by Ann Simko
He picked up the phone. No dial tone. It was a direct line to his caretakers. No outside contact allowed unless it was pre-approved. He had agreed to that as well.
"Yes, Michael?" The female voice was friendly. "What can I get for you?"
"I need to talk to— Well, I'm not sure who I need to talk to, but I have a condition of my own. Do you think you can help me with that?"
There was a brief moment of silence. "I'll see what can be arranged, Michael. Perhaps within the hour. Would that suffice?"
"Yeah. Yes, that would be great. Just make sure you tell them it's important."
"I will. Is there anything else? If you get hungry there is dinner in the refrigerator. Do you remember how to use the microwave?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm not real hungry right now, but thanks."
"Okay, I'll make arrangements for Geoffrey to come by and speak with you. Call if you need anything."
"Yes ma'am." Michael hung up the phone and tried to remember which one was Geoffrey. It didn't matter. As long as he was the one who had the authority to do this one thing for him, he didn't care. They weren't getting one drop of blood, unless they took it by force, unless they agreed to this one demand.
Maybe this would give him peace at night. Maybe he could actually sleep once it was over. He didn't count on them giving him what he wanted though, and he didn't think he could take the disappointment if he counted on it and they said no.
He watched the sky grow dark and the wind pick up. Knowing a number of unseen eyes were on him at all times, he stepped out onto the bricked patio and sat at the glass table there. He could smell rain in the air and decided to wait and see which came first, the lightning or the rain. Either way the storm would be well under way before the hour was up and Geoffrey came to hear what he had to say. His daddy had never been wrong about these things.
* * * *
The lack of control. Dakota had difficulty getting used to that one thing. The daytime usually went by smoothly. He could handle the memories as long as the sun was out.
Nights were a different story altogether. He put sleep off as long as possible. On a good night, he made it to sunrise without closing his eyes once. A bad night...well, a bad night happened when exhaustion overwhelmed him and his body shut down. Then his mind controlled what happened next and he had no choice over the images that played out inside his head. The best he could do was try to hide the nightmares from his therapist. She did not fool easily, though, and she usually picked up on Dakota's moods the moment the session started.
His life one month after the abduction in the cemetery consisted of simply making it from one day to the next. His medical license had not been suspended, but he had been put on leave, and would be allowed to return to work only after a full psychiatric evaluation and clearance. It was one of the reasons he tried to keep the nightmares to himself.
Between his daily sessions and further surgeries to repair his arm, his medical team had told him not to expect to practice medicine for at least a year, and then only on a supervised basis. Montana was up his ass too, playing mother hen, and sincerely bugging the hell out of him. Dakota found himself on edge from the unwanted attention, and from being pulled in every direction. If they would leave him alone he could figure this all out on his own.
Sometimes they had him wait to see his therapist, but today the blonde receptionist ushered him right in. Figured, on a day when he could have used the time to get it together.
He sat where he always sat, in the comfortable armchair opposite the desk. The requisite couch was available, but he avoided even looking at the thing. It just seemed excessively clichéd.
"Dakota," Dr. Mary Stromm rose from her desk. Even her smile irritated him today.
"That's me." Dr. Stromm, wasn't bad, really. Dakota supposed she was quite brilliant at her job. She was maybe in her fifties, with prematurely gray hair worn very short, very stylish. Her unlined face gave the impression she was much younger. Dakota had learned the hard way not to treat her in accordance to his moods. She had the unnerving ability to see right through any defenses he put up.
She sat back down, steepled perfectly manicured hands and appraised him.
After a full minute of silent observation, he couldn't take it any longer. "What?"
"Bad night?"
He rolled his eyes. There was no use in denying it, so he simply shrugged. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him. The few hours he'd managed to sleep had been haunted and far from restful. Dredging it all up again for her amusement did not appeal to him.
"Same dream?"
"Yeah, it's always the same one. Look, I'm dealing with it, okay?"
"Your bother tells me you're not sleeping in your bed. When you do sleep it's in a chair, and only when exhaustion forces it on you."
Dakota stared anywhere but at her. His leg started bouncing as the seconds ticked by.
"Dakota, you have been coming here since your release from the hospital, twelve visits in all. In that time you have lost twenty pounds, you don't sleep, and you never leave your apartment except for these mandated sessions. You have grown increasingly hostile, agitated and defensive. I trust you did a psyche rotation in med school, so you know the diagnosis as well as I do."
Dakota's leg stopped bouncing and he let his gaze rest on her face at last.
In his best clinical voice, he said, "Your patient has been through an intense emotional and physical ordeal. It is clear he is suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome, Doctor." He put as much sarcasm into the last word as he could.
"I agree. What would you suggest as a form of treatment?"
Dakota leaned back, closing his eyes. "Haven't a clue. You're the shrink, I'm just the fucked up bastard you're supposed to fix." He stretched his legs out in front of him and feigned indifference.
Mary chortled. "Ahh. I don't fix anything. I merely make suggestions until my patients realize they had all the answers the entire time, and then I charge them outrageously and declare them cured."
That got a smile out of him.
"Ah, progress. Dakota, this isn't going to go away, you know that."
