S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller (30 page)

His mother was a monster.

Dean Apperson looked from Marcie to Cody and smiled slightly. His blue eyes twinkled.

His mother, this
bitch
, had been making money off him his whole life, even as a baby when she sold him to Macy’s. Now she’d rented him to S’wanee for experimental testing. “You don’t worry about what others think of you, and you don’t look back,” she’d told him. “That’s how you make your fortune here.” The only reason she’d had him in the first place was to stay in the US. She’d been using him even before he was born.

She’d probably smoked while pregnant, too. Greedy, self-centered bitch.

And she wanted to take him back? After what she’d done to him?

Did she think he was so stupid that he would ever,
ever
trust her again?

He would never go back to Jersey. He wouldn’t cross the street with this lying bitch.

S’wanee was his home. He belonged here.

“It was a lovely drive up here,” Marcie said, wanding her cigarette. “I’m sure it’s even prettier in the daylight.”

Shut up, bitch.

The servant went to the door. But Pearl and Banjo and Beth weren’t there, because they were dead. The servant brought more sherry for Apperson.

Marcie sipped from her cut-crystal glass. Cody could smash the glass and slit her throat, right at the gold necklace.

Dean Apperson looked at him, smiling, twinkling.

It was 11:53 p.m.

The experiment wasn’t over.

Cody knew what they were doing and why they were here, with sherry and wine and cobbler that no one touched. Marcie, the queen bee, was oblivious—giggly and slurry, almost
anesthetized.

Marcie knocked her glass over. “‘Pologize,” she giggled, flexing her fingers. “Silly me.” The servant brought her a new one and mopped up the spill, which was easy on the white plastic.

And Ross—no, not Ross, he was dead—Ross’s
replacement
was somewhere typing and typing.

Cody killed eleven. The experiment needed twelve.

You don’t have to go
, Dean Apperson said, without talking.
We’ll let you stay
.

The servant went to the door. He brought a coffee tray with spoons.

On the mantel, near the ticking clock, sat a small, wired camera, aimed at the dining table. Not hidden, just sitting there, makeshift. In plain sight.

The paintings were gone off the wall. The Persian rug had been removed, the floor bare under the dining table with the white plastic cloth.

You can stay here forever, Cody. On the Domain.

The servant placed a steak knife next to Cody. But he wasn’t having steak; he was having cobbler. And it wasn’t a steak knife; it was a kitchen knife. A big chopping knife.

It was a Wusthof. Clean and sharp.

“I’d love to stay few days, see the place,” Marcie slurred at Apperson. “Pictures make it look so reflabben.” Her smoke was disgusting. It made Cody sick.

This is your home, Cody. You belong here.

Cody clutched and unclutched the knife handle. It felt good in his hand, like it was part of him.

Cody spun the knife like a top, like a toy. He spun it again. It was fun.

Cody clutched the knife.

Your mother sold you, Cody. You can never trust her again.

“Schwizzel macglomen,”
his mother said numbly.
“Ach keinbennegen.”

Your mother hates you, Cody.

Dean Apperson looked at Cody and nodded slowly.

He’d watch this one live. Ringside.

Cody looked at the gold necklace around his mother’s neck.

He wouldn’t remember anyway.

The clock inched to 11:56. Dean Apperson nodded to the servant.

The servant went to the door. But this time, he didn’t open it.

This time, using a key, he locked it.

A
banner hung high across the Quad. “Welcome Home! Yea, S’wanee’s Right!”

Magnolias and dogwoods burst with color. The thick air was hot and fragrant. Lush, emerald lawns freshly mowed.

There were dozens of round tables with purple tablecloths, bordered by a lavish lunch buffet and an open bar. A few hundred alums, nattily dressed and wearing name tags, milled about and shook hands and slapped backs. The men, those who still had hair, were mostly gray. The women were half and half. Jazz alternated with Creedence Clearwater Revival from standing speakers.

Most brought spouses, first or second or the occasional third. Some brought grown children to see the campus in full bloom. A few showed off infant grandchildren in purple jumpsuits from the Klondyke.

“That was my dorm,” a man pointed out to his much younger wife.

“The whole place is magic,” the young wife said. “Who stays there now?”

“Visiting Fellows, I’m sure. The dorms are usually full. They have the original housemothers, the ones still alive.”

A few brought their gowns, mostly draped across the white folding chairs, because of the heat. Three men braved their old kilts and were admired for the effort.

“Have you seen the new building?” one alum asked another. “They did a tremendous job blending it in with the rest of the campus.”

“I tried to go inside. It’s locked.”

“
Everything’s
locked.”

“All Saints is open.”

“So is DuPont. I almost didn’t recognize the Widow Senex.”

They fought the adolescent urge to mimic her wonk eye, because they were old and distinguished now.

“I heard Fletcher died.”

“A good man. A good life.”

“Pearl passed away, too, you know.”

“Too young. Too young.”

“We used to play Frisbee right here on the Quad,” a man told his son, who, having heard it all before, yawned and nodded.

“I don’t remember this tree,” he mused, and asked another alum, “Has it always been here?”

The reunion was both festive and melancholy.

“Me? I’m just having a great S’wanee Day! How the hell are
you
doing?”

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said a man watching his toddler granddaughter delight in the excitement on the Quad. “What’s a pity?” his wife asked and then patted his arm. “Oh, Martin, there are
plenty
of other schools for her.”

“It looks the same. Nothing has changed.”

“Why tamper with perfection?”

“Hello, Appy.”

Ivan Apperson turned from a cluster and smiled. “Good afternoon, John. Welcome back.”

“It’s kind of you to allow us back,” the tall, still-athletic man said. “For one day.”

“I trust all is well in New York?” Apperson asked. “Magazines have hit a bit of a rough patch, have they not?”

