Random Hearts

by Warren Adler

  "Maybe he just missed the flight. Simple as that."

  "Then why hasn't he called?" Vivien cried, pausing to resist the oncoming waves of hysteria. "I'm sorry to have upset you," Vivien said, detesting the apology. She heard a sudden click. She had one of those phones that signaled when an incoming call was coming in. "I'll call you later. That may be Orson."

  The brief burst of relief quickly dissipated. It was Miss Sparks. "Any word from Mr. Simpson?" she asked.

  "Not yet." Vivien tried to say it calmly. From her tone, it seemed that Miss Sparks had anticipated the answer.

  "I did check the Concorde flights for tomorrow. Also the regular jets..."

  It annoyed Vivien at first that Miss Sparks had duplicated the effort with the Concorde people. She herself had forgotten, or been too timid, to check the regular jets. She could tell from Miss Sparks's tone that she had met with little success.

  "...and a number of likely hotels in Paris."

  She heard the emission of a strange sigh. So Miss Sparks, too, was becoming anxious, she thought, not at all heartened by the knowledge. "I'm sure I'll hear from him before the night is over," Vivien said as if she were trying to soothe Miss Sparks.

  "Oh, I'm sure of it," Miss Sparks responded with an optimistic lilt that seemed forced and artificial. "I know your husband. I'm sure there is a logical explanation."

  "I just don't understand why you didn't make the arrangements," Vivien said. It was a compulsive reaction, so out of character that it left a long pause on the line.

  "It's a mystery to me," Miss Sparks said. "But I'm sure everything is all right," she added quickly.

  "I just don't understand it," she said. "It's just not like him."

  "No, it isn't, Mrs. Simpson," Miss Sparks said. She could no longer hide her deep concern behind the crisp facade. For a moment Vivien felt as though she were a genuine ally.

  "If I hear tonight, I'll call," Vivien said.

  "Will you? I'd appreciate that."

  After hanging up, she paced the study. Mostly she hated the feeling of total helplessness. Her emotions drifted from fear to panic to anger. Anger seemed the most productive, holding at bay any debilitating anxiety. How dare he do this to her! It was callous, unthinking. Then she directed her anger against herself. She had been stupid, a typical brainless do-nothing wife who left everything to her husband. She was a dimwit, the ultimate traditional woman, the quintessential nonassertive wife. She deserved to be in this state. She should have known where he was going, how and when, instead of expecting others to know for her. That would change, she vowed. Maybe she had become too contented. Bovine.

  She put Ben to bed, after enduring another bout of questioning about Daddy, which only unnerved her further. To take her mind off her fear, she turned on the television set to the news, and the first image that assailed her was the crash, evoking the immediate horror of accident. She quickly turned off the television set and thought about that. If he was in an accident, he carried identification. Shuddering, she pushed that thought from her mind and debated whether or not to call her parents in Vermont. She rejected that idea. No sense in getting others upset.

  For a long time she sat in the silence of the hushed house and looked out into the backyard at the stoic visage of their snowman, calm and serene in the chill night, staring out at the alien world with his cookie eyes. Then she opened a bottle of brandy, poured a glass, and sipped it slowly. The warmth felt good as it trailed through her chest, soothing her.

  Soon, she was certain, she would discover a perfectly logical explanation. That thought reassured her, but only for a little while.

  9

  On the fifth day the weather eased, and work began again on the rescue operation in the river. Early in the morning the crane brought up the tail section. As it rose from the semi-frozen river, two bodies slipped from it and fell back into the water, sinking beneath the surface. The spot where they fell was quickly marked, and divers were sent down to recover them.

  Later in the day the big crane brought up the fuselage, which, as it rose, looked like some giant beast emerging from the deep. A number of bodies were found there, still strapped in their seats. Because of the proximity of the baggage racks to the victims, they were identified quickly. The rescuers were also able to match the seating plan to the overhead racks and determine the ownership of various personal belongings.