He kept his eyes shut, admitting the truth for once. "It's hard."
"If it were easy, you wouldn't need me."
He knew that too. "I wish I could have watched Ricco beat the crap out of him. That would have been sweet."
"Who? The General?"
"Yeah, at least Ricco got that small satisfaction. He got to kill the sick son of a bitch."
"Kill him?"
Her tone had him opening his eyes. "Yeah, kill him," he said, daring her to tell him he was wrong.
"Dakota, who told you he was dead?"
"Well, I..." He grimaced. "No one, I guess. I assumed— Are you telling me he's not dead?" He felt his heart speed up and cold sweat trickle down his back.
"I thought you knew." Mary leaned back in her chair, obviously concerned that she had been the one to tell him. "The General is currently being held in a maximum security psychiatric facility for the criminally insane. I thought someone had told you. I'm sorry you had to find out about it like this."
"Yeah, me too." He sat up straighter. "Does Montana know?"
"You'd have to ask him."
"That son of a bitch! Why didn't he tell me?"
"Maybe because he knew this is how you would react. How do you feel, knowing this man is alive?"
"Oh, please, don't get all shrinky on me." Dakota turned away, and his leg started bouncing again. It had been bad enough when the General was just a figure in his dreams, but now to find out the man was alive out there...somewhere. Suddenly a thought came to him. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all.
"I want to see him."
That seemed to take her by surprise. Her flustered expression delighted him. "You want to see the General?"
"Is that a problem?"
She hesitated. He could feel her watching him for some clue to his motive. "I'm just not sure that it's a good idea. The man was respons
ible for grievously harming you."
"I know what he was responsible for. I was there, remember?" He made his tone more insistent as he paced in front of her desk. "I want to see him."
"Why?"
He suddenly leaned over her desk and shoved his face right up to hers. "Why the hell do you think?"
"I think you want to kill him, Dakota." She held his glare with unflinching ease. "You won't be able to, you know. You won't be allowed to touch him. They'll search you before they allow you anywhere near him."
"I just want to see him, okay? I don't know why, I just know I need this, Mary, please..." He let the request hang there between them.
She sighed. "Maybe it might help bring you some closure. I'm not at all convinced this is good for you, but I'll see what I can do. No promises, is that understood?"
"Understood." The truth was, he didn't understand either. He only knew he would never be whole again until he faced down the one thing that stole his sleep, the face that haunted his dreams—the keeper of his sanity. If he was ever to entertain any hopes of living a normal life again, he needed to find a will he wasn't sure he possessed any longer. He needed to face down the demon who'd taken his soul and claimed it for his own.
He wondered if he had the strength to go through with it. He prayed he had the courage.
Chapter 24
Montana let himself inside Dakota's apartment. He had taken Dakota's car keys away on Dr. Stromm's request.
She also didn't think it was a good idea to let Dakota alone, but even Montana could push only so far. He knew his brother better than anyone. Maybe he was being naive, but he refused to believe Dakota was suicidal. Depressed, hell yeah, but Dakota would not take his own life. It was against everything he believed in.
Montana was placing a lot in that trust, but when it came right down to it, trust was all one ever had.
Dakota would prove him either right or wrong. Montana had known suicidal men before. If they were serious, nothing could stay their hand. If Dakota was headed down that road, nothing he did or didn't do would make a difference. All he could do was be there for him, whether Dakota wanted him or not, but his brother gave "being difficult" a completely new meaning.
He crinkled his nose as the stench of ripe, unwashed male assaulted him. The shades were drawn, shutting out any outside light, and leaving the apartment in perpetual darkness.
Dakota had turned away from the brief invasion of daylight. He threw an arm over his eyes. "Jesus! Ever hear of knocking?" Dirty dishes and debris littered the floor near where he lay.
"Ever hear of bathing?" Montana went from window to window, flinging the shades up, and letting sunlight cut through the gloom.
The cluttered, filthy room disturbed him almost as much as the sight of Dakota, who lay on the sofa in the same wrinkled clothing Montana had seen him in for the last two days. Dakota may not have had a lot of style, but he had always been fastidious. Even as a kid, he didn't mind getting dirty, but he didn't like staying that way, Montana barely recognized him.
Dakota had not only neglected his personal hygiene, but he had not cut his hair since the night Ricco was brought into his ER. It hung nearly to his shoulders in heavy, unwashed tangles. Three weeks' growth on his face deserved to be called more than stubble. His clothes hung on him. He'd never been a heavyweight to begin with, so the loss of over twenty pounds was devastating to his six-foot-two-inch frame.
The meeting Dakota requested had been approved, but he wondered if leaving him in the dark about it was a good idea.
Dr. Stromm insisted this was the way to play it. "He'll obsess over it," she'd told Montana, and he'd reluctantly agreed. The information might make Dakota more of a mess than he already was.
As he surveyed both his brother and the trashed apartment, he decided the hell with that. He had nearly killed himself being patient with Dakota and had only pushed him further away. He decided to do what he'd wanted to do from the very beginning. "You look like hell,"
Dakota squinted one eye against the glaring light. "Thank you, so much. You can leave now."
"Get up."
