Black Mirror by Nancy Werlin
I wondered: Were they looking for me? “I don’t know.”
“Should we go find out?”
I looked down at my hands. Then I said abruptly, “No. Let’s just walk over to the police. Let’s do it now.”
Andy said, “Okay.” He fetched our coats.
“But—Andy?”
“Yes?”
I paused, trying to think clearly. With people up and about, it would be even more difficult to cross the campus unseen.
“I’m afraid people might be watching out for us. For me. People that might not want us to go to the police. So we’ll have to, well, sneak there. Secretly. Quietly. I know a path through the woods, away from the main road. So, um, can you sneak?”
“Yes,” said Andy with dignity. “I can sneak.” He had his coat on and buttoned. He handed me mine.
I put it on and fastened it. I exhaled. “Okay,” I said. I started toward Andy’s door.
“Frances Leventhal?”
I turned. “Yes?”
Andy hadn’t moved. He gestured toward one of his windows, on the opposite side of the room from the door. “If we’re sneaking, maybe we should go out by the fire escape?”
I blinked at him.
“It goes to the other side of the garage, near the Dumpster. It’s a better place to sneak away from,” Andy explained. “I’ll help you get down if you’re scared.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Um. Good idea.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Andy. “To the police.” Solemnly he held out his hand, and I took it.
Out in the darkness, I could feel Andy beside me, and was overwhelmingly, gratefully conscious of how big and strong he was. And the falling snow lent a quiet, peaceful quality to the night.
“Let’s take the maintenance road,” Andy whispered. “Is the path you meant the one near the science center?”
I whispered back, “Yes. We’ll have to check before we use it—make sure nobody’s there.” In the snow, it was hard to believe that our mission was at all urgent. I thought of Ms. Wiles’s patent disbelief. If her studio hadn’t been empty … But maybe, anyway, I was a fool. Maybe I was wrong … stupid.
As we walked, however, I felt the wires of tension tighten again around my spine. Now that we were outside, I could see that many other buildings were also lit up. The administrative building. Faculty apartments. In the distance, through the snow, I could see several dark figures scurrying along the campus paths.
What was going on? Would everybody really be up if they were just looking for a missing student, one who’d been gone only a few hours?
Maybe. Maybe, but—
The night that Daniel had been discovered—oh, God, it was only a month ago—the campus had also stayed awake. Just like this.
What had happened here in the last few hours?
The cold night air hurt my lungs. Beside Andy, I marched on. I told myself that Andy and I were just two more dark figures on the campus; if I couldn’t recognize those other figures, then they couldn’t recognize us. And no matter what was happening on campus, the best, the safest, the smartest thing for us to do right now was exactly what we were doing. Go to the police. Once we were there, we’d find out what was going on at Pettengill.
Without thinking, I reached out and grasped Andy’s gloved hand with my own mittened one. He squeezed back, and I felt comforted. Accompanied. We swung our arms a bit as we walked together, and I remembered being little with Daniel.
We reached the maintenance road and angled to the left. Slipped behind the science center. There was the path, lightly covered with fresh snow.
And there, alone, leaning against a tree and looking directly toward us, was a shadowy figure that somehow I recognized instantly—not just with my eyes, but with my very skin. And in that moment I understood that I had come this way on purpose, knowing that he knew I used this path. Aware, in a way I can’t explain, that if my “disappearance” were indeed some part of the commotion on campus, and if people really were looking for me, then he—James—would think to come here.
CHAPTER 31
I stopped walking. I waited, strangely calm, as James pushed himself away from the tree and began to move through the falling snow toward Andy and me. As he approached, a spiral of disjointed images, aural memories, and emotions flashed through me.
