The Sixes

12

AS PHOEBE STEPPED into the room, she saw a pinpoint of light floating above the bed. It was from Duncan’s cell phone, she realized; he was talking into it in a low voice, propped up on an elbow. He muttered a good-bye, and from the dim glow of the night light, Phoebe watched him toss the phone onto the chair where his clothes were lying and flop onto his back.

“Everything okay?” she asked, puzzled.

“I was just checking my voice mail to see if Miles had called with any news. He was going to search the lab again just to be sure.”

“Oh, I thought I heard you talking,” she said, puzzled.

“I left a message on his voice mail at work, telling him to call me if he found anything. How you doing? Still feeling a little rattled?”

“Not so much,” she said, shrugging off her robe. She slipped back into bed. Duncan shifted position so his body was facing hers. “You have a nice way of calming a girl down.”

“Oh, is that right?” Duncan said. She could sense his mouth form into a smile. He dragged his other hand down the length of her body. They made love again, this time even more intensely, and seconds after he pulled out of her, she fell into a deep sleep.

Her alarm went off at six. Phoebe stirred, then reached up and slapped the snooze button. Suddenly she remembered Duncan, and her eyes shot open. The opposite side of the bed was empty. Oh, please, she thought. Don’t tell me he’s just taken off.

Then she heard him on the stairs. He came into the room—pants on, shirt off—carrying two espressos.

“I hope you don’t mind me co-opting your prized espresso machine,” he said.

“Hardly,” Phoebe said. “And I can’t believe I’m being served in bed.”

He lowered himself next to her, and after Phoebe propped herself up, he passed her one of the small cups. The smell of the coffee mixed with the musky smell of Duncan’s body. Phoebe wondered if in the rude light of day she would begin to find him wanting in some way, but no, that didn’t happen. She liked the way he looked and sounded and smelled.

“I also took the liberty of tidying up your freezer a bit,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, wow, that’s even better than coffee in bed,” Phoebe said. “I don’t think I even would have worked up the courage to open that door again.”

“I’m a bit more comfortable with rat fur than you are, and I hacked out the remaining traces of it. Besides, I had to figure out some way to thank you for last night.”

I can think of one, she thought. Come back to my bed again soon.

She pulled on her robe while Duncan dressed. As they left the room a few minutes later, Duncan nodded at the night-light by the door.

“You know what I love about that,” Duncan said.

“Oh, God, I can’t believe you noticed it,” Phoebe said, rolling her eyes

“No, no, it’s good. It gave me another glimpse of the soft, tender side of Phoebe Hall.”

“Hey, I’m in a strange house,” she said. She nudged him with her elbow. “I need to wake up at night and know where I am.”

A few minutes later they descended the stairs, and when they reached the front door, Duncan pulled Phoebe toward him and kissed her softly on the lips.

“So are you going to let me cook for you one night?” he asked.

“I’d like that,” she said.

“How about Friday night?” he asked. “Unless, of course, you have plans to eat alone at Tony’s.”

She smiled. “What do I have to do so you’ll finally let me off the hook about that?”

He laughed.

“Trust me, I’ll think of something between now and Friday.”

As she heard Duncan’s footsteps tripping down the steps of her porch, some of the discomfort from the previous night rushed back. She walked hesitantly into the kitchen. It looked exactly as it had when she’d left yesterday afternoon: the two glasses in the drainer, the faded yellow dish towel threaded through the drawer pull, the row of small gourds on the windowsill above the sink.

Get it over with, she told herself, and yanked open the door of the freezer. Duncan had been good to his word—there wasn’t a trace of anything foul in there. It was also totally empty inside; he’d tossed out her two tubs of sorbet and she found that he’d put the ice cube trays in the dishwasher.

An hour later, showered and dressed, Phoebe double-checked all the windows and doors before leaving the house. She took her car to campus this time, and bought a cappuccino and bagel at Café Lyle—since she hadn’t had the stomach to fix anything in her kitchen. Just as she planted herself at a table, Glenda called.

