Acts of Honor, page 8
She glanced at the monitor. “What’s that in Joe’s room?” A white cylinder of some sort.
“A trash drum. William put it in there last night as a barrier between him and ADR—er, Joe.”
Brilliant move. Joe would use it as a weapon against William—successfully, judging by his attack on her. “Thanks,” she said, then walked on to the main door.
The buzzer sounded. She went through, entering the wing, walked down the corridor, and then stopped in the hallway outside Joe’s room. Her hands shook, her heart beat hard and fast, threatening to rupture through her chest wall, and tiny beads of sweat broke out on her skin and trickled down between her breasts. She was scared, and smart enough to admit it. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? But she was determined that this second attempt to get to know her patient would end far differently from her first. She glanced down at her lab coat. Blue flowers, black slacks and top. Not a speck of white anywhere.
The room’s door buzzer sounded.
A shiver slithered up her backbone. Shaking it off, she sent up a quick prayer. Please, please let me be wrong about him. Please!
She took in a deep breath and then opened the door and paused at its threshold. Joe sat on the floor, leaning back against the far wall, his head lolled back and his chin thrust upward, dark with a stubbly five o’clock shadow. He was an attractive man. Strong face, fit, with broad shoulders capable of carrying a lot of weight. He didn’t look at her or give any signal that he had heard her enter, but he knew she was there. She sensed it down to her bones. Just as she sensed that, regardless of challenges and ethics, she was not wrong. God help her, he was the one. “Joe?” Shutting out her personal feelings, she gripped the edge of the door and waited for him to acknowledge her.
No reaction.
Emotional numbing? Maybe. Maybe avoidance. Sara set the trash drum out in the hall, then stepped back inside. The door shut behind her, and her mouth went dry. He was straitjacketed, but he had removed one before and could again. He could lunge at her at any moment, and she feared him. After the attack, what woman or doctor in her right mind wouldn’t fear him? She mentally prepared for defense and focused intently, watching for early warning signs. “Joe?”
He swiveled his gaze to her. His eyes narrowed, gleamed like steel shards caught in the sun. “Is Joe my name?”
He didn’t know? There’d been nothing about amnesia in his chart. Had to be suppression, not amnesia. Maybe the white lab coat bad brought back a memory that triggered the attack. Or the attack could have triggered a memory. It could have happened either way.
“I asked you a question.” He stared up at her. “Is Joe my name?”
“No. No, it’s not.” A lucid moment! Excited, Sara swallowed hard. “I don’t know your name, but I didn’t want to call you by your patient number, so I named you Joe. Is that all right?”
“Would it matter?” He leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “Does what I want ever matter?”
“All the time, to me.” Sara wanted to walk over to him, to sit down beside him, and get the lines of communication open. But she didn’t dare to move. Not yet. The bond between them was too fragile and new. Joe needed time to adjust and to accept her being here, and she needed time to gauge him and to work past her fear. His chart was pitifully absent of notes. So far, she hadn’t seen signs of shock or disbelief, or fear or grief—all of which were essential elements to a PTSD diagnosis. But she had noticed disorientation and the episodic rage earlier, and she was picking up on a sense of betrayal now. Betrayal trauma was prevalent in war veterans and sexually abused children, and both often experienced psychogenic amnesia to maintain attachment, which greatly enhanced their chances for survival and return to mental health. So some of the classic symptoms of PTSD were present, including maybe emotional numbing and psychogenic amnesia.
“I don’t care what you call me.” Bracing against the wall, Joe stood up.
Mesmerized, she stared at him. “I’m Dr. Sara West,” she said, wishing her voice sounded stronger and held more authority. With the rasp, it sounded as husky as a bourbon baritone. “Do you know where you are right now?”
He looked around the stark room. “The white place.” His pupils intensified to points, and his face paled. “Get me out of here.”
“I will as soon as I can.” Sara licked her lips. He was at least six-two, powerful shoulders, lean and in good condition. More evidence that he was Foster’s operative—and that he could snap her neck in two seconds, if he chose to do so. Her knees went weak. “Do you remember attacking me earlier?”
He looked at her as if she should be locked up. “I don’t attack women.”
No recollection whatsoever, and he clearly and genuinely deemed the attack totally out of character for himself. That was good news in her book.
“I’m tired of people messing with my mind.”
“I’m not messing with your mind.”
He slid her a skeptical look. “If I attacked you, then why did you come back?”
Valid question. “I’m your doctor.” She shrugged. “I can’t help you if I don’t see you.”
He stared at her so hard she felt sure he was seeing just how afraid she was of him. “You don’t attack women?” she asked, letting him hear her need for reassurance. In her experience, exposing her vulnerabilities often aroused an inherent desire in the patient to protect and defend her.
“No, I do not.”
Even straitjacketed he maintained the military posture. That too was telling. “What do you do?”
Opening his mouth, he started to speak but stopped, clamped his jaw shut, and said nothing. Tense moments passed, and then he stiffened his shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “I want out of here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it here. I want out.” He dragged an impatient hand through his dark hair. How did he do that straitjacketed? “I want out—now.”
