He looked up to see Leon glaring at him. More than a glare. A baleful look full of contempt.
“This I cannot condone, Archie. Your foolish pranks here at school have been one thing, along with your stupid adolescent behavior. If your fellow students are ignorant enough to indulge you, fine. As long as it concerns only them and not me.” Leaning forward, he snatched the letter from Archie’s hand. “But involving the Bishop in one of your pranks …” He let his voice die, but the snap and crackle of his words continued to echo in the room. “This is unforgivable and could threaten the school.”
Archie was always at his best when he was under attack. That’s when his blood seemed to sing as it coursed through his veins, when every fiber of his body was alert and standing ready, when his brain was clear and swift, not bogged down as sometimes happened during a test, particularly math. And so he felt himself responding to Leon’s attack by cooling down, becoming calm, relaxed, forming his thoughts as if they were battalions of soldiers marshaling for a defensive maneuver. Go easy, slow and easy and cool. And play the ace up your sleeve when the time comes.
“I don’t blame you for being upset, Brother Leon,” Archie said, voice reasonable but dignified. Mustn’t give any hint of apology, because that would indicate guilt. “I’ve always been careful to limit …” Groping for the word, impossible to use assignment. “… our activities to the school, the campus.” Pausing, watching Leon intently—but not too intently, must remain cool and yet permit a bit of his own anger and outrage to emerge little by little. “This is the kind of thing I’ve warned the guys about. But there’s a lot of jealousy among the students. This jealousy …”
Jealousy was the key word, of course. That’s why he had repeated it. Jealousy was the hook Leon had to grab. And he grabbed. “Jealousy?” Puzzled, caught off guard for a split second.
“Yes. I’ve heard rumors that some of the students want to disrupt the school.” He knew the words sounded phony—hadn’t he, more than any other person, disrupted the school through the years?—but he had to convince Leon that the words weren’t phony. “The Vigils, Brother Leon, have always worked with the school, never against, never destructive. Oh, we probably went overboard now and then, but all in the interest of school spirit.”
Archie could tell his words were having an effect.
And knew why.
Because Leon wanted to believe him.
That was the card up Archie’s sleeve.
The fact that he and Leon had to be allies. And if Leon couldn’t trust Archie any longer to keep the students in check, then all hell could break loose.
And so Leon listened intently, nodding his head as Archie talked, selecting careful words, each designed to show Brother Leon that he was innocent of any scheme to embarrass the Bishop or the school or Brother Leon himself. He explained that one of his problems had always been jealous students who attempted to discredit what he tried to do. And what he had tried to do, of course, was keep peace on the campus. The Vigils had served a purpose, didn’t Brother Leon agree? Monument High, for instance, had been ravaged by student misbehavior, bomb scares, vandalism. None of those things had occurred at Trinity. Because of the Vigils.
Leon listened, expressionless now, eyes impossible to read, the eyes of a fishlike creature in a tank. He cleared his throat and indicated the letter with an accusing index finger. “What about this? I have some questions. First, what do you think the plotters planned to do during the Bishop’s visit? Secondly, do you know who the plotters are? Do you have any clues to go on?”
The important thing was to assure Leon that he was on top of everything. “I know who they are, Brother Leon. Believe me, I will take care of them.”
Leon seemed to be measuring Archie’s words. “With discretion? I want no civil wars on this campus, no revenge or retaliation.”
“Don’t worry. This is a minor matter.”
“Do you know what they were up to? In what way could they embarrass the Bishop and the school?”
“I have some inkling, heard some rumors,” Archie said, more careful now. “A demonstration before mass, on the Bishop’s arrival.” Improvising. “Some signs, like a picket line.”
“What kind of signs?”
Archie knew he had him now. And this is what he loved, improvising and embellishing. “Signs asking for a shorter school day, more vacation time.”
“That’s impossible. We must operate under state law.”
“The kids know that. A nuisance effect, that’s all they’re after.”
Doubtful now, Leon regarded the note once more.
“Bad things will happen. That doesn’t sound like a nuisance. That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”
“Guys get carried away. Believe me, Brother Leon.”
Actually, Brother Leon had no choice but to believe. Archie knew that Brother Leon could do nothing about the situation without embarrassing himself. Fighting the Vigils or what he believed to be a group of dissidents would be like fighting fog, impossible to grasp or penetrate. He had to depend on Archie, take Archie’s word.
Leon sighed, frowned, tugged at his chin. Even from five or six feet away, Archie smelled his stale breath, rancid breath. Then a smirk developed on Leon’s lips. Slowly Brother Leon opened the drawer once more, withdrew another sheet of paper, glanced at it and then at Archie.
“Whatever the conspirators planned was all in vain, at any rate,” he said. “I received a letter from the diocese yesterday. It has been necessary for the Bishop to cancel his visit this year. The National Council of Bishops has called an important meeting in Chicago.” He placed the letter on the desk, on top of the other, squared them off neatly, meticulously, the delicate fingers like insect legs.
