Finding Valor (The Searchers Book 2)

by Ripley Proserpina

  Leaning his body as far out the window as he dared, a gust of wind whipped across his face, like the universe slapping him, and the joint fell out of his hand. The red tip floated to the ground before extinguishing. For a while, he stared at the spot where it had landed, squinting into the darkness. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, staring down, when he heard his phone ring.

  After he checked the caller ID and saw it was his mother, he seriously considered leaving it to voice mail. But he hadn’t spoken to her this week. A once--a-week phone call with a max time of ten minutes was all he allowed. At some point, he wasn’t sure when, his conversations with his parents had become stilted, but he couldn’t even drum up the energy to be sarcastic or pissy. He just didn’t care. He was removed from everything, which was what he aimed for, so he considered it a win.

  “Ryan?”

  “Hey, mom.” Examining his watch, he mentally began the count down.

  “Sweetie, have you seen the news?”

  He shook his head. When she didn’t answer, he realized what he’d done and cleared his throat. “No, why?”

  “Beau’s been released from prison.”

  “What? How?” He sat up fast and the room spun.

  His mom was quiet for a moment; he heard her breathing and then, “Here, talk to your father.”

  His palms sweat as his mind struggled to make sense of what he heard. Beau must have gotten out of jail because of some technicality. It would mean testifying all over again. He couldn’t take another phone call from Beau. No way. There wasn’t enough dope in the world to blunt that trauma.

  “Ryan?”

  “What happened?”

  “Beau was released. One of the kids from the party came forward with a video they found on an old phone. It had Beau and Ashley. And Ashley got into the driver’s seat.”

  “No way.” The room was spinning, but it wasn’t from being wasted. His heart pounded in his chest, but he knew what he’d seen. “How is it possible?

  Only silence answered his question. A cry of celebration from the floor below startled him, giving him the exit he needed. “I gotta go, Dad.”

  “Ryan—”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” Using his tried-and-true method to ending any conversation he didn’t want to have, he hung up.

  The brothers got louder. Whatever was going on would give him the distraction he needed, so he left his room, charging down the stairs. Gerald posed with a giant plastic “Ω”—omega.

  “Ryan!” he called out after pretending to lick it. “Look what we found!”

  Chuckling, he accepted a beer someone tossed him. “Oh yeah? Did you happen to find it at Omega Phi?” Omega Phi was the community service sorority, the one full of smart girls who never gave Lambda brothers the time of day. It was infinitely frustrating to Gerald since he’d identified his soulmate among their ranks, a Secondary Education major named Stella.

  “Can you believe it? Fell right off the side of the house with only minimal wrenching. It was a fucking hazard. I’m a hero.”

  Unease stabbed his stomach. Hero. Even though Gerald used the word in jest, it struck a chord inside him.

  A hero was someone who did what was right. Not what he’d done. He was not a hero. He wasn’t even a good person.

  What had he done?

  The sounds of celebration faded away, and he was lost in a haze of his own guilt and recrimination. God. His best friend had gone to prison for two years because Ryan sent him there. Two years Beau’d been locked away for something he didn’t do.

  If Ryan had only listened. If he’d been less cocky, less assured of his own righteousness, he could have heard what Beau had tried to tell him: he was innocent.

  His best friend’s life was ruined.

  He finished the beer in his hand, and without even asking, someone put another one in his open palm. Popping the top, he drank deeply, hoping for oblivion. There was no hole deep enough, no room dark enough to hide from his sins.

  Someone like him needed to suffer for what he’d done. The only answer was to make himself feel worse. Then maybe, maybe, he could touch the surface of the pain he’d caused Beau.

  SEVEN

  Ryan’s Past, 1 Year Later

  AS NEWLY ELECTED vice-president of Lambda, Ryan’s presence was required at the Brownington College alumni mixer. His job was to talk up the alumni brothers and get them to make donations to Lambda.

  Gerald had decided the fraternity needed to purchase a minibus. They’d convert it into a party bus, which he would drive around town. The finances were all worked out; they could pay the bus off in six-months, and then, with the cover charge, it’d be steady income. The only expenses were gas and beer, and they always made a profit on beer.

