by Eileen Wilks
"Great idea. Yeah, Pat, what do you want to tell me? That I got you killed? Sorry about that." He stalked over to the window. The stripe of moonlight fell across his chest now.
"It happened during the mission when you were shot."
"It happened because of me." He spun, his body all lean, deadly grace, his face savage. "We had one chance, just one. We were screwed six ways from sideways, but we could complete our mission, at least. I was that chance – our sharpshooter. And I screwed up. I missed the shot. I missed my goddamned shot."
The hot demand of tears pressed at the backs of her eyes. She refused it. He didn't need her to weep for him. "It was all your fault?" she demanded. "Nothing else went wrong?"
"Hell, yes, things went wrong." He started pacing. "Everything went wrong. We were dropped eighty miles from where we were supposed to be, practically in the lap of government forces. We'd been sent to hunt terrorists – one man in particular – not supposedly neutral troops. We couldn't afford to be caught. We hid out, made it to the pickup point." He stopped, scrubbing the hair back from his face. "We damned near made it."
"They caught up with you?"
"The wrong bunch stumbled across us. Or the right bunch – the ones we'd been sent to find. Only not quite the way it worked out. The odds were long, but the lieutenant thought we had a chance of finishing part of the mission, taking out the man we'd been sent there for. He thought that because I told him I could make the shot. I was to take my target out, then we could get the hell out of there. The rest of them laid down covering fire. I made it to the ridge, had the drop on the target. If I'd made the shot…" He stopped and grabbed his pants from the floor.
Gwen pushed to her feet. "Was it a hard shot?"
He stepped into his pants, not bothering with underwear. Ignoring her.
She grabbed his arm. "Was it a hard shot?"
"The bastard moved. The stupid bastard moved just as I squeezed off the shot. Then some other bastard shot me. The bloody SOB I was supposed to take out walked away, but Pat didn't. He and Crowley came to get me off the ridge and Pat got his face shot off." He jerked his arm away. "Don't talk to me now. You mean well, but don't talk to me. I'm going running. It's the only thing that works."
In silence she watched as he pulled on socks and shoved his feet into his shoes. She didn't talk to him. He pulled on a sweatshirt and left. Just like that, he left.
When the door slammed behind him, she sat back down on the bed, cold and naked. "Okay," she said to the empty room, her voice shaking, "that went well, didn't it?"
At least now she knew. Duncan wasn't haunted because he'd had to kill in the line of duty. He was haunted because he'd failed to kill. And in trying to save him, his friend had died.
She was hopelessly out of her depth.
What had Duncan said? Courage was doing what you had to, even when you were scared. Well, she was scared spitless. But she had to do something. Duncan hadn't told anyone else what he'd just told her – she was sure of that. It had come spilling out like pus from am infected wound, but she didn't think he'd drained off enough to do him much good. He'd still needed to run.
So he needed help, but she was all the help he was going to get. What a terrifying thought.
Or was she?
For long minutes Gwen sat still and thought. Finally she noticed the chill bumps. She got up and pulled on a robe, then went looking for her address book.
* * *
When Ben brought Zach home late the next afternoon, her four-foot jack-in-the-box was bouncing off the walls. Zach adored hiking. He was crazy about the mountains, couldn't wait for the promised camping trip and needed urgently to tell her all about it. Gwen had her hands full, but she managed to keep Ben from leaving and, eventually, to distract her wired son with a blatant bribe – a radio-controlled car she'd been saving for his birthday.
Zach and the car were crashing around in the backyard when Gwen motioned to Ben to join her several feet away.
This time his frown looked more like impatience than anger to her. "If this is about the camping trip," he began, "we can—"
"It's about Duncan."
"I'm not going to discuss my brother with you."
"Yes," she said firmly, "you are. Because he is your brother, and you may be mad at him, but you love him. And he needs help."
That changed the texture of his frown without erasing it. "I can't help him. Hell, I'm not even talking to him right now."
