by Meg Cabot
I’m not really sure what my plan is. I figure I’ll creep as close as I can behind the service counters, then peer out over them to see what the boys are up to. Then I’ll creep back and report what I’ve seen to Detective Canavan when he arrives with backup. That way they’ll have a good idea how many people they’re dealing with.
I crawl along behind the steam tables, thinking that I’m really going to have to have words with Gerald, because it is just disgusting back there. Seriously, the knees of my jeans are getting filthy, and my hand lands on something squishy that I sincerely hope is a furry Tater Tot.
Except that Tater Tots don’t make squeaking noises and jump away.
It’s all I can do to restrain a scream.
Good thing I go to the trouble, though. Because when I peek up over the top of the steam tables, I see something that both horrifies and stuns me.
And that’s a dozen figures in deeply hooded robes—like monks wear—only blood red, standing around one of the dining tables, which has been dragged from its normal place and put in a position of prominence in the center of the room, and covered with a blood-red cloth. On top of it are various items I’m too far away to identify. One of them, though, has to be a candelabra or something. The flickering light I’m seeing really is candlelight.
I’m not too far away to identify the figure that’s sitting off to one side, his wrists tied to the arms of one of the dining chairs. It’s Gavin. With duct tape over his mouth.
That is totally going to hurt when I pull it off. I mean, when it catches on his goatee.
Of course, I know right away what I’m looking at. I subscribe to all the premium cable channels, after all. It’s some kind of fraternity initiation ritual, like in that movie The Skulls.
And I want no part of it. Gavin appears to be all right—at least, he doesn’t seem to be in any imminent danger. I decide the best thing to do might be to retreat and wait for reinforcements.
Which is why I’m crawling back toward the kitchen when my coat pocket catches on a steel mixing bowl stashed way too low on a shelf. It falls to the (grimy) floor with a clatter, and the next thing I know, there are a pair of Adidas in front of me, peeping out from the hem of a red robe.
“Look what we have here,” a deep male voice says. And a second later, hard hands slip beneath my armpits and pull me to my feet.
Not that I go quietly, of course. I lift my hand to direct a stream of pepper spray inside the hood, only to have the canister knocked from my hand. I am, however, wearing Timberlands, the footwear of choice for the intrepid Manhattan assistant dorm director. I level one of my steel-encased toes at the shins of my captor, causing him to swear colorfully.
Sadly, however, he doesn’t release me, and the only result is that another robed guy comes up and grabs me, too. Plus a lot more mixing bowls fall down, making a horrendous racket.
But a racket is what I want to make now. I want everyone in the building to come running. Which is why I start screaming my head off as I’m dragged over to the ceremonial table the Tau Phis have set up.
At least until Steve Winer—or a guy I assume is him; he’s the tallest and has fancy gold trim around the cowl of his robe, as befitting the president of a frat house—walks over to where Gavin is sitting and smacks him, hard, across the face with some kind of scepter he’s holding.
I stop screaming. Gavin’s head has snapped back at the blow. For a minute it stays that way. Then, slowly, he turns his neck, and I see the gash that’s opened up on his cheek… and the fury blazing in his eyes.
Along with the tears.
“No more screaming,” Steve says, pointing at me.
“She kicked me, too,” says Adidas, beside me.
“No more kicking,” Steve adds. “You kick and scream, the kid gets whacked again. Understand?”
I say, in what I consider a relatively calm voice, “The cops are going to be here any minute. I know you said not to call them, but… too late.”
Steve pushes back his hood so he can see me better. The only light source—it really is a candelabra, sitting on the middle of the altar he’s created—isn’t exactly bright, but I can see his expression well enough. He doesn’t, however, look alarmed.
And this alarms me.
Especially when, a second later, the double doors to the café are thrown open, and Crusty Curtiss comes shuffling in, looking annoyed. He’s got a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. It appears to be a Blimpie Best.
Which just happens to be one of my favorites, especially with sweet and hot pickles.
“Can’t you keep her quiet?” he asks Steve, in an irritated voice. “People are wondering what the hell is going on in here.”
