Jeff Abbott - Fear

Andy stood behind Allison. ‘What’s wrong, Miles? Lose your nerve? Go ahead, tell pretty lady exactly what you did to me.’

Miles froze. His skin felt like it had been slathered in ice. Andy had never set foot in Allison’s office before. Miles glanced at his coat, where the confession lay. He looked at Andy. Andy grinned and shook his head.

‘Michael? Is something wrong?’ Allison leaned forward with a frown.

Miles hid behind a long sip of his tea. Steadied his breath against the rim of the cup. Looked up again. Andy made a gun of his fingers, fired it at Miles.

‘Michael, every time I mention the shooting, you freeze up.’

‘I know.’ He set the tea down. ‘I don’t want… to not remember what happened anymore.’ The words felt thick in his throat. ‘I need you to help me.’

She sat across from him. ‘Of course, Michael. This is a major step. Wanting to heal yourself – it’s a critical element that’s been missing from our work together.’

‘I don’t want you to hate me,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t. Never.’ She offered a thin smile. ‘I think I understand you better than you know.’

‘Wait till you find out what I did,’ he said. ‘I don’t even remember all the details of it – I can’t.’

‘Your willingness to talk about your trauma is all that matters, Michael.’

‘I know I haven’t been cooperative with you, but I want to be sure

… I stay your patient. You’re the only one who can help me.’

‘I’ll take it as a welcome compliment, thank you, but-’

He held up his hand. ‘Don’t give me the shrink line about every therapist is good, blah blah blah. And I don’t want you sending me to a hospital; I can’t, I won’t, go to one of those places, they’re not an option.’

An expression of surprise, or of disappointment, he couldn’t tell which, crossed her face, then vanished with her nod. ‘No hospitals. And I welcome the change in attitude toward your therapy. Where would you like to start?’

Prep her for the confession, he decided. ‘I keep seeing the person I shot. I can’t live this way, I can’t have him on my shoulder all the time, so it’s either get fixed or go even crazier.’

Her expression might have been cut from steel. ‘Is he here now?’

‘Yes. He’s a fever I can’t shake. He told me this morning he wanted to kill me.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Andy.’

Behind her, Andy crossed his arms. ‘I really resent you bringing this do-gooder bitch between you and me, Miles.’

‘Let’s talk about the shooting,’ Allison said.

‘I told you, I don’t remember all the details.’

‘We’ll go slow. Start with where the shooting happened.’

The first word caught, a stone in his throat, but he coughed and said, ‘Miami.’

‘Your home?’

‘I grew up there. So did Andy.’

‘Where in Miami did the shooting take place?’

‘A warehouse. No one there but me and…’ He stopped; he couldn’t look at her. Handing her the confession now seemed impossible. He steadied his breath; the burn of panic inched along his bones.

‘Me and two policemen and Andy…’

‘The knife that’s in the kitchen drawer,’ Andy said. ‘Wicked sharp. I’ll put it in your hand, I’ll help you draw a nice hot bath, and then you can slash your wrists, and we’re cool again.’

Miles stopped. ‘I want to be healthy again, I want my life back…’ He stood and he paced and put his face into his hands.

‘Let me help you. Go back to the story.’

‘But I can’t remember, I can’t remember, how can you help me if I can’t remember?’

‘Small steps. You shot this Andy.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Why?’

The pictures crossed his mind, a jumble, photos dropped at random on a floor. ‘We’re laughing. Then – Andy freaked. He pulled a gun. Aimed at the head of one of the cops.’

‘And you shot him.’

He sank into the chair. ‘Yes. But I don’t remember it.’

‘Doesn’t pretty lady deserve the truth,’ Andy whispered, ‘before you give her a letter full of lies?’

‘Let’s not try to remember,’ Allison said. ‘Let’s just talk about what you visualize if you think about the shooting. That’s different from the memory itself.’

He sipped the green tea and wished the cup held bourbon. ‘I remember the laughing. But then the laughing stops and I raise the gun. I see Andy start to speak but I can’t hear what he says. I pull the trigger. He shoots me.’

‘He shot you?’

‘Yes. In the shoulder. I see him fall. I…’ The scar on his shoulder began to ache, throbbing like a heartbeat. Sweat coated his palms, the close air of the building tightened in his chest – the smell of the paint, the faint hammering two floors above him faded and suddenly the office disappeared, the chill of New Mexico that pressed through the windows replaced with the humid blanket of Miami, the gunfire boomed a ceaseless roar in his ears, echoing in the cavernous warehouse, drowning out Andy’s scream, his own voice filled with shock and horror, the chock of the bullet hitting Miles’s flesh, a cannonball of pain.

‘Michael?’

‘Oh, Jesus, please.’ Miles ran his hand along his forehead. He felt feverish, sick. He steadied his hands, pressing them against the soft leather of the chair. He was here. Not there. He could not go back there. Never.

‘Michael. Michael.’

Michael wasn’t his name and he didn’t want to answer to it and then he remembered, yes, he was Michael now and forever. If he wanted to live.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You were having a flashback. You’re safe. No one will hurt you.’

‘I’m safe,’ he repeated after her. He blinked.

She cleared her throat. ‘Tell me about Andy.’

His hand wanted to reach for the confession, just give it to her, but he didn’t want his hands to shake when he gave her the envelope.

‘I want… Michael, are you listening to me?’

He put his gaze on her. ‘Yes, Allison. But I don’t want to remember any more. I’m sorry. I can’t.’ End it, he thought. Tear up the confession, walk out. Never come back. Have Andy as the perpetual roommate until you die.

‘You took a forward jump today. You said you want your health back, your life back. Fight for it, Michael.’

‘It’s too hard.’ He found his breath again. ‘Let’s talk about my mom and dad. Did I tell you my dad gambled a lot?’

‘I don’t think we can shy away from what you’re facing with Andy. I want to introduce a new element to our therapy.’

He heard, behind him, the door to her office opening.

Miles spun up from the chair, covered the five steps to the door, grabbed the man’s neck, and pushed him hard against the wall. The man matched Miles’s height and he closed a strong hand over Miles’s hand, tried to wrench Miles’s grip from his throat.

‘Michael! Stop!’ Allison yelled. ‘Let him go!’

Miles released his grip. The man had blond hair, blue eyes, a heavy build under the tailored suit. He gave Miles a cool stare.

‘I dislike people coming up behind me,’ Miles said.

‘Clearly,’ the man said.

‘Michael. This is Doctor James Sorenson. I’ve known him for many years. He’s done amazing work with people suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder.’

‘Then he should know not to sneak up on people,’ Miles said. ‘Sorry.’

‘I apologize… if I frightened you,’ Sorenson said. For a big man, he had a soft voice, raspy, as though he felt few words pass his lips. He smoothed his suit lapel.

Miles didn’t care for the underlying tone of Sorenson’s voice, the slightly superior way in which he’d said frightened. He returned to his seat and faced Allison.