Flipper Leach got in trouble and ratted on Laura and Jack Teitelbaum – oh, you remember all that stuff, don't you?'
'I never heard of Flipper Leach.'
'Oh, you know Flipper. She's a bitch. Everybody calls her Flipper because she flipped over her dad's Volvo, like, four times freshman year.'
'I don't understand what this Flipper person has to do with this.'
'Well, she doesn't have anything to do with it, Richard, you're just like that guy in 'Dragnet' that always wants the facts. It's just that Laura is freaking out, okay, and Student Services is threatening to call her parents unless she tells them how that mirror got in Bunny's room, which she doesn't even have a rucking clue, and, get this, those FBI men found out about the Ecstasy she had at Swing into Spring last week and they want her to give up the names. I said, 'Laura, don't do it, it'll be just like that thing with Flipper and everybody'll hate you and you'll have to transfer to another school.' It's like Bram was saying -'
'Where is Cloke now?'
'That's what I was going to tell you if you'd shut up a minute.
Nobody knows. He was really wigged out and asked if he could borrow Bram's car last night, to leave school, but this morning the car was back in the parking lot with the keys in it and nobody's seen him and he's not in his room and something weird is happening there, too, but for sure I don't know what it is… I just won't even do meth anymore. Heebiejeebieville. By the way, I've been meaning to ask you, what did you do to your eye?'
Back at Francis's with the twins – Henry was having lunch with the Corcorans – I told them what Judy had told me.
'But I know that mirror,' said Camilla.
'I do, too,' said Francis. 'Spotty old dark one. Bunny's had it in his room for a while.'
'I thought it was his.'
'I wonder how he got hold of it.'
'If the girl left it in a living room,' said Charles, 'he probably just found it and took it.'
This was highly probable. Bunny had had a mild tendency towards kleptomania, and was apt to pocket any small, valueless articles that caught his eye – nail clippers, buttons, spools of tape.
These he hid around his room in jumbled little nests. It was a vice he practiced in secret, but at the same time he had felt no compunction about quite openly carrying away objects of greater value which he found unattended. He did this with such assurance and authority – tucking bottles of liquor or unguarded boxes I from the florist under his arm and walking away without a backwards glance – that I wondered if he knew it was stealing. I once heard him explaining vigorously and quite unselfconsciously to Marion what he thought ought to be done to people who stole food from house refrigerators.
As bad as things were for Laura Stora, they were worse for the luckless Cloke. We were to discover later that he had not brought Bram Guernsey's car back of his own volition, but had been impelled to do so by the FBI agents, who had had him pulled over before he was ten miles out of Hampden. They took him back to the classroom where they had set up headquarters, and kept him there for most of Sunday night, and while I don't know what they said to him, I do know that by Monday morning he had requested to have an attorney present at the interview.
Mrs Corcoran (said Henry) was burned up that anyone had dared suggest Bunny was on drugs. At lunch at the Brasserie, a reporter had edged up to the Corcoran table to ask if they had any comment to make about the 'drug paraphernalia' found in Bunny's room.
Mr Corcoran, startled, had lowered his eyebrows impressively and said, 'Well, of course, haw, ahem,' but Mrs Corcoran, sawing at her steak au poivre with subdued violence, launched without even looking up into a tart diatribe. Drug paraphernalia, as they chose to call it, was not drugs, and it was a pity the press chose to level accusations at persons not present to defend themselves, and she was having a hard enough time as it was without having strangers imply that her son was a drug kingpin. All of which was more or less reasonable and true, and which the Post reported dutifully the next day word for word, alongside an unflattering picture of Mrs Corcoran with her mouth open and a headline which read: mom sez: not my kid.
On Monday night, about two in the morning, Camilla asked me to walk her home from Francis's. Henry had left around midnight; and Francis and Charles, who'd been drinking hard since four o'clock, showed no signs of slowing down. They were entrenched in Francis's kitchen with the lights turned out, preparing, with what I felt was alarming hilarity, a series of hazardous cocktails called 'Blue Blazers' which involved ignited whiskey poured back and forth in a flaming arc between two pewter mugs.
At her apartment Camilla – shivering, preoccupied, her cheeks fever-red from the cold – asked me upstairs for a cup of tea. 'I wonder if we should have left them there,' she said, switching on the lamp. 'I'm afraid they're going to set themselves on fire.'
'They'll be all right,' I said, though the same thought had occurred to me.
We drank our tea. The lamplight was warm and the apartment still and snug. At home in bed, in my private abyss of longing, the scenes I dreamed of always began like this: drowsy drunken hour, the two of us alone, scenarios in which invariably she would brush against me as if by chance, or lean conveniently close, cheek touching mine, to point out a passage in a book; opportunities which I would seize, gently but manfully, as exordium to more violent pleasures.
The teacup was too hot; it burned my fingertips. I set it down and looked at her – oblivious, smoking a cigarette, scarcely two feet away. I could lose myself forever in that singular little face, in the pessimism of her beautiful mouth. Come here, you. Let's shut the light out, shall we? When I imagined these phrases cast in her voice, they were almost intolerably sweet; now, sitting right beside her, it was unthinkable that I should voice them myself.
And yet: why should it be? She had been party to the killing of two men; had stood calm as a Madonna and watched Bunny die. I remembered Henry's cool voice, scarcely six weeks earlier. There was a certain carnal dement to the proceedings, yes.
'Camilla?' I said.
She glanced up, distracted.
'What really happened, that night in the woods?'
I think I had been expecting, if not surprise, at least a show of it. But she didn't blink. 'Well, I don't remember an awful lot,' she said slowly. 'And what I do remember is almost impossible to describe. It's all much less clear than it was even a few months ago. I suppose I should have tried to write it down or something.'
'But what do you remember?'
It was a moment before she answered. 'Well, I'm sure you've heard it all from Henry,' she said. 'It seems a bit silly to even say it aloud. I remember a pack of dogs. Snakes twining around my arms. Trees on fire, pines bursting into flames like enormous torches. There was a fifth person with us for part of the time.'
'A fifth person?'
'It wasn't always a person.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'You know what the Greeks called Dionysus. no Xveidri^. The Many-Formed One. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes a woman. And sometimes something else. I – I'll tell you something that I do remember,' she said abruptly.
'What?' I said, hopeful at last for some passionate, back-clawing detail.
'That dead man. Lying on the ground. His stomach was torn open and steam was coming out of it.'
'His stomach'!'
'It was a cold night. I'll never forget the smell of it, either. Like when my uncle used to cut up deer. Ask Francis. He remembers, too.'
I was too horrified to say anything. She reached for the teapot and poured a bit more into her cup. 'Do you know,' she said, 'why I think we're having such bad luck this time around?'
'What?'
'Because it's terrible luck to leave a body unburied. That farmer they found straightaway, you know. But remember poor I Palinurus in the Aeneid~› He lingered around and haunted them ^^^ for the longest time. I'm afraid that none of us are going to have ^B a good night's sleep until Bunny's in the ground.'
That's nonsense.'
