by Ray Garton
The story reminded Eli of the ugly attack he’d witnessed on Third Street the day before. He opened the paper and scanned the pages, looking for the story. It wasn’t there, not even as a short filler. If Chloe had covered the story on the radio, it had been while he wasn’t listening. He frowned as he continued eating, wondering about the details behind the running man in the suit who had attacked that mother and her little boy.
He got up and went to the small, cluttered guest bedroom where they kept the computer. Sometimes stories that didn’t make the newspaper were posted on the Journal’s website. He called up the site and scrolled down through the stories. He spotted a headline that read, “Mother and Child Attacked.” The story beneath it was just a few short paragraphs.
The running, sweating man in the suit had been Neil Burben, a recently divorced insurance salesman who had suddenly and without provocation knocked a coworker unconscious in his office before running outside and randomly attacking the woman with the toddler. The story quoted his ex-wife, Emily: “He’s had some emotional problems lately. He was taking an antidepressant for awhile, but the last time I talked to him, he mentioned that he’d stopped.”
Eli frowned at the woman’s words on the screen. He remembered what Everett had said about antidepressants over lunch—that some evidence suggested they caused violent behavior. Eli thought of Neil Burben attacking that poor woman on the street and of Jim Clemens shooting his wife and sons. Thoughts tumbled over each other in his mind.
Both men had been on antidepressants. Was that significant or coincidental? Burben’s ex-wife said he’d stopped taking his antidepressant, so maybe that had something to do with his ugly behavior. Surely Everett had overstated the risks of taking psychiatric drugs. Such side effects had to be extremely rare, otherwise why would the FDA clear the drugs for the market? People who took antidepressants suffered from mental problems in varying degrees of severity—that was why they took the antidepressants. It didn’t seem too surprising that people with those problems might, on occasion, have outbursts that were a product of their mental disorder rather than the drug meant to treat it.
Eli became aware of tension in the muscles of his shoulders and a tightness in his chest. He wondered why this was bothering him so much.
Because I’m taking an antidepressant, he thought.
An image rose up in his mind: The orange pill bottle in his medicine cabinet that held only a single remaining Paaxone.
Eli muttered to himself, “Well, I’m taking it for one more day, anyway.”
He left the guest room and went back to his dinner, but his appetite had been replaced by a vague ache that gnawed at his gut.
Chapter 5
A Leak
1.
Delia Smurl sensed that something was not quite right the moment she walked into the house that night. It was too quiet, for one thing. It was a big house—a sprawling two-story mansion in an exclusive area of McLean, Virginia, precisely the kind of house in which one would expect the CEO of a major pharmaceutical company like Braxton-Carville to live—but with two hyper teenagers, there was usually noise of some kind coming from somewhere. Loud music, the chatter of visiting friends, a blaring television—something. Tonight, there was only silence.
She’d gone to her Bikhram yoga class with three girlfriends, and after stretching and bending in smothering heat for an hour and a half, they’d stopped for ice cream afterward. Then they’d stopped for a drink, which had turned into three drinks. Delia had been perfectly happy with the detours on her way home. Like most teenagers, the twins wanted as little to do with their parents as possible. And ever since she’d had the twins, Ed had paid her virtually no attention. Delia had little to go home to except the help, who were the only people who regularly talked to her with consistent civility in her own home. But she’d noticed driving in that their cars were gone. The cook was always gone by now, but it wasn’t quite eleven yet and the housekeepers usually stuck around until midnight at the earliest. Ed’s car was in the garage, so he was home. Lucky her.
She took her shoes off and held one in each hand as she padded to the kitchen. She put the shoes on the bar, turned the radio on, and went about making herself a cup of Good Earth tea. Soothing classical music came from the radio.
There was a bowl of milk on the counter beside the sink, a few soggy pieces of Corn Pops floating in it. That meant Ed had gone to bed. He always had a bowl of cereal just before bed and Corn Pops were his favorite. They had been since he was a boy. And in so many ways, he was still a boy—just bigger and meaner.
