Revelation Read online

  Coyote was a guy who bought hundred-dollar shirts and never ironed them. He could casually absorb any mathematical concept thrown his way, yet he’d miss an exam because he stayed up late watching old B movies. He was handsome and charismatic enough to attract someone like Emma, but often he didn’t even seem to notice when she was in the same room. Coyote circled the periphery of society, around and around, trying to decide if he wanted in or out.

  I think Coyote liked me because of my blue-collar background. I had accumulated just enough scholastic and philanthropic achievement in my public high school career to make a ripple on Wyland’s application. In the large fish tank of private universities, it was never enough to have beautiful and exotic fish swimming about. You needed a few pebbles at the bottom of the tank to make everything else appear natural.

  As the fall days passed, we all settled into a comfortable routine. Coyote spent most weeknights at Emma’s apartment, giving the three of us our old lives back for sporadic moments. Those nights were spent watching movies, studying, or, in my case, working three nights a week at the campus library.

  Weekends were different. Around Thursday, the slow buzz of the weekend would begin, a faint electric murmur underscoring the excitement of a predictably drunken two days. Coyote was always around on the weekend. Emma seemed to spend time with her own friends on the weekend, and whether or not that was her idea or Coyote’s, I never knew. He seemed content going out with the three of us and rarely mentioned her name before Monday.

  It always seemed a waste to me. If I had a woman like Emma, I’d dive in deep, never even thinking about coming up for air.

  * * *

  Friday night frat party.

  Wyland University frat houses were thin shells of beer and bullshit that sheltered its residents from any reality of the outside world. Not that I really knew, since neither me nor my roommates had ever been in the Greek system, but I’d been to enough frat parties to form what I believed to be a sound opinion. In my opinion, frats were elementary schools without any teachers and a sack of open sugar left in each classroom.

  Going to the party was Jacob’s idea. Some girl he met—named Jen. For some reason they were always named Jen—was going to a Delta Upsilon party with some friends and invited him along. Around ten o’clock, Jacob was busily primping himself in the bathroom while Derek and I were deciding if we wanted to go to the party or find something else to do. Coyote was sitting on the couch, reading Ulysses.

  “You like that book?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said, not looking up.

  “You’re almost done with it.”

  “It’s actually my third read,” he said. “I’m guessing I’ll have a better idea after my fifth read if I like it or not.” He flipped a page over.

  “I had to read it in high school,” I said. “I didn’t even understand the Cliffs Notes.”

  Coyote finally looked up. “Sometimes books aren’t meant to be understood. It’s more a matter of whether or not you connect with them.”

  “And you don’t need to understand it to connect with it?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “You ever read a haiku and not have a clue of what it meant, but you thought it was beautiful?”

  I told him I hadn’t, and that ended the conversation.

  It was still early, so we spent an hour with a fifth of Southern Comfort and a board game designed by the Mensa Society. Jacob had bought it for some reason, and I loved the fact he was the worst at it. Someone would read a question, and we all had to write down our answers. Whoever got it wrong had to take a shot. After an hour, I was getting pretty drunk, while Coyote’s shot glass was dusty dry. It’s funny how much harder Mensa questions get with three shots of Southern Comfort jumping up and down on the soft spots of your brain.

  We finally emerged onto the sidewalk outside our building sometime after midnight, the night air cool and thick with the invigorating smell of recent rain. I sucked it into my lungs, thinking it would surely clear my head. As I looked up, I noticed the window across the street had finally been replaced. I kicked up the collar of my leather jacket against a light breeze as we headed across campus.

  The walk was short—just a straight shot across the South Quad. We heard the party from a few hundred feet away, announced by the thundering of heavy bass from a Run DMC song. The frat house itself was beautiful, an old Victorian, once home to a dean or chancellor back at the turn of the century. I’d been inside it before, though. No dean would have been happy to call it home now, unless he was looking for an insurance write-off.

  As we approached the stone steps leading up to the house, I realized we were four men trying to get into a party where the frat brothers were trying to get the odds in their favor. Four more guys wouldn’t help their cause. I was wondering how we were going to get in as Coyote walked up to the bouncer at the door.

  “Coyote,” the massive, pasty guard dog said, nodding his head in approval.

  “Big Ben.” Coyote extended his hand and the two performed some kind of ritualistic street shake.

  Coyote introduced us to Big Ben, who looked down at us while his chest—a delicate mixture of muscle and lard—jiggled beneath a tight black t-shirt. We all nodded back to him, hoping to gain his approval. We all wanted Big Ben to like us so we could go and gawk at drunk girls in his festering house. I was pleased when he said we could.

  Passing through the front door, I turned to Coyote and said, “How do you know him?”

  “He’s a lost soul,” Coyote replied. “I seem to attract them.”

  I had no idea what that meant.

  Once inside, we slowly made our way from one crowded room to another, acting like we were looking for someone. In a sense, we were: our goal was to find this mysterious Jen, whom Jacob met at the campus store and insisted was a dead ringer for Elizabeth Shue. As he looked, I contented myself scanning the room for any girls hanging out in small packs without guys around.