"Then you'd better get over it. Listen, Ben." She put a hand on his arm. "Last night he – he told me some things. About how he got shot and everything that went wrong. It was bad," she said quietly. "From what he said, things went badly wrong. And he's blaming himself."
Now Ben's frown was frankly worried. "I'd guessed as much, but he won't talk about it. You know how he is. I can't help him if he won't talk to me."
"He doesn't need to talk to you. Or to me, for that matter. He needs to talk to people who have been where he is. They're the only ones he could open up to."
"That leaves me out," Ben said curtly.
"No, dammit, it doesn't. He won't listen if I tell him he should join some kind of talk-therapy group." Not that she knew if she'd have a chance to tell him anything. He hadn't come back last night. She didn't know if he planned to come back at all. She took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn't about her. "A man like him doesn't deal with problems that way. Besides, I'm a woman. He'll think I don't understand. But he'll listen to you."
"He hasn't listened to me since he was eight years old, and he didn't listen too well then. Get Charlie to talk to him. The two of them have always been tight."
"He needs to hear it from you," she insisted. "You're his big brother. He respects you, looks up to you, and … he needs your forgiveness."
Ben took his time thinking it over. He rubbed his face, looked down, looked away, then sighed heavily. "All right. If I can do something … what is it I'm supposed to tell him?"
She let go of the breath she'd been holding. Her smile broke through. "I called my therapist in Florida today and got some information. There are groups that can help him, some within the military and some outside it. Groups of soldiers and former soldiers who have dealt with PTSD – post-traumatic stress disorder."
* * *
Binton's was packed, even though it was a weeknight. Duncan had turned down two offers from women he didn't know and brushed off a friend of Jeff's from the police force.
He didn't want company. He just wanted to get drunk–stinking, roaring drunk. He frowned at the beer, wondering why he'd ordered it. Beer was going to take too long.
He raised a hand to signal to the waitress.
"You buying?" a deep, gravelly voice said from behind him.
Duncan turned around, his face expressionless. "You just scared a year off my life. Didn't know you could creep up on me that way."
Ben grabbed the other chair at Duncan's table, turned it around and straddled it. "Creeping up on people is more your style. The place is noisy, that's all." He studied Duncan intently. "Or maybe you were sunk too deep in that pit you've been digging yourself into to hear much of anything."
Duncan looked away, picking up his glass. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture."
"Tough. You're getting one. Not about what you should do with your life. Stay in the service, join the police force, take up knitting – that's up to you. And—" he looked away briefly, his mouth thinning "—not about Gwen, either. Though you're being a damn fool there, too. If you can't see she's the best thing that ever happened to you … never mind. Hell. I'm not going to talk about that."
Voice carefully neutral, Duncan asked, "What, then?"
"Why the hell didn't you tell me what was going on with you? You think I'm so dumb I've never heard of this PTSD stuff!"
"PTSD," Duncan repeated blankly.
"Yeah, you know—" Ben waved vaguely. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. The nightmares, insomnia, mood changes – all those are part of it. You don't want to ta
lk about your problems, fine. But it seems you're too thickheaded to get some help, and that's just plain stupid. So you get the lecture whether you like it or not."
"You think I'm, oh – disordered. That I should talk to a shrink or something."
"I think," Ben said flatly, "you've been through hell, and part of you got stuck there. You ought to know you aren't the only one. Men have been going to war and coming home shot up and shook up for a helluva long time. I think you need to talk with other soldiers who are trying to get those last few pieces of themselves back from hell."
Ben's words hollowed Duncan out, leaving him shaky – and glad. Profoundly glad. Ben had forgiven him. He swallowed and looked away, grabbing for control. After a moment he found his voice. "And I think you've been talking to Gwen."
"Like I said, she's the best thing that ever happened to you."
Duncan met his eyes. "Yes. She is." Their gazes held for a moment, then Duncan's shifted.
"What is it?"
"I don't know." Jeff was threading his way toward them, and the expression on his friend's face made Duncan's gut knot. He knew that look.
