Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

  The grass felt cold, the earth hard. Music leaked into the night: Sarah Vaughan. Now he had the divine Sarah to go with the wind in the trees. Two forces of nature. Smiling, Zyzmchuk placed his hands on the windowsill and slowly raised his head.

  Alice Frame and Jameson T. Phinney sat on a thick red Persian rug before a roaring fire. She was dressed for après-ski at Gstaad or Megève. He wore cashmere and tweed. They were eating pâté and drinking Burgundy: Zyzmchuk could tell from the shape of the bottle. A wicker hamper lay between them. Alice’s manicured hand reached in and pulled out a bunch of grapes. She plucked one and held it up. Phinney opened his mouth. He had little white teeth and a little red tongue. Alice tossed the grape in the air. Phinney caught it like a good little seal. They laughed—a third sound, to go with Sarah Vaughan and the wind. Zyzmchuk was reminded of D. H. Lawrence, Scott Fitzgerald, or one of that crowd. He wasn’t reminded of Mata Hari or one of hers.

  A cold raindrop landed on the back of his neck. Then another. Zyzmchuk crept back to the cedar tree and sat under its branches. The sky made a whispering sound, a whisper of the insistent kind. Rain fell. The wind drove it at an angle, lashing the ground all around him. He tucked his knees under his chin to keep his whole body in the shelter of the cedar tree. But at last the rain penetrated it, too, dripping off the branches and onto him. First wet, then cold; he thought about whiskey in pint bottles. He thought about it with such concentration that some time passed before he realized that Sarah Vaughan had stopped singing.

  Zyzmchuk slid out from under the tree and stood up. Lights no longer glowed from the house; he was about to move around to the front to check on Phinney’s car, when he heard a faint sound from above.

  There was a big window on the second floor of the cabin. Zyzmchuk could see nothing through it. He opened his toolbox and took out an extendable steel pole, painted black. He screwed a little round receiver-transmitter onto its end and approached the house. Sticking the base of the pole into the ground, he pulled out the extension until the bug reached the height of the window. Slowly he tilted the pole forward until the bug touched the glass. Then he sat down under the tree, pressed the record button on his tape machine, donned earphones and listened.

  First he heard rain striking glass. It sounded like a percussion instrument, halfway between a snare drum and cymbals. Then a woman moaned. “Oh, God,” she said. “Jamie. Oh God.”

  A man moaned too, deeper and throatier. “Jesus. Jesus Christ. It’s so …”

  Perhaps, being cultured people, they recognized the lack of original things to say. In any case, they stopped talking. Instead, they made moans together, intensified them, climaxed them. Then there was just the percussion of the rain on the window.

  A sigh.

  “When is Maggie coming back?” asked Alice Frame. She sounded wide awake.

  “Tomorrow night,” Phinney answered, sounding sleepy.

  Rain on the window. Rain dripping through the cedar tree, under the neck of Zyzmchuk’s waterproof jacket, soaking through his sweater, his sweatsuit and down to his skin: God’s punishment, he thought, for a professional voyeur, or auditeur, this time.

  Alice blew out a long, slow breath. “God, he’s a shit,” she said.

  Zyzmchuk turned up the volume. That made the percussion louder.

  “It must have been awful,” Phinney said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Phinney cleared his throat, perhaps in an effort to expel his sleepiness, or just to speak words he didn’t want to. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Pause. “But I’ve never felt so humiliated in my whole life.” Her voice broke on the word “humiliated.”

  “Don’t cry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Cry if you want. Don’t be sad, that’s all I meant.”

  Alice stopped crying. “He’s such a shit. He’s not even coming for the unveiling. His staff couldn’t get the Times or the Post interested enough to send photographers.”

  Phinney said nothing. Rain played its music on the window. “Is there any wine left?” Alice asked.

  “Here.”

  Zyzmchuk heard her sip. He had good equipment in his toolbox.

  “When is Maggie coming back?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  Sip. Time passed. Sip.

  “Come closer,” Alice said.

