Undertow

by Warren Adler

  No one knew when the girl actually disappeared; they only knew that the senator and his aide Lou Castle had reported the drowning, or disappearance, or whatever, at around 6:00 A.M.

  At about noon, a man who identified himself as Henry Davis, an information man on the senator’s staff, had come out and talked to them.

  “I’m sorry. There is no comment, absolutely no comment.”

  The reporters began to harrass him. He stood his ground, said nothing for what seemed like five minutes, and then began to arrange a picture-taking session which was to take place along the beach.

  “All we want to know is what happened,” Ernie shouted above the din, his entreaty lost amidst the noise. Two policemen carved a path for Davis to return to the house. Then the TV and still cameramen began to pack their gear and proceed under police supervision to the beach for what was billed as picture-taking only.

  For two hours now, Ernie had played this charade. Everything, it seemed, was deliberately vague, ambiguous. What exactly was going on? He looked at his watch. Before long he had to call Chalmers.

  At 12:15, the police chief came out, his tanned and leathered face impassive as he was engulfed by reporters. The TV and still cameramen scurried from the beach. Flashbulbs popped. The police chief blinked and, speaking in a flat, barely audible voice, outlined what we had waited all morning to hear—the girl’s body was found. It appeared to be that of Marlena Jackson. He gave the time sequences.

  “You mean the senator waited eleven hours to report the girl missing?”

  “The doctor’s report fixed the time of death at about 7:00 P.M.”

  “That’s eleven hours,” a reporter shouted.

  Chief Bernhard did not comment.

  “Has the body been claimed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Has next of kin been notified?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did the senator wait eleven hours?”

  “Where is the body now?”

  Chief Bernhard cut off the questioning and pushed his way to his car.

  Ernie watched the car speed away. The reporters were confused. Should they follow him? Should they stay here?

  Ernie tried to piece the facts together. It was a maze. He stood at the edge of the police barricade and watched the photographers take pictures of Senator and Mrs. James on the beach.

  Apparently there was no question of murder, Ernie reasoned. He shuddered. The police chief seemed honest, very low key. But why didn’t Senator James just simply come out and tell it like it was? Why all the hocus-pocus?

  He spotted Charlie Hershey, the Chronicle man, in the band of straggling photographers coming back from the beach. A twenty-year Chronicle man, Charlie was strapped front, back, and side with photographic gear.

  “What do you make of it, Charlie?” Ernie asked. Hershey was a sour man who rarely smiled. The younger reporters always approached him tentatively.

  “Snow job,” he replied.

  “I don’t understand,” Ernie said. It was always better to appear the wide-eyed innocent, for Hershey, like all old Washington hands, took his cynicism seriously.

  “Games, man.”

  “Like what?”

  Hershey seemed exasperated. Ernie knew it was a pose.

  “It’s a set-up. We know it. They set it up. We do it. They know the editors want pictures. They give us pictures. It’s a game.”

  “Who wins?”

  “We both win.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you believe that this black chick was out here for a working weekend?”

  “Jeezus.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean.”

  “It means,” Hershey said, “that you are a naive asshole.”

  “Will he get away with it?”

  “Have you any doubts?”

  “I don’t know.” Hershey flipped the used film into his pocket and began to move away toward his car. Ernie walked beside him.

  “Really, Charlie, how do you read this? We’re getting nothing.” Ernie knew the query would have the desired result. Hershey stopped and turned to him.

  “I just take their pictures.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “Okay.” His eyes crinkled in a half smile while his lips stayed tight. “We get paid to snap pictures. They stage it. We snap them. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what happens to them. But you asked me for an opinion. The guy got caught—that’s all there is to it. He’s damned good at having it his way; otherwise he wouldn’t have got where he is. This one’s a charmer. He’ll play to his strength. And he’s a tough player. His objective now is to make you believe that he didn’t shack up with this girl, that he didn’t get scared out of his pants, that he’s really a cool guy under all this strain, that he’s fit to be president of the United States.”

  “And people are supposed to believe that?”

  “That’s his business.”

  “And our business is to tell it like it is.”

  “Have fun, kid.” Hershey turned and got into his car. He shook his head, gave Ernie one last look, and gunned the motor.

  Ernie watched the car pick up speed and pass out of sight. He got into his own car and began to search for a telephone. He had to drive halfway down the beach to find one. Then he discovered he didn’t have any dimes. He drove a few more blocks and found an open grocery store. The James story was, of course, the main topic of conversation is this semideserted resort town.

  “Some goings on,” a woman behind the grocery counter said.

  “I need some change.”

  “If you ask me, that woman was here for immoral purposes. That Senator James with all his nigger-loving ideas, no wonder this happened. It always does.” The woman pushed some dimes across the counter.

  “Thank you.”

  Ernie reviewed his notes before entering the phone booth at the edge of the beach. He was put through immediately to Chalmers. He told him all he had been able to find out.

  “The key points are these. Was the girl a weekend shack-up or perhaps an ardent love affair? And why did he wait 11 hours to report her death?” Ernie said.

