With Good Behavior (16 page)

“Yes, sir, something like that.”

“Why don’t you come join me for a drink, Madsen? You can fill me in on how that fucker Joe is doing.”

Grant laughed nervously. “Uh, thank you, sir. But I, um, I can’t.” He forced himself to relax. Nodding his head toward the bathroom, he said, “I gotta hit the head. Good to see you, sir.”

Grant quickly ducked into the restroom, hoping the captain wouldn’t follow him. The few moments he waited were beyond tense, but the door never opened.

Stealthily emerging from the restroom, Grant peeked out the door and swiftly made his way down the hall, his heart pounding furiously.

He arrived at a heavy steel door at the end of the hallway, just as his buddy Simkins had described it. Grant was suddenly thankful for Simkins’ otherwise annoying motormouth. There was a keypad located on the wall to the right. Furtively glancing down the dimly lit hall, Grant held his breath and entered the code: POKE HER, 7-6-5-3-4-3-7. Though the code was incredibly sexist, Grant was relieved to have the reminder for his fear-addled brain.

Sighing with relief when the door clicked open, he slipped inside. He stood in the darkness for a few seconds, listening to the frantic beating of his heart. Groping along the wall, he located the light switch, and suddenly the room was bathed in buzzing fluorescent light.

Grant heard himself panting and willed himself to relax, knowing he would not find what he needed if he continued to be this jumpy. The framed painting was right where Simkins had told him it would be, hanging slightly askew on the left side of the far wall. It was, of course, a group of dogs playing poker, and Simkins was right. It stuck out in otherwise bare room, and its off-center placement looked suspicious.

Grasping the sides of the ugly brown frame, he lifted it off the wall and discovered a secret compartment behind. He set the framed picture on a wooden table and studied the thick padlock on the little handle to the compartment set into the wall. He had brainstormed several possible lock combinations involving famous Navy dates, and Grant swiftly took out a crumpled piece of paper before spinning the numbers on the lock.

To his surprise, his fourth try, 12-7-41, resulted in a beautiful clicking noise as the lock fell open in his hand. Grant froze, but there were no angry knocks at the door, no shouts about an intruder breaking in.

Gulping, Grant opened the compartment. To his immense relief, he found a blue gym bag stuffed inside. Carefully pulling out the bag, Grant unzipped it and peeked in, detecting bundles of cash. Joe would be okay.

Grant was then all action: in one motion closing and locking the compartment door, then replacing the hideous poker painting on the wall. Checking around him for any evidence left behind, he backed out of the room and slowly creaked closed the steel door.

The hallway was clear. Making his way down it, carrying the heavy gym bag over his left shoulder, he tasted freedom just ahead of him. He would get the money to Logan, and Logan would leave him and Uncle Joe alone.

His reprieve was short-lived, however, when he neared the base of the staircase and found Captain Lockhart descending the stairs quickly.

“Grant!” he boomed, seemingly out of breath. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I just talked to Joe and—”

Archie stopped midstream upon noticing Grant’s panicked expression.

“What’s wrong?”

Grant bit his lip while dread pulsed throughout his bloodstream. What was he supposed to say?

Archie continued staring at him. “What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing, sir. Please excuse me, I gotta go.”

With wary brown eyes, Archie stood fast, blocking the stairwell. “What is wrong with you, Grant? I called Joe, and he’s trying to get in touch with you. Why are you acting so weird, son?”

Grant’s voice turned to ice. “I can’t explain. Just please get out of the way.”

Much to Grant’s consternation, Archie didn’t budge. The captain kept staring at him with disbelief.

Forcing a swallow did not help Grant’s bone-dry mouth, and his skin tingled with terror. Why the hell didn’t Captain Lockhart step aside? Would he ruin the robbery? The same man who had been so kind to Grant as a child? The same man who, along with Uncle Joe, had inspired him to join the Navy? Smart as a whip, firm, caring, and always knowing what to do—Joe and Archie were cut from the same cloth. Grant was about to betray them both.

With a trembling hand, Grant slowly removed the gun from his waistband and aimed it squarely at Archie’s chest. “Move out of my way,” he demanded, attempting to sound authoritative.

