by Jeff Soloway
Harvey waggled his hefty finger. “That photo’s bullshit. And no one could hack into your phone that fast. You got security. Right? We talked about security.”
“Absolutely,” Chomp said. “My phone’s protected. This is a fake text, sent to a fake network.”
The screen was now displaying a yearbook photo of the second deceased passenger, Carlos Suarez.
“You have a passcode on the phone,” I said.
“Absolutely.”
“Eleven oh eight one six. Election Day. I saw you punch it in.”
“That’s a little arrogant, Carlton,” my mother said.
“When the hell did this happen?”
“When I was in your room. Right after you met me and my mother.”
She smirked. Harvey covered his eyes with his hand. “Tell me that’s not your passcode.”
“No way,” Chomp said, but his ears were turning pink. “Not even close.”
“The passcode worked,” I said. “I used it and scrolled through maybe two weeks of texts. Half the texts you sent to Harvey were obviously criminal. Most of the rest were ridiculous.” I glanced at my mom. “You think his tweets are stupid. You should see his texts. Now the whole world will.”
“I can’t wait,” my mother said.
“After we left the yurt, I unloaded the phone on a Fun Patrol staff member on the island and told her to smuggle it back to the ship. The security chief must have uploaded the contents and sent them to the police and the FBI—and CNN. They know what you’ve been planning. And they’re coming for you at last. You saw it onscreen.”
“None of this is real,” Chomp said.
“Those ships outside are real,” I said. “But they’re not your friends. They’re ours.”
America had finally been frightened into action.
Chomp kicked over the television. Harvey opened the yurt’s flap. I could see them outside, marching down from the surrounding dunes. Soldiers. Americans.
Chapter 28
The ship left the island that morning. Only Chomp and his staff were missing. To avoid the necessity of providing refunds, the Iron Lady was to fulfill its promise of a four-day cruise by sailing lethargically for two days in Bahamian waters before returning to Miami. Elysian Island was now occupied by the Coast Guard and the FBI.
Captain Prosti, fearing an eruption of Chompian resentment, requested that my mother and I enjoy the rest of our cruise in Chomp’s suite, guarded at all times by Chuckles’s men. Just as Harvey had proposed, I was confined to my room. But it was an extremely nice room, and I had better company than Jimbo.
We watched a lot of cable news. Jimbo, whose texts to Chomp had also been exposed, was already cooperating with investigators. Chomp and Harvey Salamone were under arrest, and lawyers were already jockeying to run Chomp’s defense. Rallies were planned in his support. The truth, his backers insisted, would come out, and it would be glorious. Sources close to Chomp suggested that Harvey was the mastermind behind the plot, which Chomp never truly understood, preoccupied as he was with building his new nation.
Chomp’s problem was the sheer mass of evidence implicating him, all of it available not just to the FBI but also to the media. As insiders had always known, Chomp was a technological enthusiast more than an adept. He had apparently never learned to permanently delete his texts. The treasure trove of messages was perfect for twenty-four-hour news networks. Every fifteen minutes, discussion of Chomp’s legal prospects or recaps of Coast Guard tactical operations could be interrupted with news of some shocking new item dug up by an intern.
In these private communications, Chomp proved to be a different person than anyone (perhaps other than Hellania) had ever known, more mercurial and delusional than any insider had ever suggested, but also capable of unsuspected flashes of self-awareness.
As usual, the national newspapers did the best and most thorough job in setting the timeline, but the news channels were good for summarizing the newspapers’ labor. From the beginning, Chomp had identified publicity as crucial for his scheme to attract investors to what was, in effect, a massive real-estate development designed to avoid government regulation. That part was nothing exceptional. Establishing a truly autonomous new nation, on the other hand, was both legally and politically problematic. “Farthing will send us to the border camps,” he wrote to one aide, referring to the detention centers Secretary Arpaio of Homeland Security had set up in the Arizona desert. “Or Gitmo. Pick your cellmate, Mexican or Muslim.” The scheme had to be kept secret from the administration until the moment of its launch—at which point, Chomp constantly insisted, the world, or at least the substantial portion of it that loved him, would rally to his cause.
In the meantime, trusted big-money donors were needed. Chomp’s aides covertly contacted their usual godfathers, but Chomp insisted that they branch out. “We’ll need bipartisan support,” he wrote. “Try Zuck.” When informed that Mark Zuckerberg was neglecting to return phone calls, he replied: “Try Obama. Member POTUS club. Loaded. 60 mil for one book!” But the next text added, graciously: “Deserves it. I get tired after five tweets.”
“Not enough,” Chomp kept texting, when informed of more donors signing on, more tickets sold. “If this fails I’m back in Queens.”