  Despite my dislike of frat houses, I loved parties. I loved the feel of the music on my skin, and the smell of sweat from people dancing around me. Things happened at parties like this one. Sometimes good things, other times not. But I always wanted to be around when that something happened.

  We found Jen. She looked not so much like Jennifer Jason Leigh but rather like Ferris Bueller’s sister, if she was a tramp and ten pounds heavier. Jen liked to smack gum as she drank her beer. She was with two friends, both of whom were good-looking, and I could see the hamsters spinning on the wheel in Jacob’s brain as he tried to figure out how he could make the shift from Jen to one of the others. He couldn’t find the answer, I knew, and I smiled as he wracked his brain with the effort.

  The girls bobbed their faces and widened their eyes as we all tried to hear one another. Jen leaned in and spoke closely with Jacob, while her two friends smiled at Coyote and Derek. Once in a while they would turn and nod at me as if requesting their check, and I just nodded numbly back at them. It was okay; I was used to not being the center of attention. I was strong and lean, but couldn’t compete with my more athletic roommates. Once in a long while I’d be called attractive, and a bit more frequently someone would say I was cute. I existed in that world just north of plain, and my sense of style did nothing to elevate my status.

  The music thump-thump-thumped deep into my skin, and wherever there was enough room, girls gyrated to the beats while stiff-collared white boys did their best to keep up with them.

  I watched Coyote lead the best looking of the three girls into the fray, dancing close to her in the crowded room. The girl’s eyes remained closed as she slithered around the floor, her small frame seeming to soak in the music through her shoulders and then flinging it out back through her belly button, which was small and tight against a flat, exposed stomach. Coyote didn’t seem to dance as much as he circled tightly around her like a jackal hovering over a wounded rabbit, using his hand to occasionally keep her from wandering away. I wondered what Emma would think. />
  I walked off and looked for Derek, who was in the corner of the next room trying not to watch Jacob making out with the gumchewer. I went up to Derek and pulled him aside.

  “He’s done better,” I yelled into his ear.

  Derek nodded. “I don’t think he really cares. Better than we’re doing.”

  I tugged on his sleeve and he followed me as we passed into another, more crowded room. I spotted two coeds giggling together in the corner of the room, holding their beers like gold ingots. I realized they were probably freshmen. This could be one of their very first frat parties.

  Perfect.

  “Over there,” I said to Derek. The music wasn’t as loud in this room, so I didn’t have to yell.

  “They’re like fifteen,” Derek said, laughing.

  “They’re probably freshmen. At least eighteen.” I started to feel lecherous, but it was easy to be scummy when you knew nothing would likely come out of it.

  Derek took the signal and moved forward with me in tow. The freshmen looked up as we approached. As if connected to the same invisible puppeteer string, they both dipped their mouths into their beer cups while turning their eyes up at us.

  “Freshmen?” Derek said as he reached them.

  The blond one rolled her eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

  Derek nodded. “A little. It’s okay.” He waited until I stepped up to even ground with him. “I’m Derek, and this is Harden.”

  The blond stuck her hand out. “I’m Laura, and this is Alexis.” The brunette smiled. “What year are you guys?”

  “Seniors,” I said, wanting my voice to be heard. “Fourth year.”

  Alexis piped in. “Yeah, that’s how it typically works.”

  Okay, so I can be an idiot. I didn’t care. Everyone seemed happy.

  Our conversation ran the predictable avenue of what we were studying, how they liked Wyland so far, where we were all from, and who we knew at D.U. None of it was particularly interesting, but it all gave us a chance to look one another over, trying to subtly check out each other’s bodies, look closely at the faces, and trying to read how much interest there was in each other’s eyes. It was an unspoken social contract, and after a few minutes we seemed to have agreed to terms that would allow us to proceed in the present company for a bit longer. Nothing more, but it was a start.

  “There you are.”

  I turned and saw Coyote behind me. The girl he’d been dancing with was nowhere in sight.

  “You guys want to get out of here?” He looked at me with excited eyes, as if itching to get into trouble. I very discreetly nodded toward the girls, but Coyote just waved his hand, dismissing me. “Yes, I understand, you’re trying to hook up. That’s okay, bring them, too.”

  I withered like a flower under a hair dryer, but the girls laughed, which was a good sign. Derek glared for the briefest of moments at Coyote, then turned to the freshmen. “You guys want to go back to our apartment? Watch a movie or something?” Derek was expert at sounding nonthreatening, probably because he truly was. The girls looked at him, then glanced over at me. They gave me the once-over and then decided I wasn’t a threat either. Finally, they eyed Coyote and seemed to see in him the same thing everyone does. A beautiful threat, like a gently waking lion. You feel safe enough at a distance from the lion, and you don’t want to turn away; it’s just too interesting not to keep looking. Finally, the girls turned to each other before looking back at us.

  Laura’s voice sounded anything but confident.

  “Sure,” she said. I noticed the briefest look down toward the floor. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JUNE 1990

  Harden watched as the spider scurried along the edge of the far wall, occasionally venturing out a foot or so before turning back. This must be what crept into his mouth the first day he woke in the cell. The spider wasn’t as big as the creature Harden had imagined, but it was big enough. Rather than being fearful, Harden was happy for the company. He wasn’t totally alone.