The older man did not even flinch. His only detectable reaction was a change in his eyes, where confusion steeled into suspicion.

Grant’s own crystal-blue eyes flashed terror, his face was bathed in sweat, and his arm was visibly trembling. His portrayal of a toughened criminal was wholly unconvincing. He felt like a scared kid, forced into something that went against every fiber of his being.

“Step aside, sir,” Grant ordered, feeling nauseated.

“Don’t do this, Grant. This isn’t you.”

They were mere feet from each other, and Archie still looked cold and calculating.

“Please, sir,” Grant begged. “Just get out of my way. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know you don’t. And you won’t. Give me the gun, Grant.”

Both heard the footsteps on the stairs, and the second Grant glanced behind the captain, Archie lunged forward. He was on Grant immediately, and they tumbled backward as Archie wrestled the gun from Grant’s grasp. The gym bag fell to the floor with a thud.

Grant desperately tried to hold onto the gun while Archie pinned him on the tile floor. But his resolve didn’t hold for long. Once his former mentor had subdued him, his heart wasn’t really in it anymore. He’d never wanted the gun in the first place.

Archie leapt off Grant’s prone body to stand over him, panting. Now Archie aimed the gun at the man lying on his back.

Still breathing quickly, Archie seethed, “Unlike you, I will fire this weapon if necessary.”

Grant closed his eyes with utter resignation. He had fucked it all up. It was over.

“Stay down, Grant,” Archie ordered.

His voice was plaintive, sorrowful. “Yes, sir.”

Glancing up at the warrant officer gaping at them, Archie commanded, “Call the cops!”

The officer nodded and flew back up the stairs.

Lying flat on his back, a gun pointed at him, Grant felt more at peace than he had in a week. It was over now. He had screwed up so completely that there would be no pretending anymore. He could no longer believe he was an honorable man who could escape his destructive family. They had swallowed him whole.

“What is in the bag?” Archie asked.

“Money,” Grant answered quietly.

“You’re stealing it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

Grant did not respond. The wait for the police seemed interminably long.

Archie relaxed his hold on the weapon. “What I was starting to tell you is that Joe’s been worried sick about you since you didn’t show up in Norfolk yesterday. He’s been trying to contact you.”

Closing his eyes again, Grant groaned, his feeling of peace quickly smashed to pieces. Once Joe discovered he’d been arrested, at a bar frequented by naval officers no less, he would surely disown him. And how would Logan and Carlo react to his botched robbery attempt? Grant’s heart seized with fear.

“Why are you doing this?”

Grant remained silent.

Just then, two Great Lakes police officers hustled down the stairs. Grant listened numbly as Archie surrendered the Glock to them and explained how he’d caught Grant attempting to steal the bag of money. The officers clarified that they’d consult with military police, but they believed the location of the arrest and nature of the crime meant the military would likely defer to them, the civilian authorities.

The officers approached Grant and roughly flipped him over on his stomach, snapping handcuffs into place on his wrists behind his back. He offered no fight as they dragged him to his feet. The arrest began a two-year string of interrogations, harsh treatment, and confinement: the life that awaited a Barberi man.

Ashley’s jaw had dropped open during Grant’s tale. “What happened to Logan?” she asked, snapping Grant back to the present.

Grant shook his head disgustedly. “I think he tried to drive off, probably once he saw the police arriving, but they detained him. I guess he told some bullshit story about trying to meet up with his buddy—that lieutenant who’d won the money from him in the first place. Then they interrogated the lieutenant, who confirmed that he met Lo while gambling at Angelo’s club. Since there was only circumstantial evidence tying him to the robbery, and he had the best lawyer money can buy, Lo pled guilty to some silly misdemeanor and got probation with court-ordered counseling.”

Ashley’s stared incredulously. “I’m so sorry, Grant.”

He took a deep breath and glanced down at his hands. The look of betrayal on the faces of Captain Lockhart and Uncle Joe continued to haunt him. “Now do you understand why I don’t want to be anywhere near Logan, Angelo, the lot of them?”