  Bedding rustled. “I can try,” Phinney said.

  “That’s all I ask. I … need you, Jamie. But I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”

  There was no reply.

  They moaned together, low and passionate. Zyzmchuk took off his earphones. He didn’t want to hear their lovemaking, not without a good reason. And the reason was gone, the investigation finished. He knew the cause of Alice Frame’s behavior at the lie-detector test, and it had nothing to do with the spy game. It had to do with the adultery game. So he continued to record the sounds in the cabin on Mount Blackstone—Keith could listen to the whole tape if he wanted—but he didn’t listen himself. Instead he tried to think of some way to force them to keep their promise. The investigation had been so easy, the results so trite, he couldn’t imagine them not trying to wriggle out of the agreement. He thought of all the ways they might try. He thought of all the ways he might counter. He ended up thinking about the job market.

  At first light, Zyzmchuk rose, stretched his damp body, packed his toolbox and walked to his car. He drove down Mount Blackstone, out of the rain and into drizzle. He’d planned to drive home, but passing the 1826 House, he saw again the sign advertising rooms with fireplaces. And showers too, he thought. Comfort and rest. Why not? It was Saturday morning.

  Zyzmchuk drove up to the office, thinking about warm showers and glasses of whiskey in front of a fire. The office door opened. A woman came out. Zyzmchuk, with one foot already on the pavement, drew it back into the car and closed the door.

  The dark-haired woman.

  He pulled out of the parking lot before she could see him. Then he drove a few hundred yards down the road and stopped at the Morgan Inn. The Morgan Inn advertised rooms with fireplaces too, but that wasn’t why he booked one. The room was booked—chintz and maple, too-soft mattress, no fireplace, they were all taken—because Ivan Zyzmchuk was paid not to believe in coincidences, and he liked to earn his money.

  20

  A man, or maybe a boy, said, “It’s supposed to be fun.”

  A woman, or maybe a girl, said, “Not when you treat me like this.”

  “Like what?” he said.

  “Like last night,” she said.

  “Like what last night?”

  “Precisely.”

  “God, it’s true what they say.”

  “What who says?”

  “Your roommates—that you’re a bore.”

  No reply. A door closed. Jessie opened her eyes. Gray light leaked in through a gap in floral curtains. She took in the outlines of her room: desk, television, fireplace, the double bed she lay in. She got out of it and looked through the curtains.

  A young man was walking away, across the parking lot. He had his head tucked down into the turned-up collar of a jacket that said MORGAN on the back, tucked down against the drizzle or because he craved anonymity. The next moment a young woman went quickly by Jessie’s window. She was the kind of woman who might one day realize how beautiful she was, but hadn’t yet. And it wouldn’t be today: her eyes were puffy from crying and she needed sleep. The woman got in a car with a Vassar decal and sped away. Jessie remembered carefree college weekends just like that, but at Stanford they’d had the sunshine to make it all less depressing.

  She went to her suitcase, put on the last of the fresh clothing. She’d packed for a day or two. Saturday. Day two. All she had to show for her trip was a broken barrette with a few strands of frizzy hair caught in it. She picked up the phone and called Dick Carr’s home number.

&nb
sp; “Jesus,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “You forgot?”

  “I’m in Vermont. Or Massachusetts, I guess.”

  “You guess? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for two days.”

  Jessie held the phone in both hands. “Have they found Kate?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” he said, almost impatient. “And nothing new on the hit-and-run. It’s about Barbara’s will. You were supposed to stop by the office. I’m trying to wrap it up in the next few days.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Jessie said, hearing the edge in her tone and doing nothing about it. “Kate’s somewhere around here. Or she was on Monday. They both were.”

  He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was gentler. “How do you know?”

  “They were seen.”

  “Does that mean DeMarco was right? He’s off on a toot?”

  “I think so,” Jessie said. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “Signing some papers.”

  “Why?”

  “Barbara left you her ring.”

  “The Amelia Earhart one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sell it. And send me the money.”

  “I don’t like to do that.”

