Chapter 10 - A Man Among Men

Dean walked into the restaurant and spotted Perkins sitting on a padded bench near the entry.

Perkins stood, smiling broadly, and offered a hand. "There you are, Partner. Thanks for coming." He gestured toward the nearest table.

"My pleasure. We needed to talk." They sat down, and Dean glanced up at Perkins' well-worn, baseball-style cap. "Banff, eh? You've been there?"

"Yeah, long time ago. My honeymoon, actually."

"My parents' honeymoon was in Banff, too," Dean said. "I've never been there."

"You gotta go sometime. It's great." Perkins looked up as the waitress arrived. He thanked her as she handed them their menus, and they both placed their drink orders.

"I didn't know you were married," Dean said, rather quietly.

Perkins grunted. "Ancient history." He didn't look up from the menu he was perusing.

Dean grimaced. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's okay. She and I are on cordial terms. Couldn't handle the cop thing, that's all."

Dean's whole being slumped. Wives and girlfriends always become expendable when you put that uniform on.

"Did I hit a sore spot there?" Perkins asked after a few moments.

How long was I staring at the table? "Uh...yeah. My girlfriend was iffy anyway, but when she found out I…." He stopped himself, suddenly unwilling to say the words "I killed Peterson" out loud in public.

He opened his menu and began to look it over. "You know...what you told me about the the other day...what I did at the firefight…."

"That was the last straw, eh?"

"Yeah. She 'doesn't know who I am anymore.'" Dean heard more bitterness in his tone than he thought he felt. I haven't had enough time to work through any of this.

"Do you?"

Dean looked up to find Perkins eyeing him closely. He sighed and sat back in his chair. "I'm still all over the place."

Perkins just nodded, looking thoughtful. Then he turned back to the menu. "I don't know why I bother to look at this thing. I always order the same thing when I come here."

"I've never eaten here. What's good?"

"The prime rib sandwich."

Dean grimaced. "That's a bit out of my budget range."

"Good thing I'm buying."

"Hey now, nobody said anything about you paying for my lunch!"

"Buddy, I'm a single, childless man with a sergeant's income. That doesn't make me rich, but I can afford the prime rib sandwich better than you can. And besides, you've earned it. Relax." Perkins hailed the waitress.

"Two of your prime rib sandwiches, please." He gave Dean a look that said, "No arguments."

Dean smiled and nodded.

They ordered their sides, and then had the table to themselves again.

Perkins lowered his voice, and his expression was very serious. "Dean, I need to know, honestly, what these past few days have been like for you. And I don't just mean how you've felt, though I definitely want that, but also what kind of support you've had, how you've been sleeping, everything."

Dean opened up with ease. Perkins was never hard to talk to. But Dean kept his voice so low that they had to lean in a bit to converse. This is really weird stuff to have to talk about in a public place.

I guess I'd better get used to that.

He pretty much had the floor, with Perkins only nodding or shaking his head. His narrative paused only when the waitress arrived with the food. It went on through the meal, and paused again only for the clearing away of dishes.

And still he unloaded.

When he finally finished, Perkins stayed quiet for a little while. He seemed pretty deep in thought.

Uh-oh! Dean sneaked a glance at his watch. Less than an hour until my counseling appointment….

"Gotta be somewhere, son?"

Dean grinned. "You're too observant."

"Goes with the job. But seriously, do you?"

"My first session with the department counselor," he said, keeping his voice low for that, too. "But it's not far from here."

Perkins nodded, then sighed. He looked out the window, working his jaw as if thinking deeply about something.

Dean waited.

Perkins turned back to Dean, and put both his palms on the table in a gesture of decisiveness which reminded Dean of his father. "I'm just gonna level with you, son. I'm supposed to get back with Delgado about whether or not I feel you're ready to return to duty. Now of course, the counselor will have the biggest say on that question, but Delgado wants my input as well."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "What do you think?"

