He walked to the shoreline and up the narrow, tree-lined street bordering the river. Finding Sylvia’s home and still getting no response from his ring of the bell, he decided to wait on her step. He had simply run out of ideas.
The evening made the air noticeably cooler and less humid. The street lamps would normally be on at this hour, he thought. Instead all was darkness, except across the river. At various locations within his view, Marshall could see the glowing pillars of orange smoke rising and merging with the low cloud ceiling. In his imagination the scene resembled a great overhanging canopy supported by the fiery, undulating columns. In Marshall’s mind it began to form a single giant organism engulfing the city. He studied the nearest column and imagined flights of demons flowing to the earth from some infernal world within the glowering and heavy clouds.
He tried to overlay a comforting image to the scene. He thought of the campfires of his youth. He was, after all, here, and the fires were over there and thus their malignancy was safely more remote. And amidst the surrounding darkness, the luminous pockets did arouse those same feelings of something primal yet familiar as in his youth sitting by a campfire. Only the fragrant forest air and the mesmerizing crackle of the fire were needed to complete the image for him. But the forest smell and Sylvia were significant omissions and the image was ultimately unsuccessful in spite of his efforts.
The pocket transistor radio he had picked up in Manhattan earlier was lying next to him on the concrete stoop. The distinctive musical introduction used for special bulletins caught Marshall’s attention.
“ . . . news coverage for an important announcement. We switch now to our correspondent in Washington. John Porterman can you hear me?”
“Yes, Phil. The Washington press corps has been gathered together in the last half-hour at the invitation of the military command of the Washington district. We have just been informed that in a very few moments the president of the United States will address the nation concerning the events of the last thirty-six hours or so.”
“John, do we know where the president is or what his medical condition is at this time?”
“No, Phil. We were just told to inform our various agencies and networks to be prepared for this address. In fact, the president’s address will not be originating from network equipment. It will be patched in from a military communication facility. We don’t know the location of the station. This is completely a military broadcast and will only be using the networks as a conduit to the American people. In addition, Phil, foreign agencies will be picking up the address via satellite hookup. These electronic linkages, we were told, have been initiated in the last half-hour and have been completed only moments ago.
“John, our technical people tell meexcuse me, John, we have to cut nowladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States . . . ”
When it was over, Marshall could hear the distant distorted military and police loudspeakers announcing the approaching curfew. This was all too much for James. He was not a hard news journalist and this was all too personal for him to absorb without a large measure of fear and trembling. There was some comfort in the strong steps the president was taking and the military seemed to be handling things effectively now that they had been put in charge of security. Marshall felt they would soon get things under control and the perpetrators of all this disaster would be known and brought to justice.
The binge of gratuitous hot-summer-night looting and burning would soon come to an end. The military would be efficient and swift. There is no subtle way to restore urban calm. Looters would be shot. And arsonists. And snipers. Until the message became clear that summary justice was what people who violated the law could expect. In times of urgent crisis some rights are always sacrificed. He understood the need even if he did not approve, in a theoretical sense. Martial law in a city in chaos is not a political act. It is a military act. And military solutions are employed. And against a capricious populace, they are always successful.
Marshall knew the chaos in the cities would be over quickly because this was no revolution. There would be no urban guerrilla warfare fought by people willing to die for a cause. Some few private grudges would be settled during the brief period of violence, but calm would be restored within a matter of a few days at the most.
But calm would be more difficult to restore to AJC Fusion. Oh yes, the company and scientists were still there. But the killing of Sorensen and disappearance of Cranshaw and Berman had replaced passionate commitment with fear. And passionate commitment was the soul of AJC Fusion. The driving energy was gone and Marshall was unsure just what remained. Perhaps the patents would be all that was necessary for the dream to survive. Perhaps Cranshaw’s strength would reinvigorate the company if he managed to survive the next several days. Marshall assumed Cranshaw and Berman were either under heavy guard or in personal hiding. He could not believe they had prepared themselves in the event of something like this happening, of events spiraling out of control, even briefly. He could not imagine them dead. But then . . .
Marshall noticed that only static was coming from his little radio now and he tuned across the dial seeking another active station. All he found was the one station, the Civil Defense emergency station. The station was broadcasting martial music. The electronic media were now silent.
The curfew would effectively silence the print media. No paper deliveries. No broadcasting other than the emergency channel. For at least the next twenty-four hours America will be a silent nation. And because of this, he knew it would be a time unlike any other in the history of the country.
The battery-powered emergency lights in the building hallway leaked a faint illumination through the front-door window to the stoop. A warm breeze suddenly washed over Marshall. Nearby, a patch of dry dirt swirled in a miniature whirlwinda small dust devila metaphor for the times, he thought. Everything else was lost in the encompassing darkness. In the distance he heard the insistent loudspeakers and the more distant wail of sirens. He put his head down on his knees and went to sleep.
When he awoke he checked his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. The world had become almost completely silent except for the rustling of the leaves along the narrow tree-lined street. He felt like a fool. He had no plan, nowhere to go. All he could think to do was sit and wait for Sylvia.
