by Warren Adler
"You know we're completely innocent."
In the silence, he heard a faint crackle. He wasn't sure whether it was the telephone line or the man's voice.
"Nobody's innocent," McCarthy said, the crackle disappearing as the line went dead, leaving a buzz ringing in his ears.
31
Any attempt to hold together their routine now seemed fruitless. They sat in the kitchen, sipped coffee, and watched the rising sun slanting through the trees. It was a clear, cold morning. The snows of January had melted, and the snowman had almost completely disappeared, swallowed by the earth. The only evidence of its brief, transitory life was a battered hat and an old pipe lying on its side in a patch of brown grass.
Something was going to change, and they both sensed it.
The digital clock showed exactly nine as the doorbell rang. They exchanged glances.
"Just tell them the truth," Edward said, his whisper frantic as he rose to answer the ring. His step felt heavy, and he imagined that the floor creaked.
The two men entered, noncommittal, professional. Each wore a three-piece suit and sported a deliberately self-effacing demeanor. One was gray-haired with moist blue eyes and broken veins showing through thin skin on his cheeks. The other was younger with black curly hair, clear eyes, a tight face, and unsmiling. They seemed to have worked out their roles in advance: the gray-haired guy world-weary and laid-back; the young turk a tense eager-beaver.
They flashed credentials, and Edward made a show of studying them. Vivien had followed him, and they all settled into seats in the living room, static characters in a quirky play. Like the illusory search for the lock that fit the keys, its logic was suspect, although its purpose was now clear. They had come to separate them, destroy the elaborate contrivances that had brought them together.
"This is an investigation with enormous ramifications," the older man said. "We have got to explore every avenue, every facet"—he paused—"every motive."
"I understand," Edward said.
"Of course," Vivien agreed.
"No stone must be unturned," the older man said.
"There are many people to be satisfied: the airlines, the industry, the insurance people, the government. You must understand. We're just doing our job."
The older man scratched his head amiably.
"We've been following you, you know."
"How could we not know?" Edward said, looking at Vivien.
"In our business we must be very thorough," the older man said. "We're just conduits. Other people will want to know. The root of the problem is: Why did the plane crash? Was there foul play? Was it an accident? Was it human error?"
"You haven't found out?" Edward asked.
"Not yet," the older man said, looking at his partner. "For that reason we must delve into areas that might seem ... well, very personal."
Edward nodded, but his guard was up. He exchanged troubled glances with Vivien.
"We've done a great deal of preliminary investigating," the older man said apologetically. He nodded, and the younger man looked into his notebook, flipping the pages. Edward's stomach knotted, and Vivien's complexion became ashen.
"There are lots of different ways to interpret actions. I'm sure you understand."
"Yes," Edward said, turning to Vivien. "I'm sure we both understand."
"If you'd like, we could talk to you separately," the older man said politely.
Again, Edward looked at Vivien, but it was Vivien who answered for both of them.
"No. We're in this together."
"And we have nothing to hide. From you"—Edward paused—"or each other." He wondered suddenly if that were true.
"That's good," the older man said, rubbing his hands. He took out his notebook and opened it. Then he produced a ball-point pen and nodded to the younger man, who assumed the role of interrogator.
He began with names. Mrs. Vivien Simpson. Mr. Edward Davis. Then he recited dates of their birthdays, marriages. "Just routine confirmations," the older man interjected.
Then the younger man crossed his legs and looked at each of them in turn, as if to establish some modus operandi for the interview. For some unspoken reason, Edward assumed that he would be the mouthpiece for them both.
"Did either of you have any knowledge that your respective spouses were involved in an illicit relationship?" The question was flatly put, with what seemed a perfect sense of neutrality.
"None."
"Not the slightest suspicion?" He looked at Vivien.
"I told you," Edward said.
"Not the slightest intuitive idea?" It was quite obviously a question for Vivien.
"We did not know," Vivien said between pursed lips.
"And the pregnancy?"
"Of course not."
"You're certain?"
"Of course I'm certain."
"Did either of you know each other before ... before the crash?"
"No, we didn't," Edward said. "We met for the first time in the Medical Examiner's office." Vivien nodded.
"Approximately four weeks ago?"
"Yes. That was the first time," Edward said.
"You're positive about that?"
"Absolutely."
"Then you met together at an all-night coffee shop?"
"Yes, we did."
Looking quickly at Vivien, he noted the confusion in her eyes.
"The next day at your apartment?"
"Yes."
"Then in front of the Rayburn Building, where you drove to the deserted parking lot at the Jefferson Memorial."
Edward's pores began to open. His mouth felt parched.
"Is this all necessary?"
"As I explained, we're only the conduit."
"But the implications..." Edward began.
"What implications?"
"Well ... that we were engaged in some kind of conspiratorial plan." In a way that was true, he realized.
"Is that the conclusion you draw?"
"An implication, I said. I'm concerned about the conclusions of others."
"Why is that?"
