The Secret History - Donna Tartt [148]
This time, I thought, a year ago. What had I been doing? Driving a friend’s car up to San Francisco, standing around in the poetry sections of bookstores worrying about my application to Hampden. And now here I was, sitting in a cold room in strange clothes and wondering if I might go to prison.
Nihil sub sole novum. A pencil sharpener complained loudly somewhere. I put my head down on my books—whispers, quiet footsteps, the smell of old paper in my nostrils. Several weeks earlier, Henry had become angry when the twins were voicing moral objections at the idea of killing Bunny. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.
“But how,” said Charles, who was close to tears, “how can you possibly justify cold-blooded murder?”
Henry lit a cigarette. “I prefer to think of it,” he had said, “as redistribution of matter.”
I woke, with a start, to find Henry and Francis standing over me.
“What is it?” I said, rubbing my eyes and looking up at them.
“Nothing,” said Henry. “Will you come with us to the car?”
Sleepily I followed them downstairs, where the car was parked in front of the bookstore.
“What’s the matter?” I said after we had got in.
“Do you know where Camilla is?”
“Isn’t she at home?”
“No. Julian hasn’t seen her, either.”
“What do you want with her?”
Henry sighed. It was cold inside the car, and his breath came out white. “Something’s up,” he said. “Francis and I saw Marion at the guard booth with Cloke Rayburn. They were talking to some people from Security.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
“You don’t think they’ve done anything, do you?”
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” said Henry. He was looking out at the roof of the bookstore, which was sheeted in ice and glittered in the sun. “What we want is for Camilla to drop in on Cloke and see if she can find out what’s going on. I’d go myself, except I hardly know him.”
“And he hates me,” said Francis.
“I know him a little.”
“Not well enough. He and Charles are on fairly good terms, but we can’t find him, either.”
I unwrapped a Rolaids tablet from a roll in my pocket and began to chew on it.
“What’s that you’re eating?” said Francis.
“Rolaids.”
“I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind,” Henry said. “I guess we should drive by the house again.”
This time Camilla came to the door, opening it only a crack and looking out warily. Henry started to say something, but she gave him a sharp warning glance. “Hello,” she said. “Come in.”
We followed her inside without a word, down the dark hall into the living room. There, with Charles, was Cloke Rayburn.
Charles stood up nervously; Cloke stayed where he was and looked at us with sleepy, inscrutable eyes. He had a sunburn and he needed a shave. Charles raised his eyebrows at us and mouthed the word “stoned.”
“Hello,” said Henry after a pause. “How are you?”
Cloke coughed—a deep, nasty-sounding rasp—and shook a Marlboro from a pack on the table before him. “Not bad,” he said. “You?”
“Fine.”
He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, lit it, coughed again. “Hey,” he said to me. “How’s it going.”
“Pretty good.”
“You were at that party at Durbinstall on Sunday.”
“Yes.”
“Seen Mona?” he said without any inflection whatever.
“No,” I said brusquely, and was suddenly aware that everyone was looking at me.
“Mona?” said Charles, after a puzzled silence.
“This girl,” Cloke said. “Sophomore. Lives in Bunny’s house.”
“Speaking of whom,” said Henry.
Cloke leaned back in his chair and fixed Henry with a bloodshot, heavy-lidded gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “We were just talking about Bun. You haven’t seen him the last couple days, have you?”
“No. Have you?”
Cloke didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said hoarsely, reaching for an ashtray. “I can’t figure out where the hell he is. Last time I saw him was Saturday night, not that I thought about it or anything until today.”
“I talked to Marion last night,” Henry said.
“I know,” said Cloke. “She’s kind of worried. I saw her in Commons