Solace 6/14 (Without a Trace)
Solace
6/14
Chapter 11
As Melanie slowly raised the head of Martin’s bed so that he was sitting up, more than laying down, he grimaced. Not at the shooting sensations along his side, but at what rested on the table the nurse had swung over his lap.
He’d slept for a few hours after Danny came by, and awoke to a brief visit from his Uncle Roger and his cousins. He’d always been close to the Tolands, and was glad to see them. Their steady presence always set him at ease.
A little later, Melanie had arrived to take his vital signs, an invasion of his personal space that had become annoying. As she’d worked, he’d catalogued his body’s condition, pleasantly surprised to realize that over the course of the day, the pain had receded a bit, and he felt more alert than he had in a while.
Now, as he stared at the little table suspended over him, he wondered why he was being punished, instead of rewarded, for his small signs of progress.
“Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad,” the nurse encouraged, nudging the plastic mug toward him.
Martin peered into it, his mouth and nose wrinkling in disgust. “Says the person who doesn’t have to eat it. There’s nothing in there but broth.”
“Try to focus on the positive. This is your first real food -- ”
“This isn’t food.”
Melanie smiled good-naturedly. “You keep this down, and tomorrow we’ll see about getting you something with a few noodles in it.”
Martin sighed and stared despondently at the mug. He’d rather have a big, steaming bowl of chili. Well … maybe not. In the first place, he didn’t have much of an appetite. And in the second place, even if he did, he doubted his stomach could handle anything remotely spicy. Dr. Gould had warned that he’d have problems with his digestive tract for a while. Difficulty digesting certain foods, pain when he ate. Not welcome news for a man who loved to eat and appreciated a wide variety of fast foods.
“C’mon, Martin,” the nurse coaxed. “You need to start building up your strength. The sooner you’re able to keep stuff like this down, the sooner we can get you off that IV.”
The mention of getting unhooked from at least one of the tubes invading his body was enough to make him lift the mug to his lips. He sipped tentatively. It tasted like hot water laced with just a touch of chicken flavoring. He made a face, feeling like a little kid being forced to eat his least-favorite vegetable.
“So how much longer am I in the ICU?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the bland torture.
“Actually, we’re going to move you to a regular room tomorrow.”
“Really? That’d be great.” He shifted uncomfortably as his semi-upright position started taking its toll on his wounded side.
Melanie noticed his discomfort and peeked into the mug. “A little more, and we can lay you back down again.”
“I’m fine,” Martin quickly insisted, not wanting the nurse to mess with the bed. He didn’t feel spectacular, but he was almost sitting up straight, and eating -- OK, drinking -- dinner, and it was the most normal he’d felt in days. He continued sipping the broth, trying to ignore the increased burning in his chest and stomach. When it refused to recede, he took a last drink and pushed the button on his PCA pump.
“All done,” he announced, handing the mug to Melanie. He’d finished nearly half of it, and now felt full and sleepy. How could eating require so much energy?
The nurse checked the mug’s contents and smiled, then patted his arm. “You did good. Why don’t you get some sleep?” She leaned over and pressed some buttons on his bed, reclining him to a more comfortable position.
He drifted for a bit, not exactly sleeping, but close enough that the sound of a chair scraping against the floor startled him. He opened his eyes to see Sam sitting next to the bed, a small smile playing across her lips.
“Sorry if I woke you,” she apologized.
“You didn’t.” Martin assured her, clearing his throat and enjoying the view. Although she wasn’t his anymore, he couldn’t help but appreciate her beauty. He could still remember the feel of her long blonde hair as he ran his hands through it, her full lips crushed against his when they kissed, the soft, warm weight of her body against him when they made love.
A flicker of pain danced across his chest, but it had nothing to do with his gunshot wounds. He’d truly wanted their relationship to grow and thrive, but when it became achingly clear that she couldn’t -- or wouldn’t -- take things to the next level, he’d broken up with her. It had hurt both of them, but it would’ve hurt more if they’d stayed together.
Sam’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Didn’t I tell you once not to get shot?” Her expression was half stern, half teasing.
