by K Alexander
"So then all you have is the word of a woman notorious for her unstable temper?"
"Yes." Claire frowns. "Why is this item only in the news now, General?"
A tight smile crosses his wide lips, lifting the incongruously beautiful dip of his cupid's bow slightly. "That, doctor, is the right question." He unfolds his arms and wraps his hands around the edge of the table top beneath him. "Your affirmation of Ryan's innocence, though noble, is completely useless, because Victor Banks died this week."
"What?" Claire blinks up at him in confusion, her mind addled even though she understands somewhere deep down that this must be the simplest explanation. "This week?"
"Yes. Otherwise the news item would have been broadcast earlier, as you yourself said."
Her forehead Is furrowed. "And you think that Ryan had something to do with it?"
"Not something. Everything. We found the weapon, and her fingerprints on it."
"For God's sake! He was a friend of hers!" She shakes her head. "You can't believe that?"
"I can, and I do." Pushing himself up from the wooden surface he struts around to the other side of the desk and sinks into the old leather chair. "What you believe is your business. Now, tell me about when you last saw Ryan."
"I…" Claire struggles to get her thoughts organized. She does not want to share any part of Ryan with this man. "Captain Ryan came to see me last night. She wanted to make sure that I was alright."
"And?"
"And nothing. It was purely a social call. She was concerned about my wellbeing."
By the lift of his heavy eyebrows she can tell that he thinks she is lying. "Your hostage taker arrived at your door to ask how you were. Is that what you're telling me?"
"Yes." Claire's blue eyes are defiant.
"And you expect me to believe that?"
"It's the truth. What you believe is your business."
For a moment it looks as if he is considering bodily harm. His jaws grind together and he narrows his eyes before apparently attempting to regain his temper. "And that is what you came all this way to tell me, doctor Walsch?"
"No. I didn't come all this way to tell you that. I never, in fact, indicated any fervor to discuss this with you. What I came all this way to do, General," she shifts forward and fixes him with a straight stare, "is to tell you that I do not believe Captain Leah Ryan was capable of killing Vice-Admiral Banks. That I know she did not kill him when she had the chance to. And that I think you're stringing her up for reasons of your own."
"And what would those be?"
"I haven't the faintest idea, General, but you picked the wrong victim."
"Very well." He sits back and glares at her. "You are welcome to your opinion. In the grand scheme of things it changes nothing. I do have one more question for you, however." Reaching down he pulls open a drawer and withdraws a large manila envelope. Opening the flap he slides out several large photos and shifts them around deftly so that they are spread out on the table and facing Claire.
"Do you know this woman?"
His thick finger is pointing towards a woman present in all of the photos. Judging by the shade of her skin and the mass of black hair cascading down her back in loose beautiful curls, she appears to be a Latino. Warm brown eyes shine out of an exceptionally attractive face as she laughs in sincere pleasure at something being said by her attentive companion.
Who turns out to be Ryan.
The photos are recent, considering the length of the soldier's hair. A sudden silence wells up in Claire as she looks from one photo to the next. Two dark heads, equally attractive, together in intimate relaxed conspiracy. The woman laughing at something Ryan is saying, her head thrown back in abandon. Ryan reaching forward to touch her hand, green eyes serious as she leans closer. Ryan, looking to the left and seeming to spot the photographer, her brows drawing together. And then, finally, Ryan, turning her back on the photographer. Blocking her companion from the lens with what appears to be a kiss. Claire's stomach clenches awkwardly. Too close. Too comfortable.
The blonde shuffles the photos around mindlessly before she responds.
"No. I don't know her."
"Are you sure?"
Claire takes a last look at the gorgeous face laughing up at Ryan. "Yes. That's not a face you forget. Who is she? Where were the pictures taken?"
"I don't know - which is why I asked you." Ignoring the last question he reaches forward to gathers the photos and slides them back into the envelope, this time not bothering to put it in the drawer. When he stands and offers his hand it's almost offensive. "Thank you for coming in, doctor Walsch."
There is not much more Claire can do. Rising, she shakes his hot large hand with distaste. Before she leaves the office she turns. "General, you may not care, but I'm telling you for the last time that the woman I know is not capable of the thing you're saying she's done."
"Then perhaps you don't know her as well as you think, doctor. Good day."
She is angry as she leaves. Angry at General Turner for what he's about to do, for the truth of the blow he's just struck, angry at the rest of the world for not doing anything, angry at Ryan for kissing a gorgeous woman, and angry at herself for being angry about that.
After all, the soldier does not belong to her.
But the ease of it rankles, the companionship in their eyes, the casual touches, and though she knows she has asked for - and by definition deserved - no more than the heat and the fire and the intensity between them, she still feels betrayed.