“I understand,” she nodded. Then her maternal instincts kicked in. “But that awful story proves one thing. Ben needs you even more than ever. Don’t let him go down the same path, Grant.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly, feeling the crushing responsibility of being an uncle in a dishonest, caustic family. When he opened his eyes again, he was startled to find Sophie standing in the doorway of the bridge.

She eyed him curiously, having never seen him so utterly exhausted and broken. “Is everything okay?” Sophie asked, stealing a glance at the blonde at his side.

Pushing himself off the console into a standing position, Grant cleared his throat. “Sophie, this is Ashley. Her son Ben is my nephew.”

Sophie nodded slowly.

“We were just catching up,” Grant explained. “I hadn’t seen Ashley since I, um, since I got out.”

Sophie continued nodding and said nothing.

“I’ll think about what you asked me,” Grant told Ashley. “I will.”

Ashley smiled sadly. “Take care of yourself, Grant.” Then she brushed past Sophie and rejoined her friend to disembark the ship.

“You look upset,” Sophie finally said.

Grant appeared to close himself off before her very eyes. “C’mon, we better go report to Rog. Let’s see if we still have jobs.”

Without looking at her, he strode down the stairs. His own uncle could not save him from his family. How could he save his nephew?

Y
ou look tired,” Hunter commented.

Sophie nodded. “I’m beat. We’ve been working four days straight without our boss, and it’s exhausting. I’m starting to understand why his body gave out on him.”

Noticing Hunter’s puzzled stare, she explained. “My boss, Roger, had a heart attack last Thursday.” His eyes widened with concern. “He’s doing fine now,” she added. “I think they’re letting him come home today.”

“So, how did your duties change in his absence?”

“I’m still serving drinks.” She smiled. “Not quite what I trained six years for, but at least the tips are good. But I’ve also been trying to help Grant fill in for Roger as docent.”

“Grant?”

Sophie blushed. “Um, the man I told you about? The parolee I met outside of Jerry’s office? The one who got me this job?”

Hunter cocked one eyebrow. “The one I warned you about letting into your life?”

“That’s the one.” Sophie laughed.

“How have you been helping him?” Hunter asked, deciding to be open-minded about the relationship.

“Well, I haven’t gotten to the ‘helping’ part yet, I’m afraid. Before his first cruise I gave him some tequila to calm his nerves.” She looked embarrassed. “Then Grant proceeded to drink half the bottle, and I had to take him home.” A smile bloomed on her face. “God, he was a funny drunk. He was singing, then he grabbed me for an impromptu dance, and then on the cab ride home …” Her voice trailed off as she noticed her psychologist studying her with a bemused grin.

“The cab ride home?” he prompted.

“Let’s just say he was really cute,” she managed. “I haven’t felt that close to a man since …” Her voice faded again, lost in memories. Then she frowned. “But it’s not like that closeness with Grant materialized into anything. He’s been pretty distant with me since that night.”

“What do you make of that?’

Sophie sighed. “Typical. If I like a guy, then it’s for sure that he doesn’t like me. I am a 
disaster 
when it comes to relationships.”

“That’s kind of harsh, isn’t it, Dr. Taylor? What would you tell a client who criticized herself that way?”

Another long sigh. “Ah, yes, the old cognitive approach. Challenge dysfunctional thoughts to improve your mood.” Her tone became mocking. “Just because I’ve had some tough luck in past relationships, it doesn’t mean 
all
 my relationships are doomed.”

She paused, then continued. “In grad school, cognitive therapy always intrigued me. It makes so much sense. You know, if I say, ‘I 
should
 be perfect, people 
should
 understand me, the world 
should
 be fair’—I just have to stop 
should
-ing on myself. The thing is, I always enjoyed using cognitive techniques for my clients, but I don’t really like that approach for myself.”

Hunter let out a big guffaw. “Truer words have never been spoken, Sophie. I know cognitive therapy is all the rage—the insurance companies love it since it’s easier to measure progress—but it doesn’t work for all people, that’s for sure.”

“What 
does
 work, then? Can people really change?”

