Random Hearts (23 page)

Now she felt that her mind and body were opening to some
new knowledge over some path bushwhacked out of tangled jungle. Edward's hand
stroked, his fingers probed as she opened to him. She could feel the blood
coursing through her body as she explored him, touching the hard male part of
him, the silken skin, and feeling his quickening heart. For long moments he
ceased to move, suspended in space and time, letting her caress him until his
own rhythmical movement began and she became the caressed.

In him she felt none of Orson's urgency, none of the
domination. A pact of equals, she decided, as they held each other without
discomfort in the narrow single bed, their bodies adjusting, fitting together
like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle of a barely comprehensible picture. It was,
surprisingly, she who took the initiative, drawing him into her, deep inside,
holding him there as the intensity of her need erupted.

She had not looked for signals, and when they came, they
startled her. She felt gripped by a powerful inner hysteria to which her body
surrendered, frenzied, mindless. Yet she knew that wherever it took her, he was
there with her, she was not alone. He was reacting to her and with her. She let
it happen, floating in its moist vortex, abandoning herself to wave after wave
of pleasure, sure that his body was responding in kind.

It took a long time for them to quiet down. When he started
to speak, her fingers reached out and touched his lips.

"No."

She wanted no explanations, no post mortems, no
excruciating analysis, no rationalizations, no deductions. Why had this
happened with Edward and never with Orson? She was afraid to know, afraid that,
whatever it was, knowledge would diminish it, make it disappear. Something had
changed inside her, and it would reveal itself soon enough, she decided.

Edward shared her fear. Emotional scrutiny, translated into
words, had the power to distort perceptions. Wasn't it enough to feel? To be
moved? Talk might change the delicate calibration. Go with it, his mind told
him.

It was as if Vivien had probed deep inside him, found
something that belonged to her in his heart and he had urged her to take it. He
knew that it was not a one-way transaction, but he dared not inquire; he was
fearful that what he had from her was stolen, not freely given.

Whatever it was, he would not give it a name, would not
hold it up for identification. Neither did he want it labeled or defined.
Giving it a name would either trivialize it or, worse, put it in the category
of aberration.

For three weeks their actions held to an unvarying pattern.
It proceeded, naturally, by silent mutual consent. They would rise early,
always a joyous awakening for him, locked in each other's arms. Awake first, he
would gently kiss her closed eyes and feel the tickling flutter of her lashes.
Then her lips would nuzzle his face, her knowing fingers would roam his flesh
as his caressed, searching for the triggers of her special joy. Soon they
pursued each other with frantic abandon. Each final phase, when their bodies
closed in the primal embrace, was a restatement of their passion, a celebration
of ultimate joys and fulfillment.

Yet when they stepped out of bed, it was as if they had entered
into an untracked void, an environment of menace and danger. It was that sense
of infinite uncertainty that gave meaning to their search. It took on a
mystical aspect, like the hunt for the holy grail which would miraculously
unlock the secret of life. Without knowing, without finding, nothing between
these two separate aspects of their lives would ever connect.

At breakfast they studiously avoided the subject of
themselves. Yet they watched each other, like animals circling with wary
inspection, always with caution.

When they talked, it was with measured words, with the
focus always on their objective as if that other part of their lives did not
exist. They drove from apartment building to apartment building, following the
relentness preconceived pattern, never varying, writing down each building that
used Yale locks. Paradoxically, each notation somehow seemed a diminishment of
themselves, generating an awesome, all-encompassing fear that, once it was
found, exorcism would be achieved, and there would no longer be anything to
hold them together—like being between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Compulsively, they persisted in questioning each other
about the other life, as if it might hurry the process of understanding. Lily.
Orson. Memory became more clinical, less visceral, and oddly repetitive. In the
end, comparing their marriages was like comparing different kinds of apples.
They were similiar in taste and texture, but decidedly different.

When they did not eat at the little Italian restaurant in McLean,
they ate at Vivien's house. Neither would dare suggest varying the routine.

By the end of the three weeks they each knew more than they
might have wished about the material facts of each of their former spouses. Yet
they continued to probe, both of them knowing that the real mystery remained,
the ultimate questions were unanswered: Why had they been betrayed? Why had
they been unable to detect it? Why had they married who they married? In the
evening after dinner they went up to the guest room and made love. Quickly,
along with their clothes and inhibitions, they shed all the formalities and
insecurities of their other life. Flesh was their medium of communication. It
was like living life in a euphoric limbo. Except for the fear of its ending
abruptly one day, being with her in this way was the closest thing to paradise
he could imagine.

At times there were intrusions, which heightened their
fears. Her parents called more often from Vermont. When was she coming for Ben?
Soon, Mama. But when? Soon. It was another thing not to be discussed. Dale
Martin, too, called often about the insurance, trying to talk her out of her
decision. That pressure was more easily deflected. Once the lady from the farm
where Hamster was boarded called.

"We're not having too much luck."

"Keep trying," Vivien said. "I'll send
another check." It occurred to her that it might be better to put Hamster
to sleep, but she did not press the point. Not yet. Soon.

It became apparent that "soon" was an answer
applicable to everything, the ultimate tentative. Even for Edward.

"When do you think we'll have the information we need
to begin to check the keys?" she asked.

"Soon," he told her, looking at the map.

