“I’m getting worse,” Nick said.
Dr. Morgan sat across from him in a tall, leather chair. He had no paper or notebook, no pencils to write with. Nick felt more comfortable knowing the psychiatrist wasn’t documenting his fall from mental stability.
Dr. Morgan folded his hands across his stomach. “Nick, your brother was kidnapped, there’s been an attempt on your life, and terrorists have decided to bomb the country until we withdraw our troops from Turkey.” He leaned forward. “Do you think it’s possible that these things have something to do with your worsening condition?”
Nick gave a reluctant shrug. He didn’t like hearing the events stated out loud, it sounded more dangerous that way.
Dr. Morgan continued, “Remember when we first spoke and I told you stressful situations could cause consequences? These headaches you’re suffering, the dizzy spells, these are all symptoms caused by stress. I promise that if you spent a month in Hawaii or, I don’t know, a cabin up in the mountains somewhere, you would find your headaches would subside. How are the breathing exercises going?”
“They work better on days that I’m not stepping over dead bodies.”
“My point exactly.”
Nick pointed out the window. “Doc, you don’t know what’s going on out there. How can you expect me to relax when terrorists are prowling the streets at night with missile launchers and canisters of plastic explosives?”
Dr. Morgan sighed. “If it wasn’t terrorists blowing up houses, it would be someone threatening to poison our water supply, or someone using chemical weapons. You’re looking at this situation as if it’s the final threat to our society that we will ever face. Long after you and I are gone, someone will be performing dastardly deeds on our culture. That will never end, and the sooner you realize that the better.”
Nick smiled. He could see the frustration on his shrinks face and was beginning to wonder who was affecting whom the most. He imaged Dr. Morgan fixing a drink and lighting up a cigarette the moment Nick left his office. Maybe glancing out the window for anyone suspicious.
“Doc, I see all of this deception played out by terrorists and generally we’ve come to expect it. It’s like playing a game of chess with an opponent who’s allowed to move any piece on the board in any direction they want, yet the FBI is restricted by law to move its pieces in only the direction the game allows.”
“It doesn’t seem fair does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“And what do you intend to do about that?” Dr. Morgan asked.
Nick looked out the window at nothing in particular. “I don’t know.”
“But it’s not going to be fair for terrorists is it?”
Nick shook his head. He was working on something, but nothing solid. Sometimes he just needed to let his mind float. That’s when his best ideas seemed to surface. “Whatever I do,” he said, “it’ll sure beat breathing exercises.”
Nick didn’t need to look over to know that Morgan was rolling his eyes.
“You’re still working toward getting out, aren’t you?” Morgan asked.
Nick knew precisely what he meant. He nodded. “Soon.”
Tommie Bracco woke to the low growl of his dog and instinctively rolled onto his stomach and reached under the pillow for his Glock. It was three-thirty in the morning and the German Shepherd stood still, glaring at an invisible sound from the front of the house, teeth exposed.
“Sheba,” Tommy whispered. “What is it?”
Sheba lifted her nose and sniffed in the direction of the open bedroom door. Tommy had won Sheba in a card game three years earlier and she proved to be a great asset. She was so protective of her owner that Tommy couldn’t play basketball in Sheba’s presence without her assaulting anyone trying to defend him. Unlike other dogs who would yelp at the first sign of an intruder, Sheba would lie in wait, a soft growl her only warning. She’d rather sink her teeth into the prowler than chase him away with a vicious bark- another quality Tommy loved about her.
Tommy eased out of bed wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and a fierce stare. He crouched down next to Sheba and felt the hairs bristled on the back of her neck. He gave her a quick pat, then crept down the dark corridor with the Glock hanging by his side. Tommy didn’t have an alarm system, but his house sat strategically in the middle of a cul-de-sac-a built-in barrier for anyone who might try casing the place. The neighbors in the bedroom community all knew each other and any unfamiliar vehicles were immediately conspicuous. Tommy was the single guy who made it a point to know everyone and even help build a fence or pitch in with the yard work when he could. One Christmas Eve, Tommy dressed up as Santa and made a special trek through the neighborhood, treating all the kids to presents he’d purchased himself. To his neighbors, Tommy was golden, and that’s just the way he wanted it.
Now he heard the sound of a car engine idling. It seemed close, definitely within the cul-de-sac. He saw the dim shadow of headlights moving across his living room wall. He decided to slip through the kitchen and sneak out the back door. Sheba was at his side, anxiously lifting her legs in a mock trot. She wanted a piece of the action, but Tommy wasn’t sure he could control her. “Stay put, sweetheart,” he said, squeezing through the narrowly opened door. She gave a slight whine as the door clicked shut behind him.
Tommy crept along the side of the house, the wet grass cool on his bare feet. He wondered what the neighbors might think if they saw him sneaking around in his underwear carrying a gun. A noise from the bushes beyond his pool startled him. He aimed the silenced gun at the bush and was about to squeeze off a quick round when a cat leapt out and ran across his lawn, jumping up and over his block fence before he could even put the weapon down.
He continued his slow advance to the front of the house. He peeked out from the corner of his one-story home and saw a black sedan with the passenger window open and a hand tossing a newspaper into the neighbor’s driveway. It rolled gradually past his house and another newspaper was flung into his driveway. Tommy grinned. Sheba was usually pretty accurate when it came to sensing danger. But even she was allowed an error every now and again, he thought.
As he turned to go back, he heard a faint clang, a metal on metal sound that seemed out of place. When he glanced back he saw the sedan still lingering in front of his house. Tommy looked down at his attire, as if maybe he’d grown a pair of pants since leaving the back door. When he looked up he caught a flash from the open window of the sedan and realized he had only a moment to react. He dove to the ground just before the blast ignited the house, propelling debris and waves of flames that rushed over his body as he covered his head for protection. He wasn’t sure if the blast had physically moved him or if he was simply disoriented. He thought he began on his stomach, but now he was on his back, his legs kicking in the air.
The explosion deafened him so he couldn’t know how loud he was cursing as he frantically brushed live embers from his bare skin. He also couldn’t hear his wooden-framed home teetering like a house of cards. When he finally managed to extinguish himself, he braved a peek back just in time to see his roof collapsing. A segment of exterior wall began to drop and before Tommy could scramble away from the structure, it toppled towards him and landed flush across his back. His head was jolted down into the earth. The last thing he remembered thinking was, “Sheba.”