“Kevin Kelly?” Miles said. “That kid a couple of years behind us?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “He had a grow house outside of Charlottesville. Sold to lots of schools, I read.”
“What, here?”
“Yeah. Heard Pelham Greer was helping him.”
“Greer? No shit?”
Fletcher cut across the questions. “So you were framed?” he asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “All charges were dropped.”
“But that’s pretty serious,” Fletcher continued innocently. “I mean, did they fire you or anything?”
I felt as much as saw all eyes turn to me. Anger and embarrassment rose to my face. I’d had no interest in hashing this out with Fletcher, or with anyone else, and yet here I was doing it. Then a familiar voice behind me said, “Mistakenly, Mr. Dupree. The issue has been settled.”
I glanced up to see Sam Hodges in his trademark suspenders and bow tie. Startled, I put my beer down and got to my feet. Several of my classmates did the same. “Keep your seats, fellas,” he said genially, waving his hands down, but now everyone stood up to greet our former dean, Fletcher among them, although he looked peeved. “Turns out Matthias here discovered a staff member was involved in criminal activity,” Sam continued, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Unfortunately, we were fooled into thinking Matthias was the criminal. We were wrong, and all has been forgiven.” He looked at me ruefully. “On our side, at any rate. I wouldn’t blame you if you felt differently.”
“Not at all, Sam,” I said. “Thank you.” Sam squeezed my shoulder and then moved among the crowd, shaking hands, laughing, exchanging with everyone a brief word or story. I saw, with a dark kind of glee, that Sam managed to ignore Fletcher entirely as he greeted the rest of my classmates.
The evening sky grew deeper, and lights glowed under the tent. A band began setting up near a dance floor that had been set down on the grass. I sat back in my chair, sipping my second beer and watching my old classmates rather than engaging in conversation. I noticed without rancor that after the initial greetings, everyone was reverting to old behavior. Julian Pumphrey, our class valedictorian, was talking rather didactically about the perils of investment banking to a bored-looking Max. Fletcher, having recovered from his failure to bait me, had gathered Miles and Roger around him and was telling stories about other classmates, smirking and laughing throughout. Tom Dodrill and Jeb Tanner were arguing about SEC football. I realized that Fritz and I had usually joked privately about this sort of thing, the cliques our class had formed, and although I felt a slight melancholy, I was content to sit back and observe. Occasionally I chatted with Max or Tom or Miles’s wife, but mostly I just nibbled at my plate of shrimp and listened to everyone else talk. No one had asked about Fritz, which was both fine and, illogically, just a little disappointing.
Just as the band began playing “Only the Good Die Young,” Sam appeared again at my side, and I stood up. “So, how are you, really?” Sam asked, hooking his left thumb under one suspender in a familiar gesture.
“I’m doing fine, Sam, thanks. And thanks for what you said back there.”
He winked. “I figured Fletcher Dupree needed to shut his hole,” he said.
I looked around at the alums, a few of them taking to the dance floor. “Is Dr. Simmons here?” I asked.
Sam shook his head. “Asked me to come in his place,” he said. “Travis is out in Utah, with Paul. Some family bonding time.”
My estimation of Travis Simmons rose a bit. Maybe he and Paul would turn out okay. “Does Ren Middleton come to these things?” I asked. “Can’t imagine he’d be happy to see me here tonight.”
“No,” Sam said. “He’s not big on these.” He looked at me shrewdly. “You have every right to be here, Matthias, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Travis and even Ren would agree.”
I shook my head. “No worries.” And I meant it.
“So,” Sam said, “what will you do next?”
“Thought I might take a teaching job in Asheville,” I said. “Creative writing instructor. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”
Sam grinned. “Put me down as a reference.” He looked past my shoulder. “You’ve got some more friends just came in,” he said.
I turned. Trip and Diamond had entered the tent. With a roar of welcome, my classmates swarmed forward, nearly pummeling them both on the back, especially Diamond, who got both Miles and Max into a headlock under each arm to shouts of laughter. Before I could reach Diamond, however, Trip saw me and walked over. “Come with me,” he said, touching my arm and guiding me off to the side. Puzzled, I followed Trip, who moved past a few tables until he reached a relatively quiet corner of the tent.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Wat Davenport’s dead,” he said.
A sickening void formed in my gut. “What?”
“He drove off the Arlington Memorial Bridge into the Potomac. Happened this afternoon.”
Hope trembling slightly in my voice, I said, “An accident?”
“He was in some sort of souped-up Hummer. Two witnesses say he floored it going onto the bridge, swerved around a delivery truck, and then swung hard right and punched through the railing. You might do one of those things if you’re having a heart attack, but not all three.”
“But maybe—”
“The Hummer was something NorthPoint was working on for the military. Had a reinforced chassis made specifically for ramming. It went through a reinforced concrete parapet like it was a split-rail fence.”
I had to lean back against a table. “Jesus, Trip,” I said. This had not been the plan. At all.
“Frank Davenport just announced he’s resigning as CEO of NorthPoint,” Trip went on. “Saw it on my phone a few minutes ago. Says he was already considering retirement with the tenth anniversary of Fritz’s disappearance coming up, and now with his brother’s death, he’s done.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” I said weakly.
“Bullshit,” Trip said. “It makes no sense. When his son disappeared, he missed four days and then went right back to work. He is NorthPoint. Guys like him don’t retire—they die at their desks. This is the kind of thing congressmen do when they’re about to be indicted.”
“Trip—”
“Did you have anything to do with this?” he asked.
“Did I—did I have anything to do with Wat Davenport killing himself?” I didn’t have to fake the outrage, although guilt crested like a mounting wave, threatening to swamp me. I felt like I might vomit right there.
“No, listen,” Trip continued, relentlessly. “Diamond and I stuck our necks out for you. We dug up dirt on Frank Davenport, and we tell you and you go off to D.C. to talk to his brother. Then you don’t tell us jack—”