Trauma (13 page)

“You don't know—you don't know,” Abington mumbled. He periodically stopped rubbing to run his fingers over his newly shaved pate.

“What don't I know?” Carrie asked.

“I don't belong here.”

“I know you're scared, Steve. But we're here to help.”

Abington shook that off. “It's not all right. I don't belong here.” His voice rose in pitch and volume. “You don't know.”

“Steve, take it easy.”

Abington went still. His arms dropped to his lap.

Carrie let out a relieved breath, wishing that she'd waited for Dr. Finley or Dr. Kauffman before starting the consultation. Dr. Finley had warned her that patients could be highly agitated pre-op. They were fragile following the virtual reality treatment.

“Steve, let me explain what—”

Abington reached out and seized her by the throat, pressing on her windpipe. Shocked, Carrie started to panic, her eyes bugging out, able to take only tiny gasps of air. She reeled backward, pulling Abington off the exam table. As he dropped to the floor, Abington let go of her throat, so Carrie whirled around and sprang for the door. But Abington charged her. With speed that belied his earlier torpor, he snatched the back of Carrie's flapping lab coat just as she was within reach of the door handle. He pulled her toward him and she fell back into his arms, then he spun Carrie around to face him.

His mouth formed a fearsome snarl—from lifeless to rabid in a matter of moments. His sedative must have worn off, revealing murder in his eyes.

“I don't belong here,” he hissed in her face. “Got to get out!”

His back was to the door she had closed for their interview, and hers was to the counter and medicine cabinet. Carrie wriggled free from Abington's grasp.

“Somebody please help me!” Carrie yelled, though it was doubtful anyone would hear her. The walls were made of thick concrete, and the nurses' station was located way down the hall. Carrie flashed on an idea and turned her back to Abington to focus on the locked supply cabinet.

“Help!” Carrie cried out again. “Somebody help!”

From behind, Carrie heard Abington gibber unintelligibly. Carrie fumbled in her pocket for the keys. Did she dare risk turning her head? She could not resist. Abington paced in front of the door like a caged animal. He took a step toward Carrie and said, “I'm not here. I don't belong here.”

He could have left the room, but he wanted something else. He wanted her. Carrie retrieved the keys, but her hands shook so violently it could be impossible to work the lock.
Which key opens the damn cabinet, anyway?

Carrie fumbled with the keys some more. There were too many attached to the ring. She heard Abington take another step toward her. One. Single. Step. Carrie's throat ached where he had grabbed her. The soldier's labored breaths seemed to come from every corner of the room.

Carrie located a small key among the jumble on her ring and tried to jam it into the lock. No good. Wrong fit. She searched for another. The cabinet was made of metal; otherwise she would have broken the glass.

“Help!” Carrie yelled.

There was another small key on the ring. But was it the same one she had just tried?

Abington muttered, “Listen to me. I don't belong here.” Carrie jammed the second key into the lock, and this time it fit. The lock turned easily and Carrie ripped open the door. Mixed in with a number of medical supplies she found various vials of medication and several wrapped syringes.

“I don't belong here,” Abington said from someplace behind her.

Carrie fumbled through many vials of medicine, until she found the Valium. She held the Valium in one hand, and used her teeth to rip open a syringe package. Carrie kept her back to Abington as she worked to get the syringe inserted into the top of the vial.

“Steve, it's okay. You're going to be okay. Please believe me. I'm going to give you a shot to calm you down.”

Carrie filled the syringe just as Abington charged and struck her in the back. His momentum slammed Carrie against the lip of the counter hard enough to take away her breath. Abington wrapped his arms around her waist and together they tumbled to the floor. Carrie held on to the syringe with her life. She twisted underneath him, intending to claw at his face. But Abington flipped her onto her back and dug his knees into her ribs hard enough she feared he'd snap her sternum.

Once again Abington took hold of Carrie's throat, but this time he did not squeeze. “Where's Smokes? Hunter. Is Hunter here? What about Roach?” His voice was plaintive. “Roach!”

Carrie forced herself to stop struggling.

