The Deviant

by Adam Sommers

  He put Arnold’s arm around his shoulder, helped him back inside and sat him on the couch. “You okay?”

  “Push the button there on the wall,” Arnold choked. “Thomas will come.”

  In moments, the butler arrived with water and a pill. Arnold took the meds then shooed the servant away. It took a few minutes of deep breathing and waiting for the medicine to kick in before his eyes returned to something like normal and he could speak clearly. “Three years of therapy, the guy never once made that point, never figured that out.”

  “Well, maybe he doesn’t know all the financial arrangements,” Eric offered.

  “No, no, he knows the whole story. Never figured it out. Never did. You got it right on the head. Exactly.” He took a big breath in and exhaled hard. “How’d you do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe just a fresh pair of eyes.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe.” He swallowed, then said, almost to himself. “I know exactly what I have to do. Will you please see yourself out?”

  “Of course. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m all right. I’m fine. Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  In that moment, to Eric, Arnold McNeill looked and sounded better than he had at any other time. “I’m not even sure what I did. But, you know, seriously Arnold, we should talk more. You should call me.”

  “Okay,” Arnold said, “I will, definitely,” and he gave Eric a reassuring smile.

  Chapter 35

  Was it possible? Was it really and actually and truly possible? No, Mitch Lozatti concluded. The past few days had only been a mirage, something that the Supreme Being had flicked a finger and created just because she/he/it had already made heaven and Eden and this was the next best thing to do.

  Since Saturday. No, really, since last Friday night, when Terry had come to crash at his apartment, thrown off her clothes and thrashed around with him on his bed, Mitch Lozatti had spent the last six days, or most of them, with her. A lot of that time had been naked. But a lot of it had not. They sat in his car in the parking lot talking for hours. There was a long walk by the Tidal Basin weaving in and out through the cherry trees and tourists, and there had been dozing on the couch in front of late night horror shows on TV. And, thanks to the Supreme Being, all of it, every single second as far as Mitch Lozatti could tell, had been stone cold sober. No beer. No schnapps. No weed, or hash.

  He dared not ask Terry what was going on for fear of breaking the spell. But clear evidence suggested that she had gone through some change. She was not nearly as manic. More mature, talking about returning to college and finishing an accounting degree. Apparently, she could do math as well or better than any NASA geek.

  Whatever it was, Mitch was in no position to argue. Previously, they had gotten together only after Mitch had badgered and begged for weeks. Then, if she wasn’t too busy with some Joe Jock or mellowing out from a bender, she would deign to let him in to her space. But in the last week, all this time together had been her idea. She opened up about her fears, told him the drugs helped her run from a future she believed had no hope for her.

  Mitch had always been there, a rock in her stream. Now, she found herself clinging to him with some degree of desperation. All this she told Mitch, who listened and stroked her long, frazzled hair and told her. “Hold on as long as you like. I’m here.”

  Chapter 36

  Brimming with optimism, Eric got back from Arnold McNeill’s home in Virginia by mid-afternoon. He threw together a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich with some chips, checked in at work and fell asleep on the dilapidated couch. When he woke, the clock said it was five-fifty-five and he snapped on the news, which led with national politics (boring) and raging wildfires in Oklahoma (cool). Eric was just about to turn it off when the newscaster said, “Now we’re going to Chase Brenkoff in Virginia, where firefighters responded to the scene of a million-dollar mansion destroyed by fire.”

  A second later, Eric saw the long driveway leading up to the house of Arnold McNeill that he had been in just a few hours before. But now it was not empty. It was full of fire trucks and ambulances. “Damn, McNeill,” Eric muttered at the screen. “You don’t fuck around.”

  The pretty TV news lady was interviewing a florid-faced fire captain. The cameraman jiggled as he swung around to get the smoldering house behind the captain so that it would make a more dramatic shot. “No, we don’t really know what started it,” he was saying. “Looks like it came from the basement. Can’t say for sure, but my experience, this is suspicious. Definitely.”

  As he was talking, Eric Berger saw the master of the house come into the shot. “Oh, this is the homeowner,” piped Chase Brenkoff. “Sir, sir, can you give me a second?”

  McNeill, looking tired, but relaxed, stopped.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I was in the living room and I smelled smoke. In a minute or less the floor under my feet got burning hot and I just ran out.”

  “You don’t know how it started?”

  “No. I have no idea.”

  “I guess you feel lucky you didn’t get hurt.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. As the reporter flipped over her notebook and tried to think of something else to ask, the camera swung back to McNeill who blinked in the bright light. Behind him a firefighter, with his coat and face smeared with soot, walked by. Just barely visible for an instant in the lower left corner of the screen was something shiny in his hand that Eric thought quite possibly could have been the handle to a gasoline can.

  In her earpiece, the station’s news director was desperately screaming, “Ask if he started it! Ask if he started it!” But by that time Arnold McNeill had moved off to get his car from the detached garage and head for a hotel.

  Chase Brenkoff, badly flubbing the end of the live report, turned and chirped, “Chase Brenkoff at the mansion fire. Rene.”