His staff’s appeals to the military were apparently more effective. None of the Joint Chiefs were sloppy enough to communicate electronically, but news of their support obviously reached Chomp. He and Harvey spent much of an entire afternoon indulging in dreams of conquest. Chomp wrote: “Florida first by sea. Easy. Then Georgia, Alabama overland. Big Chomp states. From there, Miss, Ark, Louisiana. For Texas, first kill Cruz then greeted like heroes.” He told Harvey that an Andrew Jackson documentary on the History Channel had given him useful tips on southeastern military strategy.
But the urgency of capturing the public imagination was never far from his mind or his texting fingers. “Need all networks at island for Zero Hour,” Chomp told his aides, “even the losers.” He added: “If the media calls it a stunt or a scam, the money bails.”
To combat the apathy of the networks, he suggested that Harvey promise them violent clashes on the day the cruise left port. But convincing them to cover his speech was another matter. No violence could be expected on the island. The idea of importing a boatload of sacrificial activists was proposed and rejected.
It was Harvey who brainstormed the ultimate attention grabber: “What if they tried to kill you?” He added, prudently, “You survive.”
Chomp ran with it: “Good but Chomp is never victim, always hero. I SHOOT BACK.”
Harvey objected; the resulting inquiry might disrupt the cruise, or even, depending on the political inclinations of the force involved, result in an arrest. Or possibly a trial. No one trusted the FBI.
“Someone has to die,” Chomp complained. “Or who cares?”
So he himself modified the plan: “Murder on cruise. Killer at large. CHOMP BRINGS TO JUSTICE.”
The idea struck him as brilliant. He elaborated further: “Guy tries to kill me, kills some loser instead, I investigate. Imagine Lincoln solving his own murder. Great president, totally crushed slavery. But the BEST presidents survive.”
“So who do we kill?” Harvey asked.
My mother often switched stations until she found coverage of a fascinating tangential issue. An entire below-the-fold story in the Times had been devoted to the story of Chomp’s one-sided correspondence with his ex-wife Hellania. Wherever Chomp went, he seemed to chew up much of the local Wi-Fi bandwidth begging her to take him back. “Nothing’s fun without my Hell,” he complained to her. “Every other woman seems so ugly.” Other pleas were even more pathetic. The dignified absence of any reply from her threatened to make her a feminist hero. Chomp’s supporters claimed that exposing this kind of vulnerability only made him more sympathetic. The opposition hoped that, even if Chom
p survived the murder charge, they would finally be able to ridicule him to death. As they had been hoping since the election.
President Farthing and congressional leaders had no comment. Like the rest of us, they would wait and see.
When we tired of TV, my mother and I ordered room service and ate on the balcony. Chomp being responsible for the room charges, we availed ourselves of his lavish minibar. My mother occasionally admonished me to get to work writing the story of the cruise, and especially her part in it, but at the same she urged me to enjoy with her the premixed mai tais and sparkling ocean views. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever cruise again together,” she said.
The suite had Wi-Fi. I tried to ignore my phone. Will, my editor, was messaging constantly.
“Where’s your dancer?” my mother asked. “Invite her for a visit.”
“She’s too busy working. So’s Carmen. Chuckles told me to contact corporate PR to set up interviews.” RMB was hoping the world would forget that Chomp ever happened.
“My son won’t give up that easily.”
She was right. I planned to track them all down after the cruise. I was less gung-ho about contacting Carlos’s aunt, but I would do my duty to her family’s story as well. I would even contact Shell, though she’d almost certainly shun me; perhaps I could substitute Mrs. Chachkey for the Chompian perspective. That conversation might be fun.
Others less so. “Dad texted. He wants to come by. Family meeting.”
“Let him.” My mother swooped her hand grandly. By then she was a little tipsy. “He played his part! He took his photo, that heroic grump. Tell him to come by. I’ll be sweet, I promise. Let’s learn from him, Jacob. Let’s be content in our lives, as he is. Sex and love are unimportant. Sex especially. It occupies so little of one’s day. Instead we can work to improve the world, whether through information technology, as he does, or political comeuppance, as we have. You should devote yourself to your writing, Jacob. Maybe you’ll get better at it. Even better, I mean. We should all be better. What if I took him back?”
I grabbed her bottle. “No jokes, Mom.”
“It’s more of a threat than a joke. But, Jacob, companionship is important. And after all, your father and I have something very important in common. You.”
I texted my father.
When the guard finally opened the door, two people walked in. My father introduced us to Pamela. Her hair was pulled back into a jaunty ponytail. Threads of gray shot back from her forehead, echoing the smaller lines that stretched from the corners of her eyes and mouth. She smiled, and her lines deepened, smiling with her.
She was the woman I’d seen on the deck at the Sailaway Party and in the hallway near my room last night. The one my mother had pegged as Clark’s girlfriend, and I as Clark’s girlfriend’s ghost.
“Hell of a vacation,” my father said.
Pamela squeezed his arm. “It was Howie’s idea. He knows I’m a big fan of Chomp.” She whispered the last part, to muffle the scandal.