When the twins, Brian and Tanya, were still quite small, Ed had suggested he and Delia take separate bedrooms. But if he hadn’t, Delia would have. Although he’d grown cold after the twins were born, the real change in him had taken place right after they’d married. They’d met on vacation in the Bahamas, he a brainy wunderkind in the drug trade—the legal drug trade, he was fond of saying—she a Chicago heiress to meat packing money so old that it had once been rum-running money. He was so attentive and romantic, so handsome and sweet. Her parents had liked him because there was no reason to believe he was after Delia’s money. Ed had descended from a long line of very successful, high-profile attorneys but had turned his back on the family business in favor of chemistry and big business. While dating, she had been the envy of all her friends, and had enjoyed it so much that she didn’t notice at the time that Ed had no friends. His relationship with his family had seemed chilly at best, and there had been no one in his life about whom he seemed to care deeply except for her. But she’d noticed that only in hindsight, after they’d married and he’d changed so much. Also in hindsight, she realized he hadn’t really changed after marrying her, he’d simply relaxed and gone back to being the person he’d always been before he’d started courting her.
Before the wedding, the sex had been great—almost too good to be true. More than once, she’d thought it was almost as if Ed had read lots of erotica by women to see what they were looking for because he did all the right things, knew just how to touch her, when to be gentle, when to be forceful. After the wedding, all that fell away like the facade it was. He became greedy in bed, and rough. First rough, then violent. He enjoyed it, got off on it, and getting off was his only concern—when it came to orgasms, she suddenly was on her own.
Delia could have handled it all—Ed’s true narcissistic nature, his lack of interest in her after having the children—with ease, she suspected, if it weren’t for the violence. That was too much, and she’d let him know right away that she would not participate. If he wanted to be rough with someone, if he wanted to inflict pain for pleasure, he would have to find another partner. They’d almost divorced after that, but then she’d discovered she was pregnant. There was also the fact that her parents were so pleased with her. That was a new experience for her. They’d always been so disapproving, so impossible to please. But marrying Ed and making a life for herself—they’d liked that, and they’d loved Ed, and their treatment of her had warmed. So she’d stayed with Ed to give the children a home with two parents, and so her own parents would continue to beam proudly when they spoke their daughter’s name. But still, no violent sex. She drew the line there.
Ed had found his fun elsewhere, and Delia knew he’d been fucking Myrna McDowell for years. For all she knew, he’d fallen in love with Myrna. He’d certainly spent enough money rebuilding her into his own private sex toy. But Delia had playmates of her own—the three girlfriends with whom she’d just gone out, for example. Some years ago, she’d discovered to her own surprise and delight that she enjoyed the company and affection of women. She had no idea if Ed knew, and she didn’t give a damn. Despite the fact that her marriage had turned out to be loveless, she adored her children, had friends she loved (and loved her friends, wink-wink), co-owned a trendy little second-hand shop in town that raised money for various charities, kept herself busy, and had managed to carve out a life that gave her happiness and contentment. Things could be b
etter—everything could always be better, she often told herself—but she was quite pleased with her life exactly as it was.
With steam rising from a mug of tea in one hand, Delia took her shoes in the other and headed upstairs to bed. Outside her bedroom, she tucked her shoes under her arm and opened the door. A second later, she gasped and jerked to a stop so suddenly, tea sloshed from the mug.
“You’re home late,” Ed said. He was stretched out on her bed in his black robe, back against the headboard, reading a book. He put the book aside, swung his legs off the bed and stood.
Delia recovered from the surprise quickly. “Not so late,” she said with a shrug, taking her shoes to the closet. “Yoga, then a bite to eat, then cocktails.” She turned to him. “Where are Brian and Tanya?”
“They’re at Rick’s house watching movies. We had a talk this evening and I sent them off to have some fun. You and I need some time alone.” He undid the belt of his robe and it fell open in front. He was naked underneath and partly erect.
Delia cocked a brow. “We do? Why’s that?”
“Lauren was over today?”