The figures scurrying frantically across the Pettengill campus in the snow-muted glare of the dorm and campus lighting, just a few minutes ago. George de Witt, sitting with me in the cafeteria, saying that odd, out-of-place thing: You’re okay just how you are, Frances. The traitorous warmth of Ms. Wiles’s cottage. Saskia, pushing me, yet understanding my paintings. My brother, Daniel, standing beside me in the old Leventhal shoe factory. The systematic, efficient way Andy had chopped the ice on the steps of the science center. The feel of the crumpled paper cup in my hand, the smell of the alcohol in the punchbowl behind me at the freshman dance two years ago, when I’d glimpsed Saskia’s lovely, confident face over Daniel’s shoulder. In some way that I couldn’t explain, but only feel, all of these moments had helped to bring me to this one.
Andy had stopped beside me. “That’s James Droussian,” he whispered loudly. “I don’t think we can sneak past him now.”
“No,” I whispered back. “But it’s okay. I think. He’s—he’s …” I didn’t know how to continue.
Then James stood directly in front of us. “Hey,” he said. “There you are.”
“Hey,” I said uncertainly. The disjointed feelings, images, had not gone away. I looked at James, before me in the gentle winter dark, and I also saw him as he’d been, not so long ago, in my grandmother’s living room, as we sat shivah for Daniel. He’d been holding a glass of milk. He’d taken cookies from me as his eyes said to me: You. You.
My love, the drug dealer. My love, who didn’t love me. Why didn’t he scare me now? Why wasn’t I frightened? For all I knew, James was involved with Unity. Don’t create opportunities for violence. Because if you do, violence will occur. And there was the mysterious man he’d been with in the dark, in this very place. I’d never had an explanation.
I felt almost as if I’d taken some drug. A hallucinogenic, maybe, would feel this way. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly. I glanced down at James’s hands. It was dark, yes, but I thought vaguely that I’d be able to tell if James was carrying, say, a gun. A rock. A hypodermic. I’d have a little bit of warning if Andy and I were going to die here.
But James’s hands hung empty, ungloved, by his sides. And even in my reverie I was aware that I remained unafraid. Stubbornly, I believed that James meant no harm to me. That he would, in fact, always be kind to me. I kept my eyes on his empty hands and knew it. I knew it in every cell of my body.
Why did that make me feel so sad? So—defeated and empty?
James said steadily: “You’re okay, Frances?”
I nodded. Everything had changed in a minute, in this minute, but I didn’t understand why, or what, or, indeed, anything at all. I managed to look up at James’s face, and was glad that it—and probably my face as well—was only a shadow in the dark. “Andy has been taking care of me,” I said, and only when the words were out did I realize how true they were. I swallowed.
“We’re going to the police,” Andy said a little aggressively. “We have things to tell them.”
James’s head swiveled toward Andy, and after a second he nodded respectfully. “Not a bad idea. It’s not really necessary now, but I’ll walk you there if you want.” He was looking back at me. You, Frances. You. “People were worried about you, Frances,” he said quietly. “I was worried. I’m glad you’re all right. Listen, I need to tell you some stuff. But the first thing is that you can stop—well, um, stop worrying. Things are going to be all right now.”
I felt my head move in what could have been a nod, or a shake. What had James just said? It didn’t seem to matter.
James was hatless. I saw how the lucky snow kissed his dark hair. I didn’t have to see his fac
Lie or not, I wanted to feel it. You. You.
Me. Me, standing before my grandmother as she waved her hand disparagingly beside my blossoming body. Me, reading about my father’s invented oracle, who offered death in exchange for knowledge. Me, longing for the brother who didn’t want my company; for the mother who wanted enlightenment, not me.
Me, full of ferocious, suppressed hate. Me, stomping on the snow in this very spot. Me, throwing my plate in the cafeteria. The delight of hearing it smash … of letting go. The fierce necessity to rein in again after that …
Things are going to be all right now, James had said. He was looking at me. He wanted me to say something. And I longed to believe him, but I knew he didn’t possess the power to make things right.
Still—
“Things,” I repeated cautiously, “are going to be all right?”