  Scanning the room, Ryan adjusted his tie.

  “This is so boring,” Gerald whispered, smiling at an alumni as he walked by. “And we can’t even drink.” He snagged one of the waiters who was walking by with a tray of champagne. “Come on,” he begged.

  “Need ID,” the guy said in a strange voice. Ryan looked at him closely, noticing he didn’t move his lips when he talked.

  “Just leave it, Gerald.”

  Gerald reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and waving a fifty dollar bill. “How about now?”

  Ryan saw a muscle tick in the guy’s jaw like he was clenching his teeth. “No.” Grinding out the word revealed the waiter’s teeth, and Ryan reared back, horrified. The waiter’s front teeth were missing completely, and the bottom ones were chipped, only small blackened nubs in his gums.

  “Gross,” Gerald whispered, leaning forward to get a better look.

  The waiter’s face blanched and then reddened. Forcing himself to squelch a wave of sympathy, Ryan turned away from the waiter. The guy walked away quickly, and Gerald laughed, slapping Ryan’s stomach with the back of his hand. “Did you see that guy’s teeth?”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out his flask, Ryan turned his back on the room. “Yup.” He took a long sip before handing it to Gerald.

  “Is this the only one you brought? Because it’s not going to last long.” One long swallow and the flask was significantly lighter.

  “Of course not. Hey!” One of Lambda’s pledges heard him and walked over. “Jacket,” he instructed, and the freshman showed them the flask he had in the inside pocket of his sport coat.

  His friend chuckled, examining the room. “I see at least five more rats.”

  “I came prepared,” he muttered, taking another swig. This swallow went down much smoother.

  “Raised any money yet?” Bryce walked up to them, holding champagne in his hand. At twenty-one he could take advantage of the champagne and the open bar. From the way his eyes glittered, Ryan suspected he was at least four mixed cocktails into the evening.

  “A bit,” he answered. “Not quite enough for the down payment on the party bus, but close.”

  Bryce tipped the rest of the champagne into his mouth and snapped his fingers at the waiter, causing Ryan a prick of guilt, which was quickly dulled with another swallow from the flask.

  “Check out his teeth,” Gerald not-whispered as the waiter came closer.

  “Like a horse?” Bryce snorted. Taking a glass from the guy’s tray, he peered at him closely.

  Ryan tried to fix his gaze on him as well, but the alcohol was doing its job and the room was starting to blur perfectly around the edges. He held his flask behind his back, and when Gerald and Bryce laughed, he chuckled. One sip followed another sip and another, and soon he was holding onto the wall to stay upright. His friends had disappeared, or maybe they hadn’t. The room was spinning too much for him to find them, but he didn’t even care.

  A waiter walked by, maybe it was the one with the teeth, and Ryan grabbed an appetizer off the tray. “Wait, wait, wait.” Grabbing the guy before he could leave, Ryan peeled what he thought was a twenty off his money clip. “Sorry we’re assholes.”

  The waiter was a blur of golden h
air and black uniform, so he waved the money in his direction. The blur came closer, and the money was tucked back into his pocket. “You’re making a fool of yourself,” a voice said in his ear. The guy spoke with a slight lisp, but there was something else to his voice, something intangible, like it was made to give heartening speeches before a battle or toast a president. “Get out of here before you do something you regret.”

  Too late. Immediately Ryan spun away, not wanting to be reminded of regrets.

  The noise of the room ebbed and flowed. An arm went around his shoulders, Gerald whispering. When Gerald tried to be quiet, it meant everyone in a ten-person radius heard what he said.

  Ryan was on a merry-go-round. The world spun, and then the ride stopped and he’d see a face. Meet a glare. Recognize disgust.

  He loved it.

  Attention went to the front of the room. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted their hatred, needed the attention to be back on him. Their distaste only touched the surface of his self-loathing.

