Guilt by Silence

by Taylor Smith

  The beer in his hand was incongruous, Mariah decided. This was a picture of a man in a Dewar’s ad—a modern-day adventurer, always ready to push the limits and defy the odds, unshackled by humdrum conventions. Nice work, if you can get it.

  She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, suddenly conscious of the discount-outlet sweats she had pulled on after her shower at the pool. The hell with it—she was damned if she needed to impress Paul Chaney.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked reluctantly. She wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, but first she urgently needed to get some food into her body.

  “Actually, no. I came straight over here as soon as I finished work.”

  “Why are you in Washington?”

  “I’m following up a couple of stories. I’m also here to negotiate my next assignment with the network.”

  “You’re leaving Vienna?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mariah nodded toward the oven. “Well, supper is just leftovers, but there’s plenty, so you might as well have some.”

  “As I recall, ‘Leftovers Mariah’ would put most restaurants to shame. And whatever it is, it smells great. My mouth has been watering ever since I walked in the door.”

  “It’s moussaka.” She picked up a large knife and reached for a cutting board. She planted them in front of him, then passed him half a baguette and a breadbasket. “Cut,” she ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Chaney lifted the blade and examined it briefly. “For a second there, I thought you were going to run this through me. I guess I deserve it, the way I’ve been sneaking up on you.”

  “Don’t talk, just cut.” Mariah pulled the salad she’d made earlier out of the fridge and mixed up a vinaigrette, picking and choosing from the array of spices in the cupboard. She poured the dressing over the salad and placed the bowl before him, removing the cutting board and knife that he had just finished using.

  “Toss,” she ordered, handing him salad servers. He saluted, deep lines forming at the corners of his mouth from the effort to suppress a grin. He started throwing the vegetables around, tossing a few on the table as he went. Mariah, glancing over her shoulder, rolled her eyes heavenward. Gathering up plates, napkins and cutlery, she set these on the table as Chaney cleaned up the bits of vegetable debris scattered about. The moussaka placed between them, Mariah sat down and they began to eat in silence.

  As they ate, she avoided his eyes but was conscious of his gaze drifting to her again and again, watching her every move. At this point, she was too stressed and exhausted to care. But in Vienna, his constant attention used to unnerve her. Chaney was David’s friend and David had seemed oblivious to it, so she’d told herself at first that it was just her imagination. She’d carried on as if she didn’t notice how he sat up straighter whenever she came into the room, how he glanced at her constantly, how he turned away abruptly whenever David touched her. If anything, it got worse over time. Even when the overbearing Elsa had become a regular on the scene, Chaney seemed to seek Mariah out, to try to engage her in conversation, to follow and offer to help whenever she left the room in search of food or drink. It was as if he couldn’t believe that there existed a woman not susceptible to his charms. Mariah wasn’t unaware of them, but she knew the pain that follows in the wake of handsome charmers like Paul Chaney. Charmers like her own runaway father.

  And then, not long before David’s accident, it had become glaringly obvious that she wasn’t imagining dishonorable intentions where none existed. Chaney had tried to seduce her one night—on the terrace of the ambassador’s residence, no less. Mariah had gone to a reception alone, upset that David was working late again and unable to make it. She had stepped out onto the balcony for some fresh air and Chaney had followed her. For the first time in a while, Elsa hadn’t been with him that night. They’d chatted, but it had seemed meaningless to her—pleasantries, nothing more.

  After it happened, she had asked herself whether somehow, unconsciously, she had telegraphed the wrong message. Was her unhappiness that night so conspicuous? Did she hesitate for a split second too long when he pulled her into his arms? Was it her fault that he’d thought he could get away with kissing her like that?

  But she knew now that it wasn’t. Elsa had pursued David; Paul had pursued her. They were a team. It seemed almost too farfetched to believe, but she was certain now that there had been a game going on in Vienna whose rules she had never understood. The question was, what was the objective? And would things have turned out differently if she had reciprocated that night instead of pushing him away, as she had done?

  “Did your mother teach you to cook like this?” Chaney closed his eyes, savoring the lamb sauce.

  “My mother never cooked anything that didn’t come out of a can.” He opened his eyes again, a crease marring the smooth line of his forehead. “She didn’t have the time or the energy,” Mariah explained. “She worked two jobs to feed and clothe my kid sister and me. My father walked out on her before my sister, Katie, was born. I was seven.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “Why would you?” Chaney’s eyes dropped to his plate. “Anyway, it’s no big deal,” Mariah went on, a little appalled at how much she wanted to see him squirm, to hurt him—win one for all the little gippers. “A guy who’d do a thing like that, we were obviously better off without.”

  He put down his utensils and sat back in his chair, tracing the curve of the plate with his finger. When he looked up, his eyes were cold. “Is that it?”

  “Is that what?”

  “Is that why you’ve always disapproved of me?” He met her critical gaze head-on. “It’s not like you ever did such a terrific job of hiding it, you know, Mariah. And no matter how hard I tried with you, there was always a barrier there I couldn’t get over.”

  She was a little taken aback. She averted her gaze and pushed the food around on her plate. “I don’t think it really matters what I think.”

