THE TRUST.

A SECRET SOCIETY NOVEL.

by Tom Dolby.

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 pet.i.te 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 cla.s.sic 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 Esme 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 Esme 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 cla.s.smate 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 cla.s.smates 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, Esme, 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 inst.i.tutionalized. 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 Outsiders are those who do not belong 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 cla.s.s and the fourteen in the cla.s.s 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 cla.s.ses of fourteen each. They had started with fifteen in the fall; then there was the death of Jared Willson, from the cla.s.s above them, and the death of Alejandro Calleja. In each cla.s.s, someone had died, thereby binding together all the other members with the horrible truth about their cla.s.smate's death. It had forced them all to trust each other while as recently as four months ago, many had been strangers.

Cla.s.ses of fourteen were supposed to be stable, immune to corruption. Cla.s.ses of fifteen were unbalanced and open to insurrection. The Society had historically taken cla.s.ses like theirs, cla.s.ses in danger of anarchy, and had inst.i.tuted 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 cla.s.s 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 ma.s.s, complete with a performance of Mozart's Requiem 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 cla.s.sical 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 Society 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 Rocio 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! None of this would be happening if it weren't for you! You killed him, you evil b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! None of this would be happening if it weren't for you!

She wanted to tell everyone everything she knew. To go to the papers. To tell her mom and dad. To tell the police.

But how could she?

Parker Bell had made it quite clear how their futures would be jeopardized if they revealed anything about Alejandro's death. Was that enough of a reason to stay silent? Lauren didn't know. If she came forward, would anyone believe her? She had seen what had happened to Phoebe when she had gone to her mother with doubts about the Society last fall. The minute Phoebe had said anything, she was sent to a doctor who treated her as if she were crazy, giving her tranquilizers and hinting that she should be placed under observation.

As Lauren looked around the cathedral, she realized that it was decorated more lavishly than for most weddings, with candles everywhere, garlands of flowers even in the rafters, not to mention an abundance of not-inexpensive flower wreaths, an Argentinean tradition. All that money that could have been spent on rehab was now wasted on flowers and candles that would end up in the trash. She glanced over to the Callejas. Rocio Calleja was wearing more jewelry than Lauren had ever seen anyone wear at a memorial service: rubies, diamonds, gold. She had greeted Lauren when she had entered, embracing her as if she were a family member.

In death, it seemed that Lauren's position as Alejandro's girlfriend was more secure than ever.

Lauren knew one thing: she was done with bad boys. In fact, she might be done with dating altogether, at least for a while.

As the service ended, she got up with Thad and ducked away toward the exits in an attempt to avoid the crush of people. Thad had been amazing over the past few days, taking her out to lunch and for coffee dates, anything to keep her mind off things. He even took her shopping, an activity he admitted that he hated. He was such a sweet guy, and she was especially glad that Thad was gay-it removed any awkwardness from their friendship. She may have been sleepwalking through the past week, but at least she had someone who cared about her to do it with.

As everyone started to leave the cathedral, there was a commotion near the front. Palmer Bell, Nick's grandfather, was halfway up the aisle when his cane gave way and he tumbled to the floor. Panicked voices rang through the cathedral, echoing over the organ music as everyone, but particularly members of the Society, crowded around him, calling 911 and shouting words of advice to try to revive him.

I hope he dies, Lauren thought. I hope he dies right here in this church, fifty feet from Alejandro's casket. That would serve him right.

The paramedics rushed in, heralded by the sirens of their ambulance. Palmer Bell was coming to, but he clearly needed serious medical attention. In all the commotion, it was as if the reason people were here-to mourn Alejandro's death-had been completely forgotten.

Once again, Lauren thought bitterly, it was all about the Bells.

Chapter Three.

After his grandfather's collapse, Nick slipped awkwardly out of the cathedral, following his family into the black limousine that was waiting for them. An ambulance that would take Palmer Bell to New York-Presbyterian Hospital had just pulled away from the curb. Nick agreed that he would meet up with Phoebe after he learned more about what was going on. According to what the paramedics had told his father, Palmer had suffered a stroke, indicated by his collapse, complaints of numbness in his legs, and general disorientation. The car pulled away and drove south, turning east on a side street and then uptown. The driver followed the ambulance, taking advantage of the path that had been cleared for them.

Nick loosened his tie and scratched his neck behind his collar, realizing that he had been sweating. The panic of a crisis was almost a welcome relief from the charade they had all been playing. It had been devastating to sit through Alejandro's memorial service when he and his friends knew the truth about what had happened to him. And now his family was sitting in this warm coc.o.o.n of luxury while the rest of the horrible world went on. It was the first time in a week that Nick had been in such close proximity to both his parents-he had been avoiding them ever since returning from Isis Island on New Year's Day. His mother, with her fiery red hair; his father, though graying, lean and fit on a regimen of running and stress.

Nick's two older brothers, Henry and Benjamin, home from Yale for the funeral, were both idly texting and shooting worried glances at their parents and each other. They had proven to be nothing more than drones when Nick had asked them about the Society back in December. Nick wouldn't have been surprised if someone told him that his brothers had been lobotomized. He had always thought Ben might have rebelled against the group, as he had been more of a free spirit, a member of the Yale Pundits, the type of guy who would bring home The Anarchist Cookbook The Anarchist Cookbook and leave it in the living room over Christmas break. Henry, conversely, was notoriously uptight and headed directly to law school. Nick sensed that Henry, as a senior, was already being groomed to become more involved with the group. Perhaps Ben was as well. and leave it in the living room over Christmas break. Henry, conversely, was notoriously uptight and headed directly to law school. Nick sensed that Henry, as a senior, was already being groomed to become more involved with the group. Perhaps Ben was as well.

Nick's mother, Gigi, was on the phone and fussing with arrangements, calling Palmer's doctor, making sure that the hospital would be ready to see him. Nick's father was bickering with her, arguing that any doctor would do-whoever was on duty in the emergency room was fine. Just because Palmer had made a large bequest to the hospital several years back, he shouldn't expect to be treated any differently.

Yeah, right, Nick thought. The rich are always treated differently.