The Nostradamus File

CHAPTER TWENTY

Counseling.

The word was uncomfortable. In Nick's mind, going to a shrink meant you'd failed. It meant there was something you couldn't handle on your own. He'd been handling things on his own as long as he could remember. He'd told Selena that and she'd said maybe that was the problem. It had made him angry.

It was because he'd struck out at Selena in his sleep that he was here in this office. That, and the fact that whenever he thought about his mother he felt nothing. Wasn't he supposed to feel something? It was as if he'd buried the feelings somewhere and forgotten where he put them. All he felt when he thought about her was guilty for not feeling more.

He was having the Afghanistan nightmare every night. He was tired. Tired meant he could make a mistake that would get someone killed. He felt stretched out like a high, tight wire over a bottomless pit. If counseling could make the dreams go away, it was worth the confrontation with his pride.

The waiting area was quiet. The carpet was wall to wall, a soft gray under foot. He sat on one of the chairs and tapped his fingers on his knee. The furniture was comfortable. A copy of a Paul Klee painting hung on one wall. Nick liked Klee. Seeing the picture there helped. Someone who liked Klee couldn't be all bad. Maybe it would be okay.

The door to the inner office opened. The man standing there was older than Nick by a few years. He wore khaki slacks, comfortable brown shoes and a checked shirt open at the collar. He'd been Special Forces and came recommended. He was about Nick's height and a little heavier. His left sleeve was pinned up against his shoulder.

"Nick? I'm Dave Milton. Come on in."

They shook hands. Milton gestured to a chair. "Have a seat."

"Do I call you Doctor or what?"

"Doctor is fine. Doc, if you prefer." He sat down in a wingback chair a few feet away. Nick looked around. A half dozen diplomas, an Army discharge certificate and several award plaques hung on the walls.

"Let me guess," Milton said. "Marines?"

"Recon. Thirteen years."

Milton nodded. "How did you hear about me?"

"A guy I know from Afghanistan."

Milton nodded.

Nick said, "I have to tell you. I'm not sure this is going to help anything."

"It might not."

"Aren't you supposed to tell me it will?"

"Would you believe me if I did?"

"Probably not."

"There you go."

Milton looked relaxed. His presence was calming. Probably a good thing in a shrink, Nick thought.

"How does this work?" he said.

"You come in. We talk about whatever you want to talk about. Everything is confidential."

"That's all?"

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Maybe some tests. Questions about my childhood, that kind of thing."

"Nope. Just conversation."

"What if I just want to talk about football?"

Milton shrugged. "It's your money. You might get better results if you talk about what's bugging you."

"I can't talk about what I do."

"If it's important, you'll find a way to talk about it. Where do you want to begin?"

"What happened to the arm?" Nick said.

"Afghanistan happened. You were there?"

"I was." Nick thought about how he'd hit Selena in his sleep. "I have this dream," he said. "I'm back in Afghanistan, on a mission that went bad."

After he'd described the dream, Nick waited.

"Is that what happened on the mission?" Milton asked.

"Pretty much."

"Was there anything else you could have done?"

"I don't know."

"Think back. You were taking heavy fire."

"Yeah. Then this kid comes out of the doorway."

"And you hesitated."

"He was a kid."

"With a grenade."

Nick was silent.

"Where was the rest of your unit?"

"Taking fire. There must have been twenty Tallies on the roof. My sergeant was down, three of the others."

"How many died?" Milton asked.

"What do you mean?"

"How many of your men died?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"How do you feel about the men that died?"

"How do you think I feel?"

"I don't know unless you tell me. Do you feel responsible?"

Rage.

Nick stood. "Fuck you."

He walked out.