“You okay, Fee?”

“Yeah. I keep waiting to develop symptoms of bubonic plague, but so far I’m not hacking up any blood.”

“You didn’t stay up all night in a panic, did you?”

“No, no, I managed to get some sleep,” Phoebe said.

There was no way she could blurt out the details about her night with Duncan, not smack in the middle of the campus café anyway, and yet holding back made her uneasy. She hadn’t even told Glenda about her first dinner date with Duncan, and the longer she waited, the weirder it would seem—the two of them had always been open with each other about their personal lives. Phoebe sensed that she might be dragging her heels this time for a reason. Was it because she thought Glenda would disapprove of her becoming involved with another member of the faculty?

“I wish I could say it helped to know Buddy was patrolling the neighborhood,” Phoebe added quickly. “But he seems like the kind of guy people still give wedgies to. Any news from your end?”

“So far Craig hasn’t been able to flush out any of the Sixes, but he’s on it big-time. And I have the information you needed—Alexis’s admission file. I know you have a class at eight, but can you come over afterward and pick it up?”

Phoebe agreed, and after nearly wolfing down her breakfast, she hurried to Arthur Hall. She’d told her students to come prepared to comment on the writing styles in the pieces she’d passed out on Monday, and she planned to save time at the end of today’s class to describe some of the principles she’d learned from editors she’d worked with over the years. But as the students began tossing out comments, she found herself only half concentrating; instead her mind ricocheted between the dead rats, Blair, Lily—and Duncan, too. At one point she realized that one of the few boys in the class was calling out a question. She was forced to ask him to repeat himself.

“Isn’t it silly for us to be studying magazine articles when print is on its last legs? I mean, many of us may never write for magazines.”

“I disagree,” Phoebe said. “Yes, if you write professionally, a lot of your content will probably be for the Web—and that’s why I have you doing blogs. But there’s no reason to believe that magazines are going to be dead any time soon. There’s still a big market for long-form articles. In fact, I think that eventually you’ll find far more long-form articles on the Web.”

This led to lots of back-and-forth between the kids, leaving little time for Phoebe to share the editor wisdom she’d planned to dispense, but that was okay, since she didn’t feel focused enough to do it justice. At the end of class she gave an assignment for Monday—write a pitch for any magazine of your choice—and was out the door before any students could grab her for questions or offer additional commentary on the tottering future of print journalism.

The president’s office was across campus in the administration building, an older structure with marble floors and wide corridors. As Phoebe hurried up the stairs to the second floor, she nearly collided with Glenda’s husband, Mark. He looked dapper as usual in brown pants, a beige car coat, and a thin brown scarf around his neck.

“Oh, hi, Mark,” Phoebe said, greeting him with a smile

“Someone’s in a hurry,” he said in response. He forced a smile after his comment, but she’d detected something snide in his tone. She knew she wasn’t imagining it. Since she’d been in Lyle, he definitely seemed to be snubbing her.

“I was just going to catch Glenda between my classes. She’s up there, right?” Phoebe said.

“You mean, instead of putting out fires all over campus? Yes, the president is ensconced.”

Now that was definitely dripping in sarcasm, Phoebe thought. But she couldn’t tell if she or Glenda was the catalyst.

“Well, I’ll see you later, then,” she said, eager to extricate herself before the conversation deteriorated. “Have a good day.”

“Ditto,” he called as he descended the stairs. Ditto, she thought. What the hell was going on with him?

Phoebe waited for Glenda’s assistant to announce her arrival before stepping into the office. She was struck, as she had been the first time she’d visited, by the duality of the room’s personality. The throw pillows on the couch and citrusy scent from bowls of potpourri made the space inviting, but at the same time the formidable desk clearly conveyed that someone powerful held court here.

Before Phoebe could even say hello, Glenda tossed her head back from her seat behind the desk and laughed.

“You look like you’re ready for the red carpet. Clearly you aren’t going to let some rats cramp your style.”