Leon regarded Archie with triumph, smiling almost grotesquely, a caricature of a smile really. Leon was not accustomed to smiling. But something else was behind the smile, behind those icy cold eyes, the moisture frozen now, a smile that said Leon had not believed a word of what Archie had said. Which did not bother Archie in the least. The important thing is that Leon had chosen to pretend he had believed.
“Let me reiterate, Archie,” Leon said, and the smile was gone now, so quickly that it might never have been there. “I want no embarrassments, no violence, no incidents here on the campus. We have less than two months to graduation. This has been a difficult year. A year with great triumphs—the most successful chocolate sale of all time, for instance—but a year of change and uncertainty. I want this year to end on a note of triumph.”
Archie made ready to leave, didn’t want to linger here any longer than necessary, never knowing what other surprises Leon had up his sleeve.
“You may go,” Leon said, settling back, the smugness on his face as he fanned himself with the letter from the seat of the diocese.
Archie wasted no time getting out of there, rose from his chair without hesitation and made his way to the door. No good-bye, no thanks a lot, Brother Leon. Thanks for nothing.
Outside, Archie paused in the corridor as if to catch his breath, but it wasn’t his breath he needed to catch, it was something else, someone else. His mind raced, zigzagging all over the place.
Who wrote that note?
Who was the traitor?
Their favorite spot at the Chasm was occupied by another car, so Obie steered toward an unfamiliar area at the far end and finally parked near a big old maple tree, with branches so low they scraped the roof of the car. He killed the motor and turned toward Laurie.
She sat in the far corner of the front seat, hunched up, her arms wrapped around her chest, shivering once in a while. She had a cold. Her nose was red. So were her eyes. One of those sudden spring colds that arrived overnight, without warning.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?” Sniffing, voice nasal.
“About making you come out tonight, bringing you here.” But he hadn’t seen her for three nights: she’d been busy with a play rehearsal, homework, a shopping trip with her
mother. Or had she been avoiding him for some reason?
She wiped her nose with a Kleenex, looked at him, eyes watery. “No fooling around, though, Obie. Besides, you’d probably catch a million germs.”
I wouldn’t mind, he thought, face warm with guilt. Despite how miserable she looked, he still felt a surge of desire, would love to kiss her, touch her, even if she were hot with fever. God, what a pervert I am, he thought. But you’re not a pervert when you’re in love, are you?
He reached out to touch her hand and she drew away. “Now, Obie …” she said.
Hey, I can’t catch your cold by holding your hand, Obie thought. But didn’t say anything. He pondered the terrible baggage of love: all the doubts, the jealousies, the questions he didn’t dare ask. Like: Do you really love me?
Instead he asked another question: “Is something wrong?”
“I’ve got this cold,” she answered, with a trace of impatience.
Instinct drove him on. He hated that instinct. “Sure it’s not something else?”
“Lots of things. This cold. I missed the honor roll by one lousy C plus.…”
“I didn’t know that. You never talk about school—”
“And Trinity,” she said, the word like a bomb thrown in Obie’s face. “What I keep hearing about Trinity. All my friends say—”
“What do your friends say?” he asked, trying for sarcasm but failing, his voice suddenly hoarse.
“Well, for one thing,” she said, “they say there’s a monster operating at Trinity. Archie What’s-his-name. He’s the head of a secret society and he’s surrounded by a bunch of … stooges. Worse than stooges: They run his errands and do all kinds of gross things.…” The words tumbled out, as if she’d been saving them up and couldn’t get rid of them fast enough.
Obie was at a loss for a reply.
She turned toward him. “Do you know this guy? This character? This Archie Whatever …”
He had a feeling that Laurie knew Archie’s last name. Did she know everything else, too?
“Costello,” he said. “His name is Archie Costello. And I know him. Hell, Trinity’s not that big.”
“They say he runs Trinity like some kind of Mafia gangster. Is that true, Obie?” Wiping her eyes as if weeping. But she wasn’t weeping. She sounded like a lawyer in court, for crying out loud.
“There’s no Mafia at Trinity,” he said.
“Is there a secret society there?”
Damn it. He always had to proceed carefully with Laurie Gundarson, always in sweet agony, never certain of her feelings. Why did she have to bring Trinity up tonight? Because she felt miserable, because of the cold? Was she the kind of person who wanted to make other people feel rotten just because she felt rotten?
“Is there?” Laurie asked, wiping her nose like mad with the Kleenex.
“Okay,” he said, sighing. “Yes, there’s a secret organization at Trinity—”
“Are you a member of it? One of the … you know …”
He had to deny her words. Turning to her, he ached to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her that he had already defected from the Vigils—in spirit, at least—that he was merely going through the motions these days, that he and Archie were no longer friends. They’d never been friends, really. But he knew he couldn’t say anything about that. What could he tell her, then?
