of T-shirts, hats, cards, posters, mugs, statuettes, memorabilia, and tawdry trinkets, gimcracks, and gewgaws.

  An older woman leaned over the counter and smiled at her. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I’m trying to decide.”

  “Take your time, dear.”

  “Thanks,” Caitlin said, wondering if the strange man was still nearby. She took a surreptitious look around and saw that he had stopped and turned his back to her. He seemed to be staring at something on the other side of the chain-link fence.

  She turned to the woman behind the counter, bought a pencil that had a football for an eraser and said “Holyfield Crusaders” on the side, and resumed walking.

  After a short distance she glanced back. The man still appeared to be looking through the fence at something, only he had resumed walking too, and, if anything, had lessened the gap between them. She quickened her pace until she arrived at the main gate.

  As she approached the statue, she tensed. Phil was nowhere in sight. Suddenly she was angry. Here I am being followed by some creep and Mr. Phil Kwon Do is late, she thought.

  She walked to the other side of the statue and peered furtively around it. The man was loitering by the gate, reading a newspaper as people strolled in and out of the stadium.

  She looked up at the patinated bronze statue. The larger-than-life figure was rendered in flowing academic robes, with the mortarboard on top of the head tilted at a rakish angle. While the bushy eyebrows arched as if in surprise, a subtle smile curled up at one corner of the otherwise stem mouth, creating an expression that wavered somewhere between levity and gravity. One powerfully wrought hand rested on a large stone book; the other reached out in a magnanimous gesture, as if welcoming all those approaching the stadium. On a metal plate affixed to the pedestal the name Edward Anthony Prospero was carved in block letters. Below it the date 1900 was followed by a dash.

  It figures, Caitlin thought. Why fill in the year of his death when he’s still having fun pulling the strings of the living? As she ruminated on the eccentricity of the man who had gotten her into this mess, she checked the gate out of the corner of her eye. The forbidding stranger was still there. “Great,” she muttered to herself. “I wish Phil would hurry up!”

  “Hey, Caitlin!”

  Phil’s voice startled her. She looked around but couldn’t see him.

  “Up here!”

  She turned and saw a monumental tree with long, sinuous branches and a thick, gnarled trunk. She ran over to it. Inside the chained-off area around the base, a plaque was set into the ground:

  The house of George Wilcox,

  who in 1875 donated the land

  on which the central campus

  of Holyfield College was built,

  once stood beside

  this venerable tulip tree.

  With a hand shading her eyes, Caitlin looked up into the diffuse sunlight and dense foliage and spotted Phil clinging to one of the upper branches, his body partly obscured by the trunk.

  “Phil,” she called out, “I don’t think this is a good time to be climbing trees. Somebody’s following me and I need you—”

  “Here, catch!”

  A small object plummeted down at her. She tried to catch it, but the splintered shafts of sunlight breaking through the canopy of leaves were so bright that she inadvertently blinked. The object bounced off her arm, fell to the ground, and broke.

  Caitlin bent over. Resting amid a pile of clay shards was a sealed plastic bag with a piece of parchment inside.

  “Phil, you found it!”

  “Yeah, I was standing here waiting for you,” he said as he shinnied down the trunk of the tree, “and I just flashed on it.”

  Caitlin carefully picked up the plastic bag and put it in her purse. She glanced over her shoulder. The big man had tucked his newspaper under his arm and was strolling toward them.

  “I was looking at that statue of Prospero,” Phil went on, “and I thought of that Edgar Allan Poe story, ‘The Gold Bug’—”

  “Phil, I think your explanation will have to wait.”

  He stepped over the chain surrounding the huge tree. “Why?”

  “Never mind.” She grabbed his hand and led him into a crowd of people moving between the stadium and the parking lot.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Somebody’s following us. I’ll explain later. Let’s just get out of here!”

  They crossed the parking lot with celerity. When they reached College Street, Caitlin spied a gray station wagon with a white bonnet on the roof waiting at the curb. She waved her arm, then broke into a run, pulling Phil with her.

  They jumped in and slammed the door. Caitlin quickly locked it. Through the rear window she could see the man leaning nonchalantly against the parking lot fence, staring at the cab.

  “You in trouble, Caitlin?” asked the driver.

  Caitlin flipped around and saw the driver tip back the brim of her Minnesota Twins baseball cap and eye her quizzically in the rearview mirror.

  “Annie! You don’t know how glad I am to see you!”

  Leo snapped back the tops of three sodas, put them on the table, and sat down next to Caitlin on the couch. P
hil leaned forward in the armchair and continued his story.

  “So I saw the statue and thought, maybe Prospero’s playing a big joke on us. Maybe there’s no treasure and everything we’ve done has been futile. But as I turned away, upset by that thought, I saw this enormous old tree—and it just hit me. I looked back at the statue and saw that Prospero’s arm was pointing right at the tree. It couldn’t have been more obvious!”

  “It’s not obvious to me,” Leo confessed. “How did you make this spontaneous connection?”

  “It was Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Gold Bug’ again.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “In the story they locate the treasure by dropping this scarab—the gold bug of the title—through the eye socket of a skull that’s nailed to the branch of a gigantic tulip tree. When I saw the plaque identifying this as a tulip tree, I started climbing. And sure enough, about halfway up I saw a small clay skull tied to a branch with the piece of parchment sealed in a plastic bag and tucked neatly inside the eye socket.”

  “Boy,” Caitlin said, “first the invisible ink and now this crazy skull. You’re sure getting some good mileage out of that story.”

  Phil grinned. “What can I say? Poe’s one of my favorite writers. I learned a lot of SAT words reading him.”

  “Actually, the symmetry between Poe’s plot and Prospero’s scheme isn’t perfect,” Leo said. “In the story, didn’t they drop the scarab through the eye socket and then find the treasure by digging in the spot where it hit the ground?”

  Phil nodded. “Right, but in this case burying it in a place with so much pedestrian traffic would have been irrational. It might’ve been inadvertently uncovered by someone else or damaged by the digging—not to mention the fact that conducting an excavation in public is bound to attract attention. Up in the tree, the fragment was safely hidden but still accessible.”