by J C Paulson
A flicker of movement to his right caught the periphery of his vision. He snapped his head around to see Adrian Cey dodging behind a barrel and fired.
Missed. Cey shot back, as Adam plunged to the ground and rolled, firing again.
“Fucking hold your fire! Police!”
It was James. He discharged a rifle into the air, yelling at the top of his lungs. Adam tipped his head backward from his lying position, to see six of his officers in full special-teams gear running full-speed toward him. Galvanized, Adam rose into a crouch like a runner in the blocks and dove, landing in a small hollow behind a bush.
“Adam,” James called. “Where are you?”
“I’m in a ditch to your right.”
“How many are there?”
“At least three, but there could be more.”
James found Adam hunched in the hollow, covered in paint and blood and bruises, and handed him a vest. One of the bullets had indeed grazed his shoulder; scrapes from the gravel had ripped his face and hands.
“Fuck, man, you look like you’ve been through a war. It’s now or never, though, Sarge.”
“I know. Where’s Grace?”
“In her car. She wouldn’t leave.”
“It’s not safe . . . “
“I know. What do you want me to do? Let’s go get these guys.”
The other officers had fanned out and taken positions at the near end of the games arena. James and Adam emerged from the hollow and Adam nodded to his team, directing them toward the trees where he had hidden in his panic.
Adam headed straight for the barrel where he had last seen Cey, but he was gone. A few metres further on stood a small hut, much like a rain shelter on a golf course but plastered with paint splatters.
“Are you there, Adrian?” Adam bellowed, as he approached. “I’m here. Let’s do this.”
“I believe,” said the man he was hunting, “that I have the advantage, position-wise. Why would I come out?”
Cey’s armed hand snaked around the corner of the hut and Adam dropped, returning fire as he landed. A muffled cry, and another shot from Cey that missed widely. Adam knew then that he’d hit him. He took the moment and raced for the hut, gun braced in both hands, when he heard another shot — this one at a distance — followed by a barrage of gunfire. His officers must have found Best.
He slowed, weapon ready, as he approached. Inside, Cey lay on the concrete floor, bleeding copiously from his leg, gun pointed at his own head.
“Well, Adam. I suppose it had to come to this. But I will never say a word. I will never tell you anything. Whatever you could do to me would not come close to what I could lose. What our country could lose. And so . . . “
Adam lunged at Cey, reaching for the loaded pistol in blind terror that the man would shoot himself, and tore it out of his hand.
“You will talk to me,” Adam said, softly. “If you’d really wanted to kill yourself, or were brave enough, you’d have done it by now. This is over.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adam walked out of the arena bloody, stained, limping and holding his left arm cradled in his right. Sweat poured down his face, contorted in pain and remembered fear. Grace held her arms wide as she ran toward him, and he collapsed against her.
“Adam, my love, my Adam,” she crooned, running her hands through his hair, over his arms, trying to determine how badly he was injured even as she soothed him.
“You phoned me,” he said, incredulity in his voice. “You came, and you saved me. You saved my life, Grace.”
James and Lorne had found Adam with Adrian Cey moments later. They dragged the fallen priest away, Adam following, exhausted and distraught, worrying about Grace. Other officers had engaged in a chaotic battle with George Best and the third shooter. Both had gunshot wounds; all three men were loaded into ambulances under guard.
“Why did you come alone, Adam? What were you thinking?” Grace asked.
“Only that I would come to speak to the employees, for information, to see if I could find Best. It made sense, at the time.” He paused, and looked quizzically into her face, as if a drawer had opened in his mind. “What are you doing here?”
“I had the same idea. I was also worried about you. You were very short with me on the phone, mister.” Grace touched his cheek. “That’s not like you.”
“I’m sorry about that . . .” Adam started, but Grace cut him off.
“No. It brought me to you, even though I didn’t know for sure you were here.”
A fourth ambulance spattered gravel as it tore into the parking lot. This one was for Adam, and Grace wondered if he would allow the paramedics to load him in or take him to the hospital. James waved them over to his sergeant.
“How are you, sir?” one of the medics said as he approached Adam.
“I’m fine,” he growled back.
“Do you mind if I take a look? I’m afraid you’re sporting rather a lot of blood and other indications of injury.”
Adam growled again, which brought Grace into the conversation.
“Love, please let them look at you. You’re a mess, frankly. Please.”
“Sergeant?” the medic chimed in. “My name is John. May I take you to the ambulance, since you obviously don’t need a gurney, and check you over? It won’t take long.”
John, Grace thought, was doing a masterful political job with Adam, who relented and allowed himself to be led away. Grace followed, noticing a slight limp in Adam’s gait. Relieved that he was permitting the medic to evaluate his wounds, she knew that the physical injuries would be nothing compared to the mental ones.
John started to unbutton Adam’s shirt, but Adam waved him off and attempted to do it himself until he groaned in pain.
“I guess you’ll have to, after all,” he said, resigned.
“I’ll be gentle,” the medic said, with a small smile.
He drew back Adam’s shirt with remarkable gentility and slipped it off his shoulders. Adam’s sculpted chest displayed a rainbow from the paint that had seeped through his shirt, along with several blue and black bruises and a hole bleeding red from his shoulder.