He reached out and took her hand. It was cool, impersonal, like a piece of merchandise on a store counter. “Look, Laurie, every school has its traditions—some are okay, some are crazy. Stuff goes on all the time. Monument High’s the same. I’ll bet it has some weird traditions, too. So Trinity has the Vigils. But it’s not all bad.” He squeezed her hand to emphasize his words but there was no response: she could have been wearing surgical gloves. “The most important thing in the world for me now is you. You’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me.” He heard his voice crack, the way it used to when he was an eighth grader and his voice was changing. “I love you, Laurie. You’re all that matters. Not the Vigils, not Trinity, nothing …”
That’s when the spotlight caught him and Laurie in its glare, illuminating the entire front seat. Laurie’s face was ghostly white in the harsh radiance. “Lock your door,” he called to her, moving to do the same to the door on his side. But it was too late. The front door on Laurie’s side was flung open and a lewd laugh rose out of the darkness behind the light. Obie squinted, trying to see beyond the burst of light, sensing that there was more than one person out there, felt as though he and Laurie were surrounded. He hoped it was all a joke, a prank. A sick prank but still a prank.
“Everybody out,” a voice called. Muffled, a voice he did not recognize.
“She’s juicy, right?” another voice said. “Can I be first?”
Obie knew instantly that this was not a prank. The door beside him swung open and at the same moment Laurie began to scream, a scream like a knife plunged into his heart. Rough hands gripped him, pulling him out of the car. Laurie’s screaming was cut off abruptly, like someone snapping off a stereo.
And the sudden silence was even worse than the screaming.
PART TWO
It hadn’t been much of a rape, really.
Not a rape at all, in fact.
Archie, frankly, grew bored as Bunting again went into the details. He realized Bunting habitually repeated himself, making a statement, then stating it again, and sometimes a third time, as if you were too stupid to understand what he had said in the first place.
Yet Archie was secretly delighted as he listened to Bunting’s lurid recital of events. He was delighted because he saw that Bunting was perfect for what he had planned for the future. The audacity, for crissake: a rape. And then the botching of it. Perfect.
Archie had enjoyed Bunting’s discomfort as he listened to the details. But Bunting had not gone into all the details, of course. There were certain things Bunting kept to himself, would not share with Archie Costello. He told Archie about Harley and Cornacchio. How Cornacchio had taken care of Obie beautifully, seized him and dragged him from the car, held him in a fierce armlock, forced him to the ground, shoving his head under the car so that he couldn’t see anything or anybody. That was important. Good job by Cornacchio. Harley had also performed above expectations. He had yanked open the door on the passenger side of the car, reached for the girl, and then, as if acting from instinct or long practice, had grabbed at her sweater and pulled it up over her face, blinding her, keeping her from witnessing anything, her arms imprisoned above her head.
The part that he did not tell Archie: how the raising of the sweater had revealed her bra. White, full, heaving. Like in the movies or the magazines. Beyond Bunting’s wildest dreams. He hadn’t realized Laurie Gundarson’s breasts were so large, concealed as they’d always been by blouses and sweaters. Bunting lunged toward her, wanting to fill himself with her, wanting to fill her with him, aching with desire, lust, the necessity to grab her, hold her close, caress those beauties. He pinned her down with his body as she struggled and squirmed, small mews of protest muffled in the sweater. For one sweet, throbbing moment he held her right breast in his hand, full and firm in the nylon bra, yet soft and yielding at the same time. He’d never touched a girl’s breast before, and he throbbed with such ecstasy that his breath came in sharp bursts. Beautiful. But without warning Laurie Gundarson kicked out, her legs churning and thrashing, and at the same time she managed to scream, loud and piercing. Pain arrowed through Bunting’s groin. All desire left him; he grew limp. He released her in revulsion. Realized suddenly and with blinding clarity what they—he was doing. Rape, for crissake. That was sick. Nausea swept his stomach. He shouted to Harley: “Christ, let’s get out of here,” thankful that his voice emerged hoarse, almost a grunt, unrecognizable to his own ears and, he hoped, to hers as well.
They abandoned the scene as quickly as they had struck, withdrawing without pause, leaving the girl whimpering, face still covered, and Obie under the car, legs jutting out at a grot
esque angle. They roared away, Harley laughing like a madman while Bunting managed to bring himself under control. Take it easy. As they raced away from the Chasm, Bunting’s thoughts also raced, reliving the incident to see if they’d left behind clues to their identities. Was certain they hadn’t. Almost certain. But even if the girl or Obie had caught a glimpse of their faces, what could they do? Three against two. The couple’s words against theirs. Still, an alibi would come in handy. And Bunting knew immediately who would provide that alibi.
“Okay, okay,” Archie said now, letting his annoyance and distaste finally show. “Why are you telling me all this?”
They were sitting in Archie’s car in the parking lot, a half hour before the start of classes. Bunting had called Archie early this morning, rousing him from sleep. Ordinarily, Archie would have bristled with anger—home and school were separate entities in his life—but the urgency in Bunting’s voice had held his anger in check. Something else: a bad dream during the night, of snowflakes large as letter-sized papers covering the entire city of Monument. Soiled snowflakes, dirtied by scrawled words, falling suffocatingly on the world. Archie had leaped from sleep, glad to leave the nightmare behind.
“I had to tell someone, Archie. I mean, you’ve pulled a lot of stuff in the Vigils—”
“Never rape,” Archie said quickly, contempt in his voice. “Never anything like that.”
“We didn’t rape her,” Bunting protested. “I didn’t even touch her.” He knew he had to cling to that statement.
Beyond the Chocolate War Page 7