He looked helplessly at Vivien. Tell the truth, McCarthy had said.
"Never mind."
The younger man looked at him for a moment. Seeing that no answer was forthcoming, he spoke again:
"Mr. Davis, three weeks ago you had all of your possessions moved out of your apartment. Am I correct?"
"Yes."
"And where did you store these possessions?"
"I didn't."
"Did you sell them?"
"No. I..." He hesitated. "I just had them thrown away."
The older man scrawled something in his notebook.
"Then you moved into this house?" the younger man pressed.
He looked at Vivien, who averted her eyes.
"There it is again..."
"Another implication, Mr. Davis?" the younger man asked.
"Well ... yes."
"Why don't you simply answer the question, Mr. Davis?" the older man said pleasantly. "It's just factual information."
"All right. I moved in."
"And you, Mrs. Simpson, you've removed all of your husband's personal possessions?"
"Yes," Vivien snapped.
"And your child. Where is he?"
"At my parent's home in Vermont." Her face flushed. "And my dog, a gift from my husband, is being boarded."
"Yes. We know all that, Mrs. Simpson."
"Then why are you asking?"
"I told you. It has to be aired."
"Why?"
"So that every facet is explored," the younger man said patiently. "Really, if you'd like, we could wait until a larger investigation ensues. That's your choice."
"Vivien, we have nothing to hide. Nothing," Edward said.
There was a long pause. The two agents exchanged glances.
"And are you now cohabitating at this house?"
"Cohabitating?"
"Living together, Mr. Davis," the younger man said.
&n
bsp; "I don't see what that has to do with anything," Edward protested.
"Maybe nothing," the younger agent said. "One would think the house has, well, inhibiting memories."
"That's disgusting," Edward muttered. He wanted to explain about the guest room but held his tongue. Besides, he was certain they knew that, too.
"Just seems outside the pattern was all I meant," the younger man said. He looked at Vivien. "Considering you had him cremated when he did not specifically request it."
"That, too," Edward sighed.
"It's obvious," Vivien said. "They're looking for motives. They're trying to establish that we knew each other before the crash, that we destroyed them and everything that reminded us of them, that somehow we had something to do with it. How would you put it?" She turned to the agents. "Revenge for profit? Something like that?"
"It's crazy," Edward said. "We're rejecting the insurance. Every cent of it."
"Yes, we've heard about Mrs. Simpson's instructions." He paused, inspecting Edward's face. "Your decision is news to us."
"It's the truth," Edward pouted.
"We're not here to establish truth, Mr. Davis. That is for others to determine."
"But the way it's being put..."
"Can we get on with it?"
Edward didn't answer.
"You've given up your job, Mr. Davis?"
"You apparently know the answer to that as well."
"Yes, we do."
"And to everything else?"
"Not everything, Mr. Davis. We were hoping you might lead us to the apartment they used. It's obvious, though, that your method would take forever. That's why we had to see you now. People are demanding answers."
"And we're suspects," Edward said.
"Until there are answers, everybody is suspect."
Surely they were mocking them, dishonoring their sincerity? His mind raced with rebuttals. What did it matter? Their private world was caving in around them. The ultimate irony. It had not been private at all.
"What did you expect to find there? In the apartment?" Edward asked. It had been a central question at the beginning. Not a question really, he thought, more like a focus. Now it had become the goal that held them together. He felt the panic of impending loss.
"As I said earlier," the older agent said with a tinge of exasperation, "we must explore every facet. In this matter there is the technical side and the human side. We haven't the expertise for the technical. Our job is to look into the human aspect."
"Why were..." the younger man began.
"Aren't you going to answer my question?" Edward interrupted.
"All right," the younger agent said blandly. "We weren't really sure what we'd find. But the question I was about to ask is: Why were you looking for it"—he paused—"with such methodical zeal?"
Edward shot a glance at Vivien. How could that question be answered?
"That's between us." The four of us, he thought.
"It seemed a very clever plan," the younger agent said. "But too time-consuming."
That was exactly the point. Was there really another?
"I'm glad we didn't do your work for you, then," Edward muttered, his outrage rising. Before either of the agents could reply, he said: "And you're really not sure about the crash, whether any crime has been committed?"
"We told you that up front," the younger agent said.
"Suppose," Edward said, summoning the effort to hold back his rage, "that you do find a crime was committed—a bomb, perhaps, or some other device or method."
"We'd be back," the older agent said.
"Accusing us?"
"Probably," the older agent said, "if the evidence fits the theory."
"So you're working backwards."
"You might say that," the younger agent said. Both men remained cool, soft spoken, and deadly rational.
"Are you here to make us confess to something?"
"Well, you could make it easier on all of us."
The older agent's eyes sparkled with amiability.
"Why us?" He looked at Vivien. Her earlier confusion had disappeared, and he could sense her intensity.
"Three possibilities," the younger agent said without seeking approval from the older one. "Greed, love, and hate. All powerful motives."
"You're off the wall..." Edward began.