“Yes—” James began, but Andy interrupted.
“Why isn’t it necessary to go to the police? I have something to tell them. You don’t know what it is. Only Frances Leventhal knows.”
I found myself nodding automatically.
“Andy,” said James carefully. “Frances. Listen.”
Me. Me, in the art studio, thinly applying the black acrylic that covered the paintings in my dorm room. Me, staring at the black fabric that covered my mirror.
“I’m afraid this is a little melodramatic,” James said. “But it can’t be helped.” He opened his coat and reached for the inside breast pocket, and for a wild second I thought I’d been wrong after all, that he was reaching for a gun, a weapon, something.
My pulse pounded like hail on a roof.
Then the moment was over, and I was fully myself, standing in the woods with Andy and James. The snow fell gently around us, and James pulled out a little leather wallet. And then, just before he opened it—casually, routinely, and with one hand, just like in the movies—I knew what it was. What it had to be.
“Special Agent James Diefenbacher,” said James quietly. He held up the wallet, or case, or whatever it was. It held a badge. “FBI.”
“Oh,” I said. After a numb second or two I took the badge from James’s proffering hand. I examined it as best I could. I showed it to Andy, who fingered it carefully as well. We looked back up at James.
Special Agent James Diefenbacher.
“Wow,” said Andy happily. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. You’re a cop.”
“Sort of,” said James Diefenbacher. “Yes.”
I looked at him and I saw what I had seen before, in the wee hours on a night not unlike this one, in this same spot. James talking with a man. Two men, together.
I had known. I could have known.
I hadn’t wanted to see what was really there.
“FBI,” I said.
James nodded. “There’s been an investigation under way at Pettengill for some time, Frances. But it’s ending now, and everything is going to be okay.”
Andy said with excitement: “If you’re a cop, I can tell you about the boxes.”
“Boxes?” asked James.
“Boxes,” said Andy firmly. “Fake work at the Unity food pantry.”
James looked at Andy in silence. Then his gaze shifted to me. And then he nodded. “Unity. Yes. Frances, I can tell you—and Andy—not everything, but a lot. Not now, not tonight, but soon. For now, just know that everything is going to be okay.”
Another lie. Mingled sadness and shame pressed at my throat. I wondered how old James Diefenbacher was. Ten years older than me? Twelve? It didn’t matter. It was an impassable gulf. One of many. I had been a delusional fool. And James knew what I felt. Of course he knew. It was one reason why he was being so kind.
“Unity,” I said steadily. “They’re a front for a drug ring?” The snow fell lightly, gently. I felt it on my face.
“Yes,” said James Diefenbacher. His mouth twisted. “Congratulations. You figured that out quickly.”
I had to ask. “My brother?” I said. “He didn’t kill himself, did he?”
James’s shoulders moved uneasily. After a moment: “Frances—”
“Please.”
Another moment. Then: “No. We think not.”
“They killed him?” My throat was full; I could barely get the words out. Dimly I felt Andy take my hand and squeeze it.
“Frances. You’ll find out—perhaps not everything, but most of your questions will be answered soon. Please wait. The investigation is over as of tonight. Tomorrow, maybe, I can talk to you. Let me walk you both somewhere that you can rest. To the police, if you’d still like. Or home to your father.” He made a gesture, moved as if to herd Andy and me onto the path.
All at once I was filled with strength. Or stubbornness, which passed for the same thing.
“Why is your investigation over as of tonight?” I asked. “What’s happened? What did you do?” Involuntarily I glanced over my shoulder, back toward the unquiet campus. “What’s happening at Pettengill right now? Why all the lights? Is this related to—to—” I stopped. I couldn’t think how to word my question. “To Unity?” I said finally.
Another silent moment. Then James Diefenbacher, Special Agent, shrugged. “Yes,” he said. “It’s actually almost funny. We—our team—was scooped, in a way. We spent all this time looking fruitlessly for an informant, and all the time someone inside Unity was collecting, without us, all the evidence any prosecutor could ever want. Tape recordings, bank account statements, client lists, evidence samples. Everything meticulously documented. Labeled. Dated.”