Her earnest question threw him off for a moment, and he paused before answering. “Therapy is all about change, and therapy is my career, so obviously I believe people can change. Change is really hard, though. One of my supervisors used to say, ‘Change is good for all of us. You first
.
’” He smiled and continued. “In my opinion, a trusting therapeutic relationship is key to that change—a relationship in which the therapist and client can partner together to help the client cope with life better. I also find that it’s important to understand how our family experiences affect our adult relationships with ourselves and others.” Adding a classic shrink response, he asked, “What do 
you
 think?”

She crossed her legs. “I always believed I was doing my best therapy when my client was linking family experiences to current struggles and learning to do things differently, if the old childhood patterns were not working. I remember this one nurse I was seeing, Lauren.”

Hunter nodded.

“Anyway, Lauren came in for therapy because she was depressed. Turns out Lauren was a total doormat for her family. She took care of everyone but herself, and they treated her horribly. Her mother was constantly on her case.

“I asked Lauren how she felt when her mother criticized her, and she could not answer me. She just told me a good daughter 
should
 help her parents. I eventually got out of her that she was a little upset, and she finally admitted she was damn angry.”

“It sounds like you were very close with this client. She really trusted you.”

“Yeah, I saw her for almost a year, until …” Sophie ducked her head. “Well, until I was arrested.”

After a moment of silence, Sophie resumed her story. “Lauren’s role in her family was to be the caretaker, to take responsibility for making her parents and sister happy. It worked for her as a child, but as an adult, she had no idea what 
she
 felt or needed. At the hospital, they gave her all kinds of unpleasant nursing assignments because she never stood up for herself. She often bought presents for her friends, but they rarely returned the favor. And her live-in boyfriend could also be a total mooch.

“Lauren started to realize she didn’t have to knock herself out to make others happy, and she didn’t have any control over others’ emotions. She was totally subverting her own needs for her family, which made her feel resentful, and she was still failing to earn the approval she so desperately wanted. We worked on assertive communication strategies, and she actually set some limits with her family.

“Then it was like Lauren started emerging from her shell. She decided to quit nursing to pursue her real love, computers. She figured out her boyfriend was a jerk who treated her badly, and she kicked him out, only to find a better guy later. Lauren totally blossomed.”

“Very insightful.” Hunter nodded appreciatively.

Sophie blushed. “Well, my client did most of the work.”

“I wasn’t talking about your client,” he said. “I was talking about 
you.
 That was deep insight about yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Weren’t you talking about yourself there? Your role in the family as the caretaker?”

“How do you know that? I’ve told you hardly anything about my family!”

“And why haven’t you told me anything about your family?”

Sophie looked down, her cheeks blooming with shame. “Because they hate me.”

“They hate you? They ‘treat you horribly’?”

She glanced up, startled, then a sadness crept across her face. “But I deserve it.”

“You deserve it? Lauren’s family was unfairly mistreating her, but your family 
should
 treat you badly?”

“It’s not really ‘they.’ It’s ‘he.’ My dad. I’m an only child, and my mom died last year.”

Hunter studied her mournful expression. “The pain of losing your mother is still quite fresh, huh?”

Sophie nodded.

“And your father 
hates
 you? What makes you think you deserve his hate?”

Her words were almost a whisper. “He blames me for my mother’s death.”

“Did you murder your mother, Sophie? Is that why you went to prison?”

She gasped. “No! I told you I went to prison because of Logan Barberi.” Looking wounded, she inquired, “Do you think I’m actually capable of 
murder
?”

“Of course not, Sophie. I said that to shake you up, to show how preposterous it is for your father to blame you for your mother’s death.”

“But she had a heart attack because she was so devastated that I went to prison!”

“I see. And how exactly was her devastation 
your
 responsibility? How were you supposed to control her emotional reactions? I’m still waiting to hear how you killed her.”

Sophie gaped at Hunter with a bewildered expression. “But … but my mom wouldn’t have had a heart attack if I hadn’t totally screwed things up by going to prison.”