  “Maybe not. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t walk out on my wife and child. They walked out on me—or at least, she did. My son was only six months old at the time. I came home one day from an assignment in Beirut to find an empty house and a notice from her lawyer that she had filed for divorce. Call me dense, but I never even saw it coming.”

  “I don’t need to know this.”

  “I know, but I want to tell you. She and the baby were living with a man she knew before I came along. Apparently, they’d gotten together again even before Jack was born. She married him the day after our divorce became final. Phyllis wasn’t a particularly good wife to me and I suppose I wasn’t the husband she expected, either. But she is a good mother. And the one thing we agreed on was that we loved Jack and we wanted what was best for him. She convinced me that it would be less confusing for him if I just stayed out of his life as much as possible.” Chaney’s hand clenched into a fist on the table and he leaned forward. “But there hasn’t been a day in the last ten years, Mariah, when I haven’t agonized over it, wondering if I’ve done the right thing.”

  As much as she wanted to believe it was an act, and despite hating the game he had played in Vienna, Mariah knew as she watched him that the pain in his eyes was real. She nodded slowly. “Okay. It was a cheap shot. I’m sorry.”

  They turned back to their food in silence. Mariah handed him the serving dish. “Why don’t you finish the rest of this?”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. It was great, but I seem to have lost my appetite. Is your blood sugar at a level where we can talk now?”

  “In a minute. I need to look in on Lindsay.”

  She left the table and went upstairs to her daughter’s room. Lindsay was sprawled on the bed, surrounded by books, her chin resting thoughtfully on one fist while the other hand held a textbook propped against a pillow. Mariah glanced at the study desk against the wall—completely unusable. It was overflowing with CDs, loose papers and God knew what else. Even the computer had disappeared under a pile of discarded clot
hes. She clenched her teeth and said nothing. This was Lindsay’s territory, she reminded herself, mentally reciting some child-rearing wisdom she’d picked up somewhere. If she wanted her room to look like the Wreck of the Hesperus, that was fine, the theory went, as long as no major health department ordinances were infracted.

  “Hi,” Mariah said.

  Lindsay glanced up, startled, then sullen. “Hi.”

  “How’s the homework coming?”

  “Done. I’m reading ahead.”

  Mariah sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to massage her daughter’s back. “Sorry I was such a grouch before. You know me when I haven’t eaten.”

  “You treat me like a little kid. It’s not fair.”

  “I know, honey. I just forget sometimes how grown-up you’ve become. And seeing someone in the house like that gave me a fright, that’s all. I really am sorry.”

  “Is Mr. Chaney still downstairs?”

  “Yes. I shared the rest of the moussaka with him to try to make up for my bad manners.”

  Lindsay shifted onto her side and picked a piece of lint off her bedspread, rolling it between her fingers. “How come you don’t like him, Mom?”

  “It’s hard to explain. He just rubs me the wrong way.” Mariah studied her hands for a moment. “And maybe when I see him now, I think of your dad and how the two of them used to fly down the rink, passing the puck between them, showing off like a couple of overgrown kids. And maybe it just pisses me off that Paul Chaney can still have that and Daddy can’t.”

  Lindsay nodded, then reached out to slap her mother’s arm, smiling now. “Mom! There’s that language again.”

  Mariah winced. “I know, I know. I’ve been hanging around your Uncle Frank and Patty too long—they’ve corrupted my vocabulary. Are you about ready to pack it in?”

  “I thought I’d have a bath.”

  Mariah nodded. She knew Lindsay’s damaged leg ached most of the time, although she rarely complained about it. A hot soak in the tub had become an almost nightly ritual to help her fall asleep.

  “I’ll fill the tub for you. Bubbles?”

  “Sure.”

  When Mariah went back downstairs a few minutes later, the sound of light splashing and music from Lindsay’s waterproof radio were drifting out from under the bathroom door. She stepped into the kitchen and stopped dead, looking around in shock. The place was spotless, and Chaney was just loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher.

  “I’m impressed,” she said.

  He lifted the door to close the machine. “It was the least I could do. I’m not much of a cook’s assistant, but I can usually manage cleanup detail.” He glanced toward the ceiling, which was vibrating dully with the beat of Lindsay’s music. “Everything okay in Teenville?”

  “It is now. She wasn’t too pleased with me. I embarrassed her.”

  “The capital crime of parents everywhere.”

  “I guess. Do you want another beer? Some coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great.” He moved out of her way and leaned against the counter while she set up the coffeemaker. “She’s a super kid, Mariah.”

  “I know.” She bit her upper lip as she spooned the coffee into the filter, cursing the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Turning her back to Chaney, she busied herself with the cups.

  “I was sincere when I offered to show her around the studios downtown,” he went on. “I’d really like to—she seemed so keen. Maybe she’s another Barbara Walters in the making. Won’t you let her go? You could come, too, for that matter.”

  Mariah shrugged, unsure of her voice. “We’ll see,” she said at last, furious at the dusky sound that came out. She jumped when she felt Chaney’s hand on her shoulder, and spun around. “Don’t! Don’t touch me.”

