Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

"What do you think? Good?"

Nod, smile.

"Let's get going, then, honey. We're going to make a few trips today."

She takes my hand and we head out the door.

First stop is Dr. Hillstead's office. I'd called ahead and he is waiting for me. When we arrive at the office, I convince Bonnie to stay with Imelda, Dr. Hillstead's receptionist. She's a Latin woman with a no-nonsense way of caring for people, and Bonnie seems to respond to this mix of warmth and brusqueness. I understand. We walking wounded hate pity. We just want to be treated normally.

I enter and Dr. Hillstead comes to greet me. He looks devastated.

"Smoky. I want you to know how sorry I am about what happened. I never meant for you to find out that way."

I shrug. "Yeah, well. He's been inside my home. Watched me sleep. I guess he's keeping pretty good tabs on me. Not something you could have planned for."

He looks shocked. "He's been inside . . . your house?"

"Yep." I don't correct his or my use of the word he . The fact that he is actually they remains confined to the team, our ace in the hole. Dr. Hillstead runs a hand through his hair. He looks shaken. "This is really disconcerting, Smoky. I deal with secondhand accounts of these kinds of things, but this is the first time it's entered my life in reality."

"This is how it goes sometimes."

Perhaps it's the calmness of my voice that gets his attention. For the first time since I entered his office, he really looks at me. He sees the change, and it seems to bring back the healer in him.

"Why don't you sit down?"

I sit in one of the leather chairs facing his desk. He looks at me, musing. "Are you upset with me for withholding the ballistics report?"

I shake my head. "No. I mean--I was. But I understand what you were trying to do, and I think you were right to do it."

"I didn't want to tell you until I thought you were ready to deal with it."

I give him a faint smile. "I don't know if I was ready to deal with it or not. But I rose to the occasion."

He nods. "Yes, I see a change in you. Tell me about it."

"Not much to tell," I say with a shrug. "It hit me hard. For a moment, I didn't believe it. But then I remembered everything. Shooting Alexa. Trying to shoot Callie. It was like all the pain I've been feeling over the last six months hit me at once. I passed out."

"Callie told me."

"The thing is, when I woke up, I didn't want to die. That made me feel bad in a way. Guilty. But it was still true. I don't want to die."

"That's good, Smoky," he says in a quiet voice.

"And it's not just that. You were right about my team. They are like my family. And they're fucked up. Alan's wife has cancer. Callie has something going on she won't talk to anyone about. And I realize that I can't just let that pass. I love them. I have to be there for them if they need me. Do you understand?"

He nods. "I do. And I'll admit that I was hoping for that. Not that your team members would be in distress. But you've been living in a vacuum. I was hoping that getting back in touch with them would remind you of the one thing I know would give you a reason to go on living."

"What's that?"

"Duty. It's a driving force for you. You have a duty to them. And to the victims."

This idea catches me by surprise. Because I realize that it's dead-on. I may never be fully healed. I might wake up screaming in the night till the day I die. But as long as my friends need me, as long as the monsters kill, I have to stick around. No choice about it. "It worked," I say. He smiles a gentle smile. "I'm glad."

"Yeah, well." I sigh. "On the way home from San Francisco I had a lot of time to think. I knew there was one thing I had to try. If I couldn't do it, then I was done. I would have gotten up today and handed in my resignation."

"What was that?" he asks. I think he knows. He just wants me to say it.

"I went to a shooting range. Got a Glock and decided to see if I could still shoot. If I could even pick it up without passing out."

"And?"

"It was all there. Like it had never been gone."

He steeples his fingers, looks at me. "There's more, isn't there? Your entire appearance has changed."

I look into his eyes, this man who has tried to help me through these months. I realize that his skill in helping people like me is an amazing dance, a mix of chaos and precision. Knowing when to back away, when to feint, when to attack. Putting a mind back together. I'd rather hunt serial killers. "I'm not a victim anymore, Dr. Hillstead. I can't put it any more simply. It's not something that needs a lot of words around it. It's just true. The way it is." I lean back. "You had a lot to do with that, and I want to thank you. I might be dead otherwise."

Now he smiles. He shakes his head. "No, Smoky. I don't think you'd be dead. I'm glad that you feel I've helped you, but you're a born survivor. I don't think you would have killed yourself, if it came to that."

Maybe, maybe not, I think.

"So what now? Are you telling me you don't need to see me anymore?" It's a genuine question. I don't get the sense that he has already decided what the correct answer would be.

"No, I'm not saying that." I smile. "It's funny, if you had asked me a year ago about seeing a shrink, I would have made some snide comment and felt superior to the people who think they need one." I shake my head. "Not anymore. I still have things to work through. My friend dying . . ." I look at him. "You know I have her daughter with me?"

He nods, somber. "Callie filled me in on what happened to her. I'm glad you took her with you. She probably feels very alone right now."

"She doesn't talk. Just nods. Last night she screamed in her sleep."

He winces. No one sane enjoys the pain of a child. "I would guess that she's going to take a long time to heal, Smoky. She may not talk for years. The best thing to do for now is what you're already doing--

just be there for her. Don't try to approach what happened. She's not ready for that. I doubt she'll be ready for months."

"Really?" My voice sounds bleak. His eyes are kind.

"Yes. Look, what she needs right now is to know that she's safe and that you are there. That life is going to go on. Her trust in basic things for a child--her parents being there, the safety of a home--her trust in those fundamentals has been shattered. In a very personal, horrible way. It will take some time to rebuild that trust." He gives me a measured look. "You should know that."

I swallow once, nod.

"I would say, give it some time. Watch her, be there for her. I think you'll know when it might be right for her to start talking about it. When that time comes . . ." He seems to hesitate, but only for a moment. "When that time comes, let me know. I'd be happy to recommend a therapist for her."

"Thanks." Another thought occurs to me. "What about school?"

"You should wait. Her mental health is the primary issue." He grimaces. "It's hard to say what will happen on that front. You've heard the cliche--and it's true: Children are very resilient. She could bounce back and be ready for the complexity of social interaction that school provides, or"--he shrugs--"she might require homeschooling till she graduates. But I would say, at least for now, that that's the least of your worries. The simple truth is, get her better. If I can help, I will."

A certain relief comes over me. I have a path, and I didn't have to make the decision on my own. "Thanks. Really."

"What about you? How is taking her on affecting your state of mind?"

"Guilty. Happy. Guilty that I'm happy. Happy that I'm guilty."

"Why so much conflict?" His voice is quiet.