C. Lawrence - Silent victim

Good Lord, Campbell, get a grip. His sister's disappearance was continual torture, a piece of unfinished business that would haunt him until the day he solved it-if he ever did. Maybe his mother was right about men after all…

The swirling sensation began to transform into something darkly familiar and sinister, as he felt the evil fog of depression envelop him. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, and his thoughts swarmed like angry bees in his head. He was losing focus, and knew he had to stop the fog before it could take hold. He had told Kathy and everyone else that he was feeling much better lately, and to an extent that was true. But depression was its own kind of minefield. Sometimes, if he stepped carefully enough, he could stay aboveground and keep from landing on the hidden entrances, secret traps covering gaping holes in the ground. But other times the ground gave way when he least expected it, and he sank down and was swallowed up before he knew it.

"No, goddamn it," he muttered. Staggering up from the chair, he reached for the phone again. Kathy was in Philadelphia, Chuck was still on duty, and his mother was useless, but there was one person he could turn to now-he just hoped she was available. He dialed the number and got a recording.

"You've reached the voice mail of Dr. Georgina Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my beeper at 917-555-4368. Thank you."

Lee hesitated. Was this an emergency? He wasn't feeling suicidal-not yet, anyway. He decided to leave a message on her voice mail. If she was in the office, she would call him back soon.

"Hi, Dr. Williams, this is Lee Campbell. I wonder if you have any time at all today? I-I'm having sort of a bad day, so if you could give me a call I'd appreciate it-thanks."

He hung up the phone and looked around the apartment. This place, which he had worked so hard to make cozy and inviting, suddenly felt like a prison cell from which there was no escape. The familiar objects around him held no comfort-the carefully arranged bouquet of flowers on the piano might have been shards of straw stuck in a vase. He looked at the green Persian rug he loved so much, with the swirling patterns of light and dark that always reminded him of a forest at sunset. It might just as well have been cracked and dirty linoleum. He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. No, he thought, not today-please not now.

The phone rang, and he jumped, his overstrung nerves rattled by the sound. He picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Lee, it's Chuck."

He hesitated-should he tell his friend that this was not a good time, that he was having an episode? Or should he just tough out the phone call, jot down what Chuck said, and deal with it later? He could barely focus-his mind was being rapidly overtaken by the swiftly descending fog. He decided to tough it out.

"Hi, Chuck," he said, wondering if his voice sounded odd. "What's up?"

"There's been a development." "What do you mean?"

"Looks like we have another victim. Can you come back up here?"

No, Lee wanted to scream, no, I can't. Instead he said, "Sure. Can you give me a little time?" "As soon as you can make it, okay?"

"Okay."

"Thanks."

Lee hung up, his hand now shaking so hard that the receiver rattled as he replaced it. He headed for the bathroom and fumbled in the cupboard for the bottle of Xanax. It was going to be a long day.

By the time Lee reached the subway he was sweating and trembling almost uncontrollably. The darkness had closed in around him, and he was moving automatically, as if in a trance-sliding his Metro card through the slot at the entrance, going through the metal turnstile, walking down the concrete stairs to the train with the other passengers. The fog and confusion were bad enough, but today it felt as if his soul were on fire-a burning, searing pain that blotted out all memories of the past, any pleasures of the present, and any hope of the future. The only reality was the unrelenting pain. It had no beginning and no end, covering him like a thick blanket of concrete, crushing him.

He walked unsteadily to the far end of the platform and stared down at the subway tracks. A large gray rat poked its head out from under the near rail and scuttled across the wooden ties to a tiny hole in the subway wall, vanishing inside it. Lee wondered why the rats weren't electrocuted on the third rail-or, for all he knew, maybe some of them were. He wondered how much it would hurt and for how long, to be electrocuted. His stomach lurched and twisted as he contemplated the sensation of thousands of volts coursing through his body.

He wrenched his mind away from these thoughts and forced himself to take a deep breath. He tried to think of Kathy, to imagine her smiling face, but it only made him want to cry. This attack had taken him by surprise. In the past few months there had been a gradual improvement in his mental state. He was still having nightmares, but they had begun to subside recently.

And now this. He felt as if he were being dragged back to the first days of his affliction, which began five years ago after his sister disappeared and worsened after 9/11. Most New Yorkers were deeply affected by that terrible day, some of them so frightened that they couldn't sleep at night. Some left the city altogether. Others were angry, filled with a rage they had never felt. Lee didn't feel fear, or even anger-only a wrenching, leaden sadness that swept him up for weeks afterward.

He heard the rumble of the F train in the distance as it hurtled down the dark, musty corridors toward them. He imagined jumping onto the track just as it reached the station, the slamming of metal against skin. Would he be killed instantly, or just horribly maimed for life? There was no question of killing himself that way, though. In his darkest days, he had given it some thought, and concluded that he was unwilling to put the train conductor through the trauma and guilt of feeling responsible.

The train slid into the station and the doors opened. Lee composed his face into what he hoped was a mask of New York indifference and sat down, waiting for the Xanax to take effect. It wouldn't stop the pain entirely, but at least it would blunt the anxiety.

He changed for the uptown A train at West Fourth Street, and by the time the train reached Penn Station and Thirty-fourth Street, the Xanax had begun to work. He felt blurry and light-headed, but at least the churning in his stomach had dissipated, and his hands were no longer shaking. Not for the first time, he silently blessed pharmaceuticals in general and benzodiazepines in particular.

When the train arrived at the Bronx station, he stood up, shook off a momentary spell of dizziness, and followed the rest of the passengers out into the burnished afternoon light of late August. Everyone had predicted an early fall this year, and the trees had a brittle, dusty look, their leaves beginning to dry out already in the soft air of the dying summer.

Chuck was in his office when Lee arrived, along with Detective Butts. There was no sign of Elena Krieger.

When Chuck saw Lee's questioning look, he said, "We tried to reach Detective Krieger, but without success."

Butts snickered. "We didn't try very hard."

"All right," said Chuck, ignoring him, "here's what's going on." He pulled a fresh stack of crime-scene photos from his desk and handed them to Lee. "This came in a couple of hours ago."

Lee took the photos and looked at the top picture. When he saw the face of the dead girl, his head began to spin, and the room swirled around him. He tried to speak, but before he could utter a word, blackness closed in around him and he lost consciousness.