“You are sick,” said Andy definitely. “It’s because of what I told you. About the boxes and the fake work. I’m sorry, Frances Leventhal. It’s not important. I didn’t want you to get sick. The nurse will make you better.”
I opened my eyes. One thing stood out amid my confusion: I did not want to be taken to the nurse. The thought focused me, and I had a small brainstorm.
I said urgently, “Andy. I don’t want the nurse, but could you take me to see Ms. Wiles?”
Andy’s steps slowed a little. “The art teacher?”
“Yes.” I could hear the new strength in my voice. This was a brilliant idea; in fact, it was the only idea. “Yvette Wiles. Her cottage is near yours. She’s not just a teacher; she’s a friend of mine.”
She was my friend. My friend who knew truth when she saw it, just like I did. My friend who’d called Patrick Leyden a dickhead. I could talk to Ms. Wiles. She’d believe me when I explained everything to her, because she knew me. She was the only one who knew me.
“Oh,” said Andy. Then, uncertainly: “Ms. Wiles will help you?”
I could feel myself lightening. “She will.” She would know what to do with the theory—the knowledge—that was filling me up like poison. She would know how I—how we—should act.
“Okay, Frances Leventhal,” said Andy. “If that is what you want, I will take you to Ms. Wiles.” I felt his stride widen a little. “Two minutes.”
“Great,” I said, and I could hear the relief in my voice; could feel my own too, all through my body.
Two minutes, and then I would no longer be alone.
CHAPTER 27
From the sofa in Ms. Wiles’s living room, with a teacup between my cold hands and an afghan over my knees, I marveled at how unaccustomed I was to being taken care of. “Lucky that I was making this big pot of stew,” Ms. Wiles called from the kitchen area. She turned and smiled at me. “We’ll have a nice chat, just the two of us, and you can tell me what’s got you so pale and weak-kneed. Then we’ll eat my stew.”
It sounded like heaven, even though I was now a little worried about how exactly I would explain my—what were they? suspicions?—to Ms. Wiles. My certainty that she would understand and believe me had faded in the ordinary warmth and sanity of her pretty cottage. It was very possible that she would think I was dramatizing, overreacting.
“Did you notice how I had to work to make Andy go home?” Ms. Wiles continued. “He seems to be very fond of you, Frances.”
Was there something weird in her tone? I put my teacup down carefully. “I like Andy,” I said. “He’s a nice man. He’s kind. You saw how he helped me. We’re—I guess we’re sort of becoming friends.”
“Ah,” said Ms. Wiles.
I found I’d clenched my hands together. A string of sentences formed instantly and forcefully in my mind. Retarded or not, I like Andy Jankowski better than anyone I know. And I bet he’s lonely! You might not know what that is, but I do. Would it have killed you to offer him a cup of tea too? You practically pushed him out the door!
Tears pressed at my eyelids. I didn’t let them fall. I was appalled at my own thoughts. I wanted to talk to Ms. Wiles alone, didn’t I? Wasn’t I glad she’d gotten rid of Andy? And surely I was imagining that she was implying something nasty about my newly-budding friendship with him.
Andy needs a friend, I thought fiercely, protectively. He needs a good, reliable friend. Later, I thought, when this is all over—I shied away from what exactly I meant by “this”—I’ll be his friend.
But right now, I knew, I needed Ms. Wiles, not Andy. I looked around the room, at all of Ms. Wiles’s lovely idiosyncratic things. I looked at the closed door of her sunporch studio. I remembered how much we had in common; how she had always understood me; how akin our souls were. I remembered what she’d said about Patrick Leyden. She would believe me. She would help me. I would tell her my story, and we would eat her stew, and then we would go to the police together.
I sipped more tea and tried to relax, and Ms. Wiles came by with the teapot and poured me more, and then took a seat at the other end of the sofa and tucked her feet up under herself. “Now, Frances,” she said, and her pretty face was somehow both calm and concerned. “Tell me everything.”