I stare at him in horror. Seeing my expression, Steve chuckles.
“Oh, yes,” he says. “There are loyal Tau Phis all over the world, Heather. Even working as security guards at major urban colleges.”
“Some cops showed up,” Curtiss says to me, taking another bite from his sandwich and speaking with his mouth full. “I told ’em I didn’t know what they was talkin’ about, that I’d been here all night and hadn’t see you. So they left. They looked kinda pissed off. I don’t think they’ll be back.”
I glare at him. “You,” I say, “are so fired.”
Curtiss laughs at that. He seems to genuinely be enjoying himself.
“Fired,” he says, chuckling. “Right.”
He turns around and shuffles back the way he’d come.
I look at Steve. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get this over with. But let Gavin go. Your problem’s with me, not him.”
“We don’t have a problem,” Steve explains politely, “with either of you.”
“Well.” I look around the room at the assorted Tau Phis, wondering which one is Doug. “What am I doing here, then?”
“Oh, did I not explain over the phone?” Steve wants to know. “I guess I forgot.” He steps forward and lifts a long, ornamental knife from the altar he’s made. Ornamental in that the handle is gold and covered with semiprecious stones.
The blade, however, looks plenty real. And sharp.
“Pledges,” Steve says, “it’s time.”
And from out of the shadows step another half dozen robed figures, who’d apparently been lurking in the back, over by Magda’s register.
“Time for what?” I ask curiously.
“Initiation,” Steve informs me.
28
No one seems to care anymore
Hiding away, shut behind a door
Never coming out to see the light of day
I don’t want to live my life that way.
Untitled
Written by Heather Wells
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me with this” I say disgustedly.
“Pledges,” Steve says, ignoring me, “now is the time when you will be given the opportunity to prove your dedication to the house of Tau Phi Epsilon.”
“Seriously,” I say. “This is freaking stupid.”
Steve finally looks over at me. “If you don’t shut up,” he says, “we’ll off your boyfriend first, then you.”
I blink at him. I want to be quiet. I really do. But…
“Gavin’s not my boyfriend,” I say. “And seriously. Don’t you think there’s been enough killing?”
“Um.” One of the pledges throws back his hood. I’m astonished to see Jeff Turner, Cheryl Haebig’s boyfriend, standing there. “Excuse me. What’s she doing here?”
“Shut up!” Steve whirls around to glare at Jeff. “No one gave you permission to speak!”
“But, dude,” Jeff says. “She’s the assistant director of the building. She’s gonna tell—”
“She isn’t going to tell,” Steve interrupts. “Because she’s going to be dead.”
This news appears to come as a shock to more than just Jeff. A few of the other pledges stir uneasily.
“Dude,” Jeff says, “is this some kind of joke?”
“SILENCE, PLEDGES!” Steve thunders. �
��If you want to be a Tau Phi, you must be prepared to make sacrifices for the cause!”
“Oh, right,” I say quickly, while I still have the pledges—or Jeff, at least—on my side. “Is that what Lindsay Combs was, Steve? A sacrifice? Is that why you killed her?”
More nervous movement from the pledges. Steve turns his head to glare at me.
“That bitch betrayed a member of our order,” he snaps. “She had to be punished!”
“Right,” I say. “By chopping off her head and grinding her body up in a garbage disposal?”
Jeff throws a shocked look in Steve’s direction. “Dude. That was you?”
“Oh, it was Steve, all right,” I say. “Just because Lindsay stole—”
“Something that didn’t rightfully belong to her,” Steve barks. “Something she wouldn’t give back—”
“She tried,” I insist. “She let your brother in here—”
“And it was gone!” Steve shouts over me. “She claims someone must have stolen it. Like we were supposed to believe that! She was a liar as well as a thief. She deserved to be put to death for her betrayal!”
“Dude.” There’s hurt as well as disbelief in Jeff’s face. “Lindsay was my girlfriend’s best friend.”