He chuckled, doing his best to ignore the resulting sharp pinpricks, and recalled their conversation not long after she’d been shot in the leg. “Yeah, you did. Guess I didn’t duck fast enough.”
The blonde agent smirked and then sobered, her whole manner softening. “Martin, I … When I didn’t know if you were going to make it, I realized there were some things that I needed to tell you.” She stopped and lowered her head to stare at the floor.
All of his pain and exhaustion receded to the background as he waited for her to continue. They’d barely had a civil conversation since he broke up with her, and in light of his near-death experience, he supposed they both had some pretty serious things to say.
Sam looked up at him through her lashes, then raised her head. “I never meant to hurt you. When we started seeing each other … I didn’t really think it would get serious. And then it started, well, getting serious, and I panicked. I wasn’t ready for it … wasn’t ready for you. Sometimes I think I never should have invited you into that cab.” She smiled wryly. “But I know … that if I could do it over, I’d still ask you to come home with me.”
“And I’d still say yes,” Martin said, lips curving up as he recalled that night. He wouldn’t wish away their time together, despite how things had turned out.
The blonde’s smile faded as she reached out and covered his hand with her own. “I just wish … When I realized that I couldn’t give you what you needed, I should have walked away.”
He shook his head. “You’re not the only one to blame here. I wanted us to work so bad that I waited longer than I should have to call it quits.” He rubbed a thumb up and down the outside of her hand. “I want you to know that I don’t regret being with you, and I don’t regret ending it. But I do regret *how* I ended it. I was pretty hard on you, and I never should have done it at the office. I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, and she sniffled and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too.”
They sat quietly for a moment before the blonde agent spoke again. “So what happens next?”
Martin sighed as the pain returned and weariness blanketed him. He’d be glad when he could get through an entire conversation without feeling wrung out. “I’d like to try to be friends again. I seem to recall we were pretty good at that.”
“We were, weren’t we?” Sam agreed, and brushed the back of a hand over his forehead.
He leaned slightly into the warm, gentle touch. She still stirred something within him, but he knew better than to get wrapped up in it. Just because he had feelings for her didn’t mean that they should get back together. After all, she and Jack clearly had some lingering ties, but he couldn’t picture them reuniting.
“You look tired,” she said, rising to her feet. “I should get going.”
“Thanks for coming, Sam.”
“Sure. I’ll be back again soon.” She eased her purse onto her shoulders, her eyes twinkling. “I’ll give you some pointers on how to survive bad hospital food and heartless physical therapists.”
They chuckled and then she left, Martin watching her go with a thoughtful expression on his face. They wouldn’t regain their friendship overnight. It would be an awkward process. Still, they’d taken a crucial step forward, and a damned good one at that.
**
Chapter 12
“How have you been sleeping, Danny?”
He’d arrived at Dr. Harris’ office Monday morning in an irritable mood. He’d spent Sunday night tossing and turning, hounded by brutally vivid nightmares. One after another after another, each starting with Dornvald opening fire and ending with Martin mortally wounded. Sometimes, he died before Danny got back to the car, from chest and stomach injuries or from a bullet that struck him between the eyes, spraying brain matter on the headrest behind him. Other times, he died in Danny’s arms on the street, or in the ambulance, or at the ER, strange gurgling sounds in his throat and blood bubbling out of his mouth as he sucked in one last, tortured breath.
Three hours of sleep. Three freakin’ hours of sleep, and now Danny had to sit here and answer Dr. Harris’ questions. Had to, because if he didn’t, she’d write that down in her little report, and he wouldn’t get back to work anytime soon.
So how had he been sleeping … that was the question, right?
“I’ve been sleeping okay, mostly.” He sighed, rubbing gritty eyes and wishing he’d used Visine earlier.
“Still having nightmares?”
“Some,” he hesitantly admitted. He really didn’t want to talk about them today, not with his nerves so frayed.
Dr. Harris leaned back in her chair, pen in hand, and studied him. “Why don’t you tell me about them?”
Damn. She wanted details, and as much as he hated to provide them, he would. If he came clean with her, she could provide some nice, professional advice about how to feel better. And maybe, just maybe, she’d tell Jack that he was fit to return to work.