Sara considered the risks. Some innate instinct was telling her to get him out of this room, but if she did and he turned on her again, she’d be out of luck, and he could hurt himself—or someone else. She couldn’t risk it. Not yet. The other patients too would be vulnerable. “I understand, Joe. As soon as it’s safe, I’ll get you moved.”
He rolled his eyes back in his head. “That’s what they all say.”
She had to prove herself different. Fast. She was losing him already. “I’m not one of them. I’m a private doctor who agreed to come here short-term to work with five patients who are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. You’re one of them. I don’t like the military much, and I don’t give a damn what the others did, I do things my way.”
“Then why come here?”
“Because here is where the research grant is, and here is where you are.” She gave him an imp’s smile. “And the other four patients.”
No response. But he studied her intently, gauging her.
She stepped closer, leaving about eight feet between them. Showing a growing trust, yet still close enough to make it to the door, if necessary. One thing she knew was that she couldn’t go toe-to-toe with Joe in a physical altercation and win. Unusual, considering her training, but a fact. And she had the bruised neck and raw throat to prove it. “Earlier, you told me, ‘I wept.’ What did you mean by that?”
His expression hardened, turned as unflinching as his eyes. He let his gaze drift wall to wall, ceiling to floor. When he looked back at her, he had totally detached. “Get out.”
“I need to talk with you.” She stared at his back, determined not to show fear by moving toward the door. “I want to help you, Joe. I can’t do that if every time I come in here, you attack me or force me to leave.”
He glared at her over the slope of his shoulder, his face a contorted mask of rage. “Damn it, I told you to get out. Do it—now!”
He began shaking, head to toe, as if it were all he could do to hold himself in place. He was fighting against an urge to attack her, she realized. Fighting it, hard. “I’ll be back.” She motioned at the monitor for the attendant to open the door. “Koloski.”
“Get me out soon.” Anguish again flooded Joe’s face. “Please.”
It ripped at her heart. “Just as soon as I can.”
He stiffened, his eyes wild. “Go!”
The door buzzed. Sara rushed through it, yanked it closed behind her. Joe stormed across the room, slammed his body against the door. Pressing his face against the cool Plexiglas window so he could see out, he pounded on the door with his fists.
Sara watched him work through his rage in awe. Stunned. Overwhelmed. And so happy she feared she might cry.
Joe had protected her. From himself.
He was attaching.
five
For the next three days, Sara watched him.
Sometimes from the window leading into his room. Sometimes on the monitor. Joe pulled at her, intrigued and fascinated her, professionally and personally. That cost her sleepless nights, where her emotions and ethics collided with no resolution in sight.
While she battled her demons, so did he. On occasion, Joe won. On others, he lost ground. But always he fought an admirable fight. At times, he knew she was there. He’d watch her as closely as she watched him. At other times, he seemed unaware, and yet there was something in the tilt of his head, in the shift of his shoulder, that warned her he was aware after all, and he too was observing.
It was a challenging means of building trust and forming bonds. Progress came slowly. But it was coming. Little by little, his hesitations were growing longer before shutting her out.
She leaned against the door outside his room, lectured herself to bury her personal feelings and to summon her professional and common sense, and then rolled her shoulder against the wall to look through the window. Sitting on the floor against the far wall, he slung his arms over his bent knees. His feet were bare, his pajama bottoms stretched tight across his thighs. When he lifted his head and looked right at her, her heart rate kicked up, beating faster and harder, and she sent him silent messages. Trust me, Joe. Let me into your world so I can help you. Her breath blew against the Plexiglas window and fanned back over her face. You matter to me. Won’t you trust me enough to let me help you?
He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze searching and then skeptical. He teetered there on the edge for a full minute, torn between refusing her and taking that leap of faith.
She fisted her hands against the door, either side of the window. Come on, Joe. Do it. Take the chance and do it!
His resolve wavered. Skepticism faded to doubt, and he frowned; a hard, grim frown that tugged down the sides of his mouth and hardened his eyes to that same flinty gray as when he’d attacked her.
Refusing to buckle, Sara stood firm, continued to hope and pray he would let her into his world.
Confusion creased his brow. He stood up, walked closer to the door, and then stopped. Sara pressed her hand against the glass, palm flat. Please, Joe. Please!
He hesitated, stared at her palm for a long moment, and then lifted his hand to touch the glass. Yes, Joe. Yes. Come on. Come on.
Mere inches away, he suddenly stopped.
No, Joe. No, don’t shut me out. Panic surged through her. Please don’t shut me out. I want so much to help you.
He blinked hard, stepped back and shrugged, shunning her. Then he turned away.
Damn it! Disappointment rammed through her. The back of her nose tingled, and her eyes burned, then blurred. I won’t give up on you. I’ll never give up on you. Sara sucked in a sharp breath and backed away from the glass.
Tomorrow, she’d try again. There was solace in knowing she would, in knowing that despite his superior physical strength, she was emotionally stronger. Her will had always been her greatest asset, and she would use every ounce of it to get through to Joe. Every single ounce.
This is becoming personal, Sara. You’re failing at compartmentalizing.
