by John Moralee
Was it a joke? I wasn’t laughing. I vowed I’d not waste my time on trying to make him my friend any more.
I was almost at my car when I heard a car coming in my direction. I only heard it because its tyres went over a pool with a heavy splash. I spun around and saw it powering towards me.
It was a dark shape with no lights on.
Until I turned to face it, it was travelling at about thirty miles an hour, but the second I saw it, the driver hit the accelerator and pushed it up to sixty.
I felt like a matador confronting a gigantic bull. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I was at least twenty feet from my car.
I ran for it, anyway. I was as good as dead in the open. I’d been a 100-metres runner in high-school, but I hadn’t done any serious running since coming to Harvard. My legs just wouldn’t move fast enough.
The driver was steering to cut me off.
I yelled and plunged forward, willing my feet to move faster, faster. My shoes kicked up rainwater and gravel, but they found traction. I was just ahead of the car when it reached me.
I lunged onto the trunk of my Dodge, but I didn’t have time to lift my feet out of the way. The fender clipped my left foot with a solid thud like a baseball bat striking one into the crowd. The impact completely rolled me. I landed beside my car door. I was lying on the wet asphalt in serious pain. The assassin’s car continued, never slowing down. It just kept going out of the parking lot and swerving into the oncoming traffic before turning the corner. The pain made me physically sick.
Afterwards, I crawled to my car, somehow unlocked and opened the door, then climbed inside, slamming the latch down the instant I was safe.
Gasping, I sat recovering for minutes, fearing the car’s return. It did not. I could feel my foot throbbing. My sock and shoe were blood-soaked. My ankle looked swollen. It was so tender I could not touch it. Maybe it was broken. I would have driven myself to a hospital, but I could hardly see for pain – and I could certainly not use both feet on the brake and gas pedals.
Just then, someone knocked on the window. Startled, I saw a group of girls looking at me through the glass. I wound down the window.
“You okay?” one said.
“No.”
“I saw that psycho try to kill you,” she said. “Do you need an ambulance?”
“Kind of,” I said. “Yes. Please.”
One kind Samaritan called 911. The girls asked me a lot of questions. I did not answer – I was hurting too much. I’d had athletic injuries, but nothing as painful as my foot. But I wasn’t really thinking about that.
I had seen the driver, just for a second. His face was lit up by the orange glow of a street light.
It was my friend – my enemy – Noah.
*
The detective came to see me in the ER. He waited while an intern confirmed my ankle was broken and gave me painkillers, then he introduced himself. His name was Chafney. He was a friendly black man aged about 35. He took my statement, looking surprised when I told him about Noah.
“This is your friend who did this?”
“I wouldn’t call him that now. But he used to be.”
“Any reason why he’d want you dead?”
“None I can think of. He’s been weird ever since he came to Harvard, though.”
“Drugs?”
“Definitely not.”
“You owe him money?”
“No.”
“He owe you money?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Okay. That’s all I need for now.”
“You’re going to arrest him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Despite what had occurred, I was reluctant to put Noah in prison. “What will be the charge?”
“Attempted murder.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” I said. “I mean, someone must have forced him into doing it.”
“I’ll look into that,” Chafney said. He left shortly before Bridget arrived. She stayed with me until I was taken for a minor operation. The next morning, Detective Chafney came to see me in my room. One look at his expression told me it was bad news.
“What is it?”
“We found the car abandoned a couple of blocks away. It was stolen yesterday afternoon, but the owner didn’t realise until this morning. No one saw who stole it or who left it. There were no fingerprints or anything else inside to establish guilt. Nothing to tie it to Noah Bennick. So, a successful prosecution would depend entirely on your statement.”
“I’d testify.”
“It doesn’t matter. He has an alibi for the time of the incident.”
“What?”
“He says he was with six people, studying for his exams all night.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I interviewed them all separately and their statements match.”
“Then they lied too.”
“There is not enough evidence to charge him with a crime. There’s only your word against his that you actually saw him. Are you sure you didn’t just think you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the problem is if it went to court, they’d just say you imagined it was Bennick because of the note he sent you. They’d say the trauma of being struck by a car made you delusional.”
“But it was him. I know it. I did not make it up.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “I can tell when someone’s lying to me. They were lying – all seven of them. Their stories were too perfect, like they’d been rehearsed. The trouble is proving it. Even if I got them on a lie-detector machine, it wouldn’t prove anything one way or another. It’s not admissible evidence. I don’t like it, but the DA won’t take something so weak to trial. The best he can do is leave the case open – which is what we’ve done. If we get some new evidence to prove Bennick’s alibi is false, then he can be charged. Unfortunately, as you know, Bennick’s father is a judge. He’ll have them all lawyer up within seconds if I push them.”
“So he’s free?”
“Unless it can be proven seven people lied to me, I can’t do anything. I’ll try, but I don’t think I can do much.”
