The Trust

by Tom Dolby

  THE

  TRUST

  A SECRET SOCIETY NOVEL

  Tom Dolby

  “Delusions are as necessary to our happiness as realities.”

  —Christian Nestell Bovee

  “If I’m wrong, I’m insane . . . and if I’m right, it’s worse than if I’m wrong.”

  —William Goldman, The Stepford Wives

  For my family, old and new,

  and especially for W.D.F.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART I - NEW YEAR

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  PART II - INFIDELS

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  PART III - THE SCARAB OF ISIS

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  PART IV - THE RETURN

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  NEW YORK CITY, 1992

  Outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art one cold February evening, photographers swarmed around the entrance, pushing and jostling, angling for the perfect shot. The Met’s grand staircase, swathed in black carpet and dotted with snowflakes, was the runway for a flock of Manhattan luminaries who ascended the steps to the museum and into the event of the winter season, the Dendur Ball. Most posed and preened for the cameras, savoring their moment in the spotlight before they were ushered into the museum.

  An exquisitely beautiful woman in her late twenties, with long dark hair, fair skin, and a thin, regal neck, walked across the street with her husband, dodging the limousines and town cars that were stacked three deep on Fifth Avenue. She clutched her dress so it wouldn’t catch on her heels, and held her petite handbag in one hand and a sheer wrap that fluttered in the wind in the other. She didn’t come in a chauffeured car or a taxicab like the other guests at the ball. She didn’t need to, for she lived right across the street.

  The crowd parted ways for the two of them, as if they carried an electric charge, an irresistible field announcing to all that she was in their path. He was handsome and dressed in a classic black dinner jacket, but it was she who commanded attention as she ascended the staircase, photographers and reporters shouting her name. She appeared barely to hear them as she climbed slowly and carefully. At the top of the steps, she turned around and glanced not at the crowd, not at the white-hot flashbulbs, but at the swirling snow around her.

  She delicately stuck her tongue out and caught a snowflake on it, closing her eyes, as if to make a wish.

  Her name, photographers whispered to the uninitiated, was Esmé Madison Evans. She was wearing an ivory column dress that had been designed by Sebastian Giroux, the up-and-coming young couturier. Around her neck was an exact replica of the new jewel of the Met’s Egyptian wing, an artifact temporarily on loan from the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities in Cairo for a special exhibit. Around the neck of Esmé Madison Evans, wife of Patchfield Evans, Jr., was a replica of the Scarab of Isis, a necklace that, until tonight, had never been viewed in New York City.

  PART I

  NEW YEAR

  Chapter One

  They gave me two choices,” Patch said.

  It was New Year’s Eve on Isis Island, a small, private body of land off the coast of Maine, and Patch was sitting on a rocky overlook, surrounded by his friends. The four of them were united once again after several trying months: Patch, Nick, Phoebe, and Lauren, as well as a new addition to their group, Thad.

  Patch had known Nick for so long, it was as if they were two sides of the same coin, and yet tonight it felt like he hadn’t seen his friend in years. The two had been at odds with each other during the fall semester, and it was only as of the previous evening that they had reconciled. Nick was now sitting with his girlfriend, Phoebe, while Lauren and Thad sat together as well, though the latter two were only friends.

  Unlike the others, who wore the latest cold weather gear, Patch was bundled in a ratty, oversize parka. On his head, where his brown hair had been shaved close to his skull as part of his disguise to get onto the island, he wore a wool hat. His left eye, swollen and bruised from a scuffle with Nick a few days ago, was slowly healing.

  He was, he imagined, a sorry sight.

  Patch had not had the luxury of packing carefully. Everything he was wearing he had carried on his back when he had snuck onto the island several days ago, posing as a member of the catering crew.

  Now he was with friends, was ostensibly safe. As safe, he thought, as any of them could possibly be, given everything that had happened.

  What had really happened? How had they all ended up here?

  Patch knew the facts, but they didn’t settle the unease that he felt settling over the group. It was the evening after all the Initiates in the Society had been advanced to the level of Conscripts, the evening after so much had been revealed to them. Last night, Patch had been reborn into the secret group, and the fate of Alejandro Calleja, their classmate and Lauren’s boyfriend, had been divulged by Nick’s father, Parker Bell, the Chairman of the Society.

  Alejandro had disappeared after a Society party two weeks earlier, but now they learned that his cold cadaver was sitting in a morgue downtown, where toxicology screens would reveal the drugs he had taken. The fourteen new Conscripts had all been told that his was a cautionary tale, a warning about the dangers of drugs and alcohol.