“How do you know that? How do you know it wasn’t some inevitable heart defect? Maybe her heart would have given out even sooner, but she stayed alive to help you through your sentencing.”

Sophie felt utterly flummoxed. All those years, she’d just wanted her parents to be happy with her, to be proud of her. She was good at taking care of them, she thought. Her attempts to make them happy, to take care of them—had those efforts been misdirected? It had been so awful when her father screamed at her to leave home and never come back. She looked away as tears began to fall.

Hunter watched her and took a deep breath, wanting to give her some time. They were finally getting somewhere. He prompted gently, “You’re feeling sad about your mother?”

Sniffing, Sophie replied softly, “I miss her.”

“What was she like?”

She wiped tears from her cheeks. “She was pretty complex. She could be a lot of fun, but she could also be exhausting. My mom had a rough childhood, and she definitely had some Axis II thing going on,” Sophie explained, referring to the diagnosis for personality disorder. “I couldn’t pinpoint if she was avoidant or paranoid. At times she had major depression, and she met criteria for alcohol abuse.”

Hunter sighed. “Instead of diagnosing her, how about you tell me what she was like as a mother?”

“Not very good,” Sophie immediately responded, followed by a guilty grimace. “Oh, God. That’s not a nice thing to say about someone who died!”

“It’s okay to feel anger, Sophie. Naturally your mom wasn’t perfect.”

“She and my dad fought a lot. My mom would come to me and complain, and I hated it. But I tried to listen and help because my mom didn’t have any other friends.”

“So your mom, who was an adult responsible for taking care of herself, did not have any friends.”

She looked at him blankly. “What’s your point?” Hunter did not answer, but continued to gaze at her kindly. Sophie chewed her bottom lip and asked, “You’re saying it’s not my fault my mom didn’t have friends? That I shouldn’t have had to listen to her complain about my dad if I didn’t want to?”

“Exactly!” He let that sink in and then inquired, “How did you feel inside when your mother criticized your father?”

“Anxious. My stomach would get this knotted-up feeling, all tight and tense.”

“Did you ever tell her that? That you felt sick to your stomach when she complained about your dad?”

“No.” Sophie glanced at the fish swimming in the aquarium. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She needed me.”

“And what did 
you
 need?”

Getting no answer, Hunter continued. “You and your client Lauren are two peas in a pod, Sophie. Can’t you see that? You take care of everybody except yourself. Lauren benefitted from learning how to put herself first. Do you think you can do that too?”

“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “I still feel so guilty about my mom dying. I don’t think that’s going to fade anytime soon.”

“Change definitely takes time. Give yourself some time.” They both sat contemplatively for a few moments. “Maybe it was a good thing you lost your psychologist license,” Hunter said.

She stared as if he were crazy. “What?”

“Sophie, you cannot be an effective therapist until you work through your own issues. We hear awful stories all day long in our jobs, and we absorb a lot of our clients’ pain. If we don’t know how to take care of ourselves, then we become overwhelmed—anxiety, insomnia. I think you would have burned out quickly if you hadn’t lost your license.”

“We’ll never get to know that now, will we?”

“You haven’t fully answered your own question yet,” Hunter said. “Do 
you
 believe people can change?”

“I used to think so. When Logan told me about his father beating him, about his failure at protecting his brother, I could almost see the hardened man become softer before my eyes, like he was healing from that childhood trauma. I thought he could escape his negative family influence. I thought I was helping him. I thought he really trusted me.” She exhaled derisively. “But then he killed that trust in one fell swoop. He’d been trained to be a criminal by his family, and he couldn’t change.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not really. I don’t want to burden you with the sordid tale.”

“After all this discussion about caretaking, are you trying to take care of 
me
, Sophie?”

She dropped her mouth open to protest, but she realized he was right. She was incorrigible. She smiled. “Touché, Dr. Hayes. You’ll get the whole damn story. Just remember, you asked for it.”

She had been just zipping her skirt, her face flushed with a post-coital glow, when there was a soft rapping at her office door. Thinking Logan must have left something behind, Sophie grinned as she waltzed to the door, teasing in a sing-song voice while she twisted the doorknob, “What did you forget—”