  Bryce and Gerald were in hysterics, folded at the waist, slapping their knees. Without even knowing what they were laughing at, he joined in. Their hilarity was contagious. Gerald pulled his eyes back with his fingers, babbling incoherently, and he laughed louder. Suddenly, he was pushed from behind.

  “Hey!” Gerald called out but continued to laugh and babble. Glancing over his shoulder, Ryan saw a podium at the front of the room. How had he missed it? And a young man standing there. In front of him was an architectural scale model of a barn.

  “I want to see the horses!” Gerald cried out, running forward. There was a gasp and a crash.

  His frat brother lay in a heap, rolling back and forth on top of the now-ruined model. The room was silent for a moment, and then a wave of angry, no, furious voices washed over Ryan. All directed at him. Bryce was nowhere to be found.

  His prone friend slowly pushed himself up. “I guess this means no party bus?” he asked.

  Ryan snorted, the room getting hazy again. His knees folded, and he crashed, face first, onto the floor.

  * * *

  Through the magic of fraternity connections, Gerald, Bryce, and Ryan faced no consequences from Brownington. Ryan expected consequences; he’d wanted them.

  He wanted Brownington to kick him out or call in his parents so they could look at him, shocked and disappointed.

  Who are you? he wanted them to ask.

  I’m not a good person, he’d answer.

  But no one called his parents.

  However, the former Lambda president arrived. Bryce, Gerald, and Ryan met him in the study. The president crossed his arms. Next to him stood two other former presidents, all in similar poses. A month ago, he’d seen Bryce in this pose when an initiate failed to steal Sigma’s stuffed zebra. It was an actual zebra, about a hundred years old, shot by a brother on safari in Africa. Nowadays the zebra, a mascot for Sigma, wore hats or Mardi Gras beads. Everyone in Lambda had been disappointed when the new initiates failed to come through.

  Shaking his head, he tried to stay in the moment. But what could these guys possibly do to him? They’d already circumvented the punishment he deserved.

  “We’ve managed to keep you from getting probation,” the man said and then paused, waiting for a thank you. Bryce and Gerald were quick to respond, but Ryan was slower.

  The man narrowed his eyes at him. “You will, however, be doing community service as punishment.”

  His friends made sounds of acceptance, but he wasn’t so quick. “What is it?”

  “Ryan,” Bryce whispered, his eyes wide. Don’t push it.

  “You will be helping in demolition at the barns, Ryan.” The former president cocked his head to the side, studying him closely. “Seok Jheon, the man whose ceremony you ruined, suggested it himself. Bryce and Gerald, you are both helping at the community center. Omega Phi offered to supervise you. Count yourselves lucky.”

  Gerald’s eyes widened, and a second later he looked ashamed, as if for the first time what they’d done really hit him. Bryce was relieved.

  Ryan’s shoulders relaxed. Working with the man he’d insulted was going to be awkward. Seok Jheon probably hated him and would treat him with nothing but disdain. It sounded perfect.

  * * *

  Ryan arrived at Brownington Farms at the specified time. Like he’d been instructed, he wore jeans and a sweatshirt and brought his own pair of work gloves. He walked into the first barn, looking for Mr. Jheon.

  The barns at Brownington were on the National Historic Register. They were not the type of barns people thought of when they heard barn. Built around the turn of the century by a Vanderbilt or Carnegie or some other robber baron, they stood as a testament to how the rich man did farming.

  A series of barns stood like a fortress. They were turreted and balconied, gilded and bronzed. But they were in a state of rot. One turret leaned like a melting ice-cream cone, and there was a giant, gaping hole on one side of the roof. The closer he drove, the worse the barns looked.

  Given the state of the buildings, he was surprised to see one lone car and no heavy equipment. Parking next to the vehicle, he left his keys on the seat and went into the nearest barn.

  Walking inside was like walking into church; silent except for the sound of his footsteps on the fieldstone floor. It was empty, no animals or farm equipment. The fall sunshine filtered through the leaded windows, and dust motes floated in the air.

  “Can you climb the other ladder, please, and grab the end of the tape?” The man who broke the silence stood on top of a ladder, pushing a measuring tape toward one end of a rotted beam. This must be Seok Jheon.