  The extreme cold did not bother Sergeant McCarthy as it had during the first days. He came to the temporary tent fully prepared with heavy gloves, long underwear, and earmuffs. The body bagging and identification went smoothly. There were no more Jane Does. The only odd thing was a group of mysterious divers who went down along with the divers from the Army Engineers.

  "Some big classified thing," someone said. "Defense stuff."

  There were military men aboard, and the sudden injection of intrigue gave the day an uncommon feeling. It had begun to seem like routine.

  By the end of the day another twenty-three bodies had been recovered, leaving less than twenty still on the bottom of the river, including the pilot and the co-pilot who were obviously in the front part of the plane which had not yet been raised. Everyone was happy with the progress of the operation. The official departments involved took pains to commend their personnel and to backslap themselves with the media, representatives of which continued to haunt the site with their cameras and equipment although with less enthusiasm than at the beginning. They did, however, continue to press officials with questions that hinted at the possibility of sabotage or foul play. These suggestions were quickly and firmly denied.

  Back at the Medical Examiner's office, McCarthy sifted through the victims' personal belongings, assigning them to the names that appeared on his list. The objective was to return both the body and the property to proven relatives as quickly as possible. There were occasional altercations between the police and distraught relatives regarding property. Some complained of jewelry being missing. Another insisted that a briefcase belonging to one of the victims had been rifled of ten thousand dollars in cash. Still another, the husband of a woman whose arm was severed, swore that it had been done deliberately to mask the theft of a three-carat ring. The relatives blamed the police. The police blamed the divers or the Army Engineers. Human nature was like that, McCarthy knew. He had little faith in the inherent goodness of human beings.

  He and his partner, Wally Forbes, took turns bringing in the relatives. It was impossible to fully steel oneself against the surge of emotion. Even the most hardened professional could not fail to be moved by this unending saga of human agony. Many of the relatives had to be held up as they were led to the refrigerator where the trays were opened to reveal their grizzly contents. The event was so stupefying that the police had to change shifts often. It was just too much to bear.

  By the end of the fifth day there was still no clue as to the identity of Jane Doe. And the Marlboro couple still did not attract any relatives to the now dwindling numbers staying at the Marriott. McCarthy was being pressed for a solution by his chief, who, in turn, was being leaned on by the member of the Southair management team assigned to the crash—the young vice-president Jack Farnsworth. His eyes were badly hollowed out by exhaustion and fatigue, his face was pale, and his clothes were wrinkled.

  "We do not want any mysteries," Farnsworth told McCarthy.

  "That's the object of my business. No mysteries."

  "Mysteries mean undue media attention long after the event," Farnsworth explained.

  McCarthy agreed. He hated the media and did all he could to thwart them.

  "I'm glad we see eye to eye," Farnsworth told him. It wouldn't have mattered. There was a lot of information that remained deliberately hidden from the media: the ring on the severed hand, mysterious divers, gory details about the condition of the bodies, facts pertaining to the pilots and stewardesses. In one of the stewardesses's tote bags, a twenty-two-caliber revolver had been discovered.

  "I hope that doesn't get out," the v
ice-president sighed to McCarthy, who had found the pistol.

  "What I'd like to know was how it got in."

  "So would I."

  "Any clues as to why the crash occurred?" McCarthy asked.

  "Not yet. The whole world seems to be investigating it."

  "What do you think?"

  "It would be nice to find out it wasn't our fault," he responded gloomily.

  As usual, McCarthy thought, everybody wanted to shift blame. That did not matter to him. He had only one mystery on his plate. The bigger picture was out of his hands. He needed only to discover the identity of Jane Doe and the Marlboro couple to finish his official work.

  10

  When Edward awoke it seemed as if he had not slept at all. His skin felt dry, his mouth sour. He had slept in his clothes. Opening his eyes, his anxieties came to life. Where was Lily? He turned on the TV, listening while he puttered around and looked for Mr. Parks's number. News about the weather and the Russians floated into his consciousness, and they were still working on recovering the bodies in the plane crash. No other crashes had been reported. Finding Mr. Parks's home number, he looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty. To hell with him, he whispered as he dialed the number.