I took a deep breath. Then I said bluntly to her: “I think that Unity isn’t a real charity, Ms. Wiles. I think it’s a front for a drug distribution ring. Students are involved, and some adults too. Patrick Leyden. He runs it, obviously.” I thought of the conversation I’d overheard between Wallace and Pammy. “And there’s alumni involvement too. I don’t know how it works, exactly. But I have some pieces, and I can guess.”
Ms. Wiles’s mouth had dropped open. She was staring at me and I couldn’t read her thoughts.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked. “I’m not. I know this is true. I know it! And even if I am crazy, it won’t hurt to tell the police all this. Let me explain more.”
Finally Ms. Wiles reacted. She took a deep breath, shaking her head minutely, and then managed to smile. She said simply: “You astonish me, Frances. In more ways than you know. Okay. Go on. Explain.”
And my heart filled with gratitude.
She didn’t interrupt me, and after a couple of minutes I wasn’t really even talking to her anymore; I was talking to myself. I jumped up and began pacing the room. I was thinking aloud, feeling more and more pieces slot in as I talked. Everything just poured out of me.
Suppose you’re Patrick Leyden. You’re a teenager, and a student at Pettengill, and you’re smart. You see that drug use is rampant at your school. There are lots of rich kids with money to spend and the inclination to spend it, and the police are busy stomping on drugs in the inner city, not in the educational institutions of the wealthy and privileged.
Relatively speaking, a place like Pettengill is actually kind of a safe place to buy and sell drugs. Everyone knows it’s happening, and everyone turns a blind eye. The adults say it’s just marijuana. Just steroids. Just diet pills. Oh, and a few designer pills sometimes, and a little coke, but that’s it. Kids will be kids. Everybody’s sophisticated; nobody really gets hurt; and God forbid there should be bad publicity that will damage the school’s reputation, upset the alumni, and discourage parents from enrolling their kids. So, as long as things are quiet, nobody does much to discourage what’s going on.
You see all this, and you realize that you could deal drugs yourself in a small way—“like James Droussian,” I said, and saw Ms. Wiles’s eyes flicker—but you have bigger ambitions. You figure that what goes on at one prep school goes on at another. You think, why should I make a small sum when, if I set things up properly, I could make really big bucks?
So you decide to create an organization.
“A secret organization?” said Ms. Wiles from her end of the sofa.
“A front,” I said again, impatiently. “A secret that looks like it’s not a secret. That’s what Unity is. A drug distribution network masquerading as a charitable organization, with its day-to-day business run by the poor students who took scholarships from the organization. Kids like Saskia. And—” I stuttered “—and my brother. Poor kids, looking for a way to fit in. Not that it would be only poor kids dealing—Unity has lots of regular kids too. But the poor kids are the vulnerable ones … and they wouldn’t need to openly deal. Not all of them. Not even most of them. There must be all kinds of jobs involved in a big operation like this.”
“And you think that Patrick Leyden conceived all this when he was a teenager himself?”
“Yes,” I said. “He started Unity back when he was a student. And he’s stayed involved all these years. It adds up. It all makes sense.”
“He doesn’t need drug money,” Ms. Wiles remarked. “He has his Internet company, Cognitive Reach. It’s very successful.”
“He started Cognitive Reach with drug money,” I said excitedly. “I’m sure of it. I mean—I don’t know, but it would make sense.” I sank back onto the sofa. “Listen, Ms. Wile
s, Daniel was obsessed with Patrick Leyden. He read all the news and background information he could find on him and on Cognitive Reach. He was always talking about him. And I remember—I think I remember—there were several anonymous ‘angel’ investors in the early stage of the company. They gave huge sums of money to get the company off the ground and their names were never revealed. And I’m betting that money was Patrick Leyden’s Unity drug money, fronted by others.” I stopped. I could read Ms. Wiles’s expression now, and it wasn’t one of belief and engagement. “I know it sounds far-fetched,” I said defensively. “And okay, I’m just guessing at pieces of this …”
In the silence, I could hear the ticking of Ms. Wiles’s hubcap clock. Then she said gently, “Is there any part of this that you’re not guessing at?”