“They’re all pretty much the same,” Danny said, massaging the knotted muscles in the back of his neck. “I see the shooting over and over again. Sometimes Martin makes it, and sometimes he doesn’t.”
“How do the dreams make you feel?”
Striving for the same kind of professional detachment he often used while reviewing a crime scene, he rattled off the emotions that had flooded over him during his nightmares. “Scared. Angry. Powerless.”
“And when you think about the actual event, not the nightmares, but the shooting itself, how do you feel?”
“The same way.”
“Are any one of those emotions you described stronger than the others?”
Danny scrubbed a hand over his face, considering the question.
He’d despised the fear, the pounding of his heart as Dornvald opened fire, the dryness in his mouth as he’d yelled at Martin to back up.
Later, he’d embraced his blinding hatred for Dornvald, letting it fuel his body and mind as he and Jack hunted down the man who’d nearly killed his partner.
The powerlessness … it had nearly choked him with its intensity. An intensity that was uncomfortably familiar, now that he focused on it. His breathing quickened as he realized he’d experienced the same unwelcome emotion two decades ago, as an 11-year-old boy unable to stop a car accident that killed his parents.
Why hadn’t he made the connection before now?
He’d been sitting in the back seat of their Chevrolet, listening to his dad scream at his mom. When he’d asked his father to stop, the older man had turned around to yell at him. The car had swerved, and before he could shout a warning, it plowed into a median.
He’d been powerless to stop the crash, and had been of no help afterward, either. His broken ribs, arm and leg had rendered him immobile as his parents lay unconscious and bloody in the front seat. The paramedics had pronounced his mother dead at the scene. His father had passed away a few days later.
For years afterward, he’d wondered “what if”? What if he hadn’t said anything to his dad?
And now, he was playing the same “what if” game. What if he hadn’t told Martin to back up?
But there was no guarantee that he could have changed either outcome. His father had taken his eyes off the road before turning around to yell at him. Even if he’d kept his mouth shut, the older man still might have hit the median.
And if Martin hadn’t thrown the car into reverse, they’d probably both be dead. They couldn’t have properly defended themselves against an automatic weapon from such a point-blank distance. The only other option was to swerve the car hard left, but that would have left him exposed. And once Dornvald killed him, he would have gone after Adisa Teno and Martin.
No matter what he’d done in those precious few seconds, his partner would, almost certainly, still have been seriously hurt or killed.
Oh, God.
It wasn’t the thought that he could have done something differently that haunted him. It was the thought that nothing he could have done would have made a difference.
Powerless.
Helpless.
Useless.
“Danny?” Dr. Harris gently prompted.
He shook his head and blew out a breath, trying to collect himself, to ground himself in the present. “I couldn’t stop it,” he murmured, eyes distant. “Either time.”
The psychiatrist’s eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “Either time? What other time are you talking about?”
Too little sleep and too many crushing memories had lowered his defenses, and before he knew it, he was rambling about the car accident that had killed his parents, and how he’d felt as helpless then, as he had during the shooting.
“Danny,” Dr. Harris said, eyes full of compassion. “We can’t erase what happened, but together, we can figure out how to deal with your feelings so you can move forward.”
That’s what he wanted to do, no doubt about it. But how long would it take? And what about Martin?
“Do you think … do you think Martin’s going to deal with all of this okay?” he asked softly, longing for some reassurance that their ordeal wouldn’t permanently scar his partner.
The psychiatrist watched him for a long moment, searching his eyes, before speaking. “You feel guilty about what happened to him, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Have you talked to Martin about it?”
“A little. He told me not to blame myself.”
“But you’re having trouble with that.”
Sarcasm tinged Danny’s voice. “Kinda hard not to feel guilty when he’s laying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain.”
Dr. Harris clasped her hands together and rested them on her desk. “Martin needs some time to get back on his feet, and it’s going to take awhile for both of you to deal with the shooting’s emotional ramifications. Try to have some patience.”
He chuckled. “Patience isn’t exactly my strong suit, doc. Martin’s, either.”