“Nobody’s perfect,” he said.
Pamela laughed and shrugged in apology. She wanted us to know that our good opinion was more important to her than politics. She and my father sat on a settee. My mother and I both pulled up club chairs. I badly needed to sit. Watching my father make another woman laugh was more shocking than watching election returns on Chomp’s night of triumph.
“I’m from Buffalo,” Pamela said, as if that explained her imperfection.
“You met on the ship?” I asked.
Now Pamela laughed at me. “Of course not!” They exchanged glances. She gave him an expectant nod. He seemed to start to say something, then give up. He stared down at his sandals. At least she hadn’t made him throw them out.
When it was clear he was unable to speak, she said, “Do you think we’ll ever get the real story? About Chomp, the island, and this cruise? There has to be a reason for it all, right? I bet you have stories. We saw you at his table. Now, Howie has his own theory, which is very, let’s say, interesting.”
My father declined her invitation. “We don’t agree on politics.”
“We don’t agree on lots of things. Last night he left me alone while he was on some secret assignment. We never even made it to the island. I had to watch karaoke by myself. I hate karaoke.”
“Really?” my mother said cautiously.
“In public, I mean. I like it fine in the private rooms. That’s the only way to get Howie to sing. Life is a cabaret, old chum.” She sang it the dignified, mournful way. “And then the news got hot and everyone just watched the tube in the bars.”
My father, incredibly, was staring at her with undisguised affection.
“How did you meet?” my mother asked.
“Match,” Pamela said. “I was on all of them, but Match is the best. He was funny from first contact.” She scrunched up her face and scratched the back of my father’s neck like she was petting a cat. His cheeks flushed, but his goofy grin brought me back to the days long ago, when he would tease my mother during Trivial Pursuit, convince us all to watch Star Trek, take surprise photos of me sorting baseball cards. This woman was the supreme ruler of his moods; we were retired officeholders with little influence. I hoped she was a benevolent tyrant.
“You came on this cruise,” I said, “so we could meet Pamela.”
“No!” cried Pamela. “That would be crazy! We came to cruise with Chomp. And get some sun. I came a few days early to get in some extra beach time. We met on the ship that morning.”
That explained why he was alone when I saw him in the airport.
But my father, always the truth-teller, said, “I did want to introduce you.”
“Not just introduce,” Pamela said.
“I wanted a family meeting. All of us together.” He looked at my mother and shrugged. “It’s hard to organize these things. But on the ship, I thought, we’ll be all together.”
“He was so nervous,” Pamela said. “He wanted everything just right.”
“Is that why you shut me out of your room?” I asked. “Because Pamela was there?”
“We’re a family. We used to be. We should do things all together.” He studied my mother’s face with some anxiety but no shame. He was, I realized, apologizing.
“Keep going.” Pamela nudged him with her elbow.
He sat straighter. He was ready. “Jacob, I want you to be best man. Next month.”
Pamela leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’s very small. Only a few friends and family.”
He had to invite us; he had no other friends. She knew that and accepted it. Good for her, but did she feel sorry for him? Did she not understand who he was and how he chose to live?
Maybe she was the first woman to understand. Or the first to understand and not mind.
“You have to wear a tie,” my father said.
“Of course, Dad. I’ll be there. I’m happy for you.”
“I want you to come too, Eleanor.”
“You’re very important to him,” Pamela told her.
My mother’s eyes were unnaturally wide, but she adjusted her half smile to full length. “I haven’t missed one of your weddings yet, Howard.”
“It’s very small,” Pam said. “But you can bring a date.” She looked thoughtful. “You wouldn’t bring him, would you? I guess you couldn’t, now. With everything. But, if you could—would you?”
“It’s a very complicated story,” my mother said.
“I’m sure.”
“But one I plan to tell in detail. Jacob and I are in the midst of a collaboration. It will be first a long magazine article and later a book. It should certainly sell, don’t you think?”
They agreed.
When they were gone, I asked, “Do you mean it?”
“Pour me another,” my mother said. “And open that laptop. Le
t’s get to work.”
To Manny and Valerie
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my fine and sympathetic editor, Elana Seplow-Jolley, as well as Beth Pearson, Deborah Dwyer, Kathryn Jones, and the rest of the team at Alibi. Thanks also to Dana Isaacson, who got the series started. I am most grateful to Vanessa Rosen, the original travel writer, for all her faith, support, and love.
BOOKS BY JEFF SOLOWAY
The Travel Writer
The Last Descent
The Ex-President
PHOTO: © JAMIE ROSEN
Formerly an editor and writer for Frommer’s travel guides, JEFF SOLOWAY is now an executive editor in New York City. In 2014 he won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award from the Mystery Writers of America.
randomhousebooks.com/authors/jeff-soloway
Every great mystery needs an Alibi
eOriginal mystery and suspense from Random House
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