Perkins sighed again. "Here's the thing. I think you've got as good a head on your shoulders as any rookie I've ever met, and better than most. And from the sound of it, you have an excellent support system." He shrugged. "I mean, who could doubt that anyway, with your dad being who he is? But on the other hand, it sounds like you were really, really badly thrown by a lot of painful circumstances. They all hit you at once. So without saying anything negative about you at all, I'm still not sure it's fair...it might even be cruel...to put you back in the action too soon."

Perkins looked at his glass and began stirring his ice around in the water with his straw. "I mean, if there was some way to guarantee that the streets would treat you kindly for a few days while you got back into your stride, that would be one thing. But buddy, you could face anything your first day back. And I mean anything." He shook his head, still staring pensively at his water glass. Then he looked back up at Dean. "I really believe you'd handle whatever came as well as any rookie, in the moment. But the aftershocks are what I'm worried about."

Dean began staring at his own water glass, too. This was getting painful. "Do you think I'm cut out for this job?"

Perkins instantly looked up, so Dean met his gaze. "Yes. Absolutely I do. But this job wears men out and throws them away at far too fast a pace." He pointed a finger at Dean. "Your father actually went a long way toward breaking the 'code of silence' that we cops have had about PTSD in the family. Back when he was SRU...I don't know if he ever told you this...but he dealt with a retired cop who really lost it. Inspector Sewell told me about it not long after it happened. The guy came close to killing himself in SRU headquarters, in front of your dad and his team. And your dad had known this guy for years. Your dad decided not to 'keep it in the family,' and some cops really got upset with him about that. They thought it would make other cops more likely to try to hide their problems. But it had the opposite effect, because it got people talking, all the way up to the highest levels. Policy changes were made, and I think they were good changes. And you know how much your dad has worked at the Academy to improve rookies' training in recognizing and de-stigmatizing PTSD."

Dean nodded.

"Now that the secret's out," Perkins continued, "cops know they're not alone. More of them are getting help, and that's a very good thing. We've always known that we're only human...but now more and more of us are learning that it's actually okay to be only human. Your dad gets a lot of credit for that."

Dean smiled and nodded.

Perkins looked introspective again. "I've been through some really hard things, Dean. But I didn't ever see department counselors, because I thought it would shame me if anyone found out. But I had help from a couple of really good mentors along the way, men who helped me get through it. If it hadn't been for them, I don't want to think about what might have happened."

He seemed far away, and Dean kept a respectful silence. I bet there are depths of pain in this man that I've never seen a hint of.

He's strong, like my dad.

Perkins almost shook himself, and he looked back at Dean. "I don't want to wound you by sending you back too soon, son. But I just now realized that I'm making a huge assumption. Do you even want to go back?"

The question caught Dean off guard. For some reason, he hadn't expected to hear it from Perkins. He was even more surprised that the answer didn't come quickly to his lips. He stirred his ice around some more, what little there was left of it.

"Common sense says I should get out," he finally replied. "My girlfriend says she'll get back with me if I get out. My dad says he'd be happy if I got out. My friend Clark wants me to get out. My mom definitely wants me to get out." He stirred some more, but then he felt something strengthen in his gut, and he looked up at Perkins. "But I can't imagine turning in my badge. I can't. I'm a cop." For some reason, his eyes stung when he said that. "I'm a cop, and…." He stopped and looked down, surprised by the emotion that clogged his throat and cut off his voice. He didn't try to finish his sentence.

Perkins put a hand on his arm. "Yeah, buddy, you're a cop. I have no doubt of that." He patted the arm. "But you're a cop in a whole world of hurt. Go see your counselor…"

The words made Dean jump and check his watch.