  “Me either. But I need the money.”

  Silence. Then Dick Carr sighed. “I’ll advance you some from the firm. We can formalize arrangements when you get back.”

  “Okay.”

  “Five hundred all right?”

  “Thanks,” Jessie said.

  “Where are you?”

  Jessie opened the desk drawer and found the stationery. “1826 House.” She read him the address and hung up. She didn’t want to wear Amelia Earhart’s ring—Barbara’s maybe, but not Amelia Earhart’s.

  Jessie dressed—the jeans, blue sweater, suede jacket—and went into the office. She got a map of the town and paid for two nights. That left seventy-eight dollars in her wallet. She was worrying about that as she went outside. A big rusty jeep shot out of the parking lot. Jessie got into her own car and drove to the campus.

  The Morgan campus was the kind that came to mind when someone said “college.” It had broad lawns, green even in November; ancient spreading trees; and impressive buildings—Georgian, Greek Revival, Federal, Colonial. Harold Lloyd could have walked out of any door.

  Jessie hadn’t expected to find the Alumni Affairs Building open; she only wanted to find it so she could be there first thing Monday morning. But the Alumni Affairs Building—a trim white house with skylights and flowering plants in the windows—had smoke rising from its chimney. Jessie knocked on the door.

  “It’s open,” called a man inside.

  Jessie went in, through a front hall with lacrosse sticks hanging on the wall, and into an office. A man sat behind a monitor, one hand hovering over a keyboard, telephone receiver wedged between shoulder and chin. He pointed Jessie to a chair. “There is no suggested figure, Tad,” he was saying. “This isn’t Harvard. It has to come from the heart.” Tad said something; Jessie could hear his tiny voice but couldn’t make out the words. Whatever it was made the man behind the monitor laugh. He screwed up his face and twinkled his eyes as though Tad could see him. At the same time, his fingers tapped at the keyboard. Words appeared on the screen: “Addison T. Wheeler, Jr.—$1,000.” “Really nice talking to you, Tad. Don’t be a stranger.” The man pressed a button on the phone, opening another line; he didn’t waste time by putting the receiver down.

  He swiveled around to Jessie. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” Jessie said. “I’m trying to find the present address of one of your alumni.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” the man said. “What’s your connection to the college?”

  “None, really. It’s my … husband. I think he’s visiting the alumnus I’m looking for. I’d like to find the address.”

  The last twinkle of merriment left over from his conversation with Tad faded from the man’s eyes. “Is your husband an alumnus too?”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  “But it’s important.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But we can’t just give out alumni information to anyone who asks for it. School policy. I’m afraid you’ll have to apply in writing.”

  “Apply to whom?”

  “To this office.” He held out a card: Curt Beringer, Alumni Affairs.

  Jessie got off her chair and approached him. “Please listen to me, Mr. Beringer.” She said it again, leaving out the please. “I’ve come all the way from Los Angeles. I’ve got a ten-year-old daughter. She’s a week overdue from a visit with her father. I know they’re in the area, and I’m pretty sure they’re with a friend of his from this school. I need your help.”

  Curt Beringer listened. His eyes didn’t leave her face. But the expression in them didn’t soften as she spoke; it became quizzical instead and a little put-off, as though she’d raised the curtain on something distasteful.

  “You’re divorced?” he said.

  “What does that have to do with it?” Her voice rose despite her efforts to keep it even.

  “This sounds more like a police matter to me,” Curt Beringer said. “Of course, if you’ve got authorization from them, it’s a different story.”

  “I don’t. But—”

  “Then I’m very sorry.” Beringer turned to the monitor. He touched the ENTER key. “Name?” asked the screen. Beringer checked a list. “Wallis,” he typed. “Newton E.” The disk drive spun. Beringer dialed the phone as information on Newton E. Wallis lit the screen. “Newt?” said Beringer. “Hey, how are you. Curt Beringer up at Morgan. Fine, fine. Still whalin’ that killer forehand? Ha ha. Say, I’m calling on behalf of the Field House Fund.… You haven’t heard of the Field House Fund? Oh boy. Listen, Newt—”

  Curt Beringer glanced up and frowned at Jessie. That look made her want to hit him; instead she felt tears welling in her eyes. Before Curt Beringer noticed, she hurried out of the Alumni Affairs Building and started to cry. Then the image of the young woman from Vassar sprang into her mind; that stopped her. She didn’t have time for tears. This wasn’t a bad date.