The accuracy of her conscience’s warning warranted a sigh. Joe was gorgeous, fascinating, and intriguing, but none of that lured her as much as knowing he was hurting and he needed her. That mattered, maybe more than it should. But what was wrong with wanting to stop someone’s pain, with feeling needed?
Nothing. But not like this. Not by a patient. There’s nothing clinical about this. Or professional.
Sara’s stomach rumbled and roiled. Rebellion fell to virtue. This kind of involvement was personal and wrong. He might be the one, and like it or not, accept it or not, he had snagged a corner of her heart, but she couldn’t stay on as his doctor. Not feeling this way. And yet she couldn’t walk away or he would die.
What choices were left? She couldn’t go or stay.
What could she do?
He lay on his side on the cloud, his knees drawn to his chest.
Doctors. He hated them all. But what had made him hate them? Why couldn’t he recall? What had the enemy done to him?
Seeking clues, he summoned the images, but they refused to come. Anger and frustration churned in his stomach, tightened his chest, stirred the rage. He stood, paced, and fought the anger, silently repeating his mantra. I’m patient. I’m not pushing too hard. I’m patient . . .
A snapshot image of Sara flitted through his mind. It calmed him, though he didn’t know why. She was a scrap of a woman with wheat-blond hair that hung straight to her chin. Maybe it was her eyes. She had remarkable green eyes that saw straight through to a man’s soul and made him damn glad they did. He still couldn’t figure that one out. Eyes that made a man see too much were dangerous. So why did they tempt him? Why did she?
She’s a doctor and you don’t hate her.
No white. No red. She wasn’t like them. No, he didn’t hate her.
So why make her afraid of you?
She had been afraid of him, yet she hadn’t cowered or run, she’d trusted him. Didn’t that prove she wasn’t the enemy? The pinpoint red beam of light ricocheted off the walls of his mind. Maybe the enemy was deliberately confusing him again.
No. He clamped his jaw and gritted his teeth, shutting out doubt. Her eyes had been clear, not clouded by deceit. She couldn’t be one of them. She really wanted to help him. When he had shut her out, hadn’t she been about to cry?
She had been, and that made him feel like hell. He didn’t let people get that close; he sensed it strongly. So why her? There must be a good reason.
She nearly cried out of gratitude because you didn’t hurt her again. You bruised her throat.
Memories of him brutally attacking her flashed through his mind. He had choked her. Appalled, he stilled, not trusting the images. Couldn’t have done that. He didn’t attack women!
You attacked Sara.
He denied it. But the images were too sharp, too clear, too vivid. He stared at his hands in disbelief, saw his fingers clenched around her throat, and his hands began to shake. He shook all over, and a sick feeling welled up in his stomach. Guilt and shame suffused him. God forgive him, he had nearly choked her to death.
He recoiled, rebelling. Never before in his life—not even when he’d walked in and caught his ex-wife and best friend having sex—had he struck a woman, much less nearly murdered one.
Whoa, wait. Wait. He’d had a wife? A best friend who’d betrayed him?
He had. But why did he remember that and so little else? Shank had said that his memory could return in snatches.
You nearly murdered Sara with your bare hands.
Shocked to his soul, he felt his stomach muscles clamp down. Cold fear fused with the guilt and shame. What kind of man had he become? What had the enemy done to change him into this—this bastard monster?
He slammed back against the padded wall and slid down into a crouch. All of his life, he had lived by his own code of honor. He must have. What man didn’t? Now, it was crumbling, disappearing—he was crumbling and disappearing—and he didn’t know why. He didn’t know . . . why.
You hurt her. Damn near killed her.
He had. And somewhere deep inside, he knew he’d killed before.
He stared at the little window in the door, terrified for her, of himself. Who—why—had he killed? Why had he nearly killed Sara?
She was sick with fear of you. But she’s strong. She came back, and she will come again.
She had come back. After what he had done, that had taken guts. And she had watched him. Often. Openly from the door. He’d felt her gaze at times he hadn’t been able to see her, too. God, how he’d felt it. Good and warm and strong, it stretched down, straight into his soul, and helped him fight the rage.
The enemy doesn’t help, it invades. Of course she wants to help. She’s not the enemy, Major. She’s safe.
Major? Excitement shimmered through his limbs, down his arms to his fingertips. Was he a major, then?
He strained to recall. Pressure tore at his temples. Okay. Okay, I’m patient. I’m not pushing too hard. He rubbed at his left temple, pulled up the warmth he felt from Sara. No red. No white. Sara could be safe.
She is safe. You know the drill. Trust your instincts.
The drill. The drill?
Duty first. Accomplish the mission. Whatever, wherever, whenever.
Shadow Watchers. The creed! He rubbed, at his jaw, his nape. Yes. Yes, he remembered it. He remembered the creed.
He rolled onto his back on the padded floor and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the bright light that made his eyes ache, the white walls, ceiling, and floor. The creed. He was a Shadow Watcher.
But who are they? What do they do? And why does Sara want to help you?
No idea. Yet instinctively Sara seemed somehow familiar. Distantly familiar. Did she know him? Or maybe he knew her.
No. No. You never met. You knew of her.
How? Did she know why he was here? How he’d gotten here?
More importantly, where is here? And who are you?
