Forget Me Not (17 page)

Dr. Terrien eyed him closely as if trying to determine whether Gabe was pulling his leg.

"No remarks?" Gabe prompted.

"Well"—the doctor shifted uncomfortably in his chair— "I don't know much about international concerns, Gabriel. I'm sure this information would be of interest to the DIA or the FBI, who will be glad to hear it when they debrief you. But they won't do that until you have your memory back. For now, I don't think it's wise to dwell on memories that are so... volatile in nature."

Gabe could barely contain a disbelieving snort. "You want me to forget what I've remembered?" he rephrased, struck by the absurdity of it.

Dr. Terrien gave him a look that was equal parts concern and reprimand. "I want you to leave the trauma of your captivity at rest for as long as possible. There are other, more healing memories to recover first. You'll need them in order to cope with the rest."

Gabe stared at the doctor in disbelief. From the point of view of security, Dr. Terrien's advice was ludicrous. "But I remember now. I can't just file this shit away and pretend it isn't important. Christ!"

The doctor heaved a sigh and rubbed his chin. "There is something you should know, Gabriel," he said after a reflective moment "I didn't mention it before, because I thought you had enough to deal with."

Gabe's spine stiffened and the muscles in his back clamped down. "What?" he demanded.

"A common side effect of PTSD is paranoia," the doctor said gently. "Even after the trauma, a victim continues to perceive a threat. The body and the mind have been conditioned to do this. It's perfectly natural. In this case, you may simply be imagining that your attackers pose a threat to your country. The threat may not be real."

Gabe refused to digest what the man was telling him. "You think I'm making this up," he concluded. His temple began to throb again, close to his right eye.

"No, no," the other man was quick to assure him. "Some of your recollections are real, there's no question," Dr. Terrien comforted. "But your projections about the future and the intentions of your captors may be fabrications of your mind. You can't be sure, my friend."

Gabe clamped his jaw shut. He was too pissed off to respond with anything remotely civil. The silence grew taut as it stretched between them.

"How about this," Dr. Terrien finally proposed. "Why don't you take notes on your dreams, and next week we'll review them. We'll separate your memories from your projections and take action if you still want to. Believe me, Gabriel, you don't want to carry these feelings with you forever. You can trust me on this one."

Gabe gave a humorless laugh and rubbed his throbbing temple. Could he? Dr. Terrien was asking him to ignore his training as a warrior, as a protector of the people. On the other hand, the advice made awful sense in light of what had happened this morning.

Maybe he hadn't been hit by a cop car. Maybe a tourist had nicked him by accident and he'd imagined the rest. Policemen trying to run him down—how unlikely was that? North Koreans selling cyberspace technology to terrorists— maybe. Both stories sounded like fabrications. What if he'd made them up?

Christ, he was glad he hadn't mentioned the incident this morning. Next thing he knew, he'd be locked in a padded cell.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, the doctor had a point. Perhaps he ought to consider his memories with skepticism. If they were just a figment of his imagination, he could sure as hell breathe easier. He wouldn't have to fret about his country's vulnerabilities, wouldn't have to glance over his shoulder thinking someone was after him. He'd know it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

But, Jesus, if he was in that bad a shape, he'd never be a SEAL again. He tugged his hair until his scalp hurt, wondering how he would ever discern between truth and fiction.

"Why don't we call it a day," the doctor gently suggested. "I've given you plenty to think about. I don't want you to worry, Gabriel. Paranoia is a normal part of PTSD. As you regain your memories, the paranoia will fade. Take each day as it comes, and don't let your memories distress you. Call me over the weekend if you feel you need to," he added kindly.

Mumbling his thanks, Gabe shook the doctor's hand and stumbled back into the waiting room, where Helen sat jotting notes to herself. She looked from him to the doctor, her brow puckering with concern.

"Helen, my dear, could I borrow you for a minute?" Dr. Terrien inquired.

Gabe repressed a groan and threw himself into a soft chair. Great. Now the doctor was going to tell his wife he was a fucking paranoid.

He watched Helen trail the doctor back into his office. She tossed a worried glance over her shoulder.