"...and here's what I'm planning to tell Delgado," Perkins continued. "I'm going to recommend that you at least wait until I go back to regular duty. Longer if the counselor says so. We need to give you time, Dean. And I want to be there to keep an eye on you when you go back. You okay with that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." Dean nodded,

"Good," Perkins replied. "Because…" he leaned forward conspiratorially, and Dean leaned in a bit, too. "...Don't quote me on this, because I'll deny it. But I'm way too fond of you to trust you to anybody else, all right?" Then he grinned and slapped Dean on the shoulder.

Dean smiled, too, and then laughed as the words settled further into his soul. "All right, but I hope the counselor doesn't keep me out of work past your first day back on regular duty…" he wagged a finger at Perkins' face and feigned seriousness, "...because I'm not sure I want to trust you to anyone else, either."

Perkins roared with laughter.

Dean felt healing settle into his soul with the sound. "I see you can laugh now without feeling like your head's coming off. That's good."

Perkins chuckled. "Don't tell anybody, but it still hurts a bit when I do. But it gets better every day." He checked his watch. "You'd better get going, buddy. I'll get the check."

"All right. Thanks, partner." Dean made sure he put his heart into that simple word. Then he got up, patted Perkins' shoulder, and made his way out into the sunshine.

Yep. I left here a cop.

###

Dad would not like this counselor. Dean didn't feel any connection with this guy. Ellis was clinical, made little eye contact, spoke emotionlessly, and wrote a lot.

Dean told him everything anyway, but his presentation was as clinical as the counselor's responses. He didn't feel as if more would be welcome.

I guess there's a bad apple in every barrel.

"All right," Ellis said, glancing briefly at Dean. "I will report to your superiors by the end of the week."

"And what are your recommendations?"

"At least another week off, and at least one more counseling session."

Dean nodded slowly, absorbing that information. Perkins should be back by then. "When should I have that session, at the end of my week?"

"At, or close to it," the counselor replied, busying himself with his papers and not looking at Dean.

"Um...and if I can't get an appointment with you in that time frame, am I allowed to make it with another counselor?"

"Of course."

"Okay."

Dean felt odd leaving without any sort of formal end to the discussion, but as he was now being totally ignored, he left. I will be sure to get a different counselor. And I'm letting Dad know what I think of that guy!

He walked back to his car, unlocked it, and then paused. I have no idea where I want to go.

What is it with me and 'limbo' lately?

He drove aimlessly for quite a while, and then realized he was near the beach where several SRU picnics had been held. He found a parking spot rather easily, which only reinforced his feeling of disconnection. Almost everybody else is at work or school.

He walked aimlessly, kicking at the sand as he went. For some reason, numbness began to tug at him, tempt him, call him. For a while, he followed its seductive song.

"What's on your mind, son?"

His father's voice sounded so clearly that he spun around. But no one was there. And the lonely disappointment hurt so keenly that his eyes stung.

What's going on with me? The question pulled him further downward.

But he turned and faced the water, and let its beauty speak to his soul. And then he turned again, slowly surveying various points and comparing them with his memory. I talked with Clark there. And that's where I talked with Marina.

I can see Ed and Sophie and Izzy over there. Wordy and Shelly and the girls...well, the girls ran around everywhere. He smiled a little at the memory.

I can see Spike there, and Leah, and Sam and Jules.

Donna and Hank, right there….

Everything froze.

He stared at that spot, trying to comprehend how a person could be forever gone. Death. I don't even understand what it is, except that it rips people away from us, and it never gives them back.

How do I live with having made someone die?

He paced some more, but his mind no longer saw the scenery. He saw and heard the firefight, in agonizing detail.

I killed, but I had no choice. It was self-defense.

Faber killed, but that was murder.

He kicked a bit at the sand. But in the end, dead is dead. Peterson's just as dead as Donna.

Does the killer's reason make any difference to the deceased? Is there anything left of the deceased to even care about reasons?

