Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

Ben dragged a hand through his hair before he finished off the brandy. “I don’t know, maybe the guy was overworked, or maybe he burned out. Anyway, the upshot was, after two years of therapy, after thousands of candles and prayers to the Blessed Virgin, Josh went up to his room, put on his combat fatigues and his medals, and instead of picking up his syringe, loaded his service revolver and ended it.”

“Ben, saying I’m sorry isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough, but there’s nothing else I can say.”

“He was only twenty-four.”

And you’d have been only twenty, she thought, but rather than say it, put her arm around him.

“I thought about blaming the whole U.S. Army-better yet, the entire military system. I figured it made more sense to focus on the doctor who was supposed to be helping him. I remember sitting there when the police were upstairs, in the room I’d shared with Josh, and thinking that the bastard was supposed to do something.

He was supposed to make him better. I even thought about killing him for a while, then the priest came and distracted me. He wouldn’t give Josh last rites.“

“I don’t understand.”

“It wasn’t our pastor, but this young, straight-out-of-the-seminary rookie who turned green at the thought of going upstairs to Josh. He said Josh had willingly and knowingly taken his life, dying in mortal sin. He wouldn’t give him absolution.”

“That’s wrong. Worse, it’s cruel.”

“I threw him out. My mother stood there, tight-lipped, dry-eyed, then she went up to the room where her son’s brains were splattered on the wall and she prayed for his absolution herself.”

“Your mother’s strong. She must have tremendous faith.”

“All she’d ever done was cook.” He drew Tess closer, needing the soft, feminine scent. “I don’t know if I could have walked up those stairs a second time, but she did. When I watched her do that, I realized that no matter how much she hurt, no matter how much she’d grieve, she believed and would always believe that what happened to Josh was God’s will.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. It had to be someone’s fault. Josh had never hurt anyone in his life, not until ‘Nam. Then what he’d done there was supposed to be right because he was fighting for his country. But it wasn’t right, and he couldn’t live with it anymore. The psychiatrist was supposed to show him that no matter what he’d done over there, he was still decent, still worthwhile.”

As she had been supposed to show Joey Higgins he was worthwhile. “Did you ever talk to Josh’s doctor afterward?”

“Once. I think I still had it in my head I should kill him. He sat there behind his desk, with his hands folded.” Ben looked down at his own, watching them curl into fists. “He didn’t feel anything. He said he was sorry, explained how extreme Delayed Stress Syndrome could be. Then he told me, while he kept his hands folded on the desk and his voice just two shades away from being involved, that Josh hadn’t been able to cope with what had happened in ‘Nam, that coming home and trying to live up to what he’d been before had created more and more pressure, until finally the lid had blown off.”

“I’m sorry, Ben. Probably a great deal of what he told you was true, but he could have done it in a different way.”

“It could have meant a damn to him.”

“Ben, I’m not defending him, but a lot of doctors, medical or psychiatric, hold themselves back, don’t let themselves in too close, because when you lose someone, when you aren’t able to save them, it hurts too much.”

“The way losing Joey hurt you.”

“That kind of grief and guilt rips at you, and if it rips at you too often, there’s nothing left, not for you or for the next patient.”

Maybe he understood that, or was beginning to. But he couldn’t see Josh’s regular Army shrink closing himself in the bathroom and sobbing. “Why do you do it?”

“I guess I have to look for answers, the same way you do.” Turning, she touched his face. “It does hurt when it’s too little, or too late.” She remembered how he’d looked when he’d told her about three strangers who’d been murdered for a handful of coins. “We’re not as different as I once thought.”

He turned his lips into her palm, comforted by it. “Maybe not. When I saw you tonight, I felt the same way I did when I saw you looking at Anne Reasoner in that alley. You seemed so detached from the tragedy of it, so completely in control. Just the way that major had been, with his hands folded on the desk, telling me why my brother was dead.”

“Being in control isn’t the same as being detached. You’re a cop, you have to know the difference.”

“I wanted to know you felt something.” Sliding his hand down to her wrist, he held it firm while he looked into her eyes. “I guess what I really wanted was for you to need me.” And that was perhaps one of the most difficult confessions of his life. “Then, when I walked into the bathroom and saw you crying, I knew you did, and it scared the hell out of me.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t trust you enough.”

He dropped his gaze long enough to study his hand over her slender, impossibly delicate wrist. “I’ve never told anyone but Ed about Josh. Until now, he’s the only one I’ve trusted enough.” He brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them lightly. “So what happens now?”

“What do you want to happen?”

A laugh, even when quiet and reluctant, can be cleansing. “Psychiatrist’s cop-out.” Thoughtfully, he fingered the pearls around her neck. He unhooked them. Her throat was fragrant and silky. “Tess, when this is over, if I asked you to take off for a few days, a week, and go somewhere with me, would you?” Yes.

Amused, and more than a little surprised, he looked at her. “Just like that?”

“I might ask where when the time comes, so I’d know whether to pack a fur coat or a bikini.” She took the pearls from him to set them on the bedside table.

“They should be in a safe.”

“I’m sleeping with a cop.” Her voice was light, but she saw him brooding and thought she understood where his thoughts had taken him. “Ben, it will be over soon.”

“Yeah.” But when he brought her close, when he began to fill himself with her, he was afraid.

It was November twenty-eighth.

“You don’t step foot out of the apartment until I give you the okay.‘

“Absolutely not,” Tess agreed while Ben watched her pin up her hair. “I have enough work at home to keep me chained to my desk all day.”

“You don’t even take out the garbage.”

“Not even if the neighbors write up a petition.”

“Tess, I want you to take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously.” She chose ribbed gold triangles and clipped them to her ears. “I’m not going to be alone for a minute today. Officer Pilomento will be here at eight.”

Ben looked at the dove-gray slacks and soft, cowl-necked sweater she wore. “Is that who you’re getting all dressed up for?”

“Of course.” When he came to stand behind her, she smiled at their twin reflections. “I’ve developed a penchant for the police lately. It has all the earmarks of becoming an obsession.”

“Is that right?” He bent to brush his lips over the back of her neck.

“I’m afraid so.”

He dropped his hands to her shoulders, wanting to remain close, touching. “Worried about it?”

“No.” Still smiling, she turned into his arms. “I’m not worried a bit. Not about that or anything else.” Because there was a frown between his brows, Tess lifted a ringer to smooth it away. “I wish you weren’t.”