Phoebe had dressed in a tight pencil skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a leopard-print belt, but she knew Glenda was picking up on more than that. The night with Duncan had left her feeling rejuvenated.

“That’s nice of you to say, considering that the last Botox shots I had in Manhattan wore off about three weeks ago,” Phoebe said.

Glenda rose from her chair and came around the desk, then perched on the front edge of it.

“Maybe life in lovely Lyle, Pennsylvania, is agreeing with you—despite a few recent disturbances,” Glenda said.

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet,” Phoebe said, smiling, deciding this might be the time to spill the beans about Duncan. “Speaking of life in lovely Lyle, I bumped into Mark on the stairs here.”

“He was dropping off my BlackBerry,” Glenda said. “In my frantic state this morning, I’d left it at home.” She glanced down at the desk and scooted some papers out of the way, as if not wanting to meet Phoebe’s gaze.

“Okay, talk to me, G,” Phoebe said. “Something’s up between the two of you—I can tell.”

Glenda shot a glance at the office door, making sure it was closed. “Then maybe you can explain it to me,” she said, “because I haven’t a clue what’s going on. Things just seem off between us lately, and I’m not sure why.”

“Off how?”

“He’s grumpy toward me—a lot. You saw it that day with Brandon. And if he’s not grumpy, he’s just cool, standoffish.”

“Could it be your job? Your career’s never been a problem for him before, but then again it’s never been this big.”

“That’s the first thing I wondered, even before I asked myself if he might be screwing someone else. But I’ve been president for nearly three years, so why would it become an issue now? Of course, there’s a chance that living in Lyle is finally taking its toll.”

“How’s his business going?”

“Pretty good, I guess. I probably should ask more about it, but you know me—I’m not the super wifey type.”

“Could he be screwing someone?”

“I haven’t seen any obvious signs of it,” Glenda said, folding her arms across her chest. “And I’m not going to stoop to going through his texts. At least for now. Besides, he still seems pretty interested in screwing me—though he’s a little more detached these days.”

“Maybe the grumpiness has something to do with me,” Phoebe said.

“You?” Glenda asked, perplexed.

“Yeah. To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t seem very happy to have me around.”

“How do you mean?”

“I get the feeling he thinks it was a bad idea for you to invite me here. That it could cause you grief professionally. When did all this grumpiness start, anyway?”

“Uh—about two months ago, I’d say. Around the time the semester started.”

“Around the time I arrived.”

“But I just can’t—”

There was a knock on the door, making them both jerk their heads in that direction. Glenda’s assistant stuck her head in.

“People are starting to arrive for your next meeting, Dr. Johns,” she announced.

“Tell them I’ll be right there,” Glenda said. Once the door was shut again, she turned back to Phoebe. “To be continued.”

Glenda slid off the desk, circled back around it, and retrieved a manila folder resting on the far corner. She handed it to Phoebe.

“Here’s a copy of everything from Alexis Grey’s file,” she said. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, so don’t let anyone see it.”

“Got it.”

“And Fee? Thanks again for last night. For understanding why we need to keep this under wraps.”

“Are you worried about Ball, though? You told me the other day that you don’t totally trust him.”

“I still need to keep my eye on him, but last night I actually felt that we were on the same page.”

As Phoebe walked across campus moments later, she realized that she still hadn’t said a word to Glenda about Duncan. She’d have to do it the next time.

As soon as her eleven o’clock class was over, Phoebe rushed home to meet the locksmith. He turned out to be about twenty, tall, with lanky black hair and a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. While he drilled the back door, Phoebe made a sweep through the house, checking that no one had snuck in this morning, but everything seemed in order.

After the locksmith left, Phoebe fixed a late lunch and lit a sandalwood-scented candle. Getting the back-door lock fixed had brought all the bad stuff about last night rushing back, making Phoebe feel jittery again, and she wanted something to help her relax. Just a couple of days ago she had begun to finally feel at home in Herb’s tiny house, but now the walls seemed to be pressing on her.

