Author Description

He snapped out of the blackness with a mouth full of mud.Charlie Marder coughed up grime and spat silt, then raised himself on his elbows and tried tomake sense of where he was.Sprawled on the leafy banks of a creek, he wore a tuxedo that was insufficient to combat theMarch chill. A wispy fog hovered; sporadic chirping came from nearby families of wrens risingwith the sun.A stone bridge and paved road lay in front of him. Wincing with the effort, he hoisted himselfonto his knees and turned. Behind him, a semi-submerged Studebaker sat in the creek's muddybank, its driver's door open.He squinted and could just make out, downstream, the recently restored old Peirce Mill and itswaterwheel. He was in Rock Creek Park, 1,754 acres of woods, trails, and road tucked inNorthwest Washington, DC, far from his Georgetown brownstone.How did I get here?Charlie said it to himself, first in his head and then as a whisper and then repeating it aloud:'How did I get here?' His voice was gravelly. He stumbled as he tried to stand, and realized thathe was drunk. His mouth was parched. Where had he been drinking?He looked at his Timex, adjusting his wrist to catch the light: 4:55 a.m. Memories began toemerge a party, a celebration, a club of some sort. Frank Carlin, the powerful HouseAppropriations Committee chairman, encouraging a young, attractive waitress to do something.What was it? She poured ice water onto a sugar cube held on a flattened perforated spoon over aglass. And the glass contained absinthe. 'This is how the French do it,' Carlin said. And fromthere the night went dark.Charlie staggered forward. Looked back at the Studebaker. Muddy tracks traced the car's pathfrom the road to its final resting place on the riverbank. Okay. I skidded off the parkway. Thiswas a problem. But nothing insurmountable. An accident. Maybe he could just walk away. Hedidn't recognize the car, had no recollection of being behind the wheel. 'Absinthe,' he mutteredunder his breath.