  When Harden stood, his muscles ached with even the slightest movement. His bed was the cold, dirt floor, and every muscle tensed whenever he tried to sleep. It was, he guessed, his fifth day.

  He slowly approached the spider, wondering what it would do next.

  “Hello.”

  The spider stopped moving as if it understood what Harden was saying. It turned toward him but didn’t move forward.

  “What did you do to offend the Revelation?”

  Harden reached forward, hoping to hold it. He reached out with gentle, probing fingers. The spider seemed willing to oblige in as much as it didn’t retreat. Harden never cared much for spiders, but he rarely killed them, and in this case wanted only someone to talk to besides himself. He wondered what a good name for the spider should be.

  His fingers crept forward.

  The spider lifted one leg slowly.

  “Charlotte,” Harden said, pleased with the name, as derivative as it may be. He had the briefest of thoughts that perhaps he was going insane, but dismissed them. You needed longer than five days to go crazy, he figured.

  Closer. Harden moved his hand toward Charlotte.

  Then he saw the marking.

  He hadn’t noticed it before. The simple red hourglass painted against the jet-black flesh.

  Black widow.

  Harden yanked his hand back and rose to his feet.

  Charlotte bolted, scurrying in a frenzy along the edge of the wall and to the corner of the room. Then it turned inward directly toward the wall and disappeared into some crack so small Harden couldn’t see it.

  Harden didn’t have enough time to consider the one thing he should have done, which was to step on his new friend. And now Charlotte was gone, waiting in the dark periphery. Waiting, perhaps, for Harden to go to sleep again.

  Enough. He had had fucking enough.

  He ran to the door and started pounding. “Either kill me or let me out!” His fists stung as they connected with the cold steel. He kept hitting and shouting until he grew weary, which was only a matter of seconds. Then, a horrifying thought seized him.

  What if they aren’t going to kill me or let me out?

  Maybe he was destined to spend years in the cell, alone, no one to talk to, staying alive on chipped beef and water. But that couldn’t happen. People had to be looking for him. There must be search parties. The police must be interviewing everyone, including those at the Church. Maybe even Coyote himself. He wouldn’t be down here for years. They’d find him soon.

  Still, it had already been five days.

  Harden stood and paced the cell, searching the walls and ceiling, poking and dragging his fingertips along the concrete. He looked for any holes, any signs at all, although he had done this countless times before. But there must be. How else would they know when he was done with a few pages of writing?

  That’s it, he thought.

  That’s the only control I have. I control when they open that door. And that door is the only way out of here.

  Harden sat back down at the typewriter and began writing. After a bit, he would stop and take the pages and stack them neatly. When that happened, the lights would go out, and when that happened, it meant the door would open.

  By the time Coyote, Derek, and I reached our apartment, I realized the girls with us were more drunk than I had thought . . .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  OCTOBER 1989

  By the time Coyote, Derek, and I reached our apartment, I realized the girls with us were more drunk than I had thought. I didn’t know how many beers they had, but they were loud and excited as we crossed the moonlit night campus.

  I looked at my watch as we walked into the apartment. Just after one in the morning. The apartment was empty, which meant wherever Jacob and Jen were, they weren’t here.

  “Nice place,” Alexis said, turning on the lights. The apartment wasn’t in bad shape, and, except for the still-moist shot glasses and the half-empty Southern Comfort bottle on
the table, the place looked almost respectable.

  “Where do you guys live?” I asked, though as soon as I did, I realized I already knew the answer.

  “East campus,” Laura said. “We’re roommates.”

  Of course they lived there—all freshmen were required to stay in the dorms on east campus. Okay, so they were only two or three years younger than me. I don’t think that’s why I began to feel slimy. As much as I always fantasized about the spontaneous hookup, it was rarely satisfying. I was always happiest in a long-term relationship. I needed someone to take care of, and for that someone to take care of me. For the price of a sincere and gentle touch, my heart was yours, and that wasn’t the kind of thing to be found tonight. I got the sense that here was only the potential for awkward and passionless sex with teenagers, and that wasn’t something that I wanted. At least not tonight.

  Derek and Coyote were the last to enter the apartment. Derek took his coat off and put it on the table before taking the girls’ coats as well. He seemed tired, as if he just wanted to go to sleep and brought the girls back here for my benefit. It was probably the truth.

  Coyote wasn’t tired at all. He bounced around the apartment with a frenetic energy, as if he’d been drinking coffee rather than alcohol. It occurred to me that I never even saw him drink that night; he answered all the Mensa questions earlier, and I never saw him with a beer at the party. No wonder he wasn’t wiped out.

  I sat on the couch next to the girls and offered them water, but they instead asked for some of the Southern Comfort. Coyote served up shots to all of us but didn’t take one for himself. Alexis swallowed hers in a series of painful sips, while Laura downed hers in one gulp. I gulped mine and decided it would be my last drink for the evening. I was just sober enough to realize anything more would make for a miserable morning, if I hadn’t already reached that point.