The brunette smiled. “Look, I think we’ve done enough today. I’d like to see you again -- ” she paused as she consulted her palm pilot. “ -- at 8 o’clock Monday morning. From here on out, I think weekly sessions are a good idea.”
She scribbled the time and date on an appointment card and handed it to Danny, who slipped it into his pocket.
“So uh … what about work?” he asked, unable to prevent nervousness from seeping into his voice. “I think it’d help if I could get back into my normal routine.”
“You want to keep busy, right?”
He nodded.
“Do you remember what I told you last week? My first priority is your well-being, not clearing you for work. You’re not ready yet. You’re exhibiting a few signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and I want to keep a close eye on you.”
Danny blanched. Post-traumatic stress disorder? He hadn’t considered that. He knew enough about it, though, to make his pulse quicken.
“I’m not saying you have PTSD. Most people involved in a traumatic event have a few symptoms right afterward, but don’t go on to develop a full-blown case. I think that if you take it easy for a few days, make an honest effort during our sessions and then ease back into your work routine, you can avoid any chronic problems. All right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Danny said weakly, not entirely reassured.
“I want you to take a few more days off. Really try to take care of your health. The better you feel physically, the better you’ll feel emotionally. Eat right, exercise, get some sleep.” Dr. Harris paused. “If you need something to help you sleep -- ”
“No.” The last thing an alcoholic needed was to get hooked on sleeping pills. “I uh, I don’t want to take anything.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, let me know. Sleep is important.”
“I’ll do everything you said, doc, I swear. Can you … can you tell me what you’re going to recommend to Jack?”
The psychiatrist frowned slightly. “You do understand that even though I’m going to make a recommendation, the final decision still lies with Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m recommending desk duty starting a week from today. It’s too soon to say when you’ll be ready for fieldwork. It depends on how our next couple of sessions go.”
Danny nodded, disappointed. He’d hoped to go back this week, to bury himself in files or interviews or whatever the hell his boss wanted to throw at him. To focus on something, anything, other than his inability to protect those closest to him.
**
Part Seven
6/14
Chapter 11
As Melanie slowly raised the head of Martin’s bed so that he was sitting up, more than laying down, he grimaced. Not at the shooting sensations along his side, but at what rested on the table the nurse had swung over his lap.
He’d slept for a few hours after Danny came by, and awoke to a brief visit from his Uncle Roger and his cousins. He’d always been close to the Tolands, and was glad to see them. Their steady presence always set him at ease.
A little later, Melanie had arrived to take his vital signs, an invasion of his personal space that had become annoying. As she’d worked, he’d catalogued his body’s condition, pleasantly surprised to realize that over the course of the day, the pain had receded a bit, and he felt more alert than he had in a while.
Now, as he stared at the little table suspended over him, he wondered why he was being punished, instead of rewarded, for his small signs of progress.
“Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad,” the nurse encouraged, nudging the plastic mug toward him.
Martin peered into it, his mouth and nose wrinkling in disgust. “Says the person who doesn’t have to eat it. There’s nothing in there but broth.”
“Try to focus on the positive. This is your first real food -- ”
“This isn’t food.”
Melanie smiled good-naturedly. “You keep this down, and tomorrow we’ll see about getting you something with a few noodles in it.”
Martin sighed and stared despondently at the mug. He’d rather have a big, steaming bowl of chili. Well … maybe not. In the first place, he didn’t have much of an appetite. And in the second place, even if he did, he doubted his stomach could handle anything remotely spicy. Dr. Gould had warned that he’d have problems with his digestive tract for a while. Difficulty digesting certain foods, pain when he ate. Not welcome news for a man who loved to eat and appreciated a wide variety of fast foods.
“C’mon, Martin,” the nurse coaxed. “You need to start building up your strength. The sooner you’re able to keep stuff like this down, the sooner we can get you off that IV.”
The mention of getting unhooked from at least one of the tubes invading his body was enough to make him lift the mug to his lips. He sipped tentatively. It tasted like hot water laced with just a touch of chicken flavoring. He made a face, feeling like a little kid being forced to eat his least-favorite vegetable.