  In the earpiece she heard her boss mutter. “For fuck’s sake.”

  Chapter 37

  The same news program that Eric watched was also seen by a man named Mark Mullins, one of Jayne Grayman’s lawyers. Mullins knew whose house that was and warning lights started flashing in his mind. This required immediate attention.

  Jayne’s phone rang a minute later. She listened, then said, “Don’t worry about it, Mark. If Arnold wants to destroy his house, so what?”

  “I don’t like it, Jayne. It’s a clear indication that something has gone wrong. He’s somehow off the reservation. He’s losing it.”

  “Like he ever had it,” she snorted and cackled a little laugh.

  “Funny,” said Mullins. “Your exposure here is that instead of abiding by the gag order, he decides to NOT abide by the gag order.”

  “Again, so what? It’s case closed, isn’t it? Who would he tell? The media? I am the media. The police? The court? Where can he go?”

  She was right, but Mark Mullins made a living anticipating problems for rich people and heading them off. It seemed like this was a potential problem, he just could not see how at the moment. “I think we should try to get him back on the reservation before he says something to someone.”

  “I don’t think there’s any problem. No one will believe him or listen to him. It was years ago.” Jayne was clearly getting annoyed.

  “What if he shows some investigator looking into the arson he just committed who owns the house—who actually bought it.”

  “That’s bullshit, Mark. That house was bought with his own money.”

  “Which he got from you.”

  “No, from the Gazbard Group for his work editing promotional material for local artists in and around Boston. Remember?”

  “Sure, but all it would take is someone scratching below that surface for it to become common knowledge who owns the Gazbard Group.”

  “Fair point,” she admitted after a minute of try
ing to argue a way around it in her mind and coming up empty. It was her cousin’s company, set up hastily. “But why would he make a stink now, after three years?”

  That question was really at the heart of the purpose for Mark Mullins’ call. It was a tricky thing to make an indelicate inquiry of someone who paid you a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar retainer per year. “I don’t know, Jayne, can you think of any reason….?”

  He left the question hanging there, not wanting to come right out and ask if she had molested anyone else recently, although that is what he was thinking.

  Jayne was wise enough to know where he was going and what he was suggesting. Her initial instinct was to reject it out of hand, but she hesitated. It took her a few moments of silence to connect the dots, however far apart they might be, from Eric Berger to Arnold McNeill. Then she said, “Uh, no,” into the phone and it was one of the least convincing denials Mark Mullins had ever heard in his professional experience as a lawyer.

  Then she recovered. “Listen, this thing is bullshit. You want to reach out to Arnold, that’s your business. Keep that fucker away from me or I’ll shit-can you so fast it’ll make your little British beard fly off your little British face. Do whatever you have to, and don’t bring his name up to me again.”

  There’s the Jayne Grayman I know and love, thought Mark Mullins and hung up.

  Jayne made herself coffee, two scrambled eggs with four slices of bacon. She watched TV, talked with her sister on the phone. Then she went back into her home office and called work. “Get me Eric Berger’s number at home,” she ordered.

  The operator gave it to her a moment later, but she hesitated before dialing; she hated to admit that her lawyer might be right. Then, in her mind, she said fuck it, and dialed. Eric picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Hi, Eric. It’s Jayne Grayman.”

  Eric dropped the phone.

  Chapter 38

  In Alexandria—the nice part, closer to D.C., not the part where Janon and his fleas lived—Warren Zalinsky and Carrie Scanlon were out on a date. There was nothing unusual about this, per se; they’d been seeing each other romantically for months and had true affection along with regular sex.

  For Carrie, it had started out as a “why not?” kind of thing. He was tall and had those blue eyes paired with black wavy hair. He had glasses but to Carrie that enhanced, rather than detracted.

  To Warren, Carrie had started out as simply just another fuck, and he was surprised by the depth of affection he had developed for her. She kept it light, and he liked that. She did not make demands of him and was happy to get together whenever he called, if she was able. They were, for lack of a better word, friends, and it was this part of the relationship that had gradually come to be more important to both.

  Generally, Warren was soft-spoken and quiet, to the point where he could seem taciturn or even morose. He liked to think of himself as the strong silent type, always calm and cool no matter what else was going on. But that was clearly not the case as he sat across from Carrie waiting for their appetizers. He kept fidgeting with the corner of his napkin, flicking the linen, rolling it, unrolling it.

  “Oooh, someone’s got something on their mind,” Carrie prodded lightly, hoping to turn his mood around.

  The gloomy Warren Zalinsky picked up his gloomy blue eyes and just looked at her.

  Eww, Carrie thought, not the right approach. “Come on, Warren, what’s going on?”

  That worked better.

  “I’m not going to get custody.”

  “Oh, Warren, really?”

  “Yeah, honestly, I knew I never had a shot. The moms always win.”

  “Can you appeal?”

  “Of course, for another ten thousand to my lawyer, who says I’ll probably lose that too.”

  “You still have visitation, right?”