Just don't squeeze … please don't squeeze.

Years of surgery gave Carrie tremendous hand dexterity. She was able to position the syringe for an effective strike without drawing Abington's attention.

“Please, Steve, I'm not here to hurt you.”

“That you, Roach?” Abington said. “You got to get me out of here. I don't belong.”

Abington tightened his grip around Carrie's throat like a python readying to squeeze. She had one chance. One. It was hard to hit under normal circumstances. But induction time was everything. The drug needed to work and work fast. Abington squeezed some more. Carrie could still get air into her lungs, but it was barely a breath. Gurgling noises bubbled up from her throat, from all the saliva that had no place to go.

One chance … one …

Abington's jugular vein pulsed like a thick blue target. Carrie swung her arm in a wide arc. Abington leaned away from the strike and his body position shifted. Instead of hitting his neck, Carrie slammed the needle into Abington's shoulder, right into the muscle. It would delay induction, but she depressed the plunger anyway.

Carrie tried to speak, but no words came out. She left the syringe dangling in Abington's arm and used her fingers to try and pry Abington's hands free. Abington acted unfazed. He pressed harder on Carrie's throat. The loss of oxygen started to get to her, and she couldn't control her panic. She kicked and bucked wildly, but could not toss him. Her legs began to spasm and her eyes watered.

This isn't how I'm supposed to die.…

Gripped by panic, Carrie thrashed beneath Abington, kicking over a metal stool that clattered noisily to the floor, but it was no use. He would not let go. She felt herself slip into unconsciousness. Her body became heavy, Novocain for blood. Carrie closed her eyes. She did not want the last thing she'd see to be the face of her murderer.

And then she was filled with a sense of profound peace, of weightlessness. She felt her fear fall away as the darkness grew deeper and darker.

In the very next moment Carrie could breathe again, and the room went from dark to bright. The feeling of weightlessness slipped away as she blinked her eyes open. Dr. Finley knelt beside her. He looked as worried as her father might.

“Carrie, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Through her blurred vision, Carrie saw Dr. Kauffman and a sizable orderly restraining Abington.

 

CHAPTER 17

David Hoffman carried two drinks over to the table where Adam Bryant sat waiting. The young veteran had called unexpectedly and invited him to coffee in Hopkinton, so David, worried that Adam could easily return to his shell, canceled his plans with Gabby and Emma. David didn't like to disappoint Gabby, but he'd bring her to the children's museum some other day.

“You take it black, right?” David said, setting down a steaming mug.

Adam took a sip in response.

“Usually, I drink tea these days, the chosen beverage of the Afghan people, but for whatever reason I'm in the mood for a good cup of joe.”

David had shown up fifteen minutes early and found Adam already there, his jean jacket and faded T-shirt fitting the coffee shop's bohemian vibe. Adam's darting eyes and alert posture told David he'd chosen their seats deliberately, with the best sight lines and quick access to the exit. Adam's training and caution had kept him alive during the war. His body might be thousands of miles from Afghan soil, but certain instincts remained.

David settled in his comfy chair with his espresso. Compared to the stuff they served in the Middle East, this coffee tasted like water.

He'd thought he had a shot at a Reuters job that would send him to Saudi Arabia, but evidently his reputation still preceded him. David knew he would get back in those good graces eventually, so the setback was not overly discouraging. Besides, his story on PTSD was too important to rush. He wanted to tell it right, and Adam's perspective would help.

“I'm glad you called,” David said. “I didn't think you would.”

“Yeah,” Adam replied. “I wasn't sure myself. Figured the least I owed you was an apology.”

“You don't owe me anything, Adam. I just want to get your story out there. If you're willing to share.”

Adam inspected David's face. “Nose looks pretty good,” he said. “Look, I'm really sorry I lost my cool.”

“I was pushy. I asked for it.”

Adam didn't disagree.

“Do you mind if I take notes?” David asked.

“No, man, you gotta get it right.”

David took out his pad and pen. “So how do you want to begin?”

“I'm not sure. Hard to say what got me all screwed up.”

