The Pinocchio Syndrome

by David Zeman

  “I want you so bad,” he said, kissing her and feeling her breasts swell under his hands.

  Their lovemaking was quick and breathless. Susan’s panties were barely off before Michael was inside her, thrusting quickly, his face buried in her hair. Infected by his excitement, she wrapped her legs around him and squeezed hard.

  “Oh, Michael,” she whispered.

  “You’re so beautiful . . .” He had his hands under her, glorying in the satiny skin of her loins. Her tongue was in his mouth, caressing, stroking. A groan sounded in his throat.

  He pulled her harder onto his penis, feeling the last wave rise inside him. She was so sweet and pure, a blond princess . . .

  He heard his name on her lips as his semen burst into her.

  They lay for a long time, feeling the gradual ebb of their scalded breaths. He stayed very hard inside her as he kissed her cheeks and hair. He loved the smell of her, a composite aroma that combined the innocence of a child with the subtle pungency of the female animal.

  They lay in silence for a few moments. Then Michael got up to take his shower. Susan would shower much later, as usual. Her insomnia kept her awake late, while Michael usually went to bed by eleven.

  Michael returned to the bedroom and found Susan lying under the sheet, still naked, the outline of her nipples visible under the fabric. He lay down beside her.

  “That’s my girl,” he said.

  He buried his face against her breast, which still smelled of their sex.

  “Michael,” she said.

  He could feel that the languor of lovemaking was gone. She was tense.

  “Yes?” He looked into her eyes.

  “Did something happen at Harvard?” she asked.

  “What?” He looked amused. “What do you mean, did something happen?”

  “Was there a game?” Susan asked.

  “Game? What game?”

  “Something about a donkey.” Susan’s voice was steady, her hands at her sides. “A donkey game.”

  Michael sat up. “What? What did you say?”

  “A donkey game,” she repeated.

  “Babe, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael said. “Is this some kind of riddle?”

  She lay with her head against the pillow, looking into his eyes.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about?” she asked.

  “No.” Michael looked perplexed, uncomprehending.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” His tawny eyes bore a look of the most complete innocence.

  “Never mind,” Susan said.

  He bent to kiss her lips. Her eyes, wide open in the shadows, half closed as she felt his touch.

  42

  —————

  “The White House counterattacked today after Colin Goss’s inflammatory speech to the VFW in Chicago last night. Press Secretary Anspach said the president would stand on his record as an opponent of terrorism and as a public servant, and dared Colin Goss to do the same. The press secretary hinted at shady business practices on the part of Goss’s huge business empire, without being explicit.”

  The woman paused in her cleaning to listen to the news item. She looked at the screen, hoping for an image of Michael Campbell, but the news broadcast was interrupted by a commercial.

  She turned on the vacuum cleaner and finished cleaning the living room floor. She used the attachment to get the drapes, which were somewhat dusty. Then she turned off the vacuum and surveyed the room.

  The bookshelves held inexpensive copies of her guest’s favorite authors, including Ann Tyler, Sue Miller, and Agatha Christie. There was also a compendium of Somerset Maugham’s short stories, and a complete paperback set of Jane Austen. She knew these were her guest’s favorites.

  Vanity Fair, Cosmopolitan,theNew Yorker . Several issues of each, in the magazine rack. Each morning there would be a copy of theNew York Times .

  Alongside the small TV, on which the commercial murmured, were about a dozen videotapes and DVDs bought at considerable expense. These included Bogart films likeDark Passage, The Big Sleep, andThe African Queen, as well as Ray Milland films from the 1940s, includingThe Big Clock andLost Weekend . Also some John Garfield, includingForce of Evil andGentleman’s Agreement, and a few others, recorded off TV, that featured Charles Boyer, Gary Cooper, James Stewart, and other stars of the thirties and forties.

  In the kitchen were low-fat foods, including Jenny Craig meals, vegetables, skim milk, granola. Diet Coke in the refrigerator, bottled water in the pantry. In the bathroom were hypoallergenic cosmetics—her guest suffered from allergies—and a supply of Alfred Sung perfume. The soap in the bath was Camay. The shampoo was Pantene.

  There were pajamas, workout clothes, and informal wear in her guest’s size. There was an exercise bike, but no treadmill.

  The commercials were over. The woman paused in front of the TV, listening. A plane was coming in overhead, so she had to turn up the volume to hear.

  The commentators were talking about the debate in the Senate over Michael Campbell’s nomination as vice president. There were more than enough votes committed to confirm him, but senators loyal to Colin Goss were slowing the process with long speeches and parliamentary delaying tactics.

  There was a sound bite of Michael Campbell, taken from his speech at the University of Illinois last night.

  “Now more than ever, we need a man in the White House whom we can trust,”he said.“A man who has earned our trust over twenty-five long years of public service. A man whose judgment we do not doubt and will never have to doubt. I’m proud to say that the president is that man. I’m proud that he has chosen me to work with him as vice president. I’m looking forward to working alongside him as he finishes out his term.”