His insides began to knot up with the old, familiar rage. 'Deceased.' What a stupid, heartless, meaningless word! He kicked at the sand viciously this time. It sounds so clean, so sterile, so much nicer than 'dead.' His nostrils flared with his anger, and he bent to pick up fistfuls of sand which he hurled with all his might into the water. But then he saw himself brandishing his pillow in his room, breaking precious things and making everything worse. And he began to recognize the insidious enemy gnawing away at his soul.

No. There's clean pain, and there's self-destructive pain. I don't want to take this the wrong direction.

Dad knows how to hurt clean.

He took up his pacing again. But not always. Ed helps him when he can't. And Marina.

I have so many good people to help me through this.

He drew in a deep breath and turned back to the beauty of the water. The sun was lowering, though darkness wouldn't fall for a while yet. Even so, the angle of the light mellowed over the water, softening the glare that had made him squint when he'd first arrived.

He let his mind go blank for a while, just enjoying the water. As the sun lowered even more, he sank down to sit with his back against a tree, enjoying the evening breeze.

After a while, the hard tree trunk began to hurt his back. He shifted around, but not quickly enough to prevent the subject of pain from surfacing in his mind again. And this time, it took a wholly new tack.

Is anyone grieving Peterson right now?

What kind of family did he have?

Why haven't I even wondered about that before?

The thought soured his mood at first, but he fought it. No, the ugly is true, but so is the beauty.

Perkins' words from what seemed a lifetime ago came back to him. It's a matter of coming to terms with reality without becoming part of the evil yourself. That struck him as very true, and very healing.

The tree trunk really began to bother his back, and it threatened to bring up too many terrible memories from the more distant past. He scrambled to his feet and began walking again. After a while he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, stuffed his socks down into the toes of his shoes, and tied the shoes together by their laces so he could sling them over his shoulder. Then he stuffed his hands into his pockets and waded about ankle-deep into the water, walking along the shore line toward the sun and then away from it again.

Pacing. Pacing. Sometimes kicking up little splashes, but not angrily. At first it was mindless, but then the troubling thoughts returned, and they brought their anger with them.

What am I doing here? What do I expect to accomplish by pacing around in the water? This time he kicked the water more forcefully.

No. He counseled himself again. What I'm doing is just fine. Nothing wrong with it. It's helping. And it's a lot healthier than hiding under my blanket, or smashing pictures. That brought a fresh wave of regret.

Some people kill strangers and feel no remorse. This pain that I feel...it's a good part of me. It means I'm not like them.

I refuse to let them make me like them.

He walked a bit more, then, on a whim, pulled his phone out of his pocket. A moment later he thought to hurry up onto dry land, in case he accidentally dropped it. That would be a really dumb way to end this day.

He saw three missed calls, all from his dad. Stupid! I forgot to un-mute it. He started to place a return call, but then changed his mind and texted instead.

"Sry. Muted. Doing ok. Thnkng. TTYL." He sent it and waited for the reply.

It came promptly. "I love you. Call if you need me."

"I will."

He pocketed his phone, still muted (and deliberately so, this time). There's something more I need here.

But what?

What felt cleanest? Most healing? Most...real? The answer that came back surprised him. Wondering about Peterson's family.

After a few moments he drew his phone out of his pocket, slowly, unsure of the wisdom of what he half-thought of doing. Even as he hit the speed dial button, he hardly believed he was doing it.

This is dumb and probably pointless.

But this is about the same time Team One was on duty the other day. Maybe they're on duty now.

Winnie answered, "SRU," and he almost chickened out.

"Hello? SRU...is anybody there?" she asked.

"Uh...sorry, Winnie. It's Dean."

"Oh, hey Dean, what can I do for you?"

"Um...listen, I don't know if you're allowed to do this, but I was just wondering if I could find out anything about...no...this is stupid...I'm sorry…."

"Wait, Dean, find out about what?"

He hesitated, angry with himself for having called.

"The worst that could happen is that I could say no," she coaxed.