She is berating herself so severely and deeply that she does not notice the tall man until he has walked several steps with her. Slowing down she glances up in annoyed uncertainty at his handsome face.
"Yes?"
"Are you doctor Claire Walsch?" He is polite, but with an edge of something she can't place.
"Yes." Irritation makes her edgy. "What is it now?"
"I need to speak with you."
"What about? Who are you?"
He looks down at her bleakly. "I'm Leah Ryan's husband."
------ He is over six feet tall, lean, blonde, and square-jawed, and he is married to Ryan. Shaking her head Claire reaches up to cup a suddenly aching temple.
"Excuse me?"
"Christopher Melville." He extends a hand which she shakes somewhat blindly. "You look a little pale, doctor Walsch. Shall we sit down somewhere?"
When she nods he takes her arm in an old-fashioned manner and leads her across the road, to a bench flanking the beautiful old fountain in the middle of the paved plaza. When she sits he perches next to her, his body nearly humming with energy.
"Do you have any idea where Ryan is?"
"No." She rubs her head again and studies him from under a frown. "I didn't… Ryan never said she was married. She doesn't have your name."
"She preferred her own. And she's not exactly free with information, that woman." He shrugs. "You wouldn't have had any cause to know." When he suddenly shifts forward and grasps her hand in his she almost recoils. "Please, doctor Walsch. If you know anything, you need to tell me. Ryan needs my help. She's in very deep trouble this time."
"This time?" Claire pulls her hand from his, watches him warily.
"She's always been a time bomb, my wife." A wry little smile crosses his lips. "It's just a question of degrees."
"Why would you say that?" Her tone is pure professional now - and yet the crinkling of his eyes as he quickly glances at her, and then away, makes her think that he is aware exactly why she would ask. He fiddles with the gold ring on his thumb thoughtfully before he replies.
"She has been experiencing psychotic episodes for the last ten years. It is not exactly public knowledge, but… "
"I know this."
Claire's abrupt answer startles him, but she can't tell whether it's the briefness or the content. Biting the inside of his lip he looks at her warily. "You know? Oh. Of course you do. You consulted in her case. I'm sorry. I'm not thinking clearly right now - the stress of the situatio
n…"
"Naturally." It's what she says, but somehow his demeanor strikes her more as primed than anxious. It's in his taut limbs, the alertness of his eyes, and the apologetic smile that slips through too often. She doesn't call him on it, but she knows that if she watches closely enough she will see the moment when he slips. It's a game she plays every day. "You think there's something wrong with her?"
"Don't you?" He frowns.
"No. I think that her behavior has been completely out of her control. It's not something she should be held accountable for personally."
He picks up on the vague therapeutic direction of her words as she has intended him to, and cocks his head with a half-smile. "Of course you'd say that. You think there's good in every person, right? If you just dig deep enough?" Raising his eyebrows he folds his arms. "When I met her she was already like that, doctor. She's always been like that. Volatile. It's a word every single person who knows her would use. Be careful."
His last words are a gauntlet thrown at her feet. She wants to be as cool and collected as always, but the day is not even halfway gone yet and her thoughts are in a desperate mess. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I'm saying. Her fire can be enthralling, but it's also completely unrestrained. Take my advice, doctor. Don't get caught staring at the flames."
The man is playing some game with her, one that she cannot even begin to understand yet. Taking a calming breath she raises an enquiring eyebrow. "What exactly is it you need from me?"
He smiles grimly, a tacit understanding of the dynamic between them. "I want to know if you can tell me anything about my wife's present whereabouts."
"No, I can't. I'm sorry. Were she to contact me I would inform her of your interest."
"I'm sure you would." With a nod he stands, towering over her and blocking out the sun. His head is just a silhouette as he stares down at her. "Call me, doctor Walsch." The card appears out of nowhere. "It's in your - and her - best interest." Turning, he walks away. Claire watches him until he rounds the corner before she looks down at the card in her hand with a scowl.
Christopher Melville
Consultant
The numbers follow, but nothing more. Turning the card over, she glances at the blank back and then slips it into a pocket with a dark mumble.
"Can this day just end right now?"
A startled pigeon flies off, and with an internal apology the blonde doctor gets up tiredly and walks to her car, her stride much heavier than it had been earlier that morning. This time she is perversely pleased with the traffic. It gives her time, and a reason, to be sorry for herself, and time to think about Ryan and this morning's bizarre events. She does not trust General Turner, not one iota, but he is saying things she cannot discount. She trusts Christopher Melville even less, and yet she can't discount his words either, not until she knows what the truth really is. Or if the truth even exists in this case. Facts seem to shift every minute, reassemble every time she speaks to somebody new, and she can't turn anywhere for a definitive version. Ryan is the one constant she wants to believe in, for selfish reasons, and yet the soldier is the only one who's being persistently brought into question.