  A woman answered.

  "Mr. Parks, please."

  "He's in the shower."

  "Please, it's very important."

  The woman seemed to have just awakened and was in no mood to be accommodating, forcing him to go through a long harangue of identification. His urgency seemed to shake her awake, and she dropped the phone to get Mr. Parks, who presumably came dripping in from the shower.

  "Sorry to disturb you."

  "No problem." The man was obviously used to dealing with recalcitrant or hysterical clients.

  "I'm worried. about my wife. She was supposed to be home yesterday evening from L.A."

  "Maybe she'll come in this morning."

  "She's not booked on any of the flights."

  "May I ask you a question?" Mr. Parks asked politely.

  "Of course."

  "Why are you calling me?"

  The question did not seem mean-spirited, but it did take Edward by surprise.

  "She was on business for you," he said, annoyed by the man's indifference. He hoped Mr. Parks would not see it as a flash of temper.

  "For me?"

  "The fashion festival in L.A. Doesn't that classify as store business?"

  The hesitation at Mr. Parks's end was nerve-wracking but eloquent, confirming the message that Edward was about to hear.

  "There wasn't any fashion festival in L.A.," Mr. Parks said with surprising gentleness.

  "Are you sure?"

  "It's my business to know."

  Edward hesitated again, as if waiting for a response. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

  "Besides, I would have had to approve the trip. I'm sorry, but I don't understand."

  "I don't either," Edward said. His stomach was knotting, and his hands began to shake.

  "How long has she been gone?"

  "Today is the fifth day."

  "My God!" Mr. Parks exclaimed. Obviously disturbed by his impulsive outburst, he tried to reassure Edward. "I'm sure it's nothing. Sometimes the pressures of our business are just too much. Maybe she had to get away by herself." He must have realized that he was getting deeper and deeper into an anxiety-provoking explanation. He paused, then changed his tack. "I'll tell you what. Let me check around when I get into the office. Maybe I'm wrong. You never know in this damned business. Sure. Maybe I did approve a trip."

  Edward hung up, feeling worse than ever. Yet he could not focus on any specific feeling. His emotions seemed to vacillate among anger at Lily, self-pity for himself, frustration at his lack of knowledge, and a growing, engulfing wave of despair.

  He called Congressman Holmes at his apartment and explained his predicament.

  "That's a bitch," the Congressman said.

  "I don't know what the hell to do," Edward said gloomily. "Who checks on things like this?"

  "I don't know. The police, I guess. Missing persons. Listen, I'm just a congressman. I don't know everything."

  Edward wasn't sure whether or not it was an attempt at humor. He hoped it wasn't. Callous bastard, he thought.

  "I can't think about anything else," he said, foreclosing on what was sure to come next.

  "Then you won't be in?"

  Of course not, you asshole, Edward thought. "I'll keep in touch with things, though," he lied. "I'm sure I'm overreacting."

  "Hope you're right," the Congressman said. The remark had an ominous tone.

  When he hung up he did not know what to do. He took a hot shower, then turned the taps to cold, hoping it might shock him into conceiving some course of useful action. As he dressed he looked around the apartment. Somehow he felt Lily's presence there. A sob bubbled up from his chest, and he fell on his knees, leaning his elbows on a kitchen chair. He was not a religious man and had not done that for a long time.

  "Please, God, make Lily come home to me. She is my life. Please, God, bring Lily home."

  He soon realized that he was sobbing hysterically. He let it happen. Had he ever done that before? Once! He remembered his grandfather, whom he adored. One summer the man lay between life and death, and Edward had gone into the woods and prayed, sobbing like this. His grandfather had lived. He had forgotten all about it until this moment.

