Campus Bones (Dead Remaining)

by Vivian Barz

  “So . . . then, what? They scared some poor girl walking home from class? Or a mom with a carload full of kids drove by and saw?”

  “Again, no. There was only a single security guard on campus who saw them, a man in his fifties. Real hard-ass. Bryan was the only one who got caught, since his buddies took off and left him in the lurch after they’d been spotted.”

  “Nice friends.”

  “Right,” she said with a snort. “Anyway, though they threatened him with prosecution, Bryan protected his friends—the same ones who left him behind—and refused to give up their identities.”

  “So they made an example of him.”

  “That’s exactly right. Put his name on the sex offender list because of the nudity.”

  Eric made a sputtering sound. “That’s outrageous! He was a dumb kid doing a stupid, dumb-kid prank. And they thought a fair punishment would be to put him on the same list as pedophiles and rapists? For the rest of his life? When actual rapists his age can get away scot-free because their daddy knows the right judge?”

  “I know, I know—it’s disgusting,” Susan agreed. “I have no doubt that if he’d had better legal representation, he probably would’ve only had to pay a fine, gotten a little slap on the wrist. It doesn’t look like he fought too hard against it, though. He got caught and took his lumps without much fuss. Guess he thought the situation would go away on its own. Boy, was he wrong.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Well, there’s not much we can do about the sex offense thing, though I’m also starting to wonder if you and Jake might be right and he was wrongfully accused of his ex-girlfriend’s murder.”

  “I can’t find the connection,” Eric said, “but I suspect DOTE might have played a part in the murders.” He then went on to outline the conversation he’d had with Greta Milstein and the harried police officer who’d made it pretty clear that he intended to let sleeping dogs lie.

  “I can’t get into specifics now, but I’m going to investigate DOTE further. I think the group might be a lot more active in the Bay Area than the FBI previously gave them credit for.” Susan glanced at her watch and made a face. “Oh man, I need to go. I had no idea it was so late—where did the time go? I’ve got to get up for work in just a few hours.”

  Eric wished she could stay longer. He missed hearing her voice and seeing her face light up when she smiled—he missed her in general. Still, he understood that she had obligations. “Agreed. I just want to mention one thing, and then I’ll let you go. From the sound of it, DOTE is all about executing a series of smaller attacks and then going in for the kill with a grand gesture of all gestures.”

  “That seems about right,” she agreed.

  “This is just a hunch—”

  “A hunch or one of those weird feelings you get about things?” she cut in.

  “It’s a little bit of both,” he admitted. “Anyway, given DOTE’s recent uptick in activity, I was thinking that, if they were going to make a grand statement, they might choose a day that has significance. Not so much to America as a whole, but to them.”

  “The way a serial killer might, but with an ecological edge,” she said.

  “Exactly. I had a look at a calendar, and do you know what holiday is coming up?”

  She barked out a laugh. “Eric, I can hardly remember my own birthday most years.”

  He laughed too. “Arbor Day is coming up, Suze. Do you know what that is?”

  “The celebration of trees,” she said, her eyebrow arching.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jake was really getting into the whole undercover thing. He must’ve changed his outfit/disguise at least a half dozen times, though ultimately he opted to go as his usual self. Dressing like someone who was already a doter, as he’d initially done, would defeat the whole purpose of him having to attend a meet and greet for new members. His angle tonight would be to display enough ignorance to indicate that he was suggestive to new influences—he hoped that was how he’d be interpreted.

  His jaw dropped when he pulled up at the party’s location, an expansive Tudor-style house with a long, curved driveway. Multimillionaires lived here. He’d been anticipating a shack in the woods. Getting out of his car, he double-checked the address from the text Kimmy had sent him, confirming that he was in the right place. He sent Kimmy a message to let her know that he’d arrived and then headed up the gravel driveway toward the sound of happy-go-lucky indie music that was horn and banjo heavy.

  Since he was thirty and his usual social hangout was a bar, it had been a while since he’d been to a gathering like this. He suddenly felt really old and a little like he was participating in the naughty teenage act of attending a friend’s wild house party while the parents were out of town. As he’d soon find out, this was partially true.

