The Walls of Troy

by L. A. Witt

  I stood a little straighter. “It’s not my place to make that decision, sir. I’m only asking questions so I can do my job better.”

  “I know. Thank you, MA1.”

  Chapter Eight

  I hadn’t even pulled out of the driveway the next morning before Troy turned to me and asked, “Do you think I’m delusional?”

  I damn near hit the brakes. “Delusion—what?”

  “Cut the crap,” he growled. “I saw you leaving my dad’s office last night, and not ten minutes later, he called me in to talk about sending me to a therapist.”

  Goddammit.

  I exhaled and busied myself turning on my signal and pulling out onto the main road. “I was concerned about you.”

  “So you talked to him? Instead of me?”

  “I tried to talk to you,” I snapped.

  Troy jumped.

  “Sorry.” I sighed and glanced at him. “Look, I…” Oh hell, this wasn’t going to work while I was driving. I pulled over to the curb and put the car in park so I could look him in the eye. “Troy, I don’t think you’re crazy.” I struggled not to put a reassuring hand on his arm. “I don’t think that at all.”

  “Then why the hell does my father suddenly want to send me to a shrink?”

  “Honestly? Because I think you have PTSD.”

  “PT—” Troy blinked, drawing back a little as the hostility in his posture changed to confusion. And something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Wariness, maybe? “Why the hell would I have PTSD?”

  “You tell me.”

  His eyes narrowed, and the hostility was back in full force. “And by that you mean tell my therapist, right?”

  “Troy, for God’s sake, stop and think for a second. Just fucking think. What do I possibly have to gain by suggesting you have PTSD, or agreeing with your father that a psychological evaluation would be a good idea? Really. What do I have to gain?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know. I really don’t.” He moistened his lips and shifted in the passenger seat. “All I know is, you’re the only one besides my father who’s been able to look me in the eye and tell me you’re taking this seriously. I’m just… I guess I’m afraid of finding out you both really think I’m out of my mind.”

  “I don’t think you’re out of your mind.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with both hands and sighed. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. No one’s out and said it, but come on, I’m not stupid either. I’ve seen the way Fowler and the other guys look at each other when they think I’m not looking.” Lifting his head and lowering his hands, he met my eyes. “Honest to God, Iskander, I am not crazy.”

  Without thinking, I took his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t think you are. I swear I don’t. I just think…” I swallowed hard. “I just think something has happened to you, and maybe someone else is more equipped to help you with that.”

  He searched my eyes.

  I went on. “The thing is, what happened in the crowd at that festival, and some of those panics you’ve had, I’ve seen that happen with other people before. Usually because they’ve been traumatized somehow. I’m not judging, and I’m not asking you to tell me in detail what happened. But if there is something that’s fucked with you enough to make you jump out of your skin when someone drops some books? Then I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by not encouraging you to go to therapy. I…” I winced and took a breath. “I’ve lost friends who never got any help.”

  “Lost them? Like…”

  “Suicide,” I whispered. “Guys who’ve come back from combat and never been the same. Sometimes things happen, and people can’t deal with them on their own. That’s what therapists are for. It doesn’t mean you’re crazy, or that you’re imagining anything. It’s just to help you cope with it.”

  Troy swallowed. “So, now what? I go see a therapist, and you…” He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ll still be here. I’m here to protect you against anyone who wants to fuck with you now. The therapist is to help if someone’s fucked with you in the past.”

  Troy let out a long breath and slowly lowered his gaze. I followed it, and my heart jumped when I realized I hadn’t let go of his hand. And he hadn’t tried to pull away.

  If I had a professional bone in my body, I’d have broken away right then and quietly explained that it was my job to give a damn about his safety. Because it was. And that was absolutely why I’d agreed with Dalton about sending him to a therapist. Why I wanted to teach Troy to shoot once we were sure he was stable.

  But I’d have been lying if I’d said all this had nothing to do with why I hadn’t slept last night. Or why I couldn’t remember a single word of those chapters I’d meant to study in the library yesterday.

  Or why I still hadn’t taken my hand off his.

  I finally withdrew it and rested it on the gear shifter. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I know.” Troy turned his head and focused on the road ahead. “We should go. Before traffic picks up.”

  “Right. Good idea.”

  I put the car back into Drive, and neither of us said another word.

  Two weeks into Troy’s therapy, his father joined him for a session. Afterward, Admiral Dalton pulled me into his office.

  He offered me a seat in front of his desk but didn’t sit down himself. Leaning against the massive desk, he folded his arms across his chest. “You were right about Troy, MA1.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “His therapist says there are definitely signs of posttraumatic stress disorder.”

  My heart flipped. I really hated being right. “From what?”

  “That’s what no one’s been able to get out of him. The signs are there, and clearly all this harassment business is a problem, but she doesn’t believe that’s enough to cause him to have flashbacks and whatnot. The actual trigger…” Dalton shook his head. “Well, he’ll need to keep seeing her for a while, I think. He’s not quite ready to open up that much.”