  He retreated to his corner, palms raised. “I didn’t mean anything—just a friendly gesture, that’s all.” He watched her face for a moment. “Mariah, I’m sorry about what I did on the ambassador’s terrace that night. It was stupid and arrogant and—”

  “—and disloyal.”

  “And disloyal,” he agreed. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I just misread the signals.”

  “Signals? What signals? You’d better get that radar checked, buddy, because I didn’t send you any signals.”

  “No, you didn’t. And I’m an ass. So could we just forget it ever happened? Please?”

  Mariah glared at him. Why on earth didn’t she just throw him and his telegenic mug out the door? Because I need to find out what he wants, she reminded herself, and what he knows.

  “All right,” she grumbled. “Make yourself useful—get the milk out.”

  A few minutes later, she led him into the living room, coffee cups in hand. He settled on the sofa and Mariah took up an armchair across from him, on the far side of the coffee table. Chaney sipped his coffee and glanced around the room. “This is nice,” he said. “I like it better than your place in Vienna.”

  Mariah and David’s embassy-owned apartment in Vienna had been spacious but furnished in typical government-issue style—bland, middle-class Americana. Mariah’s condo held fourteen years’ worth of married memorabilia. It had an eclectic decor that mixed a couple of decent Persian carpets with art deco lamps, a leather sofa, some overstuffed wing chairs and a few antique cherrywood tables that she and David had collected during their prowls around the back roads of Virginia. Several original paintings and numbered lithographs adorned the walls. The overall effect was comfortable and warm.

  “You didn’t come here to talk interior decorating, Paul. Let’s hear what you have to say that’s so all-fired important. And keep your voice down,” she added, glancing at the still-vibrating ceiling.

  He leaned forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t know if David told you this but he and I often used to discuss nuclear arms. He taught me a lot about the different weapons systems in the Soviet and American arsenals. And I know he was involved in our weapons program a few years back.”

  “Not for long. He was only in Los Alamos for about three years.”

  “But he knew his stuff.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Anyway, over the past few months, I’ve spent a lot of time looking into what happened to the Soviet weapons establishment after the country broke up. Their nuclear scientists are at loose ends, many of them stuck out in remote security zones, programs cut, no food or consumer goods coming in. As for the bombs, there were more than twenty thousand warheads floating around when the place fell apart.”

  Mariah nodded. “Most of them stayed in Russian hands. The other republics had a few thousand, but they’re being turned over to Moscow, for the most part. Most are slated to be destroyed.”

  “Theoretically. But are all the weapons accounted for?”

  Mariah made a T-shape with her hands. “Time out. I’m here to listen, not answer questions or act as some background source for your news stories.”

  “Understood. I’m just setting the scene here. I wasn’t sure how much you knew about this weapons game.”

  Mariah rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I’m not just David’s little woman, Paul, I work for the State Department.” The old lie slid easily off her tongue. “I do know a thing or two about this stuff, you know.”

  Chaney regarded her closely. “You never told me exactly what you do, Mariah. David said you were an administrator of some sort.”

  Mariah hesitated. Chaney suddenly looked as if he wasn’t buying it and she wasn’t up for probing inquiries into her line of work.

  “I am an administrator—facilities management—but I’ve been hanging around diplomats for fifteen years. I also helped set up conference sites for the arms negotiations with the Soviets. And,” she reminded him, “I married a nuclear physicist. We had some unusual dinner-table conversations.”

  “All right. Then you know that the biggest headache in those conferences was the problem of verification—how to keep track of who had what. Neither Mos
cow nor Washington would let the IAEA in on the act. They figured they could do the job with their own spies and satellite recon systems.”

  I know all about it, Mariah thought. And I know those systems aren’t foolproof.

  “But they’re not foolproof,” Chaney said, reading her mind. “We know that weapons-grade fuels and components have been smuggled out in the past. But what about the finished product?”

  She nodded impatiently. “I saw your report on the news last night. So you figure some nut like Ghaddafi is snapping up these weapons from the poverty-stricken Russians to build his own little arsenal. I hate to break this to you, Clark Kent, but that’s not exactly a hot news flash. Despite what that idiot Hoskmeyer told you, a lot of people are scared to death that this stuff will leak out to every madman and terrorist with a bankroll.” She put down her coffee cup. “What’s this got to do with David and Lindsay’s accident?”

  “Did David ever tell you he was approached to do—well, let’s call it private consulting work?”

  “What?”

  “Was someone trying to hire him to help build a private arsenal?”

  “No, of course not! And he would never do such a thing.”

  “Didn’t you notice anything strange about his behavior in the period leading up to the accident?”

  “What are you getting at? What makes you think David was approached?”

  “I don’t think—I know. I know when. I know by whom. I’m just not certain for what purpose.”

  “Who approached him?”

  “That’s not important right now,” he said.

  She turned away and waved her hand dismissively. Chaney let out a sharp sigh of exasperation.

  “Listen, Mariah, will you just trust me on this for now? You may not think much of me personally, but the fact is, I’ve got some pretty good contacts and I’m not playing games here. Someone destroyed a guy who—whether you believe it or not—I considered a close friend. So don’t wave me off, okay?”