Claire fights with herself all the way home. She knows what she should do. She should step away, disengage… remove herself from the situation for the sake of her safety and sanity. She also knows herself well enough to know that this is the last thing she's going to do. If Ryan were to walk back into her life tomorrow, she'd still find her breath catching and her gut burning with this primal response the other woman draws out of her. It's the one place where her control seems to have no hold - and no place.
When she walks into her apartment she throws the car keys on the small table to the right and immediately picks up the phone. She dials a number from memory and twirls the old-fashioned cord around her finger as she waits.
"Andrea Walsch speaking."
"Andy, it's Claire."
"Claire? Is something wrong?"
"No. Yes. Can I come visit you for a bit?"
"Sure. What's the matter, sis?"
Claire heaves a sigh, though she tries to muffle it so as not to alarm her sister further. "Nothing and everything. I need a break. The world isn't the way it should be."
She can almost hear her sister's smile at the weighty last sentence. "Okay, C, tell me when you're getting here."
"I haven't made plans yet. I'll phone the airlines now and get back to you."
"All right." Andy's voice is soft. "Take care of yourself, C. I'll speak to you later."
"'Kay." Claire puts the phone down and almost drops it when it suddenly begins to ring in her hand. Shaking her head at her own edginess she lifts it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Claire." There's only one voice as throaty as that. "Are you all right?"
She means to say I'm fine, thank you, or coping, thank you, but exasperation makes it impossible. "What the hell is going on?"
"What did Turner want?"
"How did you know I went to see him?"
"I wouldn't allow him to hurt you, Claire. What did he want from you?"
"To know why you were here. And whether I knew the woman you were sitting with on the photos he has." She has to fight the wholly human desire to be snippy about it, make some sort of sarcastic comment, and though she succeeds Ryan catches a hint of it in the change of her tone.
"She's a friend."
"I could see that." On the verge of losing her temper Claire decides to steer the conversation into a different direction. "And I met your husband."
The moment when you're waiting for someone to speak, and hoping fervently that they'll say exactly what you want them to, can feel as if it's stretching out over a million years. Tortuous years, because even that supreme willing of the truth to be what you want it to be doesn't drown out the loudness of the disturbing possibilities you're facing.
"Chris?" Ryan definitely isn't saying what Claire would like her to. "What's he doing there?"
"Trying to find you and keep you out of trouble, apparently." Claire closes her eyes and drops her head back against the wall in weariness. "I would have loved for you to tell me that wasn't the truth, Ryan."
"I don't lie, Claire."
The blonde's already frayed temper snaps. "Don't give me that shit about omission, Ryan. Don't. It's as bad as lying, okay?"
"I'm sorry. We're estranged. I don't think about him much." It's so infuriatingly matter-of-fact. "Don't let him close to you, Claire. He's not a friend. He's dangerous."
"He says that about you. Turner says that about you. Is it true?" She's just so tired right now.
"I said that about myself too, Claire. Remember? It's not a lie. But I wouldn't hurt you. They don't have the same compunction. And I can't stay near enough to protect you, because my presence will trigger the exact opposite." Her edge of frustration is well masked, but still perceptible. "I need you to look after yourself."
"Ryan." The blonde's voice is flat. "Why did you call?"
"To make sure you're all right. Are you?"
"No. There are too many things… " she clears her throat, "I'm thinking about going away for a little while."
"That's a good idea, Claire. You should do that. I don't want you involved in any of this."
"It's too late for that now, don't you think?" Shaking off her anger Claire tries to soften her voice. "What's next?"
"There is no next for you. I'm sorry that I mixed you up with this." The soldier's voice is warm. "But there are things I'm not sorry for, and I hope that you're not, either, Claire."
The doctor bites her lip. "Captain Ryan, are you kissing me goodbye again?"
The chuckle is low and vibrant, and still sends a shiver down her spine. "Probably. Take care of yourself."
"You too."
When the phone is put down on the other side she replaces the receiver with exaggerated care and slides down against the wall, closing her eyes. Sitting there she ponders whether she wants to cry or scream,
and when she's ascertained that it's a good measure of both she sobs out a laugh at herself.
There are so many warring emotions - anger, frustration, uncertainty, melancholy - that she stays on the floor for a while, breathing deeply to settle her thoughts. Then, rising, she lifts the telephone and calls Andy again.
"Andrea Walsch spea… Claire?"
"Yeah, Andy, it's me again." Her voice is dispirited, but steady. "I don't think I'm going to come down there anymore."
"Why not? What's going on? What's the matter?"