  But Patch knew the truth, as did the other four. Alejandro had not done this to himself, nor had any of their classmates been complicit in it, even though the rest of them believed that they had been. The Society’s Council of Regents, aided by their private security force, the Guardians, had been responsible.

  The older members—the Elders and the Council—had gone home that morning to spend New Year’s Eve with their families. Isis Island now seemed empty in comparison to the chaos of the past few days.

  The five
of them sat on a lookout point that had a view of the Great Cottage, the shingled building on the island where the majority of the Society’s activities took place at its remote retreat. Below them, Patch could see the other Conscripts blithely popping open bottles of champagne on one of the rustic porches off the foyer, ready to ring in the new year. Unlike the five of them, the rest were oblivious to what the Society was really about. Even if Patch and his friends tried to convince them, they wouldn’t believe them anyway.

  “What were your two choices?” Lauren asked Patch, as she rubbed her hands together in an attempt to stay warm.

  “I had to agree to turn over the material I had filmed from the initiation—there was no question about that. I could then either be set free or I could become a member. The second option was the only one that I knew would truly keep me safe. Whatever that means.”

  “You really think we’re safe now?” Lauren asked.

  “I don’t know,” Patch said. “After what they did to me, not to mention to the others—I can’t believe that it couldn’t happen to any of us.”

  They all looked out at the horizon, at the clear sky, full of stars. The previous four days had been so filled with uncertainty and tension that it was a relief to have some quiet. Patch’s joints were still stiff from the time he had spent in captivity, but he tried to block it from his mind—the terrifying, wrenching feeling of being trapped in a coffin, fed nutrients from an IV in his arm. He shivered. The memory wouldn’t go away.

  “So what now?” Nick finally said.

  Patch thought about everything he had been through, the horrible questioning by Nick’s father, and how Patch had made the only choice that would guarantee his freedom. He had hoped being a member would answer the questions he had about his mother, Esmé, and her madness; he hoped someone might explain how, when he was six years old, she had developed a mysterious borderline personality disorder that had kept her institutionalized. He hoped it would answer the questions he had about the Bell family, and the ones he had about his grandmother, Genie. Patch thought about all the things he had needed to experience over the previous few months to get to this point: the Society initiation in the Meatpacking District, the visit to his mother in the facility in Ossining, his infiltration and kidnapping. The other members, even the four he was sitting with now, would never understand what he had been through.

  Because of this, even if he was now officially a Conscript, now officially one of them, he would always remain an Outsider. It was a phrase he had heard the Society use in some of its communications: Outsiders are those who do not belong.

  “Phoebe, you’ve been quiet,” Nick said. He nudged her carefully.

  “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

  “What’s that?” Thad asked.

  “I think Patch is right that we should be careful. All of us. I don’t believe the worst is over.”

  Fireworks went off in the sky above Isis Island, and they could hear the ten remaining Conscripts in their class and the fourteen in the class above them whooping and shouting, toasting the new year from the lodge’s balcony. Before yesterday, the Society had succeeded in its goal to create two classes of fourteen each. They had started with fifteen in the fall; then there was the death of Jared Willson, from the class above them, and the death of Alejandro Calleja. In each class, someone had died, thereby binding together all the other members with the horrible truth about their classmate’s death. It had forced them all to trust each other while as recently as four months ago, many had been strangers.

  Classes of fourteen were supposed to be stable, immune to corruption. Classes of fifteen were unbalanced and open to insurrection. The Society had historically taken classes like theirs, classes in danger of anarchy, and had instituted this practice of reducing the group to fourteen members.

  They called it the Power of Fourteen.

  In short, Patch thought, it was an extremely genteel explanation for ritual murder, all under the justification of protecting a way of life.

  “What do you mean? What do you mean by ‘the worst isn’t over’?” Nick asked Phoebe.

  Before Phoebe even spoke, Patch guessed what she was about to say: The Power of Fourteen was no longer. With Patch having joined the class the previous night, they would be fifteen again.

  Chapter Two

  It was no surprise to Lauren that St. Patrick’s Cathedral was packed for Alejandro’s memorial service. The Calleja family had even known to arrange extra seating for latecomers. Family members and friends had traveled from South America and Europe, all dressed in their best designer black—hats, veils, furs, enormous brooches—as if, grotesquely, they had been waiting for just the right moment to show off their finery. The church was decked out in white peonies, thousands of which had been imported from Brazil.