  Kimmy met him at the front door, looking even lovelier than she had on the quad. “Make yourself at home,” she said as she ushered him in.

  “Where am I right now?” he asked in astonishment as he stepped into the foyer. Off to his left was a grand staircase that curved along a wall decorated with highbrow art he wouldn’t have even known how to price. Everything in the house screamed interior-designed opulence: sleek modern leather furniture mixed with carved wood antiques, a stunning blown-glass chandelier the size of a small sedan hovering above, abstract sculptures. His own family had a great deal of money, but not like this. This was what he’d call gonzo rich.

  Kimmy laughed. “I know—it’s embarrassing.”

  “That’s not really the word I’d use,” Jake said, thinking he’d give his eyeteeth to live in a place like this. “Is this house yours?”

  She flapped a hand, rolled her eyes. “Please. It’s my father’s. Gross how much he likes to show off, isn’t it? Hello, midlife crisis. But we needed a place that’d hold all of us for the party, and he’ll be in the Bahamas for another month, so here we are.” She smiled brightly. “Drink?”

  Jake cast surreptitious glances at the partygoers as they made their way into the kitchen and Kimmy went to mix him a drink. He was perplexed by what he saw within the sixty or so people who were in attendance. While diverse in race and gender, the group could be classified into two categories, so distinct a line could be drawn between them.

  The first group was younger, bright-eyed individuals who appeared a little ill at ease. Their demeanor was skittish; they were behaving as if, well, they didn’t know how to behave. They fit the mold of what Jake had been expecting: the children of yuppies posing as Mother Earth types. To them, it seemed, the event was a novelty. They clung together awkwardly, gaped and giggled at Kimmy’s father’s antiques, snapped group photos, and drank as if the primary motivation was to get drunk.

  Then there were the older, relaxed individuals who were dressed in an upscale, business casual manner. They spoke in quieter tones and were disinterested in the surroundings. A couple of them appeared to be making a list. In the few moments he watched them, he couldn’t tell what for, but he could have sworn that they’d looked right at him and then quickly glanced away. As a dwarf, he was used to this happening. A lot.

  These are the ones, Jake thought, who I should keep an eye on. These are the ones who are running things.

  The atmosphere in the room changed when a handsome dark-haired individual Jake placed in his mid- to late thirties arrived at the party. The younger, Mother Earth group hushed their voices to murmurs as he confidently glided past. They tried to look at him without looking at him, which made them all the more obvious. He wore tailored blue jeans, an expensive-looking sweater, and glossy brown Chelsea boots that Jake assumed were vegan leather. His dark eyes were framed by a modern update of horn-rimmed glasses, and his smile was easy. Jake wondered if he was the leader.

  “Who’s that?” Jake asked as Kimmy handed him some kind of fruity drink. He took a sip, the scent of vodka and orange permeating his nostrils before the liquid hit his lips. Screwdriver. He hated screwdrivers. “Delicious. Thank you.”

 
The newcomer tipped his head at Kimmy, and she smiled back. “That’s Edward, but everyone calls him Rodent.”

  “Why?”

  “His last name is Mowse—you know, like a mouse, but spelled M-o-w-s-e. Someone called him Rodent once, and it stuck.”

  “I’m going to assume the nickname is ironic,” Jake said, glancing Rodent’s way. The guy could be a model for his own cologne line, yet he also had the distinguished air of a well-respected classics author. Again, Jake was feeling chagrined at just how far off the mark he’d been. Where was the wild-eyed Jim Jones tyrant, the dazed cult-groupie followers? Could he and Eric have been wrong in their assessment of the organization? Had Bryan purposely led them astray? He felt like the sort of fool who’d believed every stereotype he’d seen on TV only to later find out it was all a lie—that real life was quite the opposite. Had he been blinded by his own personal biases?

  Or were these wolves in sheeps’ clothing?

  “Not too hard on the eyes, is he?” Kimmy remarked in a manner that made Jake wonder if the two might have a romantic history. Maybe she was his groupie. He wasn’t too bothered. She was giving him strong friends only vibes, and he was put off by her lack of gratitude toward her father’s wealth, which had provided her a lifestyle—not to mention a place for DOTE meetings—she clearly took for granted.