With sandwich in hand, she settled in her office and opened the manila envelope Glenda had turned over to her. There were about ten pages all together—Alexis’s application to Lyle, her transcript, and notes Tom Stockton had made about her night in the ER. She spread the contents out across her desk. What Phoebe needed was a “cover” that would allow her to elicit info from Alexis’s family about her whereabouts at this time, and hopefully the contents would inspire one.

As she began to peruse the pages, Phoebe felt the funny tingle that so often came when she submerged herself in research. She was good at interviewing people, she knew—good at probing and listening and teasing out the truth from the ramblings and lies—but just as much, perhaps even more, she loved the research. She called it “Sherlocking.” She would comb through old letters and papers, or endless pages of information on the Web, for the tiny nugget that would open a secret door for her.

Alexis had earned only average college board scores, but she’d paid her dues in high school, not only finishing with all A’s and B’s but also working her tail off in a string of extracurricular activities—basketball, tennis, student council, community service. Obviously Alexis’s family had money, because rather than work, the girl had spent three different summers with a group called Hartney, which offered teen cultural trips abroad. She’d been to Australia, France, and Spain. An idea formed in Phoebe’s mind.

Alexis’s mother was listed on the information form as a homemaker. With any luck, she would be home now. Phoebe tried the number.

“Mrs. Grey?” Phoebe asked after a woman answered with a clipped hello.

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Good morning, I’m Phoebe Smart from Hartney Student Travel. We’re doing a major survey of parents whose kids have taken part in our programs—in the hope of enhancing what we do. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”

“You’ve caught me just as I’m getting ready to go out. Is the survey long?”

“No, no, just a few questions. And your feedback will help enormously.”

“All right, then,” the woman said. “If it’s only a few.”

“Am I right to assume Alexis was happy with our programs? She did three of them.”

“Yes, she was quite pleased with them. Needless to say they’re exorbitantly expensive, but we felt they were worth it.”

“And what did she like best about them?”

“She loved the kids,” the mother said. “And the itineraries were good. She always felt she was learning something.”

“Did one program stand out for her more than the others? She was in Australia the longest, of course.”

“She loved Australia, yes. But they were all good in their own way.”

“And what is she up to now? Is she in college?”

There was a moment’s pause before the mother answered.

“She’ll be going to the University of Maryland in January.”

“Oh, that’s a great school,” Phoebe said. “But she’s not studying anyplace right now?”

“No—she’s working at the moment. At the Gap in the Crossgates Mall here. You know, just taking some time off.”

“Of course. A lot of the kids we’ve tracked down have taken a break here and—”

“I hate to cut you off, but my ride for tennis is here. I really need to go.”

“Not a problem.” Phoebe thought of quickly asking for Alexis’s cell number but was afraid it would set off an alarm. She knew where Alexis worked, and that was a good start.

After hanging up, Phoebe checked Facebook for Alexis but, interestingly, there was no page for her. She then Googled the mall and looked up directions. The trip was going to take roughly three hours. She decided she would leave right after an early breakfast the next day.

Phoebe was making the trip in the hope that time would have helped quell the girl’s fears and that she’d finally be open to talking, but Phoebe knew there was just as good a chance Alexis would still be reluctant to divulge anything. If only I knew more about the Sixes, Phoebe thought, it would give me an advantage in trying to pry information from Alexis.

She let her mind wander for a moment and then reached again for her phone. Several years ago, for a book she’d written on former child stars, she’d interviewed a psychologist named Candace Aikens whose specialty was adolescent girls and women in their twenties. Phoebe had been more than impressed by the woman’s insight, and she wondered if Aikens might have some wisdom to share on this subject. She looked up the number in her log, punched it on her phone, then left a message on voice mail.

Just thirty minutes later, as Phoebe was scrolling through e-mail she’d been ignoring for days, Dr. Aikens called back.