  Lauren’s mind flashed to her seventeenth birthday party, the black-and-white theme, the kiss she had shared with Alejandro on the dance floor. Now the sea of black dresses and white peonies seemed like a monstrous perversion of the beauty of that night, a night where anything had seemed possible.

  She felt bile rise up in her throat, and she swallowed it down.

  Lauren looked down at what she was wearing, and she didn’t even recognize the dress. Something black, something she had pulled from her closet in a daze. Was it even formal? Appropriate?

  It had only been a few days after their return from the island, a few days after she had learned the news. Not that a few days would be enough to process the shock of Alejandro’s death, but Lauren had pictured herself as stronger than this. Had she even remembered to put on makeup this morning? Look in a mirror? Brush her hair? She couldn’t remember. She touched the right side of her forehead to feel the awful, stinging sensation of a pimple forming, a result of too much stress, too many sleepless nights, and too much caffeine.

  She wondered if she had covered up the blemish adequately. Then she realized she didn’t care.

  Nick and Phoebe were sitting next to her, and Thad was on the other side. Phoebe held her hand throughout the entire service, but Lauren could barely feel the sensation of her friend’s touch, and the sentiment behind it. It wasn’t Phoebe’s fault. It was that parts of Lauren had gone numb.

  After the service, Alejandro’s body would be flown back to Argentina.

  There would be no burial to attend.

  In that church, amid throngs of people she had never met, was Lauren’s last chance to say good-bye.

  It was a Catholic mass, complete with a performance of Mozart’s Requiem. Lauren thought the whole thing was overdone, not to mention completely impersonal, given that Alejandro had never shown the least bit of interest in religion or classical music.

  But it was for the family. Lauren knew that.

  The family that didn’t want to accept that their son had been a drug addict.

  Perhaps it wasn’t fair of her to think like this. Yes, Alejandro had a drug problem, but he had been able to manage it—not that this made it okay. He had gotten himself into trouble over the years, but he had never overdosed. Not until the Society caused him to do so. Lauren didn’t know the exact details about it, and she didn’t want to. It was too horrible, the thought of what they might have done to him, feeding him the poisons that his body craved.

  Alejandro might have screwed up his life, but he didn’t deserve to die. Not at seventeen years old. Not with people in his life who cared about him.

  Not with her in his life. Whatever their problems—his drinking, his inability to take responsibility for his life—she still cared for him. For his sweet smile, his playful sense of adventure. No matter his faults: she missed him.

  Their relationship had ended so abruptly when he was dragged out of a nightclub two weeks ago on the Lower East Side by the Guardians, never to be seen again. How could she have let that happen? And now, how was she supposed to deal with all the mixed emotions: guilt and regret about not taking better care of Alejandro; fear and anger at the Socie
ty for what they had done to him.

  What therapist would ever understand what she was going through?

  Lauren raised a fist to her face, rubbing her eyes, and found that she was crying. It was for Alejandro, of course, but it was also for herself.

  How could she have gotten herself into such a mess? Part of her wanted to find out the truth about Alejandro and what had really happened, and another part of her wanted to let it drift into the past, to be a coldhearted girl who didn’t even care that her boyfriend had died.

  She would never be like that. But if dwelling on it made the raw, biting pain stay with her, then she wanted to leave it behind.

  Today, arriving at the service, sitting in the pew, she felt as if she were being followed by his ghost: she could see it in people’s eyes, the pity.

  Elders from the Society and members of the Council of Regents sat in the first several rows behind Rocío and Federico Calleja, Alejandro’s mother and father; his older sisters, who had flown in from Argentina with their husbands; and other members of the Calleja family.

  Most of the attendees were weeping through the service, and Lauren spied Gigi and Parker Bell, Nick’s parents, both of whom were making a big show of dabbing at their eyes with linen handkerchiefs, along with Palmer Bell, Nick’s grandfather. She wanted to scream, to bound over the pews and strangle them all: Parker and Palmer for arranging Alejandro’s murder, and Gigi for her hypocrisy, for pretending that she was nothing more than an innocent bystander. It didn’t matter that Nick was Lauren’s friend. Even Nick knew how evil his parents and grandfather were—they were the leaders of the Society and its financial and charitable arm, the Bradford Trust. She wanted to shout at them, to wail, to scream: You killed him, you evil bastards! None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you!