He hoped soon meant never. Another question begged an
answer from her, but he would not ask it because its meaning had been distorted
by their experience. Do you love me? And if she said yes, would it have any
meaning at all? And if it were no? It comforted him to know that either answer
would ring hollow and untrue. Why then was it important to know?

When the backlog of other questions became too much to
bear, he had only to look at her, feel the quickening of his pulse beat, sense
the enormity of her power over him. At night, in the narrow bed, holding her,
embracing, caressing, merging into the oneness of a single being, all questions
disappeared. All doubts fled. All fears subsided.

Practical considerations became vague and less defined as
each day passed. Such mundane items as money had little impact on them. He had
filled out a forwarding card at the post office and had received his severance
check, which he had cashed, adding the money to the pile that was in the top
drawer of the guest room dresser. They made no attempt to separate the monies,
taking only what they needed. Whatever bill came, she paid by money order.

They were always within earshot, if not within visual
communication. Mostly, they were within touching distance. And their eyes
locked often. They allowed themselves only a single outward symbol of tender
sentiment. Every few days he would buy her a fresh single tiny rose for the bud
vase. "Must never let one die there," he told her. "Never."

Their universe had narrowed to the sparest economy of
space. They moved in four rooms: kitchen, bathroom, living room, and guest room,
where the space further narrowed to a single bed, one dresser, and one closet.
Where it was possible, doors closed off other rooms, like the master bedroom
and Ben's room. They rarely used the den, Orson's place, except to pass
through, but only when necessary.

They sat close together in the car. He usually drove, and
they weaved through traffic with no sense of the pressure of time or annoyance.

When the dreaded intrusion came, he rejected it at first as
an illusion. Then it became undeniable.

They were being followed.

He did not have to formally transmit the apprehension. In
their state of heightened awareness, nothing untoward could be hidden from one
another. It had happened at the beginning of the fourth week, in the morning.
He had been conscious of the car following almost from the moment he had left
her street. His eyes kept darting into the rearview mirror, then shifting to
the side mirror. She had turned in her seat as he swung the car into turns, up
side streets, and parked in the lot of a shopping center.

Two men were inside the car, and they stuck to the trail
with dogged tenacity.

"What do you think?" she asked.

His immediate thought was Vinnie.

"I'm not sure."

More than simply danger, it triggered in both of them the
fear of the real enemy ... change. She had moved closer to him on the seat, her
hand gripping his thigh.

For the rest of the day they continued as they normally
did, checking apartment houses, making notes. In the evening they came home and
peered out the front windows of the darkened house. The car was there, hidden
beyond the lighted circles of the street lamps.

"See that?" he whispered, spotting the sudden
glow of a cigarette's ash.

"But who? And why?"

He could not give her an adequate answer.

He remembered what the Congressman had asked: "Is he
Mafia?" The idea had been patently absurd at the time. Now he wasn't so
sure. Vinnie had enough hatred in him to kill. Or to arrange a killing. It was
far afield from his experience, but surely possible.

They went to bed and clung to each other, and although they
made love, which moved them both as before, he felt that the pattern of their
special existence had been tampered with. In the middle of the night he rose
and went downstairs to look out the window again.

"Still there?"

She had followed him down.

"Still there."

In bed again, he felt her trembling. She lay with her head
in the crook of his arm, and he stroked her hair, wondering if this meant the
beginning of the end. Embracing, they drifted into sleep.

The phone woke them. Another intrusion. Their eyes opened
instantly, but neither of them made a move to answer it. Nothing that came from
outside their world could be the harbinger of good. That was one deduction that
did not require words to define. But the ring persisted. Finally, it was he who
picked up the instrument.

"Davis?"

The sound of his name startled him. Who could know he was
here? How could they know?

"It's McCarthy."

"You."

He looked at Vivien, whose frown mirrored his confusion.

"It isn't my fault. I'm really sorry about it. But you
see, it had to be put into the records. The thing about the pregnancy,
too."

"You're not making yourself clear."

His last view of McCarthy resurfaced in his memory: sour
smelling, stinking drunk, his features distorted by some secret anger. To
Edward, he was running true to form as the bearer of bad tidings.

"They're investigating certain aspects of the
crash," McCarthy continued, his voice transmitting his resignation.
"It's all very complicated. There are a million details to be checked out."

The crash? What has all this got to do with us? Edward
wondered. Not now.

"There was no way to hold anything back. Not from
them. Not that there is any hard evidence about anything."

"Really, McCarthy..."

He wanted to protest this intrusion, invoke invasion of
privacy legalities.

"I'll find a way to make it up to you."

"Make it up? For what, for crying out loud?"

His voice sounded ominous, and his hand gripped Vivien's
shoulder.

"The FBI. In a crash of this magnitude"—official
jargon crept into his voice—"every facet must be investigated. Since
identification was my official responsibility in connection with your
respective spouses, I had to give them everything. Everything. They know
everything."

"Everything?" Who could know everything? he
thought facetiously.

"So they'll be around. I'm just calling to sort of
alert you so you'll keep cool, that's all."

"They think we had something to do with the
crash?"

Vivien rose on one elbow, watching his face in horror.

"They have to consider the possibility. Just tell them
the truth."

"We don't know the truth," he sputtered. That's
just the point, he thought.

"If it means anything, I told them they were barking
up the wrong tree."

"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.

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.

"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.