Gabe grappled with the urge to pick up the coffee table and throw it. Helen would come out thinking he belonged in a psycho ward. She'd never trust her heart with him now.

At eight o'clock, shortly after choking down a dinner of dried chicken and peas, Gabe got the call he'd been dreading.

"It's me, sir," Sebastian said. His dampening tone told Gabe everything he needed to know.

"Go ahead," he said, bracing himself for the final blow.

A subtle pause on the other end. "According to the local police, there were no officers on patrol in this area at six in the morning," Sebastian said quickly.

It wasn't like the information was unexpected. Nonetheless, it lodged uncomfortably in Gabe's mind. "What about the name Manning?' he asked in a strangled voice.

He could picture Sebastian shaking his head on the other end. "They have no officers by that name," he said without inflection.

Gabe blinked several times. He had pretty much a photographic memory. And he could picture the Chrysler with perfect clarity, its shiny paint, the glinting chrome. It was hard to believe he could have invented such detail.

"Here's the deal, Master Chief," he forced himself to say. "The PTSD makes me paranoid. My doctor said so. I appreciate you looking into the matter for me. I don't think it happened."

Sebastian kept quiet for a long time, no doubt processing what it meant for his lieutenant to be paranoid. It meant he wouldn't be a SEAL again anytime soon. "How did you hurt your shoulder then?" he asked.

Gabe shook his head. "I don't know. Something happened; I just don't know what. Maybe I blacked out and fell on something."

"Dios,"
the NCO muttered. A lengthy pause followed as he hunted for the right words to say. "Call me if something similar happens," he invited.

"Will do." Gabe glanced up at his family. Helen was scrubbing dishes at the sink. Mallory dried and put them away. Both pretended they weren't listening. For their sakes, he hoped he wouldn't have to call the NCO again. "Sebastian," he added, a bitter taste in his mouth, "don't tell anyone about this."

"No, sir. The platoon will be back tomorrow. First squad will get together soon."

The compassion in Sebastian's voice made Gabe want to crawl under the carpet and die. "You bet," he said, clinging to his dignity. "Thanks for your help."

"Anytime."

When he put the phone down, he noticed his fingers were shaking. He looked up and found both Helen and Mallory eyeing him inquiringly.

"Was that the master chief?" Helen asked, drying her hands on her apron.

"Yeah." Gabe shoved his hands into the rear pocket of his jeans. "He, uh, he says the guys'll be in tomorrow. They'll be wanting to get together."

"Oh, great." She gave him an uncertain smile. "Maybe we can have a gathering on our deck."

He gave a brisk nod. "Sure, as soon as I finish sanding it." He cleared his throat. He needed to be alone, to brood over the horrifying fact that his mind was playing tricks on him. "I'm going to tuck in early tonight." He glanced at Mallory, whose face fell.

"But I wanted us to walk on the beach together," she cried.

Gabe glanced at Helen, who remained notably quiet. The urge to bury his head in a pillow conflicted with the equally powerful yearning to walk on the beach, maybe reach for his wife's hand...

But then he pictured a sniper setting up his weapon in the dunes. With a long-range, infrared laser scope, he could take Gabe out in an instant—maybe even his wife and kid, too.

The threat was as unlikely as it was ridiculous, he knew. His paranoia was getting the better of him. "It's getting dark," he said, his gaze darting out the window at the mauve sky. "I don't want you walking the dog in the dark."

They gave him identical looks of incredulity.

"Well, then, come with us," Mallory reasoned aloud.

Gabe fought his illogical fear. There was no sniper. He knew that. At the same time, he was certain he hadn't blacked out while taking a jog. He remembered every second of the incident with perfect clarity. In that case, someone really
was
after him. If so, he was more of a liability to his family than a shield. They'd been walking the dog alone for a year now without incident. But if he were the target for some faceless enemy, he'd be jeopardizing their lives by joining them.

"Forget it," he said, turning away from them with self-directed anger. "Go without me. I need some sleep."

As he stalked toward the sanctuary of the study, he overheard Mallory's whispered comment. "Something is going on with Dad."

Damn right, something was going on with him. He was losing his fucking mind. And unless his memories resurfaced soon, he'd turn into one of those pathetic Vietnam vets that never got his life back on track.

