April Smith - Judas Horse

“It was all over the papers.”

“I did that!”

“You did it?”

“I shot the dude. The whole thing was staged. But it looked real, didn’t it? It was perfect. He and his family are in the witness protection program now. Isn’t that cool?” “This is when you started having chest pains?” “After it was over.”

“So you’re watching the news stories about the so-called murder.” “Obsessively. I have it on tape. All the national coverage, everything from the local stations, and a close-up of the animal rights movement they did on 20/20 . My story was the lead.” “You sound proud.”

“It wasn’t easy to pull it off.”

“I’m sure. So you’re watching the tapes, over and over. Are alcohol or drugs involved?” “A little weed. A little beer. That’s how we do it on the farm.” “Okay, you’re getting high and watching how this man died. The one you supposedly killed.” “In the line of duty.”

“I understand. You say the operation went well?” “Very well.”

“And your superiors are pleased?”

“Yes, because now I’m really tight with the bad guys.” “I’ve got a note here that your communication with the FBI has lagged.” “Who said that?”

“Do you think you’ve been communicating with your office less than usual? Are you feeling withdrawn from the Bureau?” “No, it’s just a hassle. I have to get up early and hide out in the barn, or up in the trees. Right now, there’s not that much to say.” “The important thing, in your view, is that you’ve been initiated into this group — kind of like being a ‘made man’ in the Mafia. And the tapes of the news stories — they’re fascinating to you.” “Because I did such a…a really good job.” “Here. You’re feeling some emotion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s going on right now, Ana? Take your time.” “I don’t know why I should be upset. I did a really good job. Does it say in there — Do you know my history?” “What do you mean?”

“Does it say that I once shot a police detective at point-blank range?” “Yes, I know.”

“Okay. That’s all.”

“Do you think about that incident a lot, Ana?” “All the time.”

“Can you describe your thoughts?”

“Like a track playing in the background.” “Do specific images and ideas intrude into your daily activities?” “Yes.”

“How often?”

“All the time.”

“How’s your mood lately?”

“Sad.”

“Ever since this second shooting?”

“No, because I’m bored! The case is going nowhere; there’s nothing to do. We’re waiting for the harvest — we grow hazelnuts — and for the leader of the group to make another move, but all he does is read the fish reports.” “He’s a fisherman?”

“No, he reads the fish counts in the paper. Out loud, every morning. How many salmon went through the fishways at the Bonneville Dam. It’s nuts.” “Well, they’re spawning. Some people think it’s a big deal.” “Like I care.”

“Are you more irritable lately?”

“Obviously. More like numbed out.”

“Remind me — how long ago did you go through critical incident training at the FBI?” “A couple of months after the shooting incident. It’s standard before they let you back to work.” “Did you receive a diagnosis at that time of PTSD?” “Post-traumatic stress disorder? Yeah, we all had it; that’s why we were there.” “I’m curious—”

“You’re curious about a lot of things.” “Did you have follow-up with a psychologist? PTSD usually takes more than a few sessions to improve. But it can improve. Dramatically.” “Well, a woman doctor in Los Angeles evaluated me — I forget her name, but she’s the one who approved me for duty.” “I’m not sure that she did.”

“I’m confused.”

“Let me try to clear up the confusion. You fit every criterion for a diagnosis of PTSD. You’ve had life-threatening trauma, resulting in intense fear and horror. Your current symptoms include mental replay of the trauma, numbing, avoidance, intrusive thoughts…. And all of this has been going on since your evaluation, months ago. Frankly, I can’t see why they put you on this case.” “I fit the profile.”

“Hundreds of other young female FBI agents fit the profile, too. Let me explain. I’m retired from private practice, Ana. I own an office building in downtown Portland and property in Seattle. I have a very nice life and I don’t need the money. I’m an old lefty, and I don’t give a damn if I’m fired by the FBI or if they screw with my tax returns, or whatever. You’re smiling.” “We don’t do that, but go ahead.”

“I do this to keep my hand in, and because I want to be of service. So I can be objective, and say, objectively, that there’s been an egregious error.” “You think they know about the PTSD?”

“Any examining doctor would have recommended that you not serve undercover.” “The SAC and the assistant director approved me.” “Then somewhere along the line, the doctor was overruled.” “Are you saying they put me on this case on purpose? Hoping I would crack?” “I’m strongly suggesting that there has been an error — error, not malice — because I would like to believe that no ethical commander would intentionally send a disabled soldier back into battle.” “Unless he wanted you to fail.”

“That has not been my experience of the Bureau.” “Do you know Peter Abbott?”

“The son of the congressman from Oregon?” “Yes, well, now Peter Abbott is a deputy director of the FBI. My boss believes he is trying to undermine this case. Or at least bend it his way. We don’t know why. It all started out so crystal clear, but now I couldn’t tell you who is running their game on whom. This is exactly where you’re not supposed to be, and it’s pissing me off.” “You’re an excellent foot soldier, Ana, and you have extraordinary qualities of persistence and dedication, but you’re still coping with long-term effects of the shooting incident. It’s like telling someone with pneumonia, ‘Go swim the Atlantic.’ I’m going to recommend that you’re removed from this case.” “No! You can’t do that! I’m fine. I’ll take back everything I said!” “I am deeply concerned about your safety. What would you like me to do?” “I need to talk to my contact agent, Mike Donnato. He’s the only one I trust.” “What do you mean, the only one you can trust?” “I wasn’t feeling crazy before I came here, but I’m sure feeling crazy now. Do all your patients say that? Doctor? That was a joke. Look, I have to go. My partner is meeting me downstairs. I’ll talk to him, and then — can I call you?” “Please.”

“As I said, it will probably be from a hazelnut tree.” “I’ve had stranger phone conferences. Are you okay to wait alone?” “Yes.”

“Let me hear from you.”

The dusky street smells of falafel and pigeons. The city has a faraway look as seen through a fishbowl. Disoriented by the flash-bang of cars and urban walkers, I realize my perceptions are confused. I am trying to understand what the psychiatrist said, but it is hard to think clearly. I am waiting for Donnato. When he arrives, it will make some kind of sense.

“Get in the car,” Mr. Terminate says.

The biker’s wrenchlike fingers close around my arm. A gun presses my ribs. We are in an alley and I don’t know how we got there, but with the full force of his body, he twists my shoulder and pops me like a cork into the open door of the car, where Mountain Man is waiting behind the wheel.

When we arrive at the farm, the thermometer on the barn reads 110 degrees — candy-apple red and about to burst. Unlike the dry heat of Los Angeles, a sultry fever rises from the earth, with a smell like roasting barley and manure. It hangs there, baking you to a stupor. The coolest spot in the valley is the hazelnut orchard. When Mr. Terminate and Mountain Man deliver me from Portland, Dick Stone is sitting on a beach chair set in its oasis of shade.