  She sat down on the rug, studying the youthful handsome face, whose smile broadened as the audience applauded. A candid face, innocent, too fresh for his years. It was attached to a body millions of women had fantasized about, a body whose scars attested to the heroic physical feats he had accomplished.

  She nodded slowly. She rocked slightly back and forth. A low sound came from her throat, a wordless murmur or moan. Outside the windows another roar sounded, this time a large jet taking off. She didn’t hear it.

  Suddenly she sat up straighter. Susan Campbell had appeared on the screen, talking to an interviewer. She was wearing a bright blue dress and gold loop earrings. She wore an expectant half smile as she listened attentively to the interviewer’s question.

  “Are you getting ready to move into the White House?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that far ahead. If Michael is confirmed I’ll do whatever he asks me to do.”

  “Do you see yourself as First lady of the United States after the next election?”

  Susan blushed.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think about that.”

  Predictably, the media spiced every report about Campbell with sound bites of Susan. She was news, of course, because she was the wife of the presumptive vice president. But she was a commodity as well. A sex symbol. Every time her face appeared on a TV screen or a magazine cover, women took notice.

  Thus the media were the unwitting tools of the White House, offering Susan’s face and voice like a tempting appetizer every time an item about the vice presidency was shown. They were literally selling Susan as an eventual First Lady. So much for the objectivity of the press.

  Now the press secretary’s face appeared again as he completed his news conference. The woman turned the volume back down. She stood up and moved slowly about the apartment. Food, music, books, entertainment. Clothes. Television. A comfortable double bed. A clean, simple environment. Suitable for an extended stay if necessary.

  She sat down on the couch, hearing the muted sounds of the traffic outside. Another plane took off, its vibration rattling the windows slightly.

  “All right, Susan,” she said. “I’m ready for you.”

  43

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  Georgetown

  March 28

  IT WAS a Friday. Michael was spending the weekend in California at a conference on environmental issues. Susan would be on her own until Tuesday.

  Susan had been scheduled for an interview this morning with Gail Osborne, the doyenne of Washington social interviewers. Now that Susan was the wife of the probable vice president she was hotter than ever.

  However, Gail had come down with a bad flu, and the interview had to be canceled. The show’s producer called to apologize to Susan and ask her to reschedule. Susan agreed.

  When she hung up the phone Susan looked at her calendar. Surprisingly, she had no other commitments for today. Her dinner with the leadership of the Junior League had been postponed, and her speaking engagement at the Baltimore Chamber of Commerce was not until Monday.

  Naturally the phones were ringing off the hook with requests from journalists for interviews or with urgent messages from political people about one thing or another. But Susan did not have to answer the phone unless she wanted to.

  This was a golden opportunity to get a dose of real solitude, real relaxation. All she had to do was leave the house. Disappear for a day. Or even for the whole weekend.

  Susan thought about it for a few minutes. Then she called her secretary, Deborah, and told her she had a migraine. She would have to spend the afternoon in bed.

  After hanging up Susan went into the bedroom closet and opened a box kept on an upper shelf. It contained the dark wig she wore on visits to her psychiatrist in Baltimore.

  She sat down before her vanity mirror and put on the wig. As usual, it had a dramatic effect. It called attention to itself, and away from Susan’s features.

  Susan completed her disguise with a tight pair of jeans, a tight T-shirt, a tiny leather jacket, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

  She packed an overnight bag and, leaving no message behind her, left the house.

  She was heading for the little cottage in rural Pennsylvania that Michael had bought not long after their wedding. The cottage was on a tiny lake deep in a forested area in the southern part of the state. It was easily accessible from Washington, but quite secluded. There were only a dozen other cottages on the lake, so the place was always tranquil.

  It had been nearly two years since Susan had even been up there. Her schedule, like Michael’s, was simply too hectic to allow a weekend off. Often she had longed for the rustic little cottage, with its propane heat and its spring water, without being able to make the trip. Today she was going to drive there alone.

  She took the little MG, which was almost never driven, and headed out of town. She took the expressway to 270 and drove for an hour before stopping. She got her lunch at the takeout window of a McDonald’s on a crowded frontage road. Then she pressed on.

  On an impulse she stopped in Hagerstown for a matinee of the new romantic comedyRight of Way, which she had intended to see with Michael but had little hope of doing. She bought popcorn and a Coke, and again was not recognized.

  After the movie she drove Interstate 81 into Pennsylvania, then took the local roads that led to the lake. She avoided listening to any news on the radio, or noticing newspapers anywhere she went. She was fed up with the world’s realities, at least for today.

  The afternoon light was beginning to wane as she reached the bumpy dirt road that led to the lake. The hollows were filled with muddy water that splashed over the little MG. She turned on the windshield wipers, which only spread the muck over the glass, making visibility poor. It took her six or seven lurching minutes to get to the cottage.

  The place looked neat and well kept. The caretaker kept an eye on the exterior of the cottage, pulling branches off the roof, checking the dock, and so forth. But no one cleaned the interior. It had not been touched since Susan and Michael were last here.