Lauren Parks was an old friend of Delia’s and she’d dropped by that day. They’d had lunch beside the pool.
“Yes, she came by.”
“What did you two talk about?”
She could tell he was angry. He spoke quietly and his mouth was curled into the slightest smile. Uh-oh, Delia thought. What did I do? What did I say?
“All kinds of things,” she said. “Why?”
“Well, you talked about me, for one thing.”
“We did?” She tried to remember what they’d said about Ed.
He frowned, saying, “Lauren was very curious, I understand. Had a lot of questions.”
“You understand? How do you know?”
“Brian and Tanya were in the pool at the time. They heard the two of you talking.”
Oh, shit, Delia thought.
“Why was Lauren asking about Paaxone?” he said.
“Paaxone?” She remembered Lauren’s questions. Actually, they weren’t Lauren’s questions, they were Renny’s. For some reason, he’d wanted to know why Paaxone was unavailable in California. He’d asked Lauren if she knew anything about it, Lauren had asked if Delia knew anything about it, and Delia had remembered a conversation she’d overheard recently. Ed had been on the phone with Braxton-Carville’s senior counsel, Ronald Shelldrake, talking about the possible risks of diverting a shipment of Paaxone from California. She’d only heard Ed’s side of the conversation, but it was enough.
Oh, shit, Delia thought. I must have told Lauren something I wasn’t supposed to know.
“Yes,” Ed said. “Lauren was asking about Paaxone. Why? What did she want to know?”
Delia steeled herself. “Obviously you already know the answer to that question. What are you getting at, Ed?”
“Well, according to the twins, Lauren wanted to know why Paaxone was unavailable in California. Is that right? Some friend of hers was asking about it, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s this friend?”
She shrugged and said dismissively, “Renny.”
“Who?”
“Lionel Renquist. He’s a big name in Washington social circles.”
“That queer? Why was he asking?”
“For some friend of his in California. A retired reporter.”
“His name?”
Delia chewed her lower lip, thinking, trying to remember the man’s name. She was nervous and not thinking clearly. Finally. “Walczek? Something Polish. Falczek, that was it. Falczek.”
“And you told Lauren... what?”
“Obviously, you know what I told her or we wouldn’t be having this lovely little chat.”
He thought about that a moment. “Eavesdropping on my phone calls?” he said.
“Eavesdropping?” She was starting to get angry. “Ed, I live here, in case you’d forgotten. If you wander around the house talking on your cell phone, there’s always a chance I’ll hear what you’re saying. I didn’t know your conversations were such big secrets.”
He slid the robe back over his shoulders, dropped it to the floor, and began to stroke his erection. His face took on a cruel sneering look. “Then it’s time you learned.”
Delia clenched her teeth a moment, then said, “I’d like to go to bed now, Ed. Please leave.”
“Oh, no. We haven’t been together in a long while. And afterward, I’ll put a stop to this little gossip daisy chain.” He stepped toward her.
Delia took a step backward. “Ed, I’m serious. I don’t feel like—”
He slapped her. Hard. She gasped, but before she could respond, he grabbed the front collar of her dress and pulled down hard. It ripped down the front.
“Take your clothes off,” he said through clenched teeth.
Delia’s anger turned into fear. He was bigger and stronger than she, and there was no one in the house to come to her aid.
“First we fuck,” he said, smiling coldly. “My way. To teach you a lesson. Then we clean up your mess.”
With a feeling of sickening resignation, Delia let her torn dress fall to the floor.
2.
Later that night, Ed Smurl leaned back in the chair behind his desk in his spacious home office, still in his robe, the phone to his ear, making a call. When Victor Gall answered, Smurl said, “We have a little problem.”
“A problem?”
“Yes. And it needs immediate attention.” He explained the situation to Gall.
Gall sighed. “This was very sloppy of you. Do you always wander through your house while having important confidential conversations on the telephone?”
“It’s not a regular occurrence, no.”
“Give me the names.”