“Good seeing you, Crownover.” A passing man patted his back. “You, too, Appy.” They responded.

“Reunions get smaller every year,” Crownover said.

“Well, that’s basic biology, John. Biology and math.”

“I wanted to show my wife your beautiful new building. But it’s locked.”

“Yes.”

“Can you open it for us?” Crownover asked.

“Unfortunately, we’re not a museum,” Apperson said. “We’re an active, ongoing concern.”

“We still want to do an article on your active, ongoing concern. Your various projects here.”

“Yes, I know,” Apperson said.

“Taxpayers have a right to that information, don’t you think?” Crownover asked. “Especially the DARPA projects? In the building we paid for?”

“We have plenty of private, nonmilitary contracts,” Apperson said, smiling. “We’re remarkably self-sustaining.”

“But the Pentagon’s been your main client from the first day,” Crownover said. “As we both know.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re taking section photos!” a professional photographer called from his tripod on the Quad. “We’ll start with the Hoffman section. Can all classes from Hoffman assemble under the banner, please?”

“At least it would be interesting to know if your projects are legal,” Crownover continued. “Especially given your personal history, Ivan.”

“John, I know you do the Lord’s work, up there in your glass tower,” Apperson said, “scrounging for tidbits to humiliate your country. That’s your life’s path. I chose my own.

“But strictly off the record, without specifics,” Apperson went on, “we will soon deliver a weapon that can destroy any army, any terror cell, any enemy at all, without risking a single life of our own. The penultimate asymmetrical warfare.”

“Can you stand closer together?” the photographer compact-motioned the group across the lawn. “Scrunch up some, so I can fit you all in?”

“Now, I’ll wager,” Apperson continued, not smiling, “these taxpayers you claim to speak for would approve of my achievements. But if you expect me to divulge our secrets, our tactics, for a
scoop
you can share with the enemy…” He shook his head. “Well, John, perhaps you’ve been in New York a little too long. You should get out more.”

“Yea, S’wanee’s Right!” the group yelled as the photographer snapped away.

“Perhaps we’ll follow our own leads,” Crownover said. “And write about it anyway.”

“Well, we can’t stop you.” Apperson laughed quietly, patting him on the back. “Until we do.”

“Tuckaway section! Tuckaway to the Quad, please!”

“Say,” Crownover turned. “I received an unusual call a few months ago. From someone claiming to be a student here. A freshman.”

“Oh?” Apperson said.

“He described a very interesting research project.”

“We have many of those,” Apperson said. “But we don’t have any students. As we both know.”

“Cody Marko. Ring a bell?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He knew quite a bit. And sounded frantic. Terrified, actually.”

“What he sounds like,” Apperson said, “is a phony and a fraud who got your goat, John.”

“So you don’t know him?” Crownover pressed.

“We have thousands of employees,” Apperson said. “I can’t name them all.”

“Rebel’s Rest! Rebel’s Rest to the Quad, please!”

“After you,” Apperson offered. Crownover went ahead.

The photographer mopped sweat from his forehead as the crowd organized themselves.

“Lemonade, sir?”

The photographer turned to a tall young man in a navy blazer, purple tie, and khakis cinched about his waist.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the glass. “I didn’t expect it to be so hot up here.”

“If I might suggest, sir,” the young man said, “if you widen the angle some, you’ll catch the hydrangeas on either side. They’re blooming again.”

The photographer looked at the young man with copper-colored hair and said, “That’s a good idea, actually.”

And then he said, “Are you related to someone here? Someone’s son?”

“I work here,” the young man said. “For the institute. The S’wanee Institute.”

“Lucky you,” the photographer said. “It’s really quite beautiful up here.”

“Yes, it is, sir.” The young man smiled. “It’s the greatest place in the world.”

“Yea, S’wanee’s Right!” a sea of gray hair cheered under the banner. Oxfords and khakis, florals and hair bands. The smiles came easily. They were happy to be home again.

The photographer framed the shot to catch the hydrangeas, some pink, some blue.

I
n addition to my parents, who were good-natured research assistants, I’d like to thank the following friends and family for looking over early drafts and offering constructive feedback: Beth Broderick, Debra Fish, Warren Frazier, Wyck Godfrey, Stacey and Rob Goergen, Pete Harris, Mary Kerr, Daniel King, Jacqueline Mazarella, Owen Moogan, Akiko Morison, David Reno, Jennifer Simpson, Dallas Sonnier, Chris Ward, and Chad Zimmerman. I apologize for any omissions.

Hats off to the gracious staff and students of Sewanee, the University of the South. I hope they will welcome me back someday.

Penina Lopez, my copy editor, taught me things I didn’t even know I didn’t know. That doesn’t happen often.

Stewart Williams, my cover designer, had many wonderful ideas. I wanted to use them all. Maybe I will.

Special thanks to Ryan Rayston. I feel lucky to call her a friend.

This story would not be in your hands without the steady efforts of my book agent, the elegant and insightful Helen Breitwieser. I can’t thank her enough.

A first look at Don Winston’s upcoming paranoid thriller
“The Union Club.”

C
ollege sweethearts Claire and Clay Willing are determined to start their married life independent of his rich and powerful west coast family. But the tragic murder of Clay’s older brother, coupled with his own stalled career, suddenly lures them to San Francisco and into the clutches of the Willing political dynasty.

Clay’s parents welcome Claire with open arms and ensconce her in their exclusive private club atop Nob Hill, where she mingles with the eccentric Bay Area elite and struggles to maintain her identity in the all-controlling Willing clan.

But her in-laws are the least of Claire’s worries as she unravels the freakish mystery of their son’s assassination and uncovers the shocking reason they were brought back into the fold. With no way out alive.

The Union Club. Where evil has its privileges.