“So how much longer am I in the ICU?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the bland torture.
“Actually, we’re going to move you to a regular room tomorrow.”
“Really? That’d be great.” He shifted uncomfortably as his semi-upright position started taking its toll on his wounded side.
Melanie noticed his discomfort and peeked into the mug. “A little more, and we can lay you back down again.”
“I’m fine,” Martin quickly insisted, not wanting the nurse to mess with the bed. He didn’t feel spectacular, but he was almost sitting up straight, and eating -- OK, drinking -- dinner, and it was the most normal he’d felt in days. He continued sipping the broth, trying to ignore the increased burning in his chest and stomach. When it refused to recede, he took a last drink and pushed the button on his PCA pump.
“All done,” he announced, handing the mug to Melanie. He’d finished nearly half of it, and now felt full and sleepy. How could eating require so much energy?
The nurse checked the mug’s contents and smiled, then patted his arm. “You did good. Why don’t you get some sleep?” She leaned over and pressed some buttons on his bed, reclining him to a more comfortable position.
He drifted for a bit, not exactly sleeping, but close enough that the sound of a chair scraping against the floor startled him. He opened his eyes to see Sam sitting next to the bed, a small smile playing across her lips.
“Sorry if I woke you,” she apologized.
“You didn’t.” Martin assured her, clearing his throat and enjoying the view. Although she wasn’t his anymore, he couldn’t help but appreciate her beauty. He could still remember the feel of her long blonde hair as he ran his hands through it, her full lips crushed against his when they kissed, the soft, warm weight of her body against him when they made love.
A flicker of pain danced across his chest, but it had nothing to do with his gunshot wounds. He’d truly wanted their relationship to grow and thrive, but when it became achingly clear that she couldn’t -- or wouldn’t -- take things to the next level, he’d broken up with her. It had hurt both of them, but it would’ve hurt more if they’d stayed together.
Sam’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Didn’t I tell you once not to get shot?” Her expression was half stern, half teasing.
He chuckled, doing his best to ignore the resulting sharp pinpricks, and recalled their conversation not long after she’d been shot in the leg. “Yeah, you did. Guess I didn’t duck fast enough.”
The blonde agent smirked and then sobered, her whole manner softening. “Martin, I … When I didn’t know if you were going to make it, I realized there were some things that I needed to tell you.” She stopped and lowered her head to stare at the floor.
All of his pain and exhaustion receded to the background as he waited for her to continue. They’d barely had a civil conversation since he broke up with her, and in light of his near-death experience, he supposed they both had some pretty serious things to say.
Sam looked up at him through her lashes, then raised her head. “I never meant to hurt you. When we started seeing each other … I didn’t really think it would get serious. And then it started, well, getting serious, and I panicked. I wasn’t ready for it … wasn’t ready for you. Sometimes I think I never should have invited you into that cab.” She smiled wryly. “But I know … that if I could do it over, I’d still ask you to come home with me.”
“And I’d still say yes,” Martin said, lips curving up as he recalled that night. He wouldn’t wish away their time together, despite how things had turned out.
The blonde’s smile faded as she reached out and covered his hand with her own. “I just wish … When I realized that I couldn’t give you what you needed, I should have walked away.”
He shook his head. “You’re not the only one to blame here. I wanted us to work so bad that I waited longer than I should have to call it quits.” He rubbed a thumb up and down the outside of her hand. “I want you to know that I don’t regret being with you, and I don’t regret ending it. But I do regret *how* I ended it. I was pretty hard on you, and I never should have done it at the office. I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, and she sniffled and squeezed his hand. “Thanks. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too.”
They sat quietly for a moment before the blonde agent spoke again. “So what happens next?”
Martin sighed as the pain returned and weariness blanketed him. He’d be glad when he could get through an entire conversation without feeling wrung out. “I’d like to try to be friends again. I seem to recall we were pretty good at that.”
“We were, weren’t we?” Sam agreed, and brushed the back of a hand over his forehead.