"Look...I'm trying to figure out how to live with…" he paused and looked around to make sure he was alone, and he lowered his voice even though he saw no one nearby. "...how to live with...using lethal force. And I was wondering if it was possible for me to find out anything about Peterson's family, but it probably isn't...and you're probably busy…."

"Are you thinking of contacting them?"

"No!" Dean replied a bit more vehemently than he probably should have. There's no way I could face them! "I just...I had this stupid idea that it could help me, but it won't…."

"Dean," her tone was very gentle, "you're trying to come to terms with one of the hardest things any cop ever has to deal with. There's nothing stupid about it."

Gratitude welled up and pooled in his eyes. I hope I won't be this teary for the rest of my life!

"Let me see what I can tell you," Winnie continued.

"Are you sure you're not too busy?"

"No, it's all good. Slow shift so far. Here, let me see...he had juvy records, but they're sealed, of course. Records show both parents still living, still married...that's unusual in a case like this! One sister, age 20. Looks like they all live in Toronto. No one besides him has any criminal record. Not even a traffic ticket for his sister, hardly any for his parents. Looks like a solid family...like I said, unusual profile for a guy like him."

Dean listened with more interest than he could account for, but the information didn't help him. "Thanks, Winnie, I appreciate it."

"Was it helpful at all?"

"No, not really. But I don't know what I was expecting anyway. Just grasping at straws."

"Well, if there's anything else I can help you with, let me know, okay? I've got a call coming in…."

"Okay, Winnie, take care. Bye." He hung up.

What was that even about, Dean?

He turned to face the water again. You know what? I'm officially giving myself permission to be a mess. So what if it's stupid? This whole thing is stupid hard.

He sat down, pulled out his socks, and used them to brush the sand off his feet. But they're the struggles of a decent man doing the best he can. And if I come away from this beach with nothing more than that, at least I'll have that. He shoved his bare feet into his shoes, tied the laces, shook out his socks, and headed back for his car.

###

Greg was emptying the dishwasher when his phone played the SRU ringtone.

He set a plate on its stack and answered the call. "Sergeant Parker."

"Boss, it's Winnie."

"Hey, Winnie, what's up?"

"Well...I'm really not a hundred percent sure it's right for me to call you. I mean, Dean's not a kid anymore…."

"Whoa, whoa, what about Dean?" He made sure his tone left no room for further hesitation on Winnie's part.

"Okay, here's the thing. He called tonight for information about Peterson's family."

"Whoa…" Greg's eyes widened. "I'm not so sure that's a good direction…"

"I know, but he has a right to know as much as I gave him. But here's the part that made me want to call you. I saw that there's a request making its way up through the system. Peterson's family has requested permission to meet with Dean."

Greg's jaw dropped.

"It hasn't gone high enough up the chain yet for him to be notified, but it's almost to the top. Looks like it might really happen. Of course they'll notify his commanding officer first if it gets approved. You know how it goes."

"Yeah, I know." Greg's mind was racing. Half of it raced backwards to when he had to tell Ed that May Dalton's mother wanted to meet with him. That was actually a very positive thing for Ed. But half ran forward to everything that could go terribly wrong for Dean.

Winnie broke into his thoughts. "Like I said, I probably stepped over a line by notifying you. You're not in that 'chain' that the request is traveling through, and you're not his commanding officer. I wouldn't have found out about it myself if I hadn't been digging around. And he's not a child, and he didn't ask me to notify you. So the more I think about it, the more I think it was wrong of me. Please don't let on that I told you, okay? Just use the advance notice to help you prepare for it if it happens, okay?"

Greg could almost see the chagrined face that matched her voice, and it made him smile a little. "Okay, Winnie, your secret's safe with me. And I appreciate the advance notice."

"Thanks, Boss."

After he hung up, his first thought was to call Ed once his shift was over. But he quickly caught himself and followed the sound of the television to where Marina was relaxing.

"Hey, hon, can we talk?"

