Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

But Beck didn’t have much patience today, either.

“Look,” Beck said. “I help people. It’s what I do. I don’t have a lot of time left. And by the time these patients get to me, neither do they. They are at the end of their ropes, and they’re thinking of tying a noose. I will do whatever it takes to help them.”

“Because only you can save them? We’ve talked about your Superman complex before.”

“That’s Doctor Superman to you.”

Still no smile. “Answer the question.”

Beck shrugged. “Well. I don’t see anyone else pulling on a cape to save the day.”

Susan looked like she was going to keep arguing with him, but Beck’s phone beeped with a reminder. He checked the screen. APPOINTMENT WITH KEVIN SCOTT—10 A.M.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Seeing a new patient.”

She frowned, but gestured for him to leave. “We’re not done with this yet,” she said. “Call me tomorrow to check in.”

He saluted. “Sir, yes, sir, General, sir!”

She finally cracked a smile. “That’s Doctor General to you.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Beck went to the door, but Susan had one parting shot.

“So what happens when you’re gone?” she asked. “Who’s going to save your patients if you’re not around, Doctor Superman?”

Beck shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be dead.”

Then he walked out.

Chapter 3

Kevin Scott scowled like Beck owed him money.

Like a lot of Special Forces soldiers, he was compact and muscular. All gristle and sharp edges. He looked at the office with contempt. Too quiet, too beige, too soft.

Beck wasn’t particularly surprised. Scott had been an Army Ranger for seven years. He’d endured grueling training just to have the chance to sleep on rocks in the desert while people shot at him. Guys like Scott were not usually into the touchy-feely crap. It was always the first hurdle he had to overcome.

Because as tough as he was, Scott was also coming apart, according to the reports in front of Beck. The local VA office had referred Scott for psychiatric treatment after he had been arrested in a bar fight. He’d nearly crippled three men after an argument about the Redskins devolved into a full-on brawl. Only the fact that they attacked him kept him out of jail.

So it was pretty clear Scott needed help. But Scott wasn’t an ordinary soldier. He was part of a unit that carried out top-secret missions for the Defense Intelligence Agency in Iraq, Afghanistan, and a few places that US soldiers weren’t supposed to be. As a result, only a psychiatrist with a security clearance was allowed to talk to him. Beck was one of the few people on that list because of his experience in dealing with Special Forces veterans.

But it meant that Scott had been forced to wait for almost a month while the paperwork and red tape cleared.

Even though they’d never met, Beck had read Scott’s file and it was obvious that he was getting worse. He was shifting in his seat, agitated, and kept checking over his shoulder, like he expected someone to come through the door.

Beck figured there was no time to waste—for either of them. “So,” he said, “who do you want to kill?”

Scott nearly jumped in the couch. He looked at Beck like he was crazy. “What? Why would you say that?”

“Well, you put three guys in the hospital. You seem pretty pissed off at someone. Who do you want to kill?”

Scott made a face. “It was just a fight that got out of hand. I’m only here because the court said I had to get counseling. I’m fine.”

“Right,” Beck said. “You’re fine. So breaking a guy’s collarbone and another guy’s arm in three places is just a fun night out for you? Maybe we should go to Vegas together. I can’t wait to see what you do there.”

Scott rolled his eyes at Beck. Nobody got his jokes. “I told you. It was a fight. They started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“That’s what guys like me do,” Scott said, looking him in the eyes for the first time. “We handle things other people can’t. I know you get a lot of wackjobs in here. But I’m not one of them. Trust me. I’m fine.”

He really sold it. It was almost convincing. Beck could see why people would follow him into combat. But Beck knew better.

“The thing is, Kevin, you don’t seem fine. The VA’s counselor talked to your wife.”

“Jennifer?” Scott looked worried. “Why did they bother her?”

“She’s concerned about you. She says you came home fine from your last tour. You were handling everything. You got a job, you were dealing with civilian life—and then, about three months ago now, you began to act differently. You began sleeping with a gun on the bedside table. You started drinking. You’d disappear at night and on weekends. And when she called your job, they wouldn’t tell her where you were.”

Scott was growing more anxious, picking at the fabric on the chair, shifting around. Beck thought he wanted to jump up and run out of the room.

“She called my work?”

“She cares about you. Maybe she thinks you’re having an affair.”

Whoops. That was the wrong thing to say. Scott stood up and pointed a finger in Beck’s face. “Hey! I love my wife! You watch your damned mouth!”

Beck sat as calmly as he could with a trained killer in his face. “So you’re not having an affair.”

“That’s right!” Scott snapped. “I’m not! And I keep telling you, I’m fine! So you sign whatever little piece of paper you have to, and you let me go back to my life and you leave my wife out of this!”

Beck looked up at him, waiting. Then he said, “No.”

“No?” Scott loomed even closer.

“No,” Beck said. He really wished he had a gun with real bullets. But he didn’t look away.

For a long moment, Scott stood there. Then, Beck could tell, he started to feel stupid. He sat down again.

“Sorry,” he said.

That clinched it for Beck. This guy was not mentally ill. He’d lost control, sure. But he got it back way too fast. He was angry and scared, but he was not suffering from PTSD. There was something else going on.

“I think there’s something you’re not telling me, Kevin,” Beck said.

Scott looked back at him. There was something in his face. He opened his mouth, as if to start speaking. Beck could almost feel it. This was the moment where most of his patients began to open up—to reveal what brought them into the office in the first place.

“You ever done anything really bad, Dr. Beck?” Scott asked.

“Yeah. I have. What did you do, Kevin?”

Scott laughed, then almost choked.

“Nothing yet. But…”

“But what?”

Scott looked at Beck again. He suddenly stood up. “Forget it. Forget I was ever here.”

He went to the door and flung it open.

Beck got up and went after him. He grabbed Scott by the arm. “Hey, wait a minute—” he said.

But he didn’t get anything else out. Scott shoved him back, sending him flying.

“Leave it, Doc,” he snarled. “You’ll live longer.” Scott stomped away.

It took Beck a minute to get to his feet. He was getting tired more easily these days, and his balance was off. Probably the tumor. But he was also angry. He never gave up on a patient, and he never backed down.

And if Scott beat the crap out of him, well, he was dying anyway.

Beck raced down the stairs of his building, breathing hard. He reached the lobby, but Scott wasn’t there. He ran out the double doors to the street, where he saw Scott crossing the road to his car.

Beck was about to yell something at him.

Then a black SUV came screaming around the corner. It was on top of Scott in seconds. Scott turned and saw it, and started to run.