“Lauren Parks. Wife of Jeremy Parks, a lobbyist. And Lionel Renquist. Some faggy gossip-hound sniffing around about Paaxone. I can take care of Renquist before he talks to anyone else. I know him. Vaguely. And I know his type. The man’s all talk, a tower of mush. He’s also dying of cancer. This just happened today and I’m not even sure the information about Paaxone has reached him yet, but I’ll make sure it goes no further if it has. But Lauren Parks... she’s another matter.”
“I’ll deal with her,” Gall said. “Give me her information.” After Smurl had given him Lauren’s address, the name of her husband, and a few other details, Gall said, “This won’t happen again. Correct?”
“Of course not. What do you think I am?”
“I thought you were a professional. A man who knows how to handle sensitive information.”
Smurl rolled his eyes, then said with sharp deliberation, “It won’t. Happen. Again.”
“I hope not. I’ll take care of this woman right away. But it’s going to cost you.”
“Cost me? This is our problem.”
“But it wasn’t our mistake. I’ll handle it immediately—tonight, in fact—but you’ll foot the bill.”
Gall hung up with a sharp click. Smurl sighed as he put the receiver back on its base. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, enjoying the residual sensations between his legs. He hadn’t fucked Delia in a long time. The fact that she didn’t want it had added to the pleasure. It had been a punishment for her, a lesson she had to learn—to keep her mouth shut. She would be bruised and achy tomorrow, but that would pass. He hoped the lesson would stick. For him, though, it had been, surprisingly, quite a pleasure.
Chapter 6
Falczek and Renny
1.
Falczek left his house at dusk with Doug trotting ahead of him, pulling the leash taut. Lately, it had looked like dusk all day long, every day, thanks to the thick smoke in the air, so when dusk actually arrived, it was darker than usual. Now, low in the darkening sky to the west, the setting sun managed to push a dull orange glow through the brown smudge.
The dog led him down the front path to the small gate and turned right on the sidewalk. Falczek glanced back
over his shoulder to make sure he’d left the porch light on. It would be dark when he got back and he didn’t want to have to fumble with his keys. Doug, on the other hand, was not interested in looking back and moved on at a good clip, tugging Falczek along with him.
Doug had shown up on the porch one rainy winter night five months after Sally died. He was little more than a pup then, a small mutt with a short coat of brown, gold, and white. His floppy ears made it obvious he had some beagle in him. The night he’d shown up, Falczek fed him some cold chicken from the fridge and gave him a bowl of water. He’d gone out on the covered porch an hour later and found the dog sitting on his haunches staring at the front door, as if waiting for Falczek to show himself. The dog barked intently at him several times, then loped off into the night. When the pup returned the following night, Falczek concluded that the barking had been dogspeak for, “I shall return,” and had named him Doug after General Douglas McArthur.
After that, Doug stayed close to the porch for the next couple of days, where Falczek continued to feed him. Whenever Falczek came out the front door, Doug seemed to be waiting for him and greeted him with an enthusiastic tongue-lolling smile. He couldn’t rest knowing the dog was out in the cold and damp, so he brought Doug inside and took him to a veterinarian to get his shots. He went to the nearest pet store and bought a dog bed, but Doug seldom used it, preferring to stay close to Falczek.
Back in D.C., Sally’d had a cat named Poco for nearly fifteen years. She’d adored that cat, and Poco had adored her, hardly ever leaving her side when Sally was in the house. Poco got cancer shortly before they moved to California. Not wanting the cat to suffer any pain, Sally had decided to put him to sleep. She had been devastated by the loss. The move kept her busy, but Falczek could see the heaviness in her movements, the sadness in her eyes. Losing Poco had sent her into a depression that lasted for months. She’d vowed not to get another pet because the inevitable loss was too painful. But even if she’d gotten another cat, she would not have been around long enough to lose it. They’d had no idea at the time that cancer was growing inside Sally, too, spreading from her liver to her other organs. It had killed her as surely as it had killed Poco, but unlike her beloved cat, Sally had suffered terribly. The option to end her misery rather than waiting for death had not been available.