  Ryan grabbed the end of the tape and dragged it over to the other ladder.

  “Hold it to the end of the beam.” Climbing the ladder, Ryan held the tape in place, watching the man check the tape measurement, write something down on a piece of paper, and slide it into the pocket of his shirt. “You can let it go,” he said, holding the pencil between his teeth.

  As Ryan did, he looked up and froze, staring at the ceiling. The beams crossed and arched like the inside of a cathedral, giving him a strange sense of vertigo. The barn was longer than a football field, and he wondered what exactly he was doing standing on a rinky-dink ladder and measuring one lone beam.

  “Are you overwhelmed?”

  Now that he wasn’t drunk, or focused on the cat’s cradle interior of the ceiling, he could meet the eyes of the man whose thunder he’d stolen.

  “Yes,” he noted with surprise.

  Seok gestured to the walls of the barn. “This section was the stables, but there are two others.” He pointed to the sides. “There are conical towers, limestone archways, a granary, a hay loft. It’s a massive structure.” Pulling a kerchief out of his back pocket, he wrapped it around his head, tucking in strands of coal black hair. “See the paneling?”

  Each panel was actually a door. In each one’s center was a hexagonal overlap of wood, and in the center of that, in worn wrought-iron, was a name.

  “The horses?”

  Seok nodded. “Each of these doors opens into a stall.” He walked to one and unlatched it, allowing Ryan to peer inside. The stall was bigger than his room.

  “Good life for a horse.”

  Shrugging, Seok observed him with a raised eyebrow. “You aren’t the one who fell on my scale model. You are the laugher.” When he spoke, his vowels were slightly rounded. “I was hoping you would be the one I got.”

  “Why?” Ryan’s eyes went to the man’s pale fingertips as he traced the iron letters, Idlewild.

  “You seem familiar somehow.” He faced Ryan, holding out his hand. “I am Seok Jheon. Call me Seok.”

  He reached for his hand and shook it. “Ryan Valore. Are you doing this”—waving, he indicated the barn—“on your own?”

  “No.” Seok pointed to the beam they’d measured and then another one before smiling at him. “I just wanted to see if you’d get on the ladder.”

  “Wa
s it a test?’ He chuckled, a sound of true amusement.

  “Of sorts,” Seok replied, shrugging his shoulder. “Come with me, and I’ll give you a tour of the grounds.”

  “Do you truly expect me to demolition this?”

  “Are you insane?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I barely trust you with the tape measure. You’re going to be my assistant.”

  “Errand boy,” Ryan filled in.

  “Assistant,” he reiterated. He looked Ryan up and down, staring into his eyes for a moment. “There will be heavy equipment here. You’ll take a piss test every two weeks.”

  “Huh?” His eyebrows went into his hair. “That’s not a—”

  “It is now.” Seok pulled down the skin below his eyelid and pointed. “You’re wasted. And not just hungover. Whatever is in your system has been rotting your brain for a long time. No more.”

  “I could refuse,” Ryan challenged.

  “You’d be thrown out of your fraternity and, without their protection, probably expelled.”

  “Good,” he answered without thinking.

  “You would like that.” Nodding as if Ryan confirmed something, Seok crossed his arms. “You’re stuck here. I’m not letting you out. If you don’t show up, I’ll send someone to get you. Take the test. I expect in 30 days it will be clean.”

  Sighing, Ryan ran his fingers through his hair and tugged at the strands. This was all wrong. He felt worse—really worse—and not the way he wanted to. Seok’s words dug too deep, something he couldn’t handle. All he wanted was to feel like shit, get stoned, and measure some boards. Instead, he was considering the source of his emotions and what led to him feeling guilty.

  If he wasn’t obliterated, how was he supposed to function?

  “Okay,” Seok said, turning toward the large sliding doors. “We’re done here. I’ll follow you to your house, and then we’re driving to Northern Vermont to look at a collapsed barn.”

  Ryan followed him out of the barn without even thinking about it.