  Jessie began walking, with no destination in mind. Morgan College had a human scale. Even under a gray, drizzling sky it calmed her. Think, she told herself. She was letting anxiety grow wildly insider her for no good reason. Look at the facts. She was close to finding Kate, much closer than she’d been in California. And if Buddy Boucher could be believed, nothing like kidnapping had happened. Kate was with her father, and they were in the company of an old friend, possibly Hartley Frame. That meant she still needed Hartley Frame’s address. Curt Beringer mentioned police authorization. Fine. Instead of losing her self-control, she should have played by his rules: simply picked up the phone and called Lieutenant DeMarco. Jessie started back toward the Alumni Affairs Building. She was running by the time she got there.

  Jessie knocked on the door. No answer. She turned the knob. The door opened. Jessie went through the front hall and into the office, expecting to find Curt Beringer at his desk. But he wasn’t there. “Hello?” she called. “Hello?” No answer. Jessie poked her head around a corner and saw a corridor leading to a door at the back of the house. “Mr. Beringer?” she called down it. Silence.

  She’d have to come back later; turning, Jessie was about to leave the room when she saw Beringer had left his monitor on. “Kinsley,” it said. “Forrest J. Class of ’56.” Jessie went closer. Her hand moved toward the keyboard, a normal keyboard, with an ENTER key on the right side. She glanced once around the room. Then she lowered her index finger onto the ENTER key and pressed.

  “Kinsley, Forrest J.” vanished from the screen. “Name?” it asked.

  “Frame,” Jessie typed. “Hartley.” ENTER.

  Words scrolled down the screen. “Frame, Hartley E. Class of ’69. Father: Edmund S. Frame. Class of ’43. U.S. Senat
or, Virginia. Mother: Alice (Sangster). Faculty advisor: Prof. M. R. McTaggart, Dept. of Music. Academic Record: SAT: Verbal-670. Math-640. Achievement Tests—”

  A foot crunched on the walk outside. Jessie’s hand jerked away from the keyboard. She heard the front door open. Now was the moment to assert her self-control. It was embarrassing, that’s all—she hadn’t committed a sin. Just tell Mr. Beringer exactly what happened; he’ll understand.

  Then the door closed and a board creaked in the front hall, as if under a heavy weight. The sound made Jessie bolt across the room, down the corridor and out the back. She didn’t stop running until she came to a small quadrangle with a statue of a judgmental-looking man in the center. Colonel Morgan, said big letters carved on the base. Jessie turned. A woman with an armful of books was walking the other way. An Irish setter was chasing a bouncing ball. No one followed her.

  Jessie returned to the 1826 House. Step one: completed—not smoothly, or even with dignity, but done just the same.

  Step two: Jessie picked up the phone and called information in Washington. Information gave her Senator Edmund Frame’s office number. Jessie wrote it down. She looked at the number for a while. She’d never called a U.S. senator before. But it was the next step. Jessie dialed the number.

  A man answered immediately. “Yes?” he said. Saturday, but he still sounded pressed for time.

  Jessie felt the pressure. It made her condense what she had to say and bend the facts a little. “Hello. I’m an old friend of Senator Frame’s son Hartley. I wonder if you could tell me how to get in touch with him.”

  “The senator?”

  “No. Hartley.”

  There was a pause. Then the man said, “If that’s supposed to be a joke, it’s not a very funny one.”

  Click.

  21

  “Boucher’s Dodge and Dodge Trucks. Buddy here.”

  “It’s Jessie Shapiro, Mr. Boucher.”

  “Who?”

  “Jessie Rodney.”