by Pandora Pine
Dressing in a grey suit, I was out the door half an hour before the hearing was scheduled to begin. When I got to the courthouse, it was mobbed with media from the local Boston television stations, as well as The Boston Globe and Herald. I had a hard time fighting my way through the crowd. As I pushed my way through, questions were shouted at me. I ignored them and managed to make it safely inside the building.
Hennessey was waiting for me. “You look like shit, brother.”
“Feel like it too.” There was no use lying. When Hen was right, he was right.
“Kennedy said Deacon had a restless night too. Dad brought him breakfast from his favorite pancake place, but all Deacon did was pick at it.” Hennessey sounded sad. He’d only met Deacon a couple of times, but already he was a member of this family.
It shouldn’t have surprised me that my father knew Deacon’s favorite restaurant. “I’m all over the place, Hen. I finally know what it means when people say, ‘I didn’t know if I was coming or going.’” Man, did I ever.
“That fancy attorney Mom and Dad hired is waiting to talk to us in the conference room upstairs. Dad sent me down here to wait for you.”
Nodding, I followed Hennessey to the elevator. I had a feeling our conversation wasn’t over. The door pinged shut behind us and I waited.
“I’m sorry.” Hennessey’s head was down. He wasn’t making eye contact with me.
“Sorry for what?” I couldn’t think of a single thing my brother had done that would warrant apologizing for.
“I should have advised you better about Deacon and that ridiculous plan your boss and the chief cooked up. I can’t help thinking that if I’d said something different, the two of you could have worked together to figure this mess out. Now, we’re in an even bigger mess.”
“Hen, I know what you’re trying to say. You don’t need to apologize. I knew full well that coming clean with Deacon was my best option. You can’t blame yourself for bad decisions I made.” I elbowed him. “Hell, where were you when I was getting sucked off by the captain of the football team?”
Hennessey snorted. “Fourth or fifth behind you in line.” He burst out laughing.
“You too?” Christ, that boy had been so far in the closet he’d smelled of mothballs, but Jesus above, could that boy suck dick.
“I think Quentin was in line too, maybe even Dallas.” Hennessey was laughing so hard he leaned against the side of the elevator for support.
I felt my eyes pop open. It was a small town with not a lot of out and proud kids back when we went to Gloucester High School. I should have known my brothers and I would have made the same rounds, so to speak.
“Good, now that the stick is out of your ass, you can listen to Burnett and figure out what to do next.”
Thank God for Hennessey. I don’t know what I’d do without him. “Thanks, man.”
“Just remember, game face from here on out.” Hen gave my shoulder a squeeze.
I nodded. Hennessey sounded just like our father.
Thankfully, the floor was empty when the elevator doors opened. The last thing I needed was to run another gauntlet through reporters. Hennessey led me through the halls until we came to a room. He knocked three times on the door and let us in.
My entire family was sitting in the room, with the exception of Quentin who was still in Colorado. Mason Burnett sat at the head of the tale with Deacon to his right. My parents sat next to him, while Dallas and Kennedy were across the way. I took a seat next to Kennedy who looked like he’d gotten as much sleep as I had last night.
Deacon was another story. He was staring in the direction of his lawyer. My heart fractured again.
“Good, you’re all here,” Burnett began. “I want to start out by thanking Kennedy for doing his due diligence on this case. Thanks to him, we’ve got the fingerprint and DNA reports back on the evidence found in Deacon’s car, along with information about the tipster. Kennedy, if you would?”
“As I suspected, there wasn’t a fingerprint on the nails, hammer, or the glue. If Deacon had been handling these items, we would have found some prints, smudged or otherwise. The fact that there were no prints leads me to believe the arsonist wiped them down before he planted them, in the hopes Deacon would touch them at some point, which didn’t happen. There was also no DNA on the items, which solidifies my position that the evidence was planted.”
I breathed an audible sigh of relief. I’d known all along Deacon wasn’t the arsonist, but hearing Kennedy confirm my original suspicions made my heart feel lighter. I chanced a look at Deacon, who didn’t seem excited about these developments. I assumed that might have to do with the fact he was still under arrest and about to be arraigned.
“The only fly in the ointment was the phone number calling Deacon with the tips about the fires.” Kennedy’s focus was on Deacon.
“What kind of fly in the ointment,” my father asked.
“The phone itself is a burner, but the number it was using came from the Gloucester Police Department. More specifically from Chief Holland’s personal line.”
I gasped. “Is he the one who’s been sending Deacon the messages?”
“I’m looking into it, but I doubt it. What the hell good is getting an untraceable phone and using your own cloned phone number that would tie directly back to you. Not exactly the move of a master criminal.”
“It’s something Mom or Dad would do.” Hennessey snickered.
Dallas snorted, but quickly got himself under control.
“Where does this leave us in terms of this court hearing?” I asked.
Deacon turned slowly to face me. If this had been a horror movie, his movement would have been accompanied by the sound of a creaky door. His demeanor was ice cold, as were his usually lively blue eyes. “Us?” he asked, his voice filled with venom.