  “What’s the speculation?”

  “That the senator slept with her. His wife didn’t come out until later. It was a foursome—the senator, the Jackson girl, his administrative aid, Lou Castle, and his secretary, Christine Donato.”

  “What’s their story?”

  “Apparently they’ve issued a statement about a working weekend.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Are you serious?” Ernie was confused.

  “Of course, I’m serious.”

  “Why go to Rehoboth for a working weekend?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not take along the wife?”

  “Is there proof?”

  “Proof?”

  “You heard me. I’m an old police reporter. Is there proof of intercourse? Has there been an autopsy?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Then there is no proof.”

  “No, there is no proof.”

  “Now to the next point. What’s the story about the eleven-hour lag?”

  “No explanation.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that there was panic, then calculation. I think the man was scared.”

  “Hey, Ernie. Are you out to get this guy?”

  Ernie took the receiver out of his ear and looked quizzically at the ear piece. Was he hearing things?

  “You asked about speculation.”

  “I just want to be sure, that’s all,” Chalmers said. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  “It’s just that everyone is acting strangely.”

  “I can see that.” There was a long pause then, as if he were talking to himself. Chalmers said, “I’ve tried to get through to him, but the damned line is busy. Can you get him a note or something? Tell him to call me.”

&nbs
p; “And the story?”

  “I’ll put you on rewrite. We’ll write it from here.”

  “Shall I stick with it?”

  “Of course, but keep me informed. And try to get him to call me.”

  When Ernie finished giving the facts of the case to rewrite, he closed the door of the telephone booth and walked to the edge of the sea wall. Sitting down on one of the railroad ties that formed the barrier, he let his feet dangle above the beach. The horizon, although clear now, was devoid of movement. In the distance a lone ship, a single dot, trailed a faint plume of smoke.

  The conversation with Chalmers had unnerved him. Was he being naive? he asked himself. He was frankly frightened by the dangers of naiveté, of being too trusting, too open. Was it possible that he was jumping to conclusions? He, above all, did not wish to see the senator lose credibility with his natural constituency. But what good was a constituency if it felt itself manipulated, used, lied to. That was the whole point of it. He had the distinct impression—hell, it was more than an impression—that Chalmers, whose preachings on objectivity were one of the paper’s great sources of élan, was actually trying to protect the senator.

  So he wanted proof. More than likely there would be no proof. But what made him feel so certain about his own speculations? Who was he to read these events so suspiciously? Maybe his own conclusions were faulty. Maybe Hershey’s view had swayed his own. After all, the facts were sketchy, ambiguous. And the senator did represent all the right things, all the good things, all the compassionate things. He could galvanize their movement. He could lead them, all the good people, the put-upon people, the harassed people. Better he than that pedestrian phony of a president with his platitudes and pious words. How he must be gloating over this one. And even if Senator James was guilty of panic or drunkenness or self-serving calculation, weren’t they human traits, human failings? Hadn’t he been taught that politics in America is the art of the possible, that compromise could be a virtue if the desired ends were always the goal? He tried to put himself in Senator James’s shoes. My God, what do you expect the man to do? Get up before those reporters and admit his sexual encounter, then acknowledge his panic, apologize and get on with it? That’s exactly right! That’s what the movement would expect of him. Tell the truth. It’s those stinking lies, those solemn ambiguities, those oblique answers, those calculated, rehearsed strategies designed to confuse—these were the main objections that the movement would have. There was only one way. It need not be fanatical, overzealous. Just tell the fucking truth, man, the truth, the whole truth.

  He felt refreshed by his thoughts and excused Chalmers his obvious attempt to influence him. Chalmers, like himself, must be hurt by the senator’s predicament. You couldn’t blame him for attempts to help. But in the long run, Ernie felt sure, Chalmers would play the game by the right standards. He had only to present it in the correct way, the honest way.

  As he sat there, lost in thought, his peripheral vision caught an uncommon sense of movement down the beach from the direction of the beach cottage. It was a kind of vehicle, moving swiftly. He strained to focus, putting a hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare. It was closing fast, leaving little puffs of sand in its wake. Soon it was almost abreast of him, speeding at a fast clip. He was able to make out the huddled figure of Senator James in the beach buggy.

  XXII

  It was Chief Bernhard who called to tell us about Marlena’s father. They had apparently intercepted him and escorted him undetected to the basement of the hospital on the edge of town.

  “It’s quite obvious that we’ve got to see him,” I told Don.

  “And then get the hell out of here,” Barnstable said.

  Don sat immobile on the sun porch watching the sea. He stirred when he heard us talking about Marlena’s father. He got up and came back into the living room.

  “The moment of truth,” he said.

  Davis and Christine were working together in the kitchen. They, too, joined us in the living room.

  “I’ve arranged it this way,” Davis said. “Simon has acquired a beach buggy and has rented a car. A small plane is standing by at the airport, although I’m worried that the press might catch us there. Simon told the pilot if he mentions one word to anybody, the flight is off. We’ve got to get out of here without having any pictures taken. The beach buggy will pick up the senator, Mrs. James, and Lou at the edge of the beach and meet the car at the area of the beach near Dewey. I’ll call Simon to get directions to the hospital. There may be press snooping around there, but we’ll have to take that chance.”