“Damn,” John swore quietly. “I’m sorry, Sarge, but we’ll have to take you to the ER for that shoulder.”
“I’m not going to the fucking hospital,” Adam said, voice rising.
“I’ll be there with you, Adam,” Grace said, hoping to forestall an episode. “It will be all right. It doesn’t look too bad; you shouldn’t have to stay for long.”
John probed the shoulder, triggering a wince from Adam.
“It’ll need stitching, at least. I think the greater threat would be infection. Seriously, Sarge, I’d go if I were you.”
“Fuck,” Adam swore loudly, shaking his head. “Fuck.”
James overheard the language in his sergeant’s big voice and came over.
“I’ll get Fisher to drive your car back to the shop,” he said, distracting Adam with prosaic details. “And Joan can take Grace’s, if she wants to go with you. Grace?”
“That would be great, thanks, James,” she said, handing over her keys.
“Did you take a chunk out of Best?” Adam asked.
“A small one. Just enough to take him down. He’ll be fine.”
“Not after I’m done with him.”
“Okay, Sarge, let’s go. Sooner the better, eh?” John suggested.
“Grace . . . I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can, Adam. You can. I’ll be right beside you.”
During the trip back to Royal University Hospital, John finished his check of Adam’s rigid body and started an antibiotic drip, as his patient hung grimly on to his sanity. It wasn’t until Adam was lying in an emergency room bed that he finally lost control.
Stripped to the waist and waiting for the doctor, he shivered violently and cried out involuntarily. He heard his own voice and turned his head.
“Grace,” he whispered. “Help.”
Grace, seated bes
ide him holding his hand, crawled onto the bed and over his body. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she dared, as if for dear life.
*****
“Anne,” Grace said the next day, seated in the psychologist’s cozy office, “what am I going to do now?”
After a round of powerful antibiotics, a cleaning and stitching of the ravaged shoulder and treatment for scrapes and bruises, Grace had taken Adam home. She had helped him shower, fed him and put him to bed; but of course, the night was terrifying, for both of them. The dreams came one after the other, and Adam awakened weeping, thrashing and sweating several times.
“It’s a setback, for sure,” Anne said. “Would he return to counselling? I think it would be a good idea.”
“I’ve asked him. He’s considering it. In his heart, he doesn’t want to go back to the drinking and — oh, God.” Grace stopped, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.
“The prowling, Grace? Is that what’s worrying you?”
She nodded and dropped her eyes.
“He didn’t have a lot of support in those days, if I understood your story correctly the first time you came in. Now he does. As far as I can tell from your description of him, he’s very strong. He’s done very, very well until now. Keep everything as normal and routine as possible at home, and don’t try to avoid the subject. Tell him you love him and will be with him all the way through this. If indeed you will be.”
Anne gave Grace a sharp look.
“It’s a commitment, Grace. Are you up for this?”
“Yes,” Grace got out. “I am,” she added more adamantly.
“Okay. I had to ask. You’ve got to be sure.”
“I’d never leave him, Anne.”
“Do you want me to have a chat with him, or would that be uncomfortable for you? Would you see that as inappropriate?”
“No, that would be fine with me, if it is with him.”
“Good. Bring him in tomorrow at ten. Unless he can do it under his own steam?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ll see.”
When Grace returned home, Adam was in the kitchen, thirstily downing a glass of water. Not whiskey. So far, so good, she thought.
His drawn face and limp posture frightened her; she wondered if he would slip into a darker place and shut her out entirely. Tentatively, after preparing dinner, she asked if he would agree to counselling with Anne. He leaned across the table, took Grace’s hands in his, and asked her to look into his tired, sad eyes.
“I will do anything, everything it takes to be with you,” he said. “Having you in my life has made me see a future, a real future, maybe even free of these dreams. I will fight, Grace. I will heal. I will be the man you deserve.”
“Oh, Adam, you already are. You always are. Just because you have fears and terrible memories doesn’t make you less of a man. It makes you human.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Adam said. “I’m so grateful, Grace, that you’re mine.”
He fished in his pocket and drew out a tiny, wrapped box.
“I didn’t forget,” he said, rather proudly. “Happy birthday, beautiful.”
It was the last day of September. Grace had almost entirely forgotten about her own thirtieth birthday, apart from a brief flicker of realization early that morning. Unreturned messages lurked on her phones; she had spent the entire day involved in Adam.
“Ohhh,” she breathed. “In the middle of all of this, you remembered?”
Grace threw her arms around Adam’s neck, remembering his injured shoulder a second too late. Yet he barely flinched. He drew his head back to look into her brimming eyes, then kissed her softly but deeply.
“Open it, love.”
Her fingers shook as she drew away the pretty paper, and she took a deep breath as she touched the velvety lid.
“Just the box is lovely,” she said.
“The suspense is killing me,” Adam said, sounding more like himself.
Grace opened the lid to reveal his gift, and her lips opened to say something; but she was speechless. Her eyes widened as she drew the item from its silk nest.