I was taken aback by Deacon’s tone. My heart broke a tiny bit more at the accusation in his voice. “I know you’re mad at me, but I’m on your side. I never thought you were the arsonist. I wasn’t even trying to gather evidence to prove your guilt.”
“Which also means you weren’t trying to prove my innocence either!” Deacon shot back, anger blazing in his eyes.
“Okay, everyone out.” My mother was on her feet, pointing to my brothers as she ushered my father out of the room.
“You’ve got ten minutes before they call our case. Say what needs saying quickly and as quietly as possible. Press isn’t allowed on this floor, but sometimes they manage to sneak through.” With those words, Burnett was out the door.
“Deacon, I-”
“Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I spent the night in jail. Do you have any idea how goddamned terrifying that was?” His skin was pale, and he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
I opened my mouth to respond, but shut it again, knowing Deacon needed to get his thoughts out.
“I knew all I had to do was call out for Kennedy and he’d be there, but I won’t have that luxury in prison.”
“You’re not going to prison.” I couldn’t stay silent on that point. “You heard what Kennedy said about there being no evidence on the items found in your car.”
“Oh, please. All the prosecutor has to say is that I was the one who wiped those items down to obscure my prints and DNA.” Deacon rolled his eyes.
I knew Deacon had a point, but I wisely stayed silent.
“Why are you even here?” Deacon demanded.
If my heart kept fracturing this way, there was no way I’d be able to find all the pieces to put it back together again. My first instinct was to tell him I loved him, but I knew that would just send him off on another rant. “I was beside myself when my boss and the chief of police asked me to spy on you. I knew it was wrong. I should have refused or spoken up, but I didn’t. I’ll carry that for the rest of my life. I should have stood up for you. I should have defended you, Deacon, but I was too weak to stand up to men with more power than I had.” I took another deep breath. At least Deaco
n was listening to me and not loading up for his next attack. “One amazing thing came out of the treachery of that meeting. I got to know you.”
Deacon opened his mouth to fight back, but I held a hand up to stop him. “Every word I said to you, every kiss, every hug, was real. I kept asking you out because I liked you and wanted to get to know you better.” I set my hand over my heart. “When I said I loved you, I meant it. I promised myself I was going to tell you about the meeting the next day, but then there was the fire and your arrest.” My head dipped to my chest. Shame blossomed over my face.
“How can I ever trust you again?” Deacon shouted. “Even if I do keep my ass out of prison.”
I opened my mouth to respond to him but closed it at the last second. It seemed all I was doing was making things worse.
“Just go. I don’t want to see you ever again.” Deacon sounded exhausted, and if I didn’t miss my guess, a bit heartbroken too.
Without another word, I did what Deacon asked. Again.
30
Deacon
I don’t know how Mason Burnett did it, but I was released on a $100,000 bond which Mandy and David McCoy paid. They’d joked with me about not skipping town and how they’d find me if I did.
I’d laughed, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt guilty letting them pay for my bail and my pricey attorney, but I was too tired and too relieved to be home to fight it. Mandy offered me one of the spare bedrooms at her house if I didn’t want to be alone. I’d refused, badly wanting to shower and then sleep in my own bed.
The pounding water from the shower against my face felt indescribable. I’d been gone from my home for less than twenty-four hours, but to me, it felt like it had been years. Nearly every single minute of those hours were spent thinking about my future.
I’d have to deal with a lengthy trial, all covered by my own newspaper. Every single article would start out with, “Deacon Fairbanks, former reporter for The Gloucester Times…” Then there would be the shock of standing and listening to the jury announce three guilty verdicts against me. Lastly, and worst of all, I’d move into my new and possibly permanent address. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw myself in an orange jumpsuit.
Thoughts of prison were by far the worst. I was a slight man who’d been openly gay for years. I had no idea how a man like me would survive in general population. I’d be fresh meat. Most likely I would end up in some sort of protective custody, not only for being gay, but also for killing children. The two youngest victims of the string of fires were the McMasters children, Katy and Bella, two and four years old at the time of their deaths.
As the hot water pounded against my body, I scrubbed myself to within an inch of my life. I knew in prison I would never get another shower like this again, which made me scrub my skin even harder. I didn’t feel clean after spending the night in the Gloucester Jail. I couldn’t imagine what I would feel like after a night behind bars in a Massachusetts State Prison.
I turned off the taps after the water started going cold. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I sat on the edge of the bathtub watching water droplets form at the tips of my hair only to drop and splatter against my feet. Everything felt like a dream. Life was moving in slow motion. I was certain that any moment now, I would wake up in Ozzy’s bed and we’d both laugh about the ridiculous nightmare, before he’d wrap me in his arms and I’d fall asleep with his beating heart as my lullaby.
After what had to be nearly half an hour, I got up from the tub and threw on a T-shirt and a pair of old running shorts. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize my face. My eyes were sunken into my skull and they were ringed with dark circles. Under other circumstances, I would have laughed at the way I resembled a raccoon. I brushed my teeth and combed my still-damp hair before shutting off the light and heading into my bedroom.