  “It’s a start, though. Right?”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s a good start.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t encourage him to go sooner. I should have known he—”

  “The important thing is he’s going now, sir. And if it’s helping, then great.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Anyhow. His doctor thinks there is definitely some PTSD, but she doesn’t believe he’s a danger to himself or others. She didn’t see any reason to keep you from teaching him how to handle a firearm.”

  I gulped. “She’s sure? And you’re sure?”

  Dalton nodded. “He isn’t depressed or delusional. There’s no reason to believe he’s going to hurt anyone or kill himself.” He broke eye contact for a moment, then tightened his arms across his chest and met my gaze again. “I don’t know what happened to him, MA1, or why he’s as nervous as he is, but I need him to be able to protect himself. I want you to teach my son to shoot.”

  I nodded. “All right, sir. I will.”

  “Good.” He lowered his hands, resting them on the edges of the desk. “I can pay you for it. The ammunition, fees, things like that.”

  “That won’t be necessary. You’re getting me credit in my classes. I can buy a few boxes of bullets.”

  “And you’re doing what you can to keep my son safe. Consider it the least I can do.”

  There was no point in arguing with an officer and father who’d made up his mind, so I just nodded. “Okay, sir. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, MA1. I’ve lost a great deal of sleep over Troy’s safety, and it’s good to know he’s in good hands.”

  “I wouldn’t be doing my job if he wasn’t.”

  He smiled. “Keep up the good work.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Dismissed, MA1.”

  I gave a sharp nod and then headed for the door
.

  When I stepped out of the admiral’s office, my heart jumped into my throat.

  “Hey.” Troy met my eyes from where he rested one shoulder against a doorframe across the hall with Talos at his feet.

  I pulled the door shut behind me, gave the dog a slightly uneasy glance—I was starting to get used to him, but he still made me nervous—and met Troy’s gaze. “Hey.”

  He scowled, but the effect was lost when his forehead creased and his eyebrows knitted together. “So my dad probably told you what the therapist said.”

  “Uh…” Shit. Was Dalton supposed to be talking to me about this?

  Troy exhaled, and the scowl melted away. “It’s okay. He said he’d be talking to you about it.” He motioned for me to walk with him, and we started down the hall, Talos’s tags jingling as he plodded between us. “Now do you believe I’m not crazy?”

  “I never thought you were crazy.” I slipped my hands into my pockets and focused straight ahead. “I was just concerned.” I paused, but before the silence could really elbow its way in, added, “There’s a reason your dad told me what the therapist said.”

  “So you know if you’re protecting me from imaginary friends?”

  “No, because I…” I stopped, and when he faced me, I swallowed. “Your father and I both wanted to be sure you were on an even keel, especially so you weren’t inclined to hurt yourself, because I want to teach you how to shoot.”

  Troy’s lips parted. “What?”

  “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Not at the moment, no.”

  “If you’ve got a couple of hours in the morning, I’d like to take you to a shooting range.”

  “You…” He blinked a couple of times. “So now that you know I’m not crazy, you want to take me shooting?”

  I laughed cautiously. “Well, I never thought you were crazy.” Turning completely serious, I went on, “But I wasn’t going to put a gun in your hand if there was any concern you might turn it on yourself or something.”

  Troy’s lips quirked, and he absently reached down to pet Talos’s head. “That explains why she was always harping on whether or not I’ve ever had suicidal thoughts.”

  “Which you haven’t, right?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then there’s no reason I can’t teach you. If you need a bodyguard, then it’s prudent for you to be able to protect yourself too.”

  “And you…you can teach me?”

  “I can get you started. I’ll teach you as much as I can, but a class couldn’t hurt either.” I glanced at him. “And I think as soon as you turn twenty-one, you should apply for a concealed carry permit.”

  “A…what?”

  “A conceal—”

  “Yeah, I know what it is.” He fidgeted, watching himself scratch behind Talos’s ears. “I don’t know if I want to carry a gun, though.”

  “You don’t have to carry it, but you’ll have the option to.”

  Troy’s eyes lost focus, and he seemed to chew on the thought as he patted Talos’s giant head.

  “Look, it’s just to teach you how to handle a weapon. Spending a couple of hours at the range doesn’t commit you to a permit or a lifetime NRA membership.”

  He met my eyes and then shrugged. “Why not? Okay. I’m in.”

  I smiled. “I’ll come get you around ten tomorrow.”

  “See you then.”

  Chapter Nine

  I picked him up the next morning and drove him up to a range in Virginia Beach. This area was still a little unfamiliar to me, and I hadn’t had a chance to try out every range, but I’d been to this place two or three times. I’d gotten a membership when I’d started floating this idea to Admiral Dalton, so that gave us unlimited access to gun rentals, since I had no idea what kind of weapon Troy would be comfortable with.

  As we headed up Virginia Beach Boulevard, I asked, “Have you ever fired a gun before?”

