Т Паркер: The Room of White Fire

They say once a Marine, always a Marine, brothers for life, always faithful. I say fine, but don’t let it cloud your judgment.

I looked at Dr. Hulet, then out the southern window for miles and miles, to where the pale desert waited. “Why is Clay Hickman in this place?”

Dr. Hulet’s gaze was calm and direct. “Schizoaffective disorder, the bipolar subset. He has been delusional, paranoid, and at times violent. He was admitted to Arcadia three years ago as a danger to himself and others. Clay Hickman is the son of Rex and Patricia Hickman — yes, of Hickman Homes. Like you two, Clay served our country in the second Iraq war — Air Force. He returned home in late 2009, rented an apartment in San Diego. He found some security work but was soon exhibiting symptoms of what was assumed to be PTSD — hypervigilance, sleeplessness, anxiety, and depression. It escalated. He experienced his first psychotic break six months after coming home. He was stable for a year and a half, then broke again. The next two episodes came just six months apart. Erratic behavior. Fighting. One charge of assault with a deadly weapon — he struck someone with a gun. Shoplifting, drunk in public, resisting arrest. Alcohol and drugs. Unaccounted for, weeks at a time. His sixth fifty-one fifty landed him in Patton State for observation. That’s what it takes for a disturbed person to get help these days in our system. Even a veteran of war. That would have been 2014. Luckily for Clay, his family brought him to us. Mr. Ford, I want you to know that Clay Hickman — when he’s taking his medications and keeping himself active here in a structured setting — is a peaceful, deep-feeling, generous young man.”

Dr. Hulet took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Two years ago, when I took over his therapy here, I began to suspect that he was suffering what is now called ‘moral injury.’ From the war. Some therapists call such psychological trauma a soul wound. It is caused by something you do . Not by something done to you. I’ve published on the subject. It is very different from PTSD. They are not the same.”

DeMaris deadpanned her.

I watched a vulture fly by the window, up close to the smoked glass. He seemed to eye his reflection, then continued his reconnaissance. As nature made him. Clay Hickman sounded a lot like some veterans I knew from my Marine days. As a veteran I wondered for the millionth time why some of us had such profoundly bad reactions to war but others did not. Why some had lost their bearings while others had managed to move on to the next thing. As nature made us? As war changes us? Either way, stress was a constant torment to all of us, and maybe an excuse to some.

“Is he suicidal?”

“He’s shown the ideation but has made no attempt,” said Dr. Hulet. “Suicide is one of my biggest concerns now, with Clay in a totally foreign environment and his medications and therapy abruptly suspended. We cannot allow Clay to end his life. Veteran suicide rates run roughly double those of the general population, as you might know.”

A moment went by. I knew a Marine who killed himself after coming home. Lenny. From Biloxi, Mississippi. Both legs amputated above the knee. Didn’t want to live like that. I knew others — some disabled — who wanted very badly to live. I think I understood both sets of mind — opposite sides of the same hard coin.

I watched the trees outside swaying in the breeze. The low temperature up in these mountains last night was thirty-nine. Not that I thought Clay Hickman was out there in the forest. I had the feeling he had covered some miles in the last two days. But it was just a feeling. “Are you his lead doctor?”

Dr. Hulet nodded. “As well as Arcadia’s medical director. His leaving surprised me. In all the hours I’ve spent with him, he rarely talked of a life outside or of running away. I think he felt safe here.”

Hard to believe, I thought, that an airman locked in a hospital, swank or not, wouldn’t want to fly away. Having been married to a recreational pilot, and still being a pilot myself, I know something about flight. Flying toward or flying away. Either way, it gets into your blood and stays there. Flight is more than freedom. You are subject to nature, your own limitations, the whims of the gods. You are free to fall. “You told me yesterday that Clay is not voluntarily here. That his father is his conservator and makes decisions on his son’s behalf.”

“That is true,” said the doctor.

“Had his behavior changed lately?”

“He was restless. Not at peace. I felt that he was coming to a crossroads that he couldn’t articulate.”

DeMaris loudly cleared his throat. “Mr. Ford? Or can I just call you Roland? Roland, we’ve come to the part of the program where you tell us if you’re going to take the job we’ve offered you. Daylight’s a-wastin’ and our man is in the wind. His family is extremely worried, and so are we. It was good of you to fax us your contract yesterday. Dr. Spencer has approved it and Dr. Hulet and I will sign it. But I do need to ask you, why do you only take cash?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“We report every penny.”

“So do I.”

“And you’re awfully damned expensive, too. I know. I’m familiar with your world and your type.”

“Then maybe you can explain me to me sometime.”

DeMaris opened his mouth to speak, came up empty.

“That would be my job,” said the doctor.

“I’ll find Clay Hickman.”

Dr. Hulet again pointed her pencil at Alec DeMaris, who pulled a fat envelope from his suit coat pocket and plopped it down. She slid my contract across the marble and handed me a pen.

I signed. Finding missing persons can be difficult when they don’t want to be found. Locating is my specialty. To begin this kind of work for a corporate client, I charge three eight-hour days at one hundred dollars an hour. I refund the balance if we get results fast. For families, the hourly goes down, sometimes way down. For political and most religious organizations, the hourly goes up, sometimes way up.

“Thank you,” she said. “I have the pictures you said you would need.”

She handed me a legal envelope, unsealed. I pulled out the photographs, head shots, one in color and one black-and-white. PROPERTY OF ARCADIA — NOT FOR RELEASE OR CIRCULATION stamped on the backs. Clay Hickman had an open face, a high forehead, and straight white hair. In the color picture I could see that he had a hazel left eye and a blue right one. His expression was alert but calm.

“What was he wearing?”

“Tan cords, a black T-shirt, a brown cardigan sweater, and dress shoes,” said Dr. Hulet. “They were caramel-colored, or maybe camel. I’m not sure exactly what they call it. We have video of him taken at eleven fifteen that morning, before he left the grounds.”

“Chestnut on the shoes,” said DeMaris. “And expensive. The Hickmans do not allow their son to dress down, even here on the funny farm. Hickman, by the way, is five-ten, one seventy. He’s fit from the gym, and running and biking around the grounds. Supervised, of course. We encourage exertion. Gain through pain for our insane. That’s my joke and don’t repeat it. I’ll take you out to the wire when you’re ready.”

I looked at Dr. Hulet. “I’ll need the names and numbers for friends he’s made here. And all recent visitors — dates are important. I’d like access to any staff he trusted, or talked to. His family, of course.”

“The family might be a problem,” she said. “Very private people. I’ll talk to them again. Anything else?”

“Clay Hickman’s medical history.”

“We can’t let you have that,” said DeMaris.

“Of course we can,” said Dr. Hulet.