"How many of those have you had?" Jeff asked the second he reached them, nodding at Duncan's still-full glass.
"This is my first. Why?"
"We've got a situation we need your help with."
He didn't even have to think. "No."
Ben spoke. "What's going on?"
Jeff flicked a glance at him. "The police department needs a sharpshooter."
Ben scowled. "You've got men with badges who can handle a gun."
"No one like Duncan." Jeff switched back to Duncan. "The perp who's been robbing convenience stores hit the 7-11. Only he wasn't so careful this time. This time the store wasn't empty. A uniform saw it going down, but the perp made him. And instead of taking off, the stupid bastard ran back into the store. We've got a hostage situation, highly unstable. One officer has already been shot."
Oh, God. Duncan's stomach churned. He thought of the young mother he'd met that night, Lorna, her name was, the one who was taking night classes. His right hand opened and closed. "I'm not a cop. I can't go around shooting people."
"The chief has okayed it – there's an old law on the books that will let him deputize you."
Duncan shook his head. He couldn't do this. He didn't want lives depending on him ever again. His hand clenched tight. He couldn't be counted on. "Anyone down?"
"Not yet. Duncan—" his gaze flicked to Ben again and back "—your lady is in the store with her boy. They're with the hostages."
* * *
Chapter 18
«^»
"Mom." Zach's voice wobbled. "I don't like that man."
"Shh, honey." Gwen was sitting on the floor with Zach in her lap. They were all sitting on the floor, with rows of candy on the right and twelve-packs of soft drinks on the left – her, the clerk, an elderly man, everyone in the store except the man with the gun. He crouched at the end of the aisle, his attention split between them and the window at the front of the store. Her cell phone was stuck in his jacket pocket.
Gwen couldn't see what was happening out there. Her world was limited to chocolate bars and advertising slogans on the twelve-packs of soda. And to the others trapped here with her.
The poor clerk sat across from her, hunched over and hugging her knees, her young face streaked with the dried tracks of her tears. The old man sat beside her, leaning against the shelves. He worried her. He was tall and looked as if he'd once been heavy, but his skin hung loosely on him now and had a grayish cast. She thought he'd been ill, sick enough to lose a lot of weight.
Earlier – before the police had reached him through Gwen's cell phone – when the sirens had first swarmed close and stopped, the gunman had been very agitated. He'd dragged the old man to the front of the store, using him as a shield. He'd pushed open the door, holding a gun to the old man's head, and threatened to kill him if the police didn't pull back across the street.
Ill or not, the old man was sitting up straight now, glaring at their captor.
Gwen had no idea how long they'd been here. Forever, it seemed. The robbery itself had happened so fast – she'd been pulling a gallon of milk from the cooler when the sound of a gunshot had smacked against her eardrums. She'd whirled, seen a grubby young man with a gun, grabbed Zach and hit the floor. They'd stayed down until the gunman ran out of the store.
Time hadn't slowed to a crawl until he'd come running back in.
"I wanna go home," Zach whimpered.
"I know, sweetie." She stroked his hair, keeping her voice soft, soothing. Inside she was shaking. "We can't go yet."
"What you talkin' about?" The gun swung toward them. The young man holding it had acne, bad breath and the deadest eyes she'd ever seen. He was short, no more than a couple of inches taller than Gwen. She suspected he had a drug habit he hadn't fed lately. "I told you to keep the brat quiet!"
The young woman in the clerk's smock spoke. Her voice quivered. "He's just a little boy. He doesn't understand."
"What's to understand? Whup him if he won't hush up. That's what my daddy did, and none of us back-talked him."
And what a sterling example of the benefits of corporal punishment he was. Gwen bit her lip to keep from saying that out loud. "If I spank him, he'll cry."
"Aww." He made an exaggerated face of concern. "Pore little boy might cry. Maybe I oughtta give him something to cry about." He straightened partway, keeping his head below the level of the top shelf.