The goldsmith had created a perfect, tiny magnolia blossom, fashioned from rose gold with a diamond gleaming in its centre, suspended from a delicate matching chain.
“It’s so beautiful,” Grace whispered, awed at the lovely thing.
“Not as beautiful as you, but the man tried,” Adam said, a little overwhelmed by Grace’s reaction. Shyness was not one of his personality traits, but he felt it now.
A chaotic and passionate few moments ensued, Grace weeping in Adam’s arms and kissing his neck, Adam muttering endearments in her ear.
“How did you . . . where did you . . .” she finally asked.
“I asked the goldsmith on Second Avenue if he could make such a thing. He claimed he could. Apparently, he told the truth. You do like it, Grace, don’t you?”
“Oh, Adam, it’s breathtaking. It’s incredible. And one of a kind, then?”
“One of a kind, my love. Like you.”
A knock at the door interrupted another teary kiss. Grace got to her feet and reluctantly went to answer the door.
“Happy birthday, sister,” said Hope Rampling. “I was getting worried. Do you know I’ve called you four times?”
“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Hopey. It’s been a crazy couple of days.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly,” Adam said, walking up behind Grace. “Your sister has been busy saving my ass. Come in, Hope.”
Hope stared at Adam’s bulky, obviously bandaged shoulder and the scrapes on his face, then threw her arms around him.
“Are you okay, Adam? What happened?”
“Long story. Let us get you a glass of wine. I’m so glad you came over, Hope. It hasn’t been much of a birthday for Grace.”
“Untrue,” Grace said, managing a smile. She hadn’t yet put on her new necklace, so she dragged Hope to the table, picked it up and held it before her eyes.
“Wow,” Hope said. “God, that’s beautiful. Put it on, Grace. Let’s see.”
Hope’s appearance was the perfect thing. They told her an abridged version of the previous day’s events, ate dinner, drank wine and a semblance of normalcy saw them through the evening.
“What’s with the magnolia thing?” Hope asked Adam. Grace was glad; she’d always wanted to ask that question, too, but had never found a good time.
Adam blushed.
“The folks took us to Florida one year for a holiday. There were magnolias everywhere, and I thought the flowers had the most beautiful petals I’d ever seen; soft, thick, a rich, warm white. Grace, well, her skin reminds me of them,” he ended, simply.
Hope gave him a look that made him blush again, matching the pink of Grace’s cheeks.
As she left, Hope, fully aware of Adam’s PTSD, quietly asked Grace if he was going to be okay, and if there was anything she could do to help.
“I don’t know yet, but thanks, Hope.”
“Let’s do a birthday thing with the family on the weekend, okay? Mom’s been calling you, too.”
“Eek. I better call her back.”
“No. I’ll call her and tell her you’ll call tomorrow. You look like you could keel fucking over. Get some rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” Grace said, relief flooding her. “Okay. Thanks, Hopey.”
“Just take care. Of him, and of yourself.”
*****
Adam did manage to drag himself to Anne Blake’s office the next morning.
“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Adam,” she said, reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Please, take a seat.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, too. Grace says you’re a genius. I need one, right now.”
“That’s kind of her. I wouldn’t say that, but I hope I can help you.”
“How?” Adam asked. “I thought I was getting better — well, I was, with Grace’s help — bu
t I . . . I really fell apart out there, Doctor.”
“First of all, call me Anne. And I’m a PhD, not a medical doctor. Tell me what happened.”
Adam explained, to the extent he could, that when the paintballs began to fly his mind returned to the night he had first been shot. He had reacted appropriately at first; but then he’d been purposely hit in the same place where a bullet nearly cost his life six years ago, and he had frozen in fear. For a while, he didn’t know whether he was dreaming.
“Have you done cognitive behavioural therapy before?” Anne asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it helpful?”
“Yes. Well, fairly helpful, yes.”
“I think we should continue with that. Exposure therapy is another avenue we could try, but you’ve just been exposed to a threat that triggers your PTSD.”
“I need to get back to work, Anne,” Adam said. “Fast.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re anxious to go back. That’s a good sign. But maybe it’s a bit too soon?”
“Maybe it is. But doing nothing will drive me crazy, and I have to get on this case. Can you help me?”
Anne regarded him thoughtfully.
“Would you consider entering a semi-hypnotic state? I’ve had good luck with other patients, but some flatly refuse to try it.”
“Why?”
“It can be frightening. But it can also have a very good outcome. It’s up to you, Adam. Some people who exert a great deal of control over themselves and have a considerable amount of control in their careers are not amenable. They feel the potential loss of control is more than they’re willing to risk. I think you may be one of those people.”
Adam laced his hands together, dropped his eyes and bit his lip, a trickle of sweat running from one temple. Anne simply waited until he raised his head and nodded.
“If you think it might work, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to get back to work, but more importantly, to stop scaring Grace and to have a normal life with her.”
“I wondered if you’d say that. Let’s begin.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anne Blake slowly, gently talked him down, taking him to a quiet place in his mind where he felt safe. Powerful. In control. Adam floated in the hayloft at his parents’ farm, watching straw dust fall through a sunbeam, listening to the livestock snorting below.