Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

Once I rebooted, I considered my options:

1) Forget the whole thing. Jenny must be okay.

Yeah, so not my thing.

2) Go back and beg some of the other Diggers for help.

Right, because I’m a veritable glutton for punishment.

3) Deal with it myself. After all, I’m a smart, capable sort of girl. I could surely get to the root of a suspected kidnapping all on my own.

Except, what do I know about kidnapping? I’m a Lit major, for crying out loud. The last abduction I read about was The Rape of the Lock.

4) Call the cops and explain to them that I was worried this girl I didn’t actually know all that well and wasn’t really all that friendly with and who is also, by the way, a computer millionaire, may have been kidnapped as part of a vast conspiracy reaching all the way up to the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States because she’d threatened to tell the world who a bunch of middle-aged men had slept with in their teens.

Res ipsa loquitur. [3] “The thing speaks for itself.” Though never a Classics major, the confessor does know a little Latin.

5) Suck it up and contact Poe.

After all, he’s every bit as paranoid as I am, and much more experienced at dealing with it.

Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy. Not only was there the aforementioned mutual hatred, but I’d managed to avoid ever learning the bastard’s real name. That would be step one.

Cue Mission Impossible theme and commence stealthy journey back into the tomb. Once there, I took the stairs to the room of records. There’d been a motion to seal off the room until we’d located the leak, but no one thought it would be much of a deterrent. The person already had their info. Now I was glad for the access.

Along the wall of the room of records hung a group portrait for every club as far back as daguerreotypes were in vogue. I checked the wall for D176. The men were clustered around the grandfather clock I knew was in the Firefly Room, and before them lay a low table with the etching of Persephone on top. Each wore a formal tuxedo with tails. There was Malcolm in the front row, his hand resting on the shoulder of the knight I knew as Poe. I looked at the list of names beneath the photo.

James Orcutt.

What a ridiculously normal name. I’d half been expecting Darth Vader. But, no matter. The Grand Library had a computer terminal (because, honestly, how grand would it be otherwise?). I entered Orcutt’s name into the student directory, and a few moments later had his home number. Bingo. I exited into the hall and approached the tomb’s only phone.

Point of no return, Amy. Are you honestly going to do this? Go to Poe? I took a deep breath, and dialed.

“Hello?” My Pavlovian response to his voice has always been fight-or-flight, but I steeled myself and tried to sound cheery. Or at least amicable.

“Hi. James?” The name sounded bizarre on my tongue. “This is—”

“Amy Haskel.” Not a question. “What do you want?”

I hesitated, still reeling from the shock that he’d recognized my voice. “I…Malcolm said—I need your help.”

Silence, and then, “Figures. What is it—wait, are you at the tomb?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me at my place: 27 Danbury, number 3. Come now.” And then he hung up.

What choice did I have? I was the desperate one. I’d work on his timetable. So I hoofed it across town. All the law students live off-campus, but when I got to the address Poe—sorry, James, but old habits die hard—had indicated, it was clear my nemesis was living as disreputably as possible. I stood for a moment on the tree lawn and debated whether or not the trash heap before me could possibly be the right address.

The front yard was a mess of weeds, hemmed in by a sagging chain-link fence emblazoned with a black-and-red BEWARE OF DOG sign. But there was no dog to be seen as I opened the catch and picked my way up the cracked front walk, and no mangy mutt chased me as I put my first tentative steps onto the team-of-termites-holding-hands that passed for a stoop. The steps creaked beneath my feet, and the front porch practically screamed “Skirt the edges,” with all of its saggy spots. I reached number 3 and rang the bell.

A few moments later, the door beyond the screen opened, and there stood Poe—I mean, James—in his usual uniform of grubby white undershirt and worn dress pants. He leaned against the jamb and regarded me through the screen.

“You actually showed.”

“I actually need help.”

“And you actually think I’m going to give it to you…why, exactly?” He tilted his head to one side. “Let’s forget for a minute that you’ve never been anything but a bitch to me. As far as I can see, you’ve been doing your level best to grind my society into dust since we handed you the reins. And now you want my assistance?”

Let’s not forget that the first time I met this dude, he threatened to have me drowned and/or forced into sexual servitude. Not exactly getting off on the right foot. So what if it was hazing? Still hurt. But no matter. I had one card to play. “Look, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. No surprise to either of us, I’m sure. But what we both like is Rose & Grave. And it’s in trouble. It’s in trouble because of this current scandal, and if my suspicions are right, it’s about to be in a lot more trouble than that. I’m here for the society, nothing more.”

He swallowed. If there was one thing I knew about this boy, it was that he was Digger, through and through. I’d gotten to him this way last year as well. Malcolm was right; Poe would help me. He’d hate it, but he’d help.

“What are you talking about?”

“Jenny Santos is the one who leaked the information to that website. And she’s gone.”

“Hiding out?” His voice dripped with anger. Like I said, Digger through and through.

“I don’t think so. Her room looks trashed, and she left her wallet, keys, cell phone—everything—behind. There’s a half-finished e-mail on her computer. I think she’s just…gone.”

“What do you mean? Like, kidnapped?”

“Kurt Gehry said he was going to deal with the matter his way, and make an example of the culprit. You know him better than anyone else. Do you think it’s possible—”

Poe—James—oh, screw it, Poe! — pushed open the screen door. “Come in.” He hustled me inside, took a quick look around the yard, and shut the door.

“Thanks. I don’t think I was follow—”

He whirled on me. “You’re serious about this. You think the White House Chief of Staff arranged for a college student to disappear. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Yes. People have been telling me all night. But you let me in.”

“Because I didn’t want anyone on the street to catch you raving.”

I shook my head. “No, because you think I might be right.”

He stabbed his fingers into his hair. “Wait here while I change my clothes.”

I didn’t ask him Into what? but I sure wanted to, as I’d never seen him in anything else (except, of course, for the times he was dressed up like Death). He trailed into his bedroom, yanking his shirt up over his head, and then slammed the door behind him.