“Then you ought to be thanking me,” Steve says imperiously. “For if your girlfriend had continued to consort with the likes of that woman, she’d have eventually learned her ways and betrayed you, too, the way she betrayed one of our brothers.”
It seems to take a minute for this to sink in for Jeff. But when it finally does, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer.
“That’s it.” Jeff Turner shakes his head. “I’m out. I only joined this stupid frat ’cause my dad was in it. I did not sign on to go around killing people. You want to hit my butt with a paddle? Fine. You want to force me to chug a twenty-four-pack? No problem. But kill chicks? No way. You guys are fucking nuts—”
As he’s saying this, he’s reached down to pull off his robe. Steve, watching, shakes his head sadly. Then he nods at two of the robed figures in the circle around his altar, and they cross the room to deliver several blows to Jeff’s midriff—while he’s still floundering around in his robe, no less—until he finally falls to the ground, where they begin kicking him, heedless of his screams of pain. The other pledges, seeing this brutal treatment of one of their peers, stand frozen in place, watching.
They’re not the only ones who feel frozen. I cannot believe what I am seeing. Where are the cops? They couldn’t really have believed that idiot Curtiss, could they?
Knowing there’s only one person who’s going to be able to put a stop to this—or die trying, anyway—I say loudly to the other pledges, who are just standing there watching their friend get the snot kicked out of him, “Just so you guys know, the thing Lindsay stole? It was Doug Winer’s stash of coke.”
It’s impossible to tell what the boys’ reaction to this information is, since their faces are still hidden beneath their hoods. But I see them stir even more uneasily.
“Don’t listen to her,” Steve instructs them. “She’s lying. It’s what all of them do—try to demonize the order by spreading malicious lies about us.”
“Um, we don’t have to demonize you guys,” I say. “You do a good enough job of that on your own. Or are you saying your brother Doug didn’t strangle his girlfriend to death because she stole his nose candy?”
One of the people kicking Jeff Turner stops, and a second later Doug Winer is striding toward me, his hood down.
“You take that back!” he cries, eyes blazing. “I didn’t! I didn’t kill her!”
Steve reaches out to grab his little brother’s arm. “Doug—”
“I didn’t!” Doug cries. “You have no proof!” To Steve he says, “She has no proof!”
“Oh, we have plenty of proof,” I say. I’m stalling for time. Steve has to know that. But he seems to have forgotten about Gavin and using him as a means to keep me silent. And that’s all I want. “We found her body today, you know. What was left of it, anyway.”
The look Steve throws me is one of total incredulity. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The body. Lindsay’s body. See, the thing you didn’t take into account was the fact that disposals don’t grind up bones… or navel rings. We found Lindsay’s this morning.”
Doug makes the kind of noise girls sometimes make when I tell them they can’t have a single next year. It’s a sound between a sigh and a protest, and comes out like, “Nuh-uh!”
Steve’s grip on the knife tightens. The blade flashes in the candlelight. “She’s bluffing. And even if she’s not… so what? There couldn’t have been anything to lead them to us. Not after the way we cleaned up.”
“Yeah.” I’m sweating now, I’m so hot in my winter coat. Or maybe it isn’t heat. Maybe it’s nerves. My stomach is in knots. I probably shouldn’t have had that second Dove Bar. Jeff is lying totally still now. I don’t know if it’s because he’s unconscious, or just pretending to be so the kicking will stop. “You guys may be good at partying and putting on fancy initiation rites, but at cleaning, you really suck. They totally found hairs.”
Doug throws a startled look at his brother. “Steve!”
“Shut up, Doug,” Steve snaps. “She’s bluffing.”
“She’s not!” Doug has gone white as a ghost in his robe. “She knew! She knew about the stash!”
“Leaving the head was your first mistake,” I go on conversationally. “You might have gotten away with it, if you hadn’t left the head on the stove like that. They’d have noticed the bones and belly button ring and all, but chances are they wouldn’t have known what they were. It would have been like Lindsay had just disappeared. No one would have known you guys had been there, so no one would have wondered about how you got in. That was your second mistake, trying to off Manuel. He wouldn’t have told anybody about the key if you hadn’t scared him like that. And if he had, what difference would it have made? He’s just a janitor. Nobody listens to the janitor.” I shake my head. “But no. You had to get cocky.”