“What if they try to kill me again?”
“There are other universities,” he said. “I suggest you look at one on the West Coast. I hear Berkeley is a good one.”
“Great. I’m not leaving Harvard because of this. I’m going to get you your evidence, I swear. Just wait until I can walk again.”
“I like your spirit,” he said. “I’ll help you any way I can. Get well soon, okay?”
“Thanks,” I said.
He walked to the door, then looked back sadly. “I went to Harvard, you know.”
“Yeah, what happened?”
“I dropped out.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t for me.”
He left it at that.
*
A couple of days later, it was the Christmas vacation. I went home with my foot in plaster, limping with the aid of a stick. I was pleased to be in Vermont, where I could see my old friends back from their colleges. Bridget spent the time with me, meeting my folks for the first time. They got on well. We spent the vacation deliberately not talking about Harvard, and I did not tell my parents the complete details about my injury, specifically omitting Noah from the version I told them. Though I didn’t discuss Harvard, I did keep in touch with what was going on, using my friends who’d stayed in Boston. I now knew the names of Noah’s witnesses. They were the son of a senator, the son of a newspaper publisher, the son of a Wall-Street guru … all Sigma Delta Sigma members with reputations to maintain. To accuse them of lying - and making Noah commit a crime in public - would be a huge mistake. I needed proof of their role in whatever had gone on that night. Noah had not come home for the vacation, and nobody had seen him recently. My friends believed he was hiding in the Sigma Delta Sigma frat house, but I wondered if, perhaps, it was more like imprisonment. I
could not accept Noah willingly tried to kill me. Now, more than ever, I was convinced the evil influence of the Sigma Delta Sigma was responsible for his actions, and not his own volition.
His ex-girlfriend came to see me, having heard I was home. Laura looked incredibly pretty. Noah had to be mad to let her go. Laura said, “I had a call a few days back from him. He sounded weird, like he was crying or something. What he said didn’t make a whole lot of sense - just he was sorry. Sorry for what, he didn’t say. He said it over and over, begged me to forgive him. It was real creepy.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him the truth. I told him I’d met someone else, someone who genuinely loved me. I didn’t want his forgiveness. It was too late. He could go to hell, I said. That was probably a nasty thing to say, but I was upset, too. He had no right to call me after so long. No right.” She was on the point of crying. “Anyway, the craziest thing he did was say he wished he’d never ‘pledged’. I didn’t know what he meant – do you?”
“Maybe. What day was it?”
“Wednesday.”
Wednesday: the day he hit me with a car. “What time?”
“After midnight. The call woke my parents.” That correlated with the crime; he called her afterwards, hopefully feeling guilty. Laura sighed. “What’s going on?”
“Noah got himself involved in something. Right now, I’m not sure what. It’s all connected to his fraternity, though.”
“He was so pleased to get in. I can’t understand it. He’s changed so much.”
*
The Bennick residence was in leafy suburbia. They lived in a ten-bedroom Georgian manor beside a crystal-clear river where Noah and I had gone fishing many times. I felt like a stranger as I walked up the driveway and knocked on the door. Abraham Bennick, Noah’s father, opened the door. The judge wore half-moon spectacles he peered over.
“Clive,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s about Noah,” I said.
“He’s not here,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “That’s what I want to talk about. That and the fact he tried to kill me.”
Abraham Bennick removed his spectacles. He nodded for me to come in. We went into his study, a dark and musty room with law books on every wall, some dating back to Thomas Jefferson. Before we sat down in his leather chairs, Abraham actually frisked me for a recording device. Satisfied I didn’t have one, he lit up a fat cigar and offered me one, but I declined. He was wearing his Sigma Delta Sigma ring. He looked at it, then at me.
“Do you know what this represents?”
“No. What?”
“Loyalty, power and secrecy. Sigma Delta Sigma has existed for so long no walk of life is not touched by its influence. We keep this country from falling apart into the darkness of moral decrepitude. We do what’s necessary to preserve the American Way, which means developing a trust among our members. Sometimes that means doing something morally repulsive.”
“You’re saying Noah had to kill me to prove he was worthy of membership?”
His silence told me the truth.
“Am I safe now?”
“Yes,” he said. “That test is over. You will not be harmed. My son failed.”
He said “failed” with a catch in his voice.
“What will they do to him now he’s failed?”
Abraham puffed on his cigar and stared out his windows. His eyes glistened. “Whatever’s necessary, I’m afraid.”
“And you will let them punish him?”
He looked into my eyes with infinite sadness. This was a man prepared to lose his son to protect Sigma Delta Sigma. The muscles in his jaw twitched and he started breathing hard. “Failure is not allowed.”
“Would they actually kill him?”
“Sigma Delta Sigma has to protect itself.”
He would say nothing else.
I left the old man smoking his cigar, staring into the abyss of his own soul.