  “Not a pistol. My dad taught me with a rifle when I was a kid, but…”

  “That’s fine. It’s pretty easy, just expect your hands to be a little tired afterward.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  I pulled into the parking lot, which was mostly deserted. Good—by midafternoon, the place would be crawling with people, but I wanted to see if Troy could even handle being around gunfire before I subjected him to the noise of a packed gun range.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said as I parked, “there’s a small lockbox under your seat. Could you grab that?”

  “What is it?” He leaned forward and felt around. “A flotation device in case of a water landing?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  Troy pulled out the black metal box. “Wait, it doesn’t come all the way out. Is it… Is the cable attached to something?”

  “Yeah. I just need it out enough to open it.” I killed the engine. Troy stepped out of the car, and he watched as I unlocked the box. When the top popped open, he sucked in a breath.

  “Wait, the gun you carry is in here?” He eyed me. “I thought… You don’t actually carry it on you?”

  “Not this one, no.”

  “How many guns do you have?”

  “A few.” I glanced up as I tucked the pistol into my hip holster. “Variety is the spice of life, you know.”

  “Mmhmm.” I couldn’t decide if he looked amused or wary. Maybe a little of both. I got out of the car, locked up, and gestured for him to follow me inside.

  His eyebrows arched slightly as he looked at the building and its giant GUNS sign.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I said. “If you’re not comfortable…”

  “No, I’m fine.” He swallowed. Quite possibly to himself, he added, “I’m okay.”

  I touched his shoulder, and his eyes darted toward my hand before meeting my own. “If there’s a reason we shouldn’t go in there, just say it.”

  “No, there…” He shook his head, and his gaze drifted toward my hand again.

  I cautiously withdrew it, and we made tentative eye contact again. Clearing my throat, I nodded toward the building. “We don’t have to go in, and we can leave at any time.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Let’s do this.”

  “Is there… Look, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable telling anyone, but is there any reason going in there”—I pointed at the building—“is going to fuck with you?”

  “No,” he said without hesitation. “Really, I’m fine. Just trying to get my head around a few things. That’s all.”

  I chewed my lip. “I’ll take you at your word. Just say so if you want to leave.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Our eyes met for a second, and then we went inside.

  The front part of the building was like any gun shop. Any wall that wasn’t covered with firearms was covered with various stuffed critters, targets, NRA posters, and various displays of hunting gear.

  Two steps in, Troy wrinkled his nose, probably from the scent of gun oil and powder. I didn’t blame him—it was definitely an acquired taste.

  Admittedly, had I walked in here alone and seen someone like Troy perusing the cases, I’d have rolled my eyes at the punk kid and hoped to God no one let him handle a firearm. Then again, when people saw someone like me perusing the cases, they called Homeland Security, so maybe I wasn’t the only one with skewed preconceived notions.

  The owner of the shop stepped out from the back room. “Oh hey. Good to see you again.” He extended his hand over the case of rental Glocks and Berettas. “Alexander, right?”

  Eh, close enough.

  “Good to be back.” I shook his hand. “We’re going to rent a lane and try out a few pistols.”

  “Excellent.” To Troy, he said, “Son, just need you to fill out these fo
rms and show me some ID.”

  As Troy filled everything out, the owner put two sets of eye and ear protection on the counter. Smirking, Troy held up the earmuffs, letting them dangle off his finger. “So if I’m carrying, do I wear these all the time? You know, just in case?”

  I laughed. “No, but if you really want to practice without them, go right ahead.”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  “Thought so.” I nodded past the counter. “Which targets do you want to use?”

  Troy looked up at the wall, and his eyes widened. “Are those… They really use human silhouettes?”

  “Sometimes, but bull’s-eye targets work fine too.”

  “But…they use human silhouettes?” He met my eyes. “Do you?”

  “Troy, I’m a cop.”

  “And you’re here to teach me this for self-defense. Which means…” His eyes darted toward the targets again, and he put up his hands. “Look, maybe this isn’t a good idea. I can’t even stomach shooting a drawing of a person on a piece of paper. There’s no way I could shoot an actual person.”

  “No one does this because we want to kill someone,” I said, keeping my tone gentle. “This is so you can defend yourself.” I pointed up at the targets. “The idea isn’t that you’re shooting some random person. It’s someone who’s coming at you and threatening your life.”

  Troy blanched.

  “I know it’s not an easy thing to think about,” I said. “And hopefully, you’ll never have to use anything I teach you in here. But this is the kind of knowledge you’re better off having and not needing than needing and not having.”

  He closed his eyes and pushed out a breath, then looked up at the targets again. “But we can start with the bull’s-eye targets, right? Just…until I get used to the idea?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After I’d rented a lane and procured everything we needed, we put on our eye and ear protection, and I took him back into the range. I set everything on the bench, including the pistol from my hip and a rented .22, then pulled up my pant leg and took the other gun from the ankle holster.

  Troy’s eyebrows climbed as he stared at everything laid out in front of him. He watched silently while I hung up a target and sent the hanger out to about twenty feet in front of the bench. It was probably just as well we’d gone with the bull’s-eye targets—even without the human silhouettes, he still looked a little green at the prospect of doing this at all.