"I want to hear it, Edward," Vivien said.
The younger man smiled.
"Greed as a motive is weakened by Mrs. Simpson's instructions to her lawyer and your alleged rejection. Could be a red herring, but we're inclined to dismiss it. As for love and hate, revenge and elimination. Take your pick. You don't seriously expect us to believe that your ... your relationship ... is of recent vintage. The visible evidence suggests a long-standing relationship. Two sides of the same coin. People just don't get entangled this swiftly."
"So you're experts?"
"We've seen enough of it."
"Which would you say, then?" Edward sneered. "Love or hate?"
"I wouldn't hazard a guess."
"Nor me," the older agent said. He stood up. "I think we've taken quite enough of your time."
The younger agent aped his action. Neither held out a hand as they let themselves out the door, closing it quietly behind them.
Vivien and Edward sat in silence for a long time, stunned by the intrusion.
"They have a point, you know," she whispered. He felt the urge to protest but said nothing. When he looked at her, she turned away.
32
That same day Vivien put her house up for sale. They also discontinued their search for Orson's and Lily's apartment.
The agents had brought with them the cold wind of reality, however absurd the premise. It did cross her mind that the possibility existed for criminal accusation, but that had not been the main point. Love or hate. Take your pick. It had put the matter between them in perspective.
There was no point in searching for the apartment. Ridicule had, in a way, destroyed the premise. It had been an excuse, a dependency. It would take forever, the agents had said, which was the unspoken reason for the search.
What they needed now, she decided, was to escape their memory completely, destroy the influence of their past lives, obliterate them once and for all.
From the beginning, from the very moment that her conscious mind grasped the totality of her involvement with Edward, she had distrusted it. Perhaps it was her New England upbringing which glorified self-discipline, revered reticence. The pleasure, the ecstasy, the sheer joy of it was undeniable, and she had surrendered to it briefly. But hadn't she surrendered herself once before? Never again she had vowed. Never never never. People had a tendency to repeat mistakes, and the emotions were an unreliable barometer, she told herself. The FBI agents had made that clear as well. They had questioned the speed of her involvement, something which she had asked herself. Entanglement was the word the agents used. Could it really happen so swiftly? Hate had brought them together, not the other. Love could not possibly grow out of hate! Logic told her that their relationship was merely a common defense against the fear of inadequacy. It had set off some bizarre mechanism that had, temporarily, she was certain, unleashed the floodgates of sexual passion.
Whatever the reason, she could not deny the feeling, the communication of the senses. In his presence, in his arms, she had felt alive with a new sense of herself. She was not faceless, not the lump of unfeeling flesh she had been with Orson. Again Orson, resurfacing in her mind, mocked her as always. Still, she had never been so aware, so conscious of her body and of the full range of her senses. Her intellect, too, had never seemed sharper, never more exploring. Even her thoughts were eloquent, her explanations to herself, articulate. If questions and mysteries persisted, they would be resolved through tough and honest reasoning and logical action. In the end, nothing must stand in the way of her complete independence.
She had also agreed with the agents about the house. It reeked of Orson. It was an illusion to think there
was any sanctuary here from his presence. It was impossible to get his stink out of the walls, the floors, from the mute and mundane objects. Edward had shown more courage, more resolve, by dumping everything.
Looking for a quick sale, she deliberately priced the house low. The brokers she called were quite pleased to take it on. Edward had already cut most of his lines with the past. It was her turn now to take the final steps.
She called her parents in Vermont.
"As soon as the house is sold, I'll be going away," she told her mother.
"Where?"
She ignored the panic in her mother's voice.
"I'm not sure."
As she spoke, Edward stood beside her. They had decided to go somewhere where all possible reminders of the past could be expunged—maybe a foreign country or some totally different environment in the States.
"You mean just leave Ben with us for an indefinite period?"
Leave Ben? But wasn't Ben an inhibitor of her independence? Why were all these crazy emotions warring inside her? She had no prior experience with these ancient battles. Her other life was safer, more secure. Damn Orson, she cried to herself, leaving her stranded like this.
"I'm not sure, Mother. It's just an idea. Besides, all Orson left in insurance will go to Ben."
"That's only money, dear. Ben is your child."
"And Orson's..." She wanted to say more but checked herself. How deep was the power of hate, she thought sadly. Had they destroyed her sense of motherhood as well? Could things between them ever be the same?
"He asks about you often, Viv," her mother said.
"And I think of him." Her voice caught. She disliked this new Vivien, but she hated the other one. "I haven't made up my mind."
"Orson would not approve of this," her mother said. "He would have expected you to carry on with your responsibilities."
"Would he?" Her anger felt like molten lead, over-whelming her.
"Yes, he would," her mother persisted.
"To hell with Orson," she cried.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Vivien."
"Don't pretend, Mother. I'm finished with pretending."
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone.
Vivien felt the tears well behind her eyes and spill over. Her shoulders shook with restrained sobs.