“You mean there wasn't a specific incident?”

The corners of Adam's mouth ticked up a couple degrees into the hint of a smile. “It was
all
a specific incident, man.”

“Start wherever you'd like, whatever feels natural.” David acted as if they had all the time in the world.

If Adam had been privy to the terse conversation David had had with Anneke on his drive to Hopkinton, he would know that was not the case. She continued to hound David for the story, and he continued to come up with appropriate delay tactics. So far he had interviewed the two other vets he'd mentioned to Anneke, spoken with an administrator at Walter Reed, networked with a retired brigadier general, and read several books on PTSD that covered everything from science to sociology. The books were enlightening, but they could not adequately convey the depth of pain David saw in Adam's eyes.

Adam seemed lost for words.

“What was it like for you over there?” David said. “How about describing a typical day.”

Adam thought. “Well, I guess on a typical day you'd do PT from zero five thirty, and it could go until the CO wanted to puke. Most of the time it was just an hour, though. PT, that's physical training.”

“Got the reference, but thanks.”

Adam said, “Then it's SSS—that's shower, shit, shave—before breakfast. Just the normal stuff. A lot of time it was real quiet. You know? Funny, because the quiet was the toughest part. It gave you time and space to think about stuff, home, all the things you missed, but mostly you focused on your friend who got blown up the other day. You had time to think that you were going out on patrol soon enough and maybe you'd get ‘blowed up' yourself.” Adam put the words “blowed up” inside air quotes.

“Basically, that was the life. It was patrol and post,” he continued. “We'd go out four or five hours in the morning, come back and eat something, then back on patrol, and then you'd have dinner and maybe do another patrol after that. Or sometimes you go out on patrol and some T-man is shooting your ass up. Or sometimes you didn't come back.”

David guessed “T-man” meant Taliban. He would check later, as he did not want to interrupt Adam's flow.

“You can come back from patrol so racked up,” Adam said. “Good luck getting any sleep. And then before you know it, you got PT all over again. And then boom—you're back on patrol, same as the day before. It's Groundhog Day over there.”

“Even the firefights?”

“Yeah, well that's the only break in the routine, but on a COP even that becomes routine. You know?”

David nodded as he jotted down the word “COP” in his notebook, something else to look up. “Can you tell me about one of the patrols where things did not go well?”

Watching Adam, David was reminded of friends who had embedded with U.S. forces in Iraq and Afghanistan and got shot at, or navigated an IED (or worse, did not), and who all came back haunted. David did not believe in ghosts, and his religious views bordered on agnostic, but those who came back often seemed burdened by a malevolent spirit that would not let them find peace.

Adam's expression shifted, like a shadow that crossed his face, as he seemed to settle on a particularly unpleasant memory.

“On my last tour we set up a COP in an abandoned school.” Adam's voice turned softer. “A COP is combat outpost, in case you were wondering.”

David made a note next to the abbreviation in his notebook.

“We were sleeping on cots with our guns and packs tossed around like a bunch of school kids on a camping trip,” Adam said. “The air there never circulated. It was so damn hot at night it was like sleeping in a sauna. The only breeze you'd catch is if the guy next to you cut wind. But you know the drill, right?”

“Patrol and post,” David said.

Adam looked pleased. “So I'm on patrol. The day before, we had some T-men shooting at us, and some kids from the village said they knew where they were. For ten bucks and a few Twix bars you can get all sorts of good intel from the locals. We took two fire teams out on a hunting expedition. We got an AK, RPK, RPG, lots of firepower with us. Going to get us some T-men.”

Adam's leg began to bounce, fast enough to shake the table. David kept his eyes on Adam while he silently moved their drinks to an adjacent table to avoid a spill.

“So we're following these kids on some shitty nothing road.” Adam's voice gained energy with the telling. “Moving west to east. The whole time I'm looking for upturned dirt. You see, predeployment training teaches you that upturned dirt could mean an IED. But let me tell you, the dirt's upturned everywhere you look. Everywhere. So any step could be it. Boom! Any single step.”