Trauma (6 page)

“It's going to be okay, sweetie,” Julie whispered. “We'll get through this. I promise.”

“Carrie, anything else you want to add?” Knox asked.

“Just that I'm tendering my resignation,” Carrie said. “Effective immediately.”

 

CHAPTER 7

The First National Bank of Philadelphia occupied the lower level of a five-story brick building on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Sutcliff. Abington picked it because he was standing near it when inspiration struck.

As he expected, he drew suspicious looks from his first step inside. With his flyaway straw-colored hair, haggard face, baggy eyes, and mountain man–style beard, Abington made Nick Nolte's mug shot look like a high school yearbook picture.

Four customers were inside the bank when Abington entered, and none made direct eye contact with him as he crossed the marble floor to the teller windows. Though the bank was not crowded, Abington still had to wait in line, which made him edgy. He was especially mindful of the man to his right, filling out a deposit slip. That guy seemed to not notice Abington at all, which was unusual. Could this guy's obliviousness be an act? Abington's gut told him it was a cop, either undercover or off duty.

The brunette behind teller window number five motioned Abington forward. For a moment he contemplated walking out. He felt naked without a hat or sunglasses, and the security cameras had already gotten a clear shot of his face.
Oh, what the hell.
He was here. She wouldn't know the gun in his back pocket wasn't loaded. She'd give him the money.

As Abington approached, the brunette recoiled subtly, her brow creasing and the corners of her mouth turning downward. She maintained an air of professionalism, but her demeanor had turned hard-bitten and judgmental.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that implied otherwise. Be it a handout, food, booze—whatever it was, she was not there to assist.

“I would like some money.” Abington was surprised at the shakiness of his voice. He had meant to sound forceful, but instead spoke in a raspy near whisper.

The teller rolled her eyes and Abington took a moment to look over his shoulder at the man filling out the deposit slip.
How many checks is that guy cashing?
He had to be a cop.

Walk away … head out that door and just walk away.…

Abington was about to turn around when he flashed on the faces of those bastards pummeling him with bats and steel rods. He pictured the grate where he'd slept the night before. He thought of the many shelters he had called home, and felt a pang of hunger. A tide of violence rose in his blood as he thought of the VA that had failed him. He drew his weapon.

The color drained from the teller's face. Before she could scream, Abington put his finger to his lip, shielding the piece with his body.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Abington said, gratified to hear more authority in his voice this time. “Give me the money.” From underneath Abington's grimy shirt he produced an equally soiled paper bag, and handed it to the teller.

The teller's hands shook as she filled the bag with thick wads of banded cash, but twice she glanced up to look over Abington's shoulder at the man to his back.

While the teller filled the bag, Abington counted the seconds in his head.
Five … then ten …

How much money had she put in there? Maybe a couple thousand. Maybe a little more. It didn't matter. It wasn't like he'd stop to count. He needed to get out of there.

The teller was reaching for another drawer when Abington realized she was stalling. Her hands were steadier, and she seemed less nervous. Maybe she had tripped the silent alarm.

Reaching over the counter, Abington ripped the bag from the teller's hand, leaving her with a little piece of brown paper. He swung around, gun in one hand, money in the other, and saw that the man with the deposit slip had snuck up behind him.

Midforties with short hair and a square head, the guy trained his weapon—a Glock—on Abington's chest. He shouted, “Freeze! Police!”

Abington did not hesitate. The SIG Sauer may have been useless without bullets, but Abington had trained with the SEALs and Delta Force. Even out of shape and practice, he was a fine weapon on his own. Abington dropped his gun and the bag of money and started to raise his hands.

No trouble. I surrender.

The officer started to relax, thinking the fight was over. In a fluid motion, Abington grabbed hold of the Glock's barrel with his right hand while latching his left hand onto the officer's left wrist. Without hesitating, Abington pulled the left wrist toward him at the same instant he pushed on the barrel of the gun. Thrown off balance, the cop stumbled awkwardly, and a fraction of a second later the Glock had transferred into Abington's hands. Abington swung the gun in a wide arc, clocking the cop on his left temple with the butt of the weapon. Two heavy thuds followed: one after the impact, and the other when the cop's limp body crumpled to the floor.