“I’m teaching at a small college for a semester, and I was hoping to pick your brain about something that’s happening here,” Phoebe explained.

“Sure, I’ll do my best. Tough group to understand, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, bit of a challenge for me. They just seem so different from people I knew in my twenties. Here’s the issue I’m dealing with: there appears to be a secret society of girls here. We haven’t got a lot to go on yet, but we do know that they like to play nasty pranks and that one of their former members ended up in the ER with a panic attack, saying they were after her.”

“Ahh, I’m seeing a lot of mean girl behavior like that these days.”

“But even at the college level?”

“Absolutely. They band together almost like a pack of wolves. I call it girl power gone wild.”

“Define wild, will you?” Phoebe said. “What kind of things do they do?”

“Bully. Intimidate. They can be very aggressive sexually—predatory, almost. For instance, keeping track of guys they’ve slept with and sharing the info. It’s behavior you used to only see with guys.”

“I know that young girls can be mean. But it just seems so surprising in girls this age.”

“Not anymore, because our culture has come to allow it. Look at what you see on these reality television shows. It’s okay to be a roaring bitch or flip over a table on someone. In fact, it’s prized.”

“That sounds pretty scary.”

“I’m not saying all girls are like this. There are plenty of terrific, dynamic girls out there. There’s just a certain pathology with the girls I’m talking about—the ones who organize these wolf packs. They may have been abused when they were young or scarred by a certain experience. Years ago girls had to internalize anything that happened to them like that, but now they’re allowed to act out.”

“So all the girls in these groups have had a troubling experience in their past?”

“I’m talking mainly about the ringleaders. Other girls get lured in simply because they’re needy on some level, they want to belong. Or maybe they’re just seduced by the charisma of the queen bee.”

“The queen bee?” Phoebe felt a chill as she said the words.

“The one at the center who’s running everything and pulling the strings. In a way all the members are queen bees, but she’s—how should I put it?—queenier than the rest.”

Phoebe thought about Blair. Beautiful. Utterly confident. And fearless.

“And that’s enough to sway a nice girl into doing something nasty?”

“Some of them don’t know what’s really going on until they’re fully entrenched. And then it can be hairy for them. I’d love to talk more later, Phoebe. But I’ve got a patient coming in a few minutes.”

“No problem. This has been very insightful.”

When she set the phone down, Phoebe noticed that it had grown dark out. She sprang up from her chair and hurried from one room to the next, flicking on lights. She was out of breath by the time she finished.

She sat back down on her desk and scribbled down notes from her conversation with Dr. Aikens, wondering how it all related to the Sixes. Was their hidden agenda all about bedding boys and adding notches to their belts? Based on her brief encounter with Lily, that seemed so hard to believe, but Phoebe knew she might have misjudged the girl. She also wondered if Blair was really the ringleader. Or was there someone else in control?

Much later, when she couldn’t put off bed any longer, Phoebe took a book upstairs with her and tried to read, but she could barely concentrate. Each time the house creaked or groaned, her eyes shot up toward the open door of her bedroom. At one point she let her eyes drift over the rumpled sheets and thought of Duncan, of making love to him last night. Though sex with Alec had been decent, more than decent at times, in the last year of their relationship he’d come to rely on a paint-by-numbers approach in bed, and she had found herself yearning for something exciting and reckless. And that had defined sex with Duncan. It had been intense, freeing. She also couldn’t deny how safe she’d felt, having him with her. Don’t be a baby, she told herself. Your lock is changed. You are safe.

Her cell phone, which she’d parked on the bedside table, rang suddenly, making her jerk. With Duncan on her mind, she immediately thought it might be him, just calling to check in.

But when she answered, she heard a gravelly voice on the other end.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” the man said.

“Who is this?” Phoebe asked.

“Hutch Hutchinson. We met yesterday.”

“Oh, hello,” Phoebe said, her voice softening. “No, you didn’t wake me.”

“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about,” he said. “About that group of girls you mentioned. And I think I may have some information you’ll find interesting.”