Dakota rolled over on the sofa and hid his face in the back pillows.
"Get off the damn couch, Dakota."
"Go away."
Montana moved the coffee table out of the way, walked around to the back of the couch, and gave Dakota one last chance. "Are you getting up?"
Dakota offered the middle finger of his right hand.
"I gave you a chance, remember that." Montana unceremoniously tipped the sofa over.
Dakota came up fast. "What the hell!"
"You need a shower." Montana pointed down the hallway. "Bathroom's that way, if I recall."
Anger flared in Dakota's eyes. In Montana's opinion it was an improvement over the apathy of a few moments ago.
"Screw you, Montana. I didn't ask you to come here. I don't want you here, I sure as hell don't need you here. So leave. Now." He stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists.
"Well, you sure as hell need something. Have you looked at yourself lately? You're a mess, Dakota."
"Go to hell." Dakota paced, while rubbing his left arm. The cast had been replaced by a splint, and his last surgery postponed indefinitely. His surgeons were amazed at how quickly and completely he had healed.
Montana resisted the urge to ask if he was okay. "One of us there is enough. What happened to you, man?"
Dakota stopped pacing and gave Montana an incredulous look. "What part did you miss?"
"Save the pity party. I know what that bastard did to you was bad, but come on, are you just going to let him win like this? This is not you, Dakota," Montana shook his head. "You never gave up on anything, or anyone, in your entire life, so explain this to me. Why are you giving up on yourself?"
"Leave. Now." Dakota enunciated each word carefully.
"Make me." It was the taunt they had used on each other as children. "Tell you what, if you manage to push me back out that door, I'll leave and never come back if that's what you want. To tell you the truth, I'd rather remember you fighting me, fighting something, hell, fighting anything, than remember you like this" He spread his arms and motioned with his hands. "Come on, Dak, make me leave."
Dakota was already breathing heavily.
Montana could see the anger getting the better of him. He winked.
That was all it took.
Dakota threw himself forward. Even twenty pounds underweight and malnourished, he had one advantage. He had fought with Montana enough to know his weaknesses.
Montana expected him to go for the knees and tried to dodge him. He wasn't quite fast enough and went down hard, clipping the side of his head on the coffee table. Not bad, just enough to draw blood.
They rolled to their feet and circled each other. Montana wiped at the blood trickling down the side of his face and grinned.
Considering his brother's depleted physical condition, Montana had started the fight holding back his punches. After Dakota drew first blood, all bets were off. The little shit was stronger than he looked.
Dakota returned the smile. "You'll leave me the hell alone?"
"I'm not out the door yet." Montana stepped in quickly. Dakota threw a punch that he easily dodged, and he came back swinging. His fist connected under Dakota's chin, sending him staggering backwards.
Dakota looked a little dazed as he regained his balance. He shook it off, and came at Montana again.
Montana was ready for him this time. Waiting for the last possible moment, he stepped aside and gave Dakota a hard shoulder block. It sent him flying into the small side table next to the overturned sofa. The lamp gave up without a fight and the cheap plywood table buckled under his weight.
As Dakota scrambled to his feet, Montana egged him on. "I forgot to tell you, I am not paying for any damages."
Dakota took what was left of the lamp and threw it. Occupied with dodging, Montana didn't move fast enough. Dakota jumped on his back, and pelted his head and shoulder
s.
Amid the flurry of blows, Montana managed to grab an arm. He spun, pulling hard as he bent at the waist, and slammed Dakota to the floor. The wind and the fight were both knocked out of him.
Montana grabbed both his wrists in one hand and hauled Dakota over his shoulders. "Bath time, little brother." Montana carried him down the short hallway to the bathroom, as he wheezed and struggled. He kicked the door open, dumped Dakota, fully clothed, against the back wall of the shower, and turned the water on full force.
"Hell, Montana, that's cold!" Dakota tried to get to his feet.
Montana pushed him back down. He stepped into the tub, grabbed the pitiful sliver of soap left in the dish and began lathering Dakota's hair and any visible skin.
After a moment or two of protest, Dakota quit fighting.
Montana realized he was laughing. He let go of the soap and gave Dakota a playful shove. "I guess that means I win."
Dakota scooped dripping hair out of his eyes and raised his hands in mock surrender. "I give... I give." Puffing and trying to catch his breath, he plopped down in the corner, out of the stream of cold water.
Montana sat opposite him, with the water streaming between them. After a moment, they both started laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Dakota shook his head. "I am so fucked up."
"Yeah, you are that. But we'll get through it. We always do." Montana sighed and pushed wet hair out of his eyes. "You gotta help me though, Dak, I can't handle it when you shut down like this."
Dakota was silent for a while. Finally, looking directly at Montana, he said, "They did things to me Montana. They changed me, here." He tapped his chest. "I'm not sure I can be the same person I used to be."
"I'm not asking you for that, man. I'm not asking you to forget or even forgive. I'm telling you to find a way to get around it, not over it. What happened might have changed you, but it doesn't have to define you. Do you understand?"
"What if I can't live with those changes?"
"If you're asking me for permission to off yourself, you have to know that's never gonna happen."
"I've thought about it, you know?"