Reaching down, Abington retrieved the bag of money and his treasured gun. He sprang up waving the cop's loaded weapon, shooing the terrified customers back.

“Just leave me alone and nobody gets hurt!” Abington shouted.

Outside the bank, the sun's glare punished Abington's corneas. He blinked to clear his vision, but his head was buzzing and he felt lost. What had he done? Jesus, he hadn't made a plan. No figuring out how he might escape.

In the distance Abington heard a steady whine of sirens. They were coming for him.
Stupid … stupid!
His choices were simple: run and get caught, or stand in front of the bank and get caught. He looked at the cop's gun.

He supposed he had a third choice. Abington put the weapon to his temple, closed his eyes, and conjured up Janine's beautiful face. They had had happy times; he tried to focus on those.

“I'm sorry, baby girl,” Abington muttered, thinking of his daughter Olivia. “I let you down, sweetie. I let you down so bad.”

Abington pressed the barrel of the Glock hard against his skin and squeezed the trigger ever so slightly. Ironic: with all the bullets flying around him in Afghanistan, this would be the one and only time he'd be shot. Abington took a breath. The squeal of sirens seemed to be coming from all directions.

Can they even identify me? Will they let Mom know I'm dead?

A screech of tires in front of him caused Abington to open his eyes. A windowless cargo van had pulled up, and before it came to a complete stop, a clean-shaven man with short-cropped hair jumped out the passenger-side door. He wore a tailored blue suit and approached with hurried steps. The sirens got louder.

“You don't need to do that, Steve,” he said. “You made a bad choice here, but we can help. Just get in the van.”

As if on cue, the van's rear double doors swung open, inviting Abington to step inside. Abington hesitated.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Two seconds, Steve. We've been watching you, and we can help you, but you've got to move, soldier. Now!”

Abington's training kicked in, making it difficult to ignore the command. He dashed to the back of the van, where two arms reached out from the darkness and hauled him inside. At the same instant, the van pulled away from the curb with another screech of tires and made a quick U-turn. The back doors slammed shut, leaving only slivers of dim light. Steve could not get a clear view of the interior, or the person who had helped him aboard.

The van straightened out and drove away from the scene at a measured pace meant to appear inconspicuous. He could still hear sirens, but they were heading in the opposite direction. The interior lights came on, but Abington could not comprehend what he was seeing.

The back of the van was crowded with medical equipment: a stretcher and an IV stand with fluid bags attached, as if this were the rear of an ambulance. The man who had helped him inside wore a surgical mask, head covering, and blue latex gloves. His gray eyes were expressionless.

“Welcome, Steve,” the man said from behind his mask. “We've been looking forward to having you.”

Steve looked down at the man's gloved hands and saw a needle and syringe. Fast as a cobra strike, the man sank a two-inch needle deep into Steve's neck and depressed the plunger.

A warm feeling swept through Steve's body. He felt light-headed, a bit dizzy, but also at peace. Finally at peace.

 

CHAPTER 8

The town of Hopkinton, Massachusetts, was known—if at all—as the official starting place of the Boston Marathon, but to Carrie it was simply home. The four-bedroom Victorian house where she grew up, with its many gabled windows, wraparound porch, and verdant gardens, was still lovingly maintained by Carrie's parents, Howard and Irene, who were now in their sixties and showed no signs of slowing down. Howard Bryant continued to work at Mass General Hospital, and Irene had gone back to school to become a speech pathologist, which had led to her current job at a nearby nursing facility.

Carrie's visits were limited mostly to holidays, an occasional birthday dinner, and of course Marathon weekend, which had turned into a homecoming of sorts for many of her childhood friends. Aside from Facebook, Carrie did not see these buddies on a regular basis, though when they did get together the night always ended with a promise to do it more often.