He saw concern flit across her face, but much more than that, he saw love and even joy, just because he'd come to her.

He smiled, partly to reassure her, and partly at his own recently bemoaned thick-headedness.

Top crisis handler in the city, and it took you years to get this detail right.

###

For Clark, the next morning began with the cannons of the 1812 overture, as it always did when he couldn't sleep in.

He opened one bleary eye so he could see his phone to dismiss the alarm. Why...what…?

Oh crud. He groaned. Counseling appointment.

He closed his eyes again, mentally trying out various excuses for canceling. Not that he had anything against going. It was just the part about getting out of bed that his body rebelled against.

Finally, with another groan, he heaved himself to a sitting position, and then to his feet.

This feels like a Holst morning. He cued up a rousing portion of "The Planets," and soon had his blood flowing less sluggishly.

By the time he'd had coffee, showered, shaved, and poured himself a to-go mug of caffeine, he was ready for the day.

He cranked up Greatest Hits of the Cello in his car, and hummed along for the two-mile drive.

The counseling waiting room looked its usual, professionally soothing self. Clark picked a chair and sat comfortably, legs stretched out in front of him.

His mom arrived a few minutes later. He greeted her with a relaxed, "Hey."

"Hey, sweetie." She bent over and kissed his head. "I'm glad you don't mind me meeting with him first."

Clark shrugged. "Why would I mind? Dad met with him last week."

"I know. I'm just glad, that's all." She sat down, and they faltered their way through trivial small talk until she was called back.

Clark rifled through the magazines on the table.

One made him catch his breath. He picked it up, slowly, as if almost afraid it might explode if jostled too violently. I've done my best not to watch or listen to anything about that firefight...and wouldn't you know I'd see it here.

Maybe it was the cover photo that made it impossible to ignore the story. Probably from a cop's dashcam, it showed a grainy, slightly blurry image that defied instant comprehension. Clark couldn't help looking closer, trying to make out the details.

If he'd turned to the article and read the caption first, he probably would have put the magazine down with a shudder of revulsion. But for some reason, the mystery of the ghostly image called his mental faculties to their sharpest attention. He wouldn't look away until he'd made sense of it all.

The cop cars were easy to pick out, of course, and one particular cruiser seemed to be the focal point of the photo. There was a man...an officer... clearly visible, crouching for cover on the near side of that cruiser. But he wasn't facing the house that the cruiser was parked in front of. Clark could see that other officers were firing toward the house, but this one was facing away. And something about his posture screamed. He was screaming. Clark couldn't see his face clearly, but somehow he knew.

But what is this he's facing? That was the main puzzle. Some indefinable mound of darkness standing tall, as broad as several men, with hints of arms and legs protruding from the shadow it cast. Ok, that's a man bending over, but what's he doing?

Those look like arms….

Suddenly the picture came together. The bending man was dragging a fallen man away, by his armpits.

The screaming man is facing someone being dragged away. A cold chill went through him. He quickly flipped to the pages indicated for the cover story, and read the caption under the cover photo's twin.

"SRU officers shield comrades dragging injured Const. Stan Perkins from the scene."

Clark felt another chill run through his veins, and his eyes involuntarily returned to the screaming man.

It's Dean. It's Dean.

For some reason, he couldn't look away. Not until the receptionist called him back for his appointment. And even then, he couldn't put the magazine down. He closed the page over his finger and walked back, barely paying attention to anything.

Dean. Screaming like that. In the middle of that nightmare.

Why? Why does he want to go back to that job?

He nodded vaguely to his mom as she left Linden's office, and shared a barely-noticed hug with her. He accepted Linden's proffered handshake without conscious thought. As Linden shut the door, Clark sank down onto the couch, forearms resting on his knees, magazine dangling between them.

"What do you have there?" Linden asked.

Clark shook his head. "The last thing in the world I wanted to see."

###

Dean slept in until almost nine, and it felt wonderful.