"No! Y-you might not be able to hear the phone when they call back about your demands." I have to distract him, keep him from seeing whatever they're doing out front. The police are out there… With a shudder, she remembered the shot that had shattered the glass earlier, and the gunman's glee. He'd shot at a cop who'd been getting too close.
I have to keep him calm. "Why did you ask for a helicopter instead of a plane?"
"What d'you care, bitch? I know your type – prissy bitch like you wouldn't spit on a guy like me if I was on fire."
"I want everything to go smoothly so no one gets hurt."
"You better hope it goes smooth. You better hope they do like I said." He jiggled his weight from one foot to the other, casting quick glances out the window at the front of the store. "I need to get out of here. I need to go. What's taking those motherf—"
"Young man!" the old man barked. "You won't use language like that around these ladies."
"Oh, won't I? I'll say whatever I damn well please. This gives me the ticket." He waved his gun. "I got the gun, I got the ticket. I say what I want, do what I want."
"Let the women go." The old man spoke sternly. "And the child. At least let the child go."
"That boy, he's my ticket, too." He smirked. "They'll be real careful with me if I got that boy with me. Maybe I'll take her along, too." He turned his gaze on Gwen, looking her over slowly. He smacked his lips, but his eyes never changed. "Yeah, maybe I will do that. You wanna see Mexico, bitch? Might be worth it. Ask me real nice, maybe I'll let you come along with your boy."
Zach started crying.
"In Christ's name—" the old man cried.
"Don't you be talking Christ to me." His face contorted. "I don't need you, old man. Maybe I want to shoot someone." He moved closer. "Maybe I want to shoot you."
He put the gun right up to the old man's temple. Gwen hid Zach's face against her, muffling his sobs. "Don't! You might … you might need him. H-he's another ticket. They did what you told them to do when you threatened him, right? And the clerk and me, we're too small to … to use the way you did him. You might need him again."
He slid his gaze at her again. His face contorted in anger, but his eyes … it was like locking gazes with an insect. There was no one home.
"Bang!" the gunman shouted, and jerked the gun back. "Bang, bang, you're dead." He giggled.
A bead of sweat trickled down the old man's face. His eyes closed.
"Are you okay?" she whis
pered.
"Shut up, bitch." The gunman giggled again. "Bang, bang, you're dead," he repeated, enjoying his little joke.
So far her plan to keep him calm wasn't working so well.
* * *
"He's been staying back, keeping cover between him and us," Jeff said crisply as he slammed his car door. "The only time he exposed himself was when he used the old man to force us back. No chance of a head shot then – not for those of us who were here, anyway."
Duncan nodded, standing still so he could take in the situation. They'd parked catercorner from the 7-11. Police cars blocked off the intersection; more police cars were parked directly across from the store, forming a metal wall for the officers to shelter behind. An older man in civilian clothes had a bullhorn. He glanced their way and gestured for them to approach. The rest kept their weapons trained on the cheerfully bright interior of the convenience store.
Gwen. Dear God, Gwen and Zach were in there. Not that Duncan could see them or anyone else inside the store from here. His forehead was cold and clammy.
He glanced at Ben. His brother's mouth was a tight, thin line, his eyes hard and desperate. He'd scarcely said a word since Jeff found them. "Cross to the first patrol car tucked down," Duncan told him, "like you were running for the goal line with a dozen mean-as-hell full-backs on your tail. He'll have a clear shot at us part of the way, if he wants to take it."
"Civilians stay back." Jeff's tone allowed no discussion.
Ben didn't discuss, just said flatly, "I won't get in your way."
And there was no way, short of knocking Ben out, they were going to keep him back. Duncan didn't waste breath trying. He bent and started running.
No one shot at them. The older man in civilian clothes was waiting. "This is the sharpshooter." He looked Duncan over with quick, cold cop's eyes.
"Yes, sir. Duncan, this is Chief Hendricks."
"Parker's told me about you. I watched you at the range one day. You're damned good when your target is a paper outline. How are you when it's a man?"