  Besides, he reminded himself, there was always the possibility that she was a budding extremist.

  “He looks familiar,” he said, tipping his head in Rodent’s direction. “Do all these people go to LU? He’s not a student, is he?”

  “Oh no, not at all—Rodent graduated like ten or fifteen years ago.” She squinted her eyes. “Or maybe he went to LU for a little bit but then dropped out. I can’t remember.”

  And yet he’s still hanging out with college kids, Jake thought. It was not lost on him that there wasn’t a single person in the room who looked over the age of thirty, barring Rodent.

  “There are some current students and other LU graduates, of course, but I’d say most of the people here are new recruits brought in by senior members.” Rodent waved her his way. “That’s my cue. Have fun, mingle,” she said, and then she wandered off.

  Rodent, Kimmy, and a few of the other older, well-dressed individuals gathered at the head of the living room. Rodent raised his palms in a quieting motion, and the room promptly fell silent. Jake wasn’t sure how he felt about the power Rodent so obviously had over his disciples. It was evident these individuals looked up to him, but for what reasons? He noted that a few of the females had gone googly eyed over him, too, but that could have been simply because he was a heartthrob.

  “Thank you all for coming.” He smiled at the crowd. “I know you came here to meet some new faces and have some fun, so I’ll cut to the chase so you can get back to it. We’ve picked you to join us tonight because we see potential in all of you. And we hope, in turn, you see potential in us. As I’m sure you know, not all of you will be invited to join our cause, but don’t let that stop you from having a good time. Relax and be yourselves.”

  What did that mean? Not everyone could join DOTE? This was interesting news. He’d been under the impression that doters were the ones trying to convince others to join their cause. Could that have been what the list making was about—they’d been observing how new pledges behaved, documenting who was worthy in their eyes?

  Rodent paused as the crowd whooped and hollered, raising his arms in acknowledgment, as if he were a messiah. The crowd seems to be eating it up, Jake thought with an internal snort. Praise and adoration were as addicting as an actual drug. Maybe more. This he knew unequivocally, having relished it when the crowd had cheered him on when he’d played with Augustine Grifters.

  Rodent continued, “Just want to introduce some of my fellow foot soldiers who have been with me for the long haul, through thick and thin: Brice, Kimmy, Marty, Paige, Miguel, and that there down on the end is Jason. If you have questions, ask any one of us. And keep on fighting the good fight.” He pumped his fist in the air like an illustrious political leader, and Jake had to stop himself from casting his eyes at the ceiling. The foot soldiers—Kimmy included—also raised their fists at the crowd, and then the group dispersed.

  Jake went into the kitchen to find a beverage he actually wanted to consume, a beer, and then dumped the screwdriver down the sink when he was sure nobody was watching. He’d taken in about enough bullshit for one evening. Were DOTE participating in terrorist-like activities? He didn’t know, but they sure were self-aggrandizing.

  “Probably not what you were expecting, right?” a voice next to him asked.

  Jake was surprised to see it was Rodent. He felt a twinge of guilt, as if he’d expressed his disdain about the group vocally. “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered vaguely.

  “Most people come to our parties expecting to see a bunch of hippies gathered around in a drum circle, eating hummus and singing kumbaya earth songs or whatever,” he said and laughed.

  Jake was surprised to find that he was laughing along with him. Rodent’s energy was infectious—he gave him that. “Okay, maybe that’s a little of what I was expecting,” he said, bringing his thumb and index finger together.

  “You’re Jake, right?” Rodent asked, holding his hand out for Jake to shake.

  “That’s right. Kimmy must’ve told you.”

  “Kimmy and a couple others here.” Rodent turned to face him. “We know who you are, of course.”

  Jake’s heart sank. “What do you mean?”

  “You really don’t know?” he asked, his eyebrow arched as if he were having a private laugh. “Your band. You were in Augustine Grifters.”

  “Oh, right.” Jake took a sip of his drink.