  He knew he could not stay in the apartment. But he had to do something, something constructive. Standing by the telephone was like watching grass grow. When he pulled himself together he called the office again and spoke to Jan. There were still no messages from Lily.

  "Pretty rough, Edward?" Jan asked. Her so-called mother instinct seemed to grasp him by the throat. He did not respond.

  "Is he rampaging because I'm not there?" he asked instead.

  "Listen, you've got other things on your mind," she responded evasively.

  "That doesn't answer the question."

  There was a long pause.

  "Well, he's not in the best of moods."

  "Pissed off?"

  "You might say that."

  "Can't blame him, I suppose."

  "Everyone's trying to keep up, Edward." She lowered her voice. "Look, not everyone understands."

  "Thinks it's some domestic difficulty?" Edward said with disgust.

  "What do you care what he thinks?" Jan asked belligerently. He agreed with her and told her so.

  "Just keep it together, Edward. It'll work out."

  Before he left the apartment he called Lily's sister in Baltimore. He deliberately did not call Lily's widowed mother, a very emotional woman who barely lived in the modern world. She would detect his anguish immediately. Lily had two sisters and a brother but was closest to Anna, who was two years older than she. Anna was not bright like Lily but was devoted and worshipful about her sister's success. Edward was very cautious, not wanting to alarm her.

  "No, she didn't call," Anna said after he had asked in the most circumspect way he could devise.

  "I was just wondering."

  "You didn't have a fight?"

  "Nothing serious." He was glad to be offered the excuse.

  "She'll call. Lily never stays angry long."

  He hoped he had not caused a problem. They were the kind of family, typically Italian, that seemed to revel in confrontations, big emotional incidents, loud talk, too much food, and lots of touching. Lily seemed totally out of character with them, an alien being.

  "Someone has to be the voice of reason in all this hullaballoo," Lily told him after his first visit with her family. They treated him as though he were on an operating table, probing every organ, cutting him apart—particularly her brother Vinnie, a large crude man who ran the family's wholesale fruit business. He had been especially insulting.

  "What did I do to him?"

  "You fell in love with his little sister."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "You're not an
Italian or a Catholic or from Baltimore. You're a foreigner."

  I'm an American," he had responded with sarcasm.

  "American doesn't count."

  "Bet he tried to talk you out of me."

  "He did. Until I told him I was pregnant."

  "You didn't."

  "No." She laughed. "I didn't want you murdered before the wedding day."

  The memory floated past him, and he clutched at it, then tried to fling it from him. That kind of nostalgia would only reduce him to tears. Stop this at once, he ordered himself. It will all turn out fine. You'll see, he promised lamely.

  But all the lies he told himself were to no avail. Unknown powers were simply toying with him, he was convinced. It was some sort of game. He decided to go to Woodies and confront Mr. Parks directly. The man was in his office, and Edward was ushered in immediately. Parks was a bald man with a thin face, thick lips, and heavy eyelids that drooped over large, sad eyes.

  "I've checked everywhere, Mr. Davis. Lily just wasn't on official business."

  "Maybe she took the trip on her own. You know, to learn more."

  "Who knows? She was very dedicated"—he was suddenly embarrassed—"very dedicated." He cleared his throat, swallowing with effort. "I don't know what to say." He paused. "She's never done this before?"

  "Never."

  "Did you have an argument?" He knew he was probing, and it made him uncomfortable.

  "Not a blip," Edward said.

  "Have you explored every possibility?"

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know."

  Did he mean she had deliberately run away, disappeared? Or worse? He kept his temper. After all, he didn't want to hurt Lily's business chances any more than he already had.

  "We are a very devoted couple, Mr. Parks."

  "I didn't mean..."

  "I know."

  He left Mr. Parks's office with a heavy heart. Maybe she had simply run away, lost her memory, disappeared. Outside, he stood in front of the entrance, cold, sad, utterly helpless.

  Lily, please, he begged in his heart. Where are you?