“Steve,” Doug whines. “You said no one would know it was us. You said no one would know! If Dad finds out what we did—”
“Shut up,” Steve yells. I jump a little at the volume of his tone. So do the guys who still have hold of my arms. “For once in your life, shut the fuck up, you little shit!”
But Doug’s not about to do as his brother says. “Christ, Stevie!” he cries, his voice breaking. “You told me Dad’d never know. You told me you’d take care of it!”
“I did take care of it, you little shit,” Steve snaps. “Just like I take care of all your stupid fuck-ups.”
“Don’t worry about it, you said. Leave everything to me, you said.” Doug’s practically crying. “You son of a bitch! You didn’t take care of shit! Now Lindsay’s dead, we’re gonna get busted—and I still don’t know what happened to my stash.”
Apparently oblivious to the fact that his sibling has just incriminated them all, Steve shouts, “Yeah, well, who’s the asshole who fucking killed the bitch in the first place? Did I tell you to kill her? Did I tell you to fucking kill her? No, I did not!”
“It wasn’t my fault she died!” Suddenly Doug is stumbling forward and, to my abject horror, clamps both his hands on the front of my coat. A second later, he’s sobbing into my face. “I didn’t mean to kill her, lady. Honest I didn’t. She just made me so goddamned mad, stealing my coke like that. And then she wouldn’t give it back! That whole thing, telling me someone musta stole it out of here—it was such bullshit. If she’d just given it back when I asked… but no. I thought Lindsay was different, you know. I thought Lindsay really liked me, not like those other girls, who only hang out with me because of my last name. I didn’t mean to choke her so hard—”
“Shut up, Doug.” Steve’s voice is hard again. “I mean it. Shut the fuck up.”
Doug lets go of me and spins around to appeal to his older brother, tears streami
ng down his face. “You told me you’d take care of it, Steve! You told me not to worry. Why’d you hafta do that with her head, huh? I told you not to—”
“Shut up!” Steve, I can tell from the way his hands are shaking, is losing it. The knife he’s holding points one minute at me, and the next at Doug. A detached part of my brain wonders if Steve Winer would really stab his own brother.
The same part kind of hopes he will.
“What did you expect me to do, huh, you little shit?” Steve is so mad, his voice is now no louder than a hiss. “You call me in the middle of the fucking night, crying like a baby, and say you killed your fucking girlfriend. I have to get up, come all the way over here, and clean it up for you. And you have the nerve to criticizeme? You have the goddamned audacity to questionmy methods?”
Doug gestures helplessly at me. “Jesus Christ, Steve! This fucking DORM MANAGER figured it out. How long do you think it’s gonna be before the police catch on?”
Steve blinks at me, then licks his lips nervously, his tongue darting out like a snake’s. “I know. That’s why we have to get rid of her.”
Which is when one of the red-robed figures beside me stirs and says, “Uh, dude. You said we were just gonna scare ’em, like we did the janitor guy—”
“Scare him? He nearly bled to death!” I cry.
“If you say one more word,” Steve says, pointing the knife blade at me, “I’ll kill you now, where you stand, instead of letting you out the easy way.” The tip of the knife travels away from me, and ends up pointing at the glass on the altar. It appears to be filled with water. “Drink that,” Steve commands.
I look at the glass. I have no idea what’s in it. But I can guess, judging by what happened to Jordan the other night. Rohypnol, otherwise known as roofies, a popular sedative on the college circuit. One dose, already dissolved in water, ought to make me much more malleable, when it comes time for cutting.
It’s right about then that I decide I’ve had about enough. I’m hot, my stomach hurts, and I’m pretty worried about Gavin and Jeff. I wish I had let Cooper kill Doug Winer when he’d had the chance. I wish I myself had taken one of Doug’s pillows and stuffed it over his head and held on until the kid stopped struggling.