I swallowed. Suddenly the logical structure that had seemed so clear in my mind trembled and crumbled. I flailed around in the debris looking for something to say. Andy’s testimony about the boxes! But there was the way Ms. Wiles had spoken of Andy earlier—and somehow I didn’t mention him now … a retarded man’s testimony …
“Any part at all?” persisted Ms. Wiles. “Any proof? Do you have proof, Frances?”
The dust on the cans at the food pantry. Saskia’s clothes and jewelry. Even the way Daniel had tried so hard to alienate me—now it flew into my head to wonder if he’d been trying to protect me. Could it be?
I swallowed. “Ms. Wiles, look. You don’t have to believe it. I just thought, if you’d come to the police with me. Let them take over. Please. I just need you to support me while I tell someone—someone who can investigate properly.”
The hubcap clock ticked on in the quiet.
I remembered something Saskia had said to me during her tour. We act as a central clearing-house for donations and redistribution. Of course, these days we’re pushing people to donate plain cash. That way we can buy what’s most needed, and not be stuck redistributing useless stuff that people really ought to throw out. Money, I thought despairingly. If only I’d been as interested as Daniel in money and how it works, I might have done a better job of piecing this together.
“You’re a very creative girl, Frances,” Ms. Wiles said finally. “Smart too. A little overwhelmed, though, and very, very sad and lonely. It’s maybe not surprising that you’ve let your imagination run away with you …”
I stared at her. My brain whipped desperately on. Patrick Leyden’s marketing campaign to expand the scholarship program to middle schools—if I was right, he was planning to move his drug distribution operation in among the littler kids …
“I like you very much, Frances,” said Ms. Wiles gently. “But the other day you nearly had a breakdown, sweetheart. I think you’re imagining things now. After all,” she repeated, “it’s not as if you have any proof.”
“No,” I said. “No, I’m not imagining anything.” But I knew it was useless. They killed my brother. I felt the words well up wildly inside me. Ms. Wiles, they killed Daniel! I know it! But I didn’t let the thought escape. I knew it wouldn’t be believed. And she was right: I had no proof.
“So you won’t go with me to the police?” I said.
Ms. Wiles got up. “We’re going to have my nice stew,” she said. “And after that, Frances, I’m going to walk you to the infirmary. You can get a good night’s sleep there, and then we’ll talk tomorrow.” She paused. “I’d really like to believe you, Frances. If you just had something concrete—but you don’t, do you?”
Helplessly I shook my head.
Ms. Wiles shook hers back. “Then it’s hard not to think you’re a little … well, delusional.”
She smiled kindly. Very kindly.
CHAPTER 28
If I’d thought things through, I wouldn’t have done what I did next, because there was really no point to it. It wasn’t as if I were thinking of actually running away—from Pettengill, from Lattimore. But as I sat bewildered and unbelieved in Ms. Wiles’s living room, defiance filled me. I wasn’t going to let Ms. Wiles take me to the nurse like a—like a kicked kitten.
Ms. Wiles was in the kitchen, ladling out stew, saying something that I didn’t bother to hear. Intending simply to slip out, I quietly crossed the room toward the front door, grabbing my coat as I passed. But my gaze fixed itself on the door to Ms. Wiles’s studio, and I found I’d approached it and grasped the knob. It turned easily. The room was unlocked.
Then, as if I’d planned it, I found myself swiveling back to the front door, silently opening it a few inches, and then turning back to step inside the studio and close that door behind me.
And there, finally inside the studio that I’d longed to see ever since I’d known Ms. Wiles, I froze in shock. It wasn’t completely dark in the room—some light filtered in around the window blinds—but it wasn’t possible to see very well either. That didn’t matter, though. I had no need to use my eyes.
I inhaled sharply. Behind me I could hear Ms. Wiles’s exclamation, hear her running feet as she crossed the living room to the open front door. Hear her call after me—she thought—into the winter dark: “Frances! Frances, come back!”
None of this mattered. Standing in the converted sunporch, my nose and lungs telegraphed information directly to my brain.
The room smelled wrong. There was no charcoal or graphite dust in the air. No rich lingering stench of turpentine or oil. No tiny fruity aroma of a recently-used acrylic. No dirty or damp or dried-out rags. There was not even—artwork aside—the normal human scent that any well-used room takes on. And, finally, the place was bitterly cold.