  “Yeah, they didn’t touch that part of it.”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “Every week. I didn’t do anything wrong, Carrie. She just made that shit up so that the judge would have some excuse to deny me.”

  The waiter came. “How are we doing on drinks?”

  “Good,” said Warren, answering for both of them.

  The fact that Warren had a kid did not surprise or bother Carrie. He had been upfront about his social life and she knew there had been many one-night stands. In fact, she thought she was going to be among them. The wonder to Carrie was not that Warren had a child from one of his liaisons, but that as far as she could tell there was only the one. Warren had never said, but she got the impression the mom was young and either a drug user or a prostitute, and Warren would never admit to being with a prostitute.

  Warren Zalinsky had said he “didn’t do anything wrong,” which told Carrie that he had been accused of something—abuse, neglect, some type of violence—which would be out of character for the Warren Zalinsky she knew. He’d never so much as raised his voice to her, or, for that matter to anyone she’d ever seen him with.

  “Look,” she asked Warren, “you think there is any chance you could reason with this woman? That you could talk to her? If she’s struggling somehow you could offer to make it easier, give her some money. Whatever it took.”

  Warren raised an eyebrow of possibility. Could he charm her into granting him custody? He’d never even thought of it before. It had been all fangs and claws. The idea of being sweet wasn’t completely out of the question. “I’ll have to think about that one, Carrie,” he allowed nodding his head, and it brightened his mood at least to the point where he could enjoy his drink and the meal that was just arriving.

  “How are things with you?” he asked innocently.

  When he saw Carrie’s face darken and her brows knit together he realized he’d accidentally hit a nerve, and he felt awful for being so focused on his own problems that he didn’t notice Carrie also was in the midst of some turmoil as well.

  Regarding Warren’s question, Carrie had no clear answer. On the one hand things were euphorically fantastic. In the clear light of the morning after her middle-of-the night visit to the newsroom, she had not been able to shake her conviction that she loved Eric Berger and would be his wife forever one bit. This was no schoolgirl crush. But here she was in a beautiful restaurant with the man she was sleeping with and whom she had deep feelings for—not the same kind she had for Eric—but feelings just the same.

  What she should do is just spill all. But that would be cruel given the bad news Warren had just told her about: Oh, sorry you don’t get to raise your kid, and by the way, I’m breaking up with you to pursue Eric Berger, your friend and colleague who has been steadily creeping in on your territory. Such a comment just was not in Carrie Scanlon’s makeup. But she had to come up with a reason for being so upset and an easy answer presented itself.

  “Jayne says she’s going to ship me out to Fairfax if I don’t do more stories.”

  Warren slammed his fork down on the table so hard his plate bounced, fell off and shattered on the floor. Other diners looked over quickly and he recovered himself as the waiter hurried to clean up the mess. “Sorry, man,” he said to the waiter. Then to Carrie. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay, Warren, really. I’ll find a way to do a few more pieces and keep her off my back.”

  “I can try to talk to her if you want?”

  “No, Warren. Don’t get in the middle.”

  “Why does she always pick on you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m young, I’m thin. She picks on all the women in the office. You never noticed?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s kind of her thing. She made Sarange cry the other day and all she did was pick the wrong picture for the weddings page. Called her stupid right there in the office when everyone could hear.”

  If Warren felt an
ything with that latest outrage he did not show it to Carrie. “She better not send you to Fairfax,” he growled.

  “I think she just likes to rattle my cage,” Carrie offered in as lighthearted a manner as she could muster.

  “Looks like she did that pretty well,” Warren teased.

  “Yeah,” Carrie admitted and dug into her scampi.

  She shared her meal with Warren, who, after spilling his to the floor, hadn’t had the heart to reorder. They chewed quietly for a while. As thin as Carrie was, Warren Zalinsky was always impressed by how much she could eat. More than he could, certainly, and he was twice her size. He liked watching her eat. He liked watching her dress. He liked watching her undress. If only there were that critical spark, that flame of “crazy” he had known just one time before, he would be able to see being with Carrie for many years, maybe even his whole life. He wondered if maybe that spark suddenly appeared, or if it could be manufactured. If he could will it into existence. It might be worth the effort.

  “I think she’s got a little thing for Eric,” Carrie announced between bites.

  “Who?”

  “Jayne.”

  “Jayne! Jayne Grayman is hot for Eric Berger?”

  “Yeah, you saw she put him above the fold, with a column sig.”

  “I saw, yeah. He deserved it. Hell of a good story he got. He’s cool. A little nerdy but cool.”

  “C’mon, Warren, he’s kicking your ass,” Carrie teased.

  Then Warren had to laugh. She was right. “Maybe a little.”

  Chapter 39

  Eric Berger stared at the phone as if it were something that would bite him should he dare to move toward it.

  “Hello?” he heard it say from amid the dust and crumbs.

  Eric just looked at it.

  “Eric, pick up the phone.” It was a command, and he did as he was told. She was still his boss. “Yes?” he offered in a voice he hoped did not convey the fear and disgust that he felt. But then again, he didn’t really care if it did.