  Susan parked the car on the steep driveway and walked to the cottage, her overnight bag in her hand. Her keys worked smoothly in the two locks, and she went in and locked the door behind her.

  The place was freezing cold inside. She turned on the furnace, shivering in her skimpy clothes. She found a sweater in the bedroom closet and put it on. She put the kettle on the gas stove for tea.

  She intended to spend the night here, sitting in front of the fireplace and drinking toddies. There were some old CDs and a player here. She would listen to music. She would make a supper of canned food from the pantry; she would not chance going to the local grocery, where she might be recognized.

  Her plan was simple: to play hooky. She was going to take a vacation from her life for at least twenty-four hours. Tomorrow she would call Ingrid, tell her where she was, and decide whether to spend Sunday as well. She needed this respite desperately.

  The cottage was beginning to warm up now. She opened the cabinet under the TV and looked at the small collection of videotapes that was kept here. She sawA Room with a View, a charming romantic comedy from the 1980s, from the E. M. Forster novel that Susan had never read. She decided she would watch it tonight.

  She looked at the fireplace. There were fresh logs and kindling in it, left from their last visit. Michael always liked to have the fire cleaned and ready to go for their arrival.

  Susan opened the flue, sprayed some lighter fluid over the logs, and held a burning length of newspaper inside the chimney. Then she lit the kindling and stood back to watch the fire get started.

  The leaping flames delighted her. Here in this remote place, so far from the burdens the world reserved for her, she had made herself a hearth. She sat down before the fire with her legs crossed, closed her eyes, and basked in the heat that caressed her cheeks and legs. She was so lulled by it that she almost fell asleep sitting up. She realized how deep her fatigue was. It had been months since she had had a truly refreshing night’s sleep. Perhaps tonight would be different.

  She was beginning to think about supper when a small knock sounded at the door. Susan stood up with a start. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was still wearing the curly wig. She looked very strange, she thought.

  She could not very well refuse to answer the door. Her car was right outside, and the smoke going up the chimney left no doubt someone was at home.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  “It’s Mrs. Bender, your neighbor,” came a woman’s voice. The voice said something else, but Susan couldn’t hear it.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, opening the door a crack. A woman was standing outside, looking chilly in a sweater and jeans.

  “Hi, I’m your new neighbor from across the way,” she said. “I didn’t think anyone was home, but I saw your smoke so I came over. Would you by any chance have a tank of propane that I could borrow? I just ran out this second and my husband isn’t home.”

  Susan did not recognize the woman. On the other hand, she hadn’t been up here in nearly two years.

  “Sure,” she said. “Come on in while I look.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to bother you like this.” The woman obviously didn’t recognize Susan, which cheered her considerably.

  “Did you move in just recently?” she asked as she opened the pantry door.

  “Yes, just this fall. We’re retiring here, at least for the moment. My husband—”

  “I’m sure I have some extra propane,” Susan said. “I don’t know how full it is.”

  “Oh, I don’t need a lot. I’ll pay you back tomorrow. If only I had that damned cell phone, I could have him pick some up right now. But I never could get used to them.”

  “Oh, I know how you feel.” Susan smiled. Her own hatred of telephones had a different basis, of course.

  She saw the little tank of propane that was kept in the pantry for emergencies, along with the spare batteries and lightbulbs.

  “Here it is.”

  She was bending to pick it up when she realized there was something familiar about the woman’s voice. Before she could weigh this thought she felt something wet close over her mouth and nose.
The powerful odor of chloroform shot through her senses.

  Susan was taken completely by surprise. She tried to get to her feet, but she was pushed down toward the floor by surprisingly strong arms.

  “Wait,” she cried against the wet cloth. But the fumes were overcoming her already. She turned her head this way and that, trying not to breathe. It was no use. Her legs buckled under her and she slumped slowly, dreamily, toward the floor. She felt the warm breast of a woman against her head. It seemed as though she was being cradled protectively as she fell.

  A brief image of her mother, from very long ago, rose before her mind. Mother at the dock in Massachusetts, holding out the beach towel as Susan climbed out of the frigid water. Her enfolding arms, her soothing voice. “That’s a good girl . . .”

  The words ran together as Susan lost consciousness.

  44

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  NOMINEE’S WIFE VANISHES

  March 30

  In the latest of a series of disturbing events haunting the vice presidency this year, Susan Campbell, the wife of vice presidential nominee Michael Campbell, disappeared Friday while on an apparent visit to her cabin at Green Lake, Pennsylvania.

  Law enforcement authorities are investigating . . .

  Such was theNew York Times ’s understated announcement of a piece of news that was to overwhelm the media.

  Had she been an ordinary citizen Susan Campbell’s disappearance would have brought bored and unwilling attention from the Pennsylvania state police as a routine missing persons case. But Susan was not an ordinary citizen. She was a high-profile political wife whose face was known and admired by millions around the world. She was also the wife of a nominee for the White House in what was proving to be the most troubled political season in modern history.

  For this reason the FBI immediately took over the investigation. Susan’s disappearance would be treated as a kidnapping until reason was found to treat it as something else. The search for her would be intense.