I’d always thought of this room as my oasis from the world. While I was in college, I remember reading an article in some magazine about making your bedroom a haven for rest and sex. The article cautioned against working in bed or even having a television in the room. I absolutely agreed with the idea of never bringing work to bed with me, but I couldn’t follow the idea of not having a television.
It wasn’t that I was afraid of the dark, but I liked the soft light given off by the TV. It had become a habit to fall asleep watching one of the late-night shows. The only time I had fallen asleep without the aid of the television was the night I spent at Ozzy’s house.
I was so tired and so completely happy with my life, and with him, that I drifted off to sleep in his arms without a single care in the world. If I’d only known then what I know now.
Were there signs I missed? Did I miss Ozzy eyeing me suspiciously? Were his kisses real, or just part of the show? According to Ozzy, everything that happened between the two of us was absolutely genuine. He said he loved me. I had believed him at the time. I wasn’t so sure now.
Flipping on the television, I knew there was no way I was going to fall asleep without a little help. My brain was on overdrive. No amount of meditation was going to slow it down. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I opened my nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of Benadryl. I popped two of them and settled in to watch television.
My favorite position, lying on my right side with my left leg hitched over my right, felt alien to me, as if somehow, I didn’t have the right to be comfortable in my own bed.
One thing Ozzy said at the police precinct last night wouldn’t let me rest. He told me the reason he’d spied on me like his bosses requested was because it wasn’t a request, but rather an order. Was that really true? If it was true, did that mitigate any of the damage he’d done to our relationship or my heart?
I suppose if Ozzy had thought I was the arsonist and started a rogue investigation without the sanction of the Gloucester Police or Fire Departments, that would have been a different matter. Again, according to Ozzy, he hadn’t thought I was guilty at all. Of course, that brought me right back around to my original contention that while he hadn’t been actively trying to prove my guilt, he wasn’t actively trying to prove my innocence either.
Would I have made the same choice in that same situation? I’d covered a case several months before I met Ozzy, where I interviewed one particular opioid dealer working the streets of Gloucester. All I’d wanted from this man was his story. My angle was that I hoped to prevent what happened to this man from happening to other citizens. A year prior to my interviewing him, he’d been the foreman of a construction crew building new houses out by the point. After a slip from a ladder resulted in a back injury, he’d been prescribed Vicodin. Over the course of six months, his addiction blossomed and grew into a monster he couldn’t continue to feed. He’d been fired from his job on the construction crew and had become homeless as a result. The only way he could get his fix was to sell the drugs for someone else and take his payment in the form of pills and enough cash to feed himself.
After the story had run in the paper, several members of the Vice squad had turned up at the newspaper wanting to know the name of my source. I had refused, and so did my editor. I guessed that was as close as I would ever come to the situation in which Ozzy had found himself.
I’d made up my mind when I got this job that I would rather go to jail then reveal a source. I stuck to those guns when the Gloucester Police Department insisted I tell them who this drug dealer was. Thankfully, Grant Kershaw, my editor, told them to hit the streets and find the man themselves, before showing the police officers the door.
While the police had been questioning me about the man’s identity, I’d gone through the entire scenario in my head. What would happen to me if I didn’t tell the police who he was? What would happen to me if I did?
I’m sure Ozzy had gone through those same questions in his head. I knew how desperate he was to find and stop this arsonist. I had been intimidated by two plainclothes detectives just doing their job. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for Ozzy f
acing not only the Gloucester Fire Chief, but the chief of police as well.
Why was I making Ozzy out to be public enemy number one? I know for a fact I wouldn’t have been as hurt by his actions if we had just been friends. I truly thought I was building a lasting relationship with Ozzy. For the first time in my life, I could see a future for myself that didn’t include late nights at the paper and dinners for one in front of the television. My heart was more broken for the lost dreams of my future than it was over Ozzy’s betrayal.
Coming to the realization Ozzy wasn’t truly to blame here, I felt myself sliding toward blessed sleep. I wanted to reach out for my phone, which was sitting just out of my reach on the table next to the bed. Yawning, I decided I would call him first thing in the morning and see if we could get together for breakfast. If there was a way to save this relationship, Ozzy and I would figure it out together.
My last thought before slipping off to sleep, was how much I loved Ozzy Graves.
The sound of breaking glass startled me from sleep. I sat up in bed, disoriented. Had I really heard breaking glass? Or had I dreamed it? My bedroom still looked as it had when I shut my eyes. Only now, instead of one of those late-night shows, an infomercial for an air fryer was playing. I’d spent many nights mesmerized by the food the celebrity chef was making with the small appliance. I’d been tempted to buy one, but not tonight.
There was something different in the air. I couldn’t put a finger on what it was. Getting out of bed, I walked slowly and quietly over the carpeted floor, all the while listening for another strange noise in the house.
My first thought had been to grab my phone and dial 911, but how ridiculous would I have looked if I were alone in the house? I didn’t want to give the media one more thing to report on involving my name.
Tiptoeing down the hall, my heart froze in my throat. The television was turned on in the living room and there was a person sitting on my couch watching it. I’d never been more terrified in my entire life. I knew I should run back to my bedroom, lock the door, and call the police, but I felt rooted to the spot.