THIRTY-SIX

 

Never before had time moved so slowly for Adam. It occurred to him that the longest summer of his childhood had moved faster. That even Pearl Harbor had moved faster, and with a performance by Ben Affleck.

The news had never taken up as much of Adam’s time before. He listened to it on the radio, watched it on television, read newspapers, scanned news sites on the Internet. While searching for a story about a den of drugs, explosives, and child pornography being raided in the desert, Adam absorbed other news without even trying. Political and civil unrest around the world, natural disasters everywhere, political and show business scandals, murders, rapes, child molestations, and ominous drops in the stock market, as well as in box office receipts and television ratings. It was endless, all of it depressing.

He spent as much time alone as he could. His worries turned him inward, made him quiet and brooding. He did not want to inflict that on anyone else. When he was with Carter, they spoke very little. When they did, it was usually to rehearse their planned stories should the worst happen. When they did not, their silences were clamorous with dread.

Since Wyndham’s visit on Thursday, he had been unable to sleep. No nightmares, but only because he could not sleep long enough to have them. Just long enough to drool on his pillow a bit before jerking awake. He woke Alyssa each time.

He did not want to chase her away, but feared she would start asking questions. He knew his behavior was probably normal under the circumstances, but was still afraid it would give him away, somehow reveal his guilt.

He supposed smoking marijuana did not help the paranoia he already felt about possibly being arrested, going to prison, being sentenced to death. But that and Xanax were all that kept him from ripping out his hair, screaming his head off and crawling out of his skin like a shedding snake.

Somehow, Alyssa sensed he needed to be alone. She made excuses for not coming over the next few days. Adam loved her for it. No one had ever read him so accurately, known him so well.

But how would she react if he were arrested? The question haunted him. Adam did not care what anyone else thought of him. He knew if he were arrested, it would be all over the news and most of the world would assume he was guilty, but he didn’t care. His only concern was Alyssa. Would she be able to continue caring for someone who was capable of having his own father killed, as well as the other five people in the immediate area? Or would she turn her back on him, try to forget she had ever known him, and live the rest of her life darkened by the shadow of their relationship?

The second possibility made Adam feel cold.

While Alyssa gave him some time alone, Rog dropped by the Brandis house on Sunday afternoon to talk with Adam. They sat on the patio at a table under a large blue umbrella, Adam in denim cutoffs and a burgundy T-shirt with Bela Lugosi as Dracula on the front, Rog in a peach Versace suit, a tall glass of iced tea in front of each of them.

“Have you given any thought to what you want to do with the house, Adam?”

“What I want to do with it? Why, is it making trouble? Should I have a talk with it?”

Rog chuckled. “Have you thought about selling it?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Why?”

“It’s a big house. Costs a lot of money to keep it up. Staff, security, property taxes. Watering the lawns alone costs a small fortune. You need to start thinking about it. If you’re going to be on your own—”

“Wait a second, why should I sell the house? With the money he left me and the interest on his—”

“I’m not telling you to sell the house this week, Adam. I’m simply saying you need to think about it.”

“Already?”

“I don’t see any point in putting it off. The money and investments your dad left you...I know it sounds like a lot, but it won’t last unless you make some changes. With no income, the house and property will eat that money up fast, and you won’t—”

Adam became impatient. “What do you mean, no income? Dad said he never had to work again if he didn’t want to. He’s still got money coming in from the first hit he ever had, how can there be no income?”

“Your dad said a lot of things. It’s true, he could have stopped working and lived on his residuals and investments if he wanted. But he couldn’t have lived like he’d been living. To live like that—the house and the boats and all his cars and parties and everyone he employs—he had to keep selling scripts for big bucks. And now...well, he’s not around to do that.”

“Maybe I’ll start selling scripts,” Adam said. It had come out of his mouth before forming as a thought. He was about to take it back when Rog leaned forward with interest.

“Are you serious? Do you have a script?”

“Well...no.”

“Your dad always said you had a real talent for writing.”

Like he would know, Adam thought.

“He told me you’d written some great short stories and he thought you had a knack for screenwriting,” Rog went on. “But he said you weren’t interested. Have you changed your mind?”

A cold hand closed on Adam’s throat. He took a drink of tea.

“You okay?” Rog asked.

Adam nodded, composed himself. “He said that? About my writing?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked about it a lot.”

“When did he ever read anything I wrote? He wasn’t interested in my writing.”

Rog chuckled. “Maybe you never showed it to him, but he read everything you wrote. Probably some you didn’t want anyone to read. He used to sneak into your room while you were gone and read your stuff on the computer. He’d kill me if he knew I told you that.” He looked down at his drink, half of his mouth smiling. “I mean...if he were around.” Lifted his head again. “He said you’re a wonderful storyteller. That your style is very visual. That’s why he thought you’d make a great screenwriter. Have you changed your mind?”

Adam was numb all over, afraid if he moved, he would knock something over, or hurt himself without realizing it. A storm of conflicting emotions crashed inside him.

“Adam? You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“If you have a script, I can give Barry a call. He’d be happy to represent you.”

Barry Venin had been Michael’s agent. An anaconda with a weave.

Was it possible his dad really had been interested in his writing? That he had liked it?

“Adam? Are you feeling all right?”

He had no idea what kind of expression he wore on his face. He could feel nothing. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You’re sure? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

As Adam spoke, his voice gradually dissolved to a whisper. “I’m not upset, I’m just...I didn’t know Dad had read anything I’d written. I didn’t think he was interested.”

“Well, you know how your dad was. Not too big on praise. He was always afraid he’d give somebody a bigger head than his. Couldn’t have that. But he was a fan of your work and hoped you’d take up scripts. You know what his dream was?”

Adam did not move or speak.

Rog’s affectionate smile showed off shimmering orthodontal artistry. “Well, you know, ever since Paul Verhoeven butchered Thugz, your dad’s wanted to direct his own scripts. Writing and producing just weren’t enough after that. I dropped in on him one night at the cabin in Vancouver when he was working on Eviscerator. We shared a bottle of tequila, got fractured and sentimental. He said he wanted the first movie he directed to be from a script written by his son.”

A noise blurted through Adam’s lips. It could just as easily have been a laugh as a sob. His emotions suddenly felt so external and out of his control, he was not sure which one might go off next.

“Your dad would be happy to know you at least have an interest. Let me know if you want me to set up a meeting with Barry.”

Adam nodded once.

Rog checked his watch, gulped down the rest of his iced tea. “Gotta fly. Look, Adam, I’m not saying you’re broke, but you need to make some adjustments to avoid it in the future.” He stood, put on silver-rimmed sunglasses. “Give it some thought, okay? I’ll come around next week, we’ll grab lunch, talk about it some more.”

Adam nodded, said, “Okay.” But he did not stand.

“You feeling okay? You look a little...I don’t know.” He frowned. “Have you lost weight?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“You want to see someone? I’ll make an appointment for you right now.” He reached beneath his suit coat and produced a tiny tortoise-shell cellphone.

“No. I’ll be okay”

Rog replaced the cellphone reluctantly. “You know you can call if you need anything, anytime. Okay?”

Adam nodded. “Thanks, Rog.”

When he was gone, Adam went into the poolhouse. In the bathroom, he closed and locked the door, sat on the toilet seat. Planted elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands. He waited, expecting tears, sobs. But they did not come. The only release he could give the searing rush of emotional pain that had come so dangerously close to the surface in Rog’s presence was a long, agonized groan.