Random Hearts (8 page)

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 vice-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.

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?