  “I wonder what kind of a man he is,” Don said, ignoring the logistical arrangements. Christine went to the phone and began to arrange the getaway.

  “You’ve got one assignment with that man, Don,” Barnstable said. “No autopsy. Above all, no autopsy.”

  “That’s his prerogative.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “And your downfall.” Don was acting strangely again. He seemed to be swinging back and forth on a pendulum of uncertainty, one moment lucid and commanding, another moment withdrawn, reflective. Unfortunately, there was no avoiding this confrontation with Marlena’s father. Chief Bernhard knew this. That’s why he had called. The man had rare insight. Don got up and went into the bedroom to freshen up. Karen was already in the bathroom preparing for departure.

  “We’ll take care of all the packing,” Christine said. “We’ll go back with you, Jack.”

  “Above all,” Barnstable said, “he’s got to rest tonight. We’ll have a staff meeting tomorrow.”

  “That’s when we can work on the California speech,” Davis said.

  “What speech?”

  “The one you must make to your constituency.”

  “You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Quite essential.”

  “Why?”

  “There has got to be a public explanation. It is demanded. Somewhere down the line, you’ve got to appear in a controlled environment and make ‘The Speech,’ the expiation. It is absolutely necessary to complete the circle. That is, after we’ve gotten over this next hurdle. Marlena’s father could really ruin things.”

  “In many ways.”

  The ball was in his court. It wasn’t simply trembling in mid-air. Mr. Jackson held our fate in his black hands. He had an arsenal of options open to him. He could demand an autopsy, insist that foul play killed his daughter. He could make wild statements, accusations, reveal the affair, not that he knew, but he was close enough to his daughter to surmise. Above all, he could make it a racial issue, although race was totally extraneous to the situation. Suddenly, by this bizarre act of blind fate, an obscure Philadelphia mailman held the career of the country’s most promising senator in the balance. That sounded like a headline in some True Confession farce. Perhaps he could be bought?

  As if he had read my mind, Davis answered the question.

  “We couldn’t offer to buy him off. It would be suicide, adding the possibility of bribery to the arsenal of the enemy. This is where we, as they say in space, lose contact. We’re out of it, on the other side of the moon. Jackson could hurt us badly.”

  “And if he does?”

  “A whole new set of options. We’d be thrown for a dramatic, perhaps irretrievable, loss. You get into the fuzzy area of defensive denial. That’s impossible. You can’t win. At that stage, you can just hope public boredom sets in—a great equalizer, public boredom. But it might be too late by then. The record would be made. And a record is retrievable around election time.”

  Don had tried to make himself look reasonably presentable, although his face seemed ravaged. Karen emerged with her sunglasses on and a kerchief over her head. Outside, the press slouched about waiting for something to happen, cameras ready. It was three o’clock now. Time seemed to move slowly. The press formed a laconic tableau as they waited about in groups. Cameramen were lying on the ground napping.

  Dodging reporters was a skill acquired with years
of practice. It was agreed that four of us—Don, Karen, myself, and Davis, the inevitable Davis—would make the hegira to the hospital.

  Barnstable stood out on the screened porch searching the horizon for the beach buggy, which had to keep a safe distance.

  “There,” he said. “It’s out there. Can you see it?”

  I could barely make out a speck in the distance. The beach was deserted except for the speck.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” Barnstable said. “The great escape.” He tried to smile. Instead, his eyes began to water. He turned away to recover himself. Don put a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened and turned.

  “Okay. Time for the diversion,” he said, recovering his composure. “As soon as I open the front door—split!”

  We sped over the beach toward the water. Then, where the surface hardened, we ran parallel, watching the beach buggy suddenly tear toward us in the distance. In a moment we were in it, huddled together and speeding toward the extreme end of the beach. The wind whipped at our faces, forcing us to arch our heads.

  Looking backward, watching the summer house recede, I saw it as an episodic finish, a movie dissolve, the end of a chapter where the words do not quite fill the printed page. It dissolved into a new scene, a new chapter. Too much has already been said about how unreal it all seemed and how dreamlike. Perhaps it was because the events were so out of sync with the rest of our lives. Divine Providence. I caught myself forming the words over and over, then remembered how the words had been planted in my thoughts earlier in the day, only to rest there and repeat itself, intruding. Why had all this happened?

  The operation was miraculously efficient. A car was waiting for us at the end of the beach. We all piled in with Kessler at the wheel. He gunned the motor and moved the car swiftly through deserted streets. All beach resorts out of season are eerie—the houses have mantles of ghostly emptiness, as if all the people had just died.

  Slouched against the side of the back seat, his hand on the safety strap, Don was somber. He had retreated into himself. Karen’s face was impassive behind her glasses. Thankfully, Davis was also silent, sensing the need for soundlessness.