He smiled thinking about the first time they met at the AJC Fusion laboratory. She had done her homework. She probably knew him as well as he knew himself. Of course, that wasn’t saying very much. After as much time as they had spent together maybe she knew him better than he knew himself. That wouldn’t be so hard to do.
What was he waiting for here in Brooklyn Heights, on this concrete stoop? Sylvia. He could not get his thoughts to go beyond that simple fact. He would worry about why another time. The simplicity of his goal comforted him.
He put his head down on his knees again.
A sound in the darkness, far down the street, woke him. He checked his watch. It was half past eleven.
The faint sound of footsteps was getting closer. They grew louder. The rapid clickity-click of a woman’s high heels was unmistakable. Marshall rose from the stoop and stood, straining, peering into the darkness. It was obvious she would see him before he could see her. He moved back into the faint light coming through the front door.
“James?” From the darkness the clickity-click sped closer.
“Sylvia, yes, it’s me.”
At the foot of the stairs they embraced in a swirl of giddy relief. They hugged each other and Marshall smelled the warm aroma of Sylvia’s neck and felt the smooth softness of her skin against his cheek. It was the first time he had held her this close and through her light summer clothing her body touched his, he wasn’t thinking, like a gift from the gods. Slowly she released her grip on Marshall and as she pulled away from him to look in his eyes she put both her hands on his face as if to reassure herself that he was really there and to prolong the contact with him.
“Oh ,
god , yes, James, I’ve been so scared. I’ve been walking all over Brooklyn. I’ve been afraid to go home. I’m only here now because I didn’t know where else to go. I called your paper and Dick Scully told me you had come to New York to find me so I came here hoping you would be here and here you are. God, I’m so glad to see you.”
She threw her arms around his neck again and pulled herself to him hugging him, repeating, “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Whoa. I’m getting pretty glad myself. Perhaps we’d better get into your apartment before we get shot for curfew violators . . . or teenagers.” They both took a deep breath and laughed. Sylvia reached into her purse and, pulling out the front door key, she handed it to Marshall. After fumbling with the lock for a moment, the door swung open and he ushered Sylvia into the building vestibule with a flourish of his arm.
The battery-powered emergency lights cast a warm incandescent illumination in the hallway and on the stairs. When they entered Sylvia’s apartment, they left the door open to let in the hallway light until Sylvia located candles and began lighting them in the kitchen and the living room. Going back to the kitchen, she called out to Marshall, “Wine or scotch?”
They both answered “Scotch” together and again laughed.
James was sitting on the large white couch when Sylvia came in with the drinks on a small silver tray. Marshall took his glass. Sylvia took hers and placed the tray on the carpet. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the couch next to Marshall, her legs curled beneath her. They clicked glasses and both took a drink.
After a moment Sylvia let out a sigh and put her head on Marshall’s shoulder. “James, it’s so horrible. We don’t know if Dr. Cranshaw and poor Samuel are alive or dead.”
James slowly stroked Sylvia’s dark hair. “I don’t know. When I heard about Samuel I just came up here as fast as I could. I was crazy when you weren’t here, but I guess I really didn’t expect you to be here. I just didn’t know where else to go. Thank god you’re okay.”
“James, what do we do now? We talked about people getting killed as if it was a telescreen series. I don’t think any of us really thought anyone would actually, you know, really get killed. Is this all about AJC Fusion? I mean the president and everything and the bombings and the cities going crazy and martial law. This is so big, James. It just doesn’t seem possible that anything like this can come from just people, just the people I work with in our little company in New Jersey of all placesfrom Dr. Cranshaw’s dream.” Sylvia shuddered and moved closer to Marshall. “It’s so chilly suddenly. Keep hold of me James.”
Marshall put his arm around Sylvia and pulled her closer, her body curling, pressing against him for warmth. “Would you like me to find a blanket to put around you?” he asked.
“No, this is nice. I’m feeling better now.” Sylvia snuggled closer to James. “You know James, I’ve been so scared the last few months, but in a juvenile kind of way I see now. Now that people are actually being killedexactly what we talked about, what we tried to preventI feel different somehow. Angry, I think. How dare they do this to us . . . to our country? Really, to the world? President Drummond has a vision too. It’s not just Dr. Cranshaw. Thank god he’s still alive. I just know he is. Dr. Cranshaw, I mean . . . well, the president too. AJC Fusion can’t be allowed to collapse under all this. It’s not fair. We’ve got to keep the vision alive.” Sylvia looked at James. “James, what about your paper? Can’t you talk to your editor? I mean this has gone beyond Sunday supplement stuff. How can he help us?”
James took a slow sip of his scotch. The smooth warmth flowed into him like an elixir both burning and calming him in that mysterious way scotch always did. He welcomed the slight alcohol vapor that floated above his glass, welcomed it silently like a small CARE package dropped by luck from a truck roaring by to somewhere important, somewhere filled with misery and need. He got his the easy way, he thought. Sylvia watched, waiting for him to be ready.