He leaned slightly into the warm, gentle touch. She still stirred something within him, but he knew better than to get wrapped up in it. Just because he had feelings for her didn’t mean that they should get back together. After all, she and Jack clearly had some lingering ties, but he couldn’t picture them reuniting.
“You look tired,” she said, rising to her feet. “I should get going.”
“Thanks for coming, Sam.”
“Sure. I’ll be back again soon.” She eased her purse onto her shoulders, her eyes twinkling. “I’ll give you some pointers on how to survive bad hospital food and heartless physical therapists.”
They chuckled and then she left, Martin watching her go with a thoughtful expression on his face. They wouldn’t regain their friendship overnight. It would be an awkward process. Still, they’d taken a crucial step forward, and a damned good one at that.
**
Chapter 12
“How have you been sleeping, Danny?”
He’d arrived at Dr. Harris’ office Monday morning in an irritable mood. He’d spent Sunday night tossing and turning, hounded by brutally vivid nightmares. One after another after another, each starting with Dornvald opening fire and ending with Martin mortally wounded. Sometimes, he died before Danny got back to the car, from chest and stomach injuries or from a bullet that struck him between the eyes, spraying brain matter on the headrest behind him. Other times, he died in Danny’s arms on the street, or in the ambulance, or at the ER, strange gurgling sounds in his throat and blood bubbling out of his mouth as he sucked in one last, tortured breath.
Three hours of sleep. Three freakin’ hours of sleep, and now Danny had to sit here and answer Dr. Harris’ questions. Had to, because if he didn’t, she’d write that down in her little report, and he wouldn’t get back to work anytime soon.
So how had he been sleeping … that was the question, right?
“I’ve been sleeping okay, mostly.” He sighed, rubbing gritty eyes and wishing he’d used Visine earlier.
“Still having nightmares?”
“Some,” he hesitantly admitted. He really didn’t want to talk about them today, not with his nerves so frayed.
Dr. Harris leaned back in her chair, pen in hand, and studied him. “Why don’t you tell me about them?”
Damn. She wanted details, and as much as he hated to provide them, he would. If he came clean with her, she could provide some nice, professional advice about how to feel better. And maybe, just maybe, she’d tell Jack that he was fit to return to work.
“They’re all pretty much the same,” Danny said, massaging the knotted muscles in the back of his neck. “I see the shooting over and over again. Sometimes Martin makes it, and sometimes he doesn’t.”
“How do the dreams make you feel?”
Striving for the same kind of professional detachment he often used while reviewing a crime scene, he rattled off the emotions that had flooded over him during his nightmares. “Scared. Angry. Powerless.”
“And when you think about the actual event, not the nightmares, but the shooting itself, how do you feel?”
“The same way.”
“Are any one of those emotions you described stronger than the others?”
Danny scrubbed a hand over his face, considering the question.
He’d despised the fear, the pounding of his heart as Dornvald opened fire, the dryness in his mouth as he’d yelled at Martin to back up.
Later, he’d embraced his blinding hatred for Dornvald, letting it fuel his body and mind as he and Jack hunted down the man who’d nearly killed his partner.
The powerlessness … it had nearly choked him with its intensity. An intensity that was uncomfortably familiar, now that he focused on it. His breathing quickened as he realized he’d experienced the same unwelcome emotion two decades ago, as an 11-year-old boy unable to stop a car accident that killed his parents.
Why hadn’t he made the connection before now?
He’d been sitting in the back seat of their Chevrolet, listening to his dad scream at his mom. When he’d asked his father to stop, the older man had turned around to yell at him. The car had swerved, and before he could shout a warning, it plowed into a median.
He’d been powerless to stop the crash, and had been of no help afterward, either. His broken ribs, arm and leg had rendered him immobile as his parents lay unconscious and bloody in the front seat. The paramedics had pronounced his mother dead at the scene. His father had passed away a few days later.
For years afterward, he’d wondered “what if”? What if he hadn’t said anything to his dad?
And now, he was playing the same “what if” game. What if he hadn’t told Martin to back up?
But there was no guarantee that he could have changed either outcome. His father had taken his eyes off the road before turning around to yell at him. Even if he’d kept his mouth shut, the older man still might have hit the median.