  “I’ve actually seen you guys play a couple times, back in the day. I used to go to a lot of shows, before I got too busy with this stuff.” Rodent took a sip of his own beer. “Heard about what happened to you guys—your band members, I mean. I’m really sorry about that.”

  Maybe Rodent wasn’t as bad as he’d been giving him credit for. At minimum, he sounded sincere. “Thanks, but I don’t really like to talk about it,” Jake said, and that was the truth. A memory tickled the back of his mind. He felt like he’d had this conversation with Rodent before.

  “Completely understand. But I will say that I hope you keep playing, because what you do with your violin is beautiful. It would be a tragedy if you didn’t, because if there’s anything the world needs, it’s more beauty like yours.”

  Jake reminded himself that he was not supposed to like the man. It was difficult, though. The way Rodent spoke to a person made them feel special, important. It was easy to understand how he’d garnered so many followers. While he was unquestionably charismatic, he was also kind. Of course, how could he truly know this, having only spoken to the man for a couple minutes?

  And then, an image hit his brain with enough force to cause him to shake his head.

  Jake said, “Wait a minute. You’re that guy, the one from the bar. You . . .” He rubbed his forehead, his brain going fuzzy at the memory. “You’re the one who took me outside and put me in a taxi. I tried to hit you, didn’t I?”

  Rodent shrugged. “Eh, who can remember these things?” he said good-naturedly, though Jake doubted that he’d already forgotten. What he thought was more likely was that the man was trying to spare him a great deal of embarrassment, which he appreciated, despite his resolve to unearth DOTE’s nefarious activities. He continued, “We could use more people like you in our group.”

  Jake’s smile was sheepish. “Because I start fights with random strangers in bars?”

  “Forget about that, would you? You show me a man who claims to have never made a fool of himself, and I’ll show you a man who’s either a liar or has been living the life of a saint.” He placed an arm on Jake’s shoulder. “You’re only human, my friend.”

  He’s good, Jake thought. So good that he might start to buy into his self-serving doctrine, if he wa
sn’t careful. Handsome, charismatic, and willing to pick a struggling man up when he was down. Was he simply a good person or too good to be true? “Okay, so is it because of my band?”

  Rodent let out the sort of soft laugh that made it difficult to imagine him ever losing his temper. “Fame never hurts, of course. Americans, well, you know what they’re like.” They’re, like he wasn’t one of them. “Once you become a star in the US of A, if even a minor one, people trust anything you tell them. The blind faith is astounding. Fame, it’s like a religion, and celebrities are the gods.”

  “It really is,” Jake agreed. “Like a religion.”

  “And everyone wants to be one, a god.” Rodent shook his head. “But it’s not your fame either. Though you have fire in your belly and clearly never back down from a fight, and though you have the background with your band, what I like about you, Jake, is your passion. Most people don’t have passion for much of anything these days. Nothing important, anyway.”

  Rodent was off again, before Jake had a chance to comment.

  “Nobody goes out of their way to enrich or challenge themselves anymore, to learn a new skill or repair themselves in an area where they might be lacking. No, they’re perfectly okay staying unexceptional. They fret over the number of followers they have on social media, how many likes they get for a ‘spontaneous’ photo that took them fifteen tries to perfect, the ten-word statement they spent half the morning and all their brainpower honing. They can’t eat a meal or work out or take a shit or kiss their dogs and kids and lovers without first getting photographic evidence of it. They take away the specialness—the intimacy—of every facet of life in their quest to get it all down on film because, if they don’t, it’s like it never happened. They do stupid, pointless challenges that compromise their morals, their safety, their basic common sense simply because the internet tells them to. They waste hours of their day online arguing with strangers on the other side of the globe over complete bullshit while ignoring the people sitting right next to them. They compare their own lives with the phony ones others have created to make them feel less worthy, and then they go out and buy up every frivolous object that crosses their path—because you’ve gotta spend that money like a good little consumer, don’t you?—in a vain attempt to play catch-up, though the reality is that they never will. They exist in a state of half awareness. We’ve become a society in which mediocrity and narcissism are the new norm. Nobody cares about anything real anymore.”