*
On New Year’s Eve, I received a call with the sounds of a party going on in the background. Someone said something, but I couldn’t tell what. “I can’t hear. Speak up.”
“It’s me – Phil from Boston.”
“Hey, Phil! What’s up?”
“Something. Everything.” The connection crackled. Boston was suffering bad weather, affecting the phone lines. “I was reading the Boston Herald this morning. There’s a story on the front page I knew would interest you.”
Phil paused, waiting for me to ask what. He liked being dramatic. He had dreams of being a hot-shot Hollywood actor/director. Why he was studying economics was a mystery.
“Phil? What was it about?”
“The cop on your case. Detective Chafney. He’s dead.”
“What? How?”
“Some drug dealers gunned him down outside his house. Shot him ten times.”
“God! How do they know it was drug dealers?”
“Some cocaine was dropped in the street when they made their getaway. The story says he must have interrupted the deal and got killed because of it. The drug dealers were in a black sedan, wearing masks. He just got in the way.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What?”
“I don’t suppose they arrested someone?”
“No.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Thanks, Phil. I’ll see you when I come back.”
I hung up, sweating. Chafney was dead? I had no doubt Sigma Delta Sigma had something to do with it.
So, they would kill a cop to protect themselves! I could just imagine the heat that would generate, but those people did not care.
They were above the law.
Hell, they probably were the law.
I wanted to call the Boston police, tell them my suspicions, but I did not. For all I knew, they could run the Boston police force and any call I made could put the life of another cop in danger.
Besides which, I knew each of the people involved would have an airtight alibi.
I only had one question flurrying through my head: Did Noah do it? Did Noah do it? Did Noah do it?
*
In January there was snow on the streets of Boston. Everywhere looked clean and bright, as though the sins of the previous year had been washed away, but I wasn’t fooled for a second. I looked at Bridget, beside me in the cab taking us away from the airport, thinking I didn’t want her to be hurt by them. Whoever THEY were. The cab driver could work for them, I thought. That man selling newspapers on the corner, he could be one of them. How could I possibly take them on and win? There had to be a weak link in their organisation. That link was Noah. I just had to get Noah away from them, I believed, and I could get him to tell me the truth that would put them in prison for a long time.
Bridget decided to investigate the background of Abraham Bennick. It seemed logical to assume that if Noah had been instructed to kill me in order to become a full member of Sigma Delta Sigma, then his father must have done something similar. Bridget was going to look at old newspaper reports of murders when Abraham lived at Harvard. Maybe an unsolved murder could be attributed to Abraham? She was so enthusiastic, I did not have the heart to express any doubts. For all I knew, she could be right – if Abraham had killed someone, he might not have been as careful as someone aware of modern DNA tests. He could have left damning evidence – if a murder was found. Bridget was a brilliant researcher, so, if anyone could do it, she would do it.
I went to find Noah.
There were forty men living in the Sigma Delta Sigma house. It was a big stone manor at the edge of the Harvard College campus, distanced from the other buildings by a small lake and acres of woodland. The parking lot, discreetly hidden by privet hedges, contained several expensive European cars and a dozen 4WD American ones, off-road vehicles I seriously doubted had been driven anywhere near mud or rough ground. For someone with a ten-year-old Dodge, it was intimidating. Such a blatant display of weal
th always made me wonder if these people had an ounce of sense. You could buy a house for the same money they spent on a car. I was tempted to have a little accident – scrape the paint off a Hummer – but I restrained myself, consoling myself with the thought their insurance would be a nightmare. (Heh-heh.)
Someone must have watched me park because two men came out to meet me. They were big athletes with short blond crew cuts and humourless smiles. They stood on the stone steps below the sinister Greek symbols of their house.
“Good morning,” one said. “Can we help you?”
He said it without a hint of warmth. His Aryan sidekick smiled and frowned at the same time, as if struggling to hold in a bowel movement.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
“And who might that be?”
“His name is Noah Bennick.”
“Noah’s gone out,” he said, quickly and smoothly. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“No,” I said. I was smiling as hard as they were. It was as though we were competing for a role in a toothpaste commercial. I took one long look at the building, thought I saw someone looking from a window, then I walked back to my Dodge.
The two men did not return inside, but watched me, smiling. I felt like waving. We were all just a bunch of happy guys, weren’t we? They did not move until I was pulling out of the parking lot.
I drove a block, then turned around and drove slowly by the fraternity house. The men had gone inside, I was glad to see. There was another man coming out, looking left and right before he dashed across the parking lot. He reached the sidewalk, then looked back at the house. He was wearing a wool scarf and dark raincoat. He could have been anyone. He could have been Noah.
Seeing me, the Scarf Man pulled aside his scarf and mouthed “wait” and I waited half a block from the frat house. The man jogged up to my car. I opened the window, but I kept the door locked.