Ms. Wiles had never created art in this room. No one had, ever.
It was very nearly empty. A few boxes were stacked against one wall, but that was it.
I slipped my arms into the sleeves of my coat and buttoned it. But … Ms. Wiles was an artist, I reminded myself. She couldn’t have fooled me about that—let alone have fooled the school, and all the other students. Ms. Wiles taught art, and she taught it well. She knew what she was talking about. She understood what she saw. That wasn’t faked. That couldn’t be faked.
But none of it mattered right now, because even if Ms. Wiles was a real artist with real work of her own, she didn’t do that work here—and she had lied about it. So, what else might she have lied about? The answer leapt into my mind: About being my friend.
I exhaled slowly. I thought of how Ms. Wiles had urged me to get involved with Unity. Urged me to cooperate with Patrick Leyden’s grand campaign to raise money for middle-school scholarships.
When we were sitting shivah for Daniel, Ms. Wiles had been talking with Patrick Leyden. She called him a dickhead to me, but he called her Yvette.
I found my way to a box in the corner of the false studio and sat on its edge. Patrick Leyden. Who wasn’t he intimate with at Pettengill? All the Unity kids, the Pettengill alumni, people in the school administration—they all loved him. He donated money; he got great publicity. How many of them knew the truth about Unity? There were teachers who were involved with Unity explicitly. Some of them had been at the meeting I’d gone to. Who else had been there? The associate dean—oh, God. Where did it end? No one was safe for me to talk to. Anyone could be involved …
Vaguely I was aware that in the next room Ms. Wiles had made a phone call or two. I couldn’t make out her words—I didn’t even try. I didn’t cross to the door and press my ear against it. I didn’t make plans or try to work anything out.
I just sat.
Ms. Wiles.
And James, my James, who was not mine at all. I tried to tell myself that he was new to Pettengill; he was dealing in a small-time way; he was not, could not, be involved with Unity. But with despair I remembered the time I’d seen him in the woods with a strange man, and the furtiveness of it all, and I couldn’t convince myself. If Ms. Wiles could be involved, why not James? That scene at the meeting, when he’d confronted and angered Patrick Leyden—it might have been staged. Although I couldn’t think why …
One thing
I did know, though: I had a stupid heart. I loved the wrong people.
I forced my mind onward.
Daniel.
My brother. What had really happened to Daniel? The fleeting thought I’d had earlier came back inexorably. Daniel had been so vehement, so vicious, about not wanting me involved with Unity. I wondered again—was it at all possible that he had been trying to protect me? I so wanted to believe it. I tried to remember a single tender thing my brother had said to me since we began at Pettengill, since he’d joined Unity, since he’d become involved with Saskia.
But there was nothing.
Had Daniel been killed? Was it really not a suicide? My thoughts flew round and round like vultures circling a dying man. There was my dream, but that wasn’t all I had to go on. Saskia and the Unity kids had been the only ones who could confirm that Daniel had been suicidal. Who could confirm his “longtime drug habit.” My throat filled with the old hatred for Saskia. She’d claimed Daniel had written her that brief suicide note. What if he hadn’t? What if Saskia had written it? What if Patrick Leyden had?
I thought of Saskia in her beautiful clothes. Maybe, if not for Saskia, Daniel would have joined me in disdaining Unity. Maybe—
But I couldn’t fool myself about that for very long. Unity had not been about Saskia for Daniel. It had been about Patrick Leyden. Patrick Leyden had killed Daniel, if anyone had. Indirectly, at least—and maybe even directly.
Then my nails bit at my palms, and I thought, What if they did kill Daniel? What’s been done once is easier the second time—what if they decide to kill me too?
Bile rose in my throat. The shock of its taste abruptly brought me into the present. I shifted on the box, became aware of the frozen blocks that were my feet. How long had I been sitting there? It might have been minutes or hours. I couldn’t see the face of my watch. How much longer could I safely stay? And if I left—where would I go? Who could I talk to? James? Ha.
I thought of my father with sudden longing. If I were to tell him all this, what would he say? Would he come with me to the police?