And if Martin hadn’t thrown the car into reverse, they’d probably both be dead. They couldn’t have properly defended themselves against an automatic weapon from such a point-blank distance. The only other option was to swerve the car hard left, but that would have left him exposed. And once Dornvald killed him, he would have gone after Adisa Teno and Martin.
No matter what he’d done in those precious few seconds, his partner would, almost certainly, still have been seriously hurt or killed.
Oh, God.
It wasn’t the thought that he could have done something differently that haunted him. It was the thought that nothing he could have done would have made a difference.
Powerless.
Helpless.
Useless.
“Danny?” Dr. Harris gently prompted.
He shook his head and blew out a breath, trying to collect himself, to ground himself in the present. “I couldn’t stop it,” he murmured, eyes distant. “Either time.”
The psychiatrist’s eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “Either time? What other time are you talking about?”
Too little sleep and too many crushing memories had lowered his defenses, and before he knew it, he was rambling about the car accident that had killed his parents, and how he’d felt as helpless then, as he had during the shooting.
“Danny,” Dr. Harris said, eyes full of compassion. “We can’t erase what happened, but together, we can figure out how to deal with your feelings so you can move forward.”
That’s what he wanted to do, no doubt about it. But how long would it take? And what about Martin?
“Do you think … do you think Martin’s going to deal with all of this okay?” he asked softly, longing for some reassurance that their ordeal wouldn’t permanently scar his partner.
The psychiatrist watched him for a long moment, searching his eyes, before speaking. “You feel guilty about what happened to him, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“Have you talked to Martin about it?”
“A little. He told me not to blame myself.”
“But you’re having trouble with that.”
Sarcasm tinged Danny’s voice. “Kinda hard not to feel guilty when he’s laying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain.”
Dr. Harris clasped her hands together and rested them on her desk. “Martin needs some time to get back on his feet, and it’s going to take awhile for both of you to deal with the shooting’s emotional ramifications. Try to have some patience.”
He chuckled. “Patience isn’t exactly my strong suit, doc. Martin’s, either.”
The brunette smiled. “Look, I think we’ve done enough today. I’d like to see you again -- ” she paused as she consulted her palm pilot. “ -- at 8 o’clock Monday morning. From here on out, I think weekly sessions are a good idea.”
She scribbled the time and date on an appointment card and handed it to Danny, who slipped it into his pocket.
“So uh … what about work?” he asked, unable to prevent nervousness from seeping into his voice. “I think it’d help if I could get back into my normal routine.”
“You want to keep busy, right?”
He nodded.
“Do you remember what I told you last week? My first priority is your well-being, not clearing you for work. You’re not ready yet. You’re exhibiting a few signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and I want to keep a close eye on you.”
Danny blanched. Post-traumatic stress disorder? He hadn’t considered that. He knew enough about it, though, to make his pulse quicken.
“I’m not saying you have PTSD. Most people involved in a traumatic event have a few symptoms right afterward, but don’t go on to develop a full-blown case. I think that if you take it easy for a few days, make an honest effort during our sessions and then ease back into your work routine, you can avoid any chronic problems. All right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Danny said weakly, not entirely reassured.
“I want you to take a few more days off. Really try to take care of your health. The better you feel physically, the better you’ll feel emotionally. Eat right, exercise, get some sleep.” Dr. Harris paused. “If you need something to help you sleep -- ”
“No.” The last thing an alcoholic needed was to get hooked on sleeping pills. “I uh, I don’t want to take anything.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, let me know. Sleep is important.”
“I’ll do everything you said, doc, I swear. Can you … can you tell me what you’re going to recommend to Jack?”
The psychiatrist frowned slightly. “You do understand that even though I’m going to make a recommendation, the final decision still lies with Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m recommending desk duty starting a week from today. It’s too soon to say when you’ll be ready for fieldwork. It depends on how our next couple of sessions go.”
Danny nodded, disappointed. He’d hoped to go back this week, to bury himself in files or interviews or whatever the hell his boss wanted to throw at him. To focus on something, anything, other than his inability to protect those closest to him.
**
Part Seven