Carrie drove her beat-up Subaru down the long driveway. In a few more weeks the tiger lilies would start to sprout and the rest of her mother's gardens would come alive, but right now the desolate landscape was brown and barren in a way that matched Carrie's mood. She parked in front of the basketball hoop, next to her mother's Volvo, in the pullout to the right of the detached two-car garage, mindful not to block her father in.

She stepped out into a chilly afternoon. Spring might have officially arrived, but winter did not seem ready to let go its icy grasp. One of the garage doors was open, and Led Zeppelin blasted from within the darkness. Adam must be in there working on his car, as always; the music was probably coming from the boom box she'd bought to welcome him home.

Adam, who'd aced AP biology and gravitated toward STEM subjects, was expected to extend the streak of Bryant doctors that included two of Carrie's grandparents, but to everyone's surprise he'd enlisted in the army right after high school. Adam's commitment to the military had ended years ago, but in his mind, the war raged on.

Wearing jeans and a fleece jacket over a blue V-neck sweater from Macy's, Carrie wandered into the doorway of the garage, feeling strange not to be dressed in scrubs or sweats. Her brother was bent over the Camaro's open hood, which looked like it was swallowing him. He wiped engine grime from his hands on his already soiled jeans, and only when Carrie cleared her throat did he pull his head out to look her way.

Adam's face lit up. “Hey, sweetie!” He approached with his arms open wide. “What brings you out here?” Before they hugged, Adam realized he was covered in filth, so he opted for a quick peck on her cheek. “It's good to see you.”

Carrie looked at her brother's drawn face and hollow cheeks and tried not to let her worry show. The old Adam was in there somewhere. If she closed her eyes, Carrie could still picture the handsome, sharp-eyed boy she'd looked out for back in high school. He still had his wry smile, but the glint in his eyes and that playful cocky attitude were gone.

Adam had cut his hair short again, a throwback to his army days, and had a whisper of a mustache that was new as well. Carrie did not love the look, but Adam was doing a lot of experimenting, perhaps searching for an outside transformation to make him feel whole inside. The rest of him looked the same. He had a narrow, lean build coupled with a muscular chest, arms, and legs. His pallid complexion called attention to his dark and sunken eyes, reminding Carrie of the drug addicts she used to operate on at BCH.

Used to.

How could it be over? The thought of never operating again stretched a band around her chest so tight Carrie thought she might stop breathing. She was utterly lost, completely bewildered, and had never been closer to understanding how Adam must feel.

“Mom and Dad didn't tell me you were coming,” Adam said.

The garage looked exactly as Carrie had expected, a tale of two personalities. Dad's side, with his beloved BMW 325i, was neat and ordered, just like Howard Bryant. Freestanding shelves kept clutter to a minimum; beloved tools were carefully organized on several wood pegboards. Adam's side was like a teenager's bedroom. Tools were scattered everywhere, and the workbench and shelves were covered in oily rags, greasy papers, and indiscriminate mounds of car parts.

“Mom and Dad don't know I'm coming,” Carrie said.

Adam gave Carrie a conspiratorial look. “Everything all right?”

Carrie nodded her head vigorously and tightened her lips. “Yeah, it's fine.”
Change the subject. Prevent the waterworks.
“Hey, the car is looking really good.”

Adam's answer was to stand a little taller. His mouth crested upward as he turned to face the Camaro. He set his hands on his hips and paused to relish his accomplishment. “It's coming along, huh?”

The Camaro had shown up six weeks after Adam left his warrior transition unit, WTC in military parlance, without any definitive cure. He reentered civilian life directionless, with empty, fidgety hands. Fixing up a car that reminded him of his carefree high school days seemed like a good idea, though their parents were not as certain when they saw the mound of scrap towed to their garage. The car sat untouched for a long while, until one day when Adam's inspiration inexplicably kicked in. Now that the body was fixed up and a fresh coat of red paint had been applied, it looked truly special. If only Adam could be fixed up with some elbow grease and determination.