He'd be a burden on taxpayers indefinitely.

Helen laid her purchase on the counter at Expressions, Leila's dance studio, and dug in her purse for her checkbook.

"I knew you'd like this green one," Leila said, ringing up the spandex halter top and slipping it into a bag. "You're one of the few people I know who looks good in lettuce green," she added, giving Helen a searching look. "How are things going?" she asked, darting a look at the only other customer, a woman browsing through the racks of leotards.

Helen made a face and shrugged. "In some ways... great," she admitted. "Having him home—it's nothing like I expected."

One of Leila's dark eyebrows arched.

"Gabe's so different now," Helen elaborated. "He used to hate being home. He couldn't wait to get back to work. Even when he took leave, he used to pore over paperwork." She shook her head, unable to reconcile the differences.

"He's not like that now?" Leila prompted, sounding skeptical.

"Not at all. He seems content to be with us. He's got all these home projects that he's working on. Sanding the deck, doing the laundry. He's even training the dog to behave."

"Doesn't he seem, you know, depressed?' Leila queried, pitching her voice discreetly.

Helen considered how he'd looked this morning when she'd found him on the deck, just sitting there gazing out at the ocean. "Sometimes," she admitted. "Not depressed, exactly, just thoughtful. I think he's coming to terms with the memories that are returning. He was tortured pretty badly," she added, her heart constricting with pity.

"You don't think that makes him dangerous."

Helen considered the night he'd nearly strangled her to death. "Not really," she answered, unwilling to share what had transpired then. "What's the total?"

Leila pushed a key on the register and named a price.

"His psychiatrist says I'm safe," Helen added, scribbling the sum into her checkbook. "But he does think that Gabe is suffering paranoid delusions because of the trauma. I didn't believe him, at first, but then last night, Gabe seemed afraid to leave the house."

"Afraid?" Leila scoffed. "Gabe's never been afraid of anything in his life."

"I know it's—" Helen ripped out the check and handed it to her friend. "It's weird."

"Doesn't that concern you? I mean, it sounds like he spends a lot of time alone with Mallory."

Helen took offense to the warning while soothing herself that Leila was only looking out for their best interests. "I'm not worried about him and Mallory. He's been great with her. Right now he's got Mallory and Reggie helping him sand the deck. Mal enjoys the heck out of it, but she's picked up on Gabe's disquiet."

"Maybe he needs to get out more," Leila suggested, "so he can see that he's safe now. Why don't you take him to dinner?"

"I can't believe you're telling me to do that," Helen replied.

"For his well-being," Leila corrected. "He has to get his bearings again, that's all."

"That's what his doctor says." She took the bag Leila handed her. "I think I will."

Leila grabbed her hand and clung to it a moment. "Be careful, Helen," she said. "I know he seems different now but... you don't know that he's going to stay that way. You don't know he's not dangerous, either to you or to your heart."

"I hear you," Helen said, thankful for her friend's concern. "It's just that..." She hesitated, wondering how to put into words the feelings Gabe was stirring in her lately, feelings of concern and compassion and genuine amity. Added to the physical attraction she'd always felt for him, those feelings were eroding her determination to live without him. "He's getting to me, you know?" she admitted, imploring Leila to understand. "It's like he really wants to connect with me, to be the husband he's never been. I find myself thinking it would be so nice to let him hold me. I mean, it's obvious he wants to."

Leila put her elbows on the counter and studied her face. "What you're saying is you want to sleep with him," she interpreted.

"Well, he
is
my husband," Helen defended herself. "And when he looks at me now, it's not in that predatory way that he used to look at me. It's like he's waiting patiently for me to come to him."

"You'll regret it," Leila predicted. "He'll suck you in and spit you out. How many times has he done that in the past? Helen, you've got to protect yourself."

"I know." It was true. Every time Gabe had showered her with attention, Helen had reported the heartwarming news to Leila, only to turn to Leila again when Gabe receded, eager to leave on his next mission. "But I miss the intimacy. I just want to be touched again," she admitted as yearning grew in her. "Do you know how long it's been?"