My mouth had gone dry. “Who?” I whispered. “Who got all that?”
“Saskia Sweeney,” said James Diefenbacher. “She’s blown this whole thing wide open.”
And as I gaped at him, he added: “Yeah, I know. It’s made us—” He paused and looked straight into my eyes before continuing. “That is, my partner, Yvette, and me—look and feel extremely stupid.”
Yvette? I thought. My partner, Yvette?
My brain stopped functioning entirely. It was all I could do to hear the words James Diefenbacher was saying.
“You see, we’d written Saskia off as a possible informant. In fact, we’d written off finding any inside informant at all. Leyden was just too good at picking people that he could trust. Unity was as tight and impenetrable as a fortress.
“Our last hope—and it was a feeble one, with Yvette and me in disagreement on how or if we should do it—was actually you, Frances.
“We thought maybe you could be manipulated into joining Unity, and that maybe you would succeed in getting evidence we could use.”
CHAPTER 32
At the start of February school break, Special Agents Diefenbacher and Sorensen drove me to Boston to visit Saskia, who was being kept in “protective custody.” Sorensen—I tried very hard to think of her by that name, to separate her from the Ms. Wiles by whom I still felt used, betrayed—said that Saskia had asked specifically, urgently, if I could visit her.
A living mass of nerve endings, I sat in the backseat of the Ford Taurus. But the nerves were nothing new. I had been in this state for all of the long days since the Unity scandal had exploded at Pettengill and in the media. Still, it didn’t help that my stomach was now roiling with the motion of the car, and that I had started menstruating last night. Grimly, I had already taken aspirin. I already knew that this was going to be one of my painful periods.
I was anxious about seeing Saskia. I both did and didn’t want to hear whatever it was that she had to say to me. I both did and didn’t want to say and ask the things that were burning in my throat, my chest. And it went without saying that I had very mixed feelings about being confined in a car for hours, going and coming, with Sorensen and Diefenbacher.
But I also knew I couldn’t have stayed at Pettengill today, hanging out with Andy, going over our growing plans for looking for his friend Debbie. Today I had to do this.
Daniel’s voice came suddenly into my
I felt myself shudder. My brother. My brother …
All the things I’d learned about Daniel—and the remaining, terrible question: How exactly had he died?—seemed to float in my mind where they could be seen but not touched. I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to reach out toward them. To know them. And yet that was what I was going to do. Today. Now.
Could I handle poison? I hoped so. I felt … surrounded by it. And yet I was out of places to hide. I was past, really, wanting to hide. I was resigned.
The car was warm. I wriggled out of my coat and absently stroked the sleeve of my new cashmere cardigan. It made me feel just a little bit comforted.
The sweater had arrived yesterday in a box from Nordstrom; a mysterious catalog order from my father. I doubted he could afford it and I had almost sent it back. But staring at it, touching it, I had been filled with unexpected longing. It was pure white, and somehow I’d known it would look good on that mirrored girl. On—on me.
I’d told myself that wearing the new sweater would help me face Saskia. But I knew, as I lifted it gently, tentatively, to my cheek—it was so soft!—that that was not why I was keeping it.
I was keeping it because it was so pretty. I was keeping it because I wanted to feel it against my skin. I was keeping it because, as I held it, and stroked it, I wanted it—so much, I could have cried. Or screamed.
I couldn’t bear to analyze it. I just—kept the sweater.
No one in the car said anything. Sorensen was driving. She had tuned the radio to a classic rock station on which Eric Clapton was half declaring, half praying: “No more bad love.” Diefenbacher crooned along. His voice was so nearly inaudible that I wondered if he even realized I could hear him.
I looked away from the back of his head and sat quietly with that other pain that never went completely away.