Only one nightmare that I can remember. And it didn't even wake me up. The details of the dream slipped away even as he tried to grasp them, and after a few moments he gave up.

The important part is that I'm sleeping better.

He was halfway through breakfast when his phone rang. Perkins' ringtone.

"Hey, partner, what's up?"

Perkins sighed. "Dean...buddy...you mind if I drop by in a couple of minutes?"

Dean felt a rush of dread. "What's wrong?"

"Well...not necessarily wrong...but complicated. I'd rather tell you face-to-face. Besides, I'm driving now. Shouldn't talk too much on the road."

Dean knew better than to buy that excuse. Cops talked on the radio or phone while driving all the time. But Perkins clearly didn't want to say more until they were together. "Uh...okay. Yeah, I'm just having breakfast. You know where I live?"

"Yeah, I'm already headed there. I'll be there in five."

Dean hurried through the rest of his breakfast, changed out of his pajamas, and brushed his teeth as quickly as he could. Perkins arrived moments later.

Dean let him in and skipped over any kind of greeting. "What's going on?"

"Now, don't let it worry you...here, why don't we sit at the table." Perkins seated himself and waited for Dean to do the same.

"Wait a minute...you're in uniform," Dean said as he sat down. "You came here to tell me this while you were on duty?"

"Yeah. Delgado said he'd assign somebody to the desk until I got back. Thought it would be better that way."

"Then I'm worried."

Perkins put a hand on Dean's arm. "Son, I just got word about a half an hour ago that the department has approved a request on the part of Peterson's family. Dean...they want to meet you." His whole manner radiated compassion.

Dean's heart nearly stopped.

Perkins squeezed his arm. "The department approved it because, whenever our lawyers talked to them, Peterson's family has always shown nothing but understanding and even compassion for you. They're looking for closure, and from what I'm told, they are worried for you because of how young and inexperienced you are, and how hard it must have been for you. It sounds like they're really good people."

Dean couldn't speak.

"A department lawyer will be with you through the whole meeting," Perkins added.

Dean just sat and tried to absorb the news, jaw hanging slightly open.

"I can go to bat for you if you don't want to do this, son. I'm not sure I'll win, but I'll fight tooth and nail for you if that's what you want. But from the sound of it, this might actually be a healing thing."

Dean mentally returned to the beach, and to the questions he'd asked himself there. Clarity came with the memory.

"If the lawyer will be there, I'll do it." He turned his gaze back to Perkins. "Can you come, too?"

"Just try and keep me away." Perkins patted his arm. "You're a brave man, Dean Parker."

Dean smiled a little. "I think you're right...this could be good for me."

Perkins looked a tad surprised, but pleased. "In that case, why don't we pick the earliest of the proposed meeting times? All three of these are available to the Petersons, and to your lawyer. Others can be arranged if none of these work." He took out his notepad and sought out a particular page to show Dean. "The first one is this evening."

Dean stared at it and felt his courage flagging. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

My schedule is open. No reason not to do it tonight.

No reason, that is, except for the renewed fear that fluttered in his belly.

Best to get it over with, whether it's good or bad. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the calendar app. "Where will we meet?"

###

"I'm really very interested in that angle, Clark." Linden was leaning forward, looking intently at him. "Dean had become a symbol of optimism for you?"

Clark nodded. "I've been thinking about it a lot, and he was more than a symbol. It's like he was storing my optimism. Holding it for me, because I couldn't hold it myself. But I didn't know it until I heard that he'd killed somebody."

"But your panic attacks started months before Dean even started on the force."

"Yeah, with that explosion."

"And Dean was with you in the whole kidnapping ordeal," Linden murmured, apparently to himself. He seemed to be thinking deeply.

"Yeah."

"And the whole time you were back with your parents...starting with the day you found out Dean was in uniform, and ending shortly before you found out that he had killed someone...during that whole time, you