“I don’t know. I’ll call him in the morning. By then, hopefully we’ll have a better handle on this martial law business. That really complicates things. Well, it makes things easier if you just want everything quieted down, but if I want to bump up into their radar, if I want to do anything visible for them or for me, I’m going to need approvals and I don’t even know how to ask. I don’t know how far my press credentials will get me right now. Anyway, I want to stay with you for the time being to make sure you’re safethat you stay safe.” He pulled her to him again and she rested her head on his chest.
After few quiet moments Sylvia turned her face to Marshall. “James, we’ve got to do something. We can’t just sit around waiting for everything to work out. We have resources.” She looked at Marshall. “Don’t we? What do you guess will happen?”
Marshall took another drink from his glass and thought.
“I just don’t know. This is all going so fast, I’m hoping it will go away just as fast. If it weren’t for the president being shot, I’d say anyone associated with AJC Fusion, including me, would be in danger. But now . . . I think things have gotten too big to worry about little fish like you and me or even anybody else at AJC Fusion. Yes, I think AJC Fusion started the ball rolling, but it’s a whole new game now. This is really big-time hardball, Sylvia. And these guys are playing for all the marbles, everything, the works.”
“But who, James? Is it the Arabs or our own oil companies or both in collusion? You know some commentators weren’t so sure about the military either. President Drummond’s proposal about the United Nations did not go over so well with them. ”
“Oh, journalists are always on the military’s case. I should know. But I’ll tell you one thing. The president would have been a dead man if the military hadn’t jumped in. That crowd was so huge there was no way the Secret Service could have handled things with an assassin in the crowd. I was pretty impressed with how they instantly set up a protective zone around the president. They got a helicopter landing area established. They got the president out very quickly. I mean they saved his life. The army is really to be commended on this one, at least. And General Slaider will get the cities under control if anyone can. Actually, I think he’s doing a hell of a job.”
“He seems to be the only one who says something when he’s interviewed,” Sylvia said. “The rest of that Washington crowd all seem to be running in circles. I mean ‘clueless.’ They don’t seem to know what’s going on or what to do about it. And it’s so obvious that whatever they’re saying—it’s a lie. I guess you’re right. We’re lucky the army jumped in. They’re the only ones giving me a feeling that this whole mess is coming under any kind of control.” She raised her head to look at James. “But who’s responsible for all this? Who do you think, James?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I just don’t know. Take your pick. Every pissed-off group in the US and in the world will all be taking responsibility for it by tomorrow.”
“What about us, James? Do you really think we’re okay? No one is coming after us in the night?”
James smiled reassuringly at Sylvia. “Oh, I think we’re okay now. We’re safe for the night, at the very least.”
“James?” Sylvia nervously played with Marshall’s shirt collar. “James, did you think you were in danger this morning, you know, you, personally?”
“I guess I figured we were all in danger this morning. And it’s even crazier when you don’t know who from.”
“And you came here anyway?” Sylvia began to let her fingernails softly play over Marshall’s shoulder, lightly scratching the thin cotton fabric of his shirt.
For a moment Marshall looked into Sylvia’s eyes then turned away. He took another sip from his drink. “I was very worried about youI didn’t really have any kind of plan, you know, once I found you. I just wanted to see that you were okay. I guess it was a pretty bad plan if you really did need help.”
“No, James. It was a brilliant plan. I felt like the marines had landed
when I saw you by my stoop. James, I was so glad to see you.”
Marshall sat still, his hands holding his drink on his lap. Sylvia uncurled her feet and got up. She took Marshall’s drink from his hands and put it on the coffee table. Then she took both of Marshall’s hands in her own and urged him up gently. “Dance with me, James.”
Marshall got up but looked around and said, “But . . . there’s no music . . . no electricity.”
“Oh, yes, James. Yes, there is.” She put her arms around him. “I’ll sing to you. That’s all we’ll need.” She began to hum softly as she moved close to him, placing his arms around her for him, slowly flowing to his body. In the flickering light Marshall enjoyed the surprising touch of her thighs against his, the warm touch of her back against his hand. Cautiously, he allowed his hand to slowly caress her back, kissing her body with his fingertips as her lips reached the spot just along his neck, below his ear. Placing her arms around his neck, she lowered her head to his shoulder. He could feel the soft fullness of her breasts against his shirt, against his skin. Though she stopped humming they continued to sway in the dark to an imagined melody.
Gently he brushed his cheek against her hair, against her cheek. “Sylvia, I . . . ” She raised her head and with her finger sealed his lips. He kissed her finger. Slowly, she raised her face to his. Slowly, her lips touched his, lightly, like a soft summer breeze blowing lace curtains and setting a candle flame lightly dancing. He felt the soft invitation of her lips on his.
Backing away, she took him by the hand. “Come with me, darling,” she said as she picked up the candle on the coffee table and led him to her bedroom. Gently, she sat him on the edge of her bed and stooped to remove his shoes. Standing over him she moved close to him, and tenderly holding his head she moved it to her body feeling his face against her belly, holding him softly to her. She felt his hands tentatively caress her legs, the back of her thighs. Her breath rushed in as she felt his hands rise to her buttocks, pressing her to him, only to push her gently away as his face move down, seeking and kissing her soft, compliant body just below her navel. She felt his warm lips moving down along her light summer skirt.
On Deception Watch Page 25
