Lori Harris - Set Up With The Agent

“No problem.” Beth took a seat and settled back, giving the illusion that she was comfortable.

“Can I get you some water before we get started?”

“No. Thanks.”

Taking the chair opposite hers, Carmichael propped his right ankle atop his left knee before resting the legal pad in his lap. “So how do you think you’re doing?”

“Actually, a little better.”

“What about the nightmares? Are you still experiencing them?”

“Occasionally.” She kept the confident and somewhat bland smile on her face. Though this was only her third session, she knew the routine, so she waited for the psychologist to pursue the current subject.

“Are you saying there’s been a decrease in their frequency?”

“Yes. Some.” In reality, the opposite was true. Every time she was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was only a matter of time before she sat straight up, her heart pounding, the scent of spilled gasoline so real that it usually took her several seconds to realize that the smell was a remembered one, a cruel joke played by her own mind.

Dr. Carmichael scribbled a note. “And when they do occur, would you characterize them as any less vivid than when we started meeting?”

“Definitely.” She knew she needed to start offering more than short responses, but despite her earlier resolve, she was finding it surprisingly difficult, her emotions already bubbling to the surface. Her palms were now damp and as she met Carmichael’s gaze, her respiration quickened, almost as if he had leveled a gun at her chest.

But in some ways, the situation she found herself in now was just as much a life-or-death struggle as the event that had landed her here. Dr. Samuel Carmichael held her career in his hands. And since her career was her life…

Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “What about the claustrophobia?”

“It’s better.” Another short response. “I’m back to riding elevators. Wouldn’t you say that’s a pretty major step?”

She managed a slight smile, but when she tried to force it a bit wider, she felt her facial muscles freeze. And knew that she’d made a mistake. She could see it in his washed-out blue eyes and in the way his mouth tightened.

“Beth.” Carmichael uncrossed his legs. “I’ve been in practice for a lot of years. I know when I’m being manipulated. I can’t help you unless you’re open with me.”

She kept her gaze level. How should she respond? Pretend confusion? Try a small amount of honesty?

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, having decided the latter was going to be the best course of action.

“You’re right. But you have to understand what I need to get better. I need work. Real work. I’ve been pulled out of the field and assigned to administrative duties. Do you have any idea what that includes? I run a copier. I collate reports for other agents. I answer the phone.”

“You do recognize that your boss, that Bill Monroe is concerned that the incident has left you—”

Irritation kicked in. “Incident? Isn’t that a slightly benign description for being locked in the trunk of a burning car? The fact that I have some difficulty sleeping, that I’ve had occasional problems handling tight spaces isn’t all that unusual, is it, given the circumstances?”

“No. What you’re feeling is quite normal.” Holding a pencil in one hand, he ran the fingers of the other one up and down the length as he studied her. “So you believe that you should be put back out into the field? Where your failure to function at a crucial moment could possibly endanger your life or the life of an innocent bystander or coworker?”

She held on to her irritation. “I recognize that I do have issues at the moment, but I believe they are temporary and controllable. I don’t feel they undermine my ability to do my job.”

“So, if you don’t believe you need help, why are you here?” He paused before adding, “My understanding is that these sessions are voluntary.”

“That is what the manual says,” she agreed. Unable to sit still any longer, she got up and paced to the window. Even though her SAC—Special Agent in Charge—had characterized the counseling as voluntary, she knew better.

“Don’t you want to improve?”

“Sure.” And she wanted to keep her job, too. She looked out at the dark night. The window overlooked the parking garage across the street where she’d left her car.

“Of course I want to get better.” She just couldn’t see how dwelling on problems could be therapeutic. That wasn’t the way she’d been raised. You get knocked down, you get back up. End of story.

With her carefully constructed blueprint of progress a bust, she decided maybe it was the right time to put at least a few cards on the table. And at the same time momentarily steer the conversation away from her. “You attended University of Maryland, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

She faced him. “And graduated the same year as Bill Monroe?”

It was Carmichael’s turn to look uncomfortable. “So you think you’re being set up in some way? That I’m your boss’s hit man?”

“It crossed my mind.” Having given up all attempts to control her body language, she tightened her arms in front of her. “I suppose after that remark, you’ll be adding paranoia to the list.”

Carmichael’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do you consider yourself to be overly suspicious of the motives of people around you?”

She pretended to consider the possibility. When she’d been doing the background check on Carmichael, she’d done a little self-diagnosing while she was at it. She might be experiencing a sense of fatalism where her job was concerned, but it was fully grounded in cold, hard facts.

Beth realized the psychologist was still waiting for an answer on the paranoia issue. “No. I don’t consider myself to be paranoid.”

Even if Carmichael didn’t know the real reason she was undergoing counseling, the only reason she still had a job, she did. She was the prosecution’s only witness on the Rabbit Rheaume money laundering case, and they were worried that she’d fall apart during cross examination. These sessions were meant to keep her functioning until after the trial—until after she’d taken the stand and the feds had their conviction.

But once they did, all bets would be off.

For more than two years now, since she’d gone over his head, Bill Monroe had been looking for a way to get rid of her—not an easy task considering the previous glowing evaluations he’d given her.

The knot in her gut tightened. Even before she’d gone in undercover, landing a position as Rabbit Rheaume’s assistant, she’d been trying to hold on, to play Monroe’s game. She was hoping that those above him would somehow miraculously recognize that he was conducting a witch hunt against her. But even from the beginning she’d known that her survival was unlikely. That even though she’d managed to survive Rabbit’s car trunk, it was unlikely she’d survive Monroe. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Bureau. Part of the men’s club. And the FBI historically tended to protect those in higher positions, sacrificing lower-ranked employees.

Realizing Carmichael was watching her again, she slammed the door closed on that line of thought. She couldn’t afford it right now. “Maybe I’m a little lost at the moment, that’s all.”

“We all are sometimes. But none of us has to remain that way.” Carmichael crossed to his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a prescription pad.

She found it difficult to hide her exasperation. What kind of pill would it be this time? She’d tried taking what he’d prescribed on the first visit, something for anxiety, but when the drug had interfered with her ability to function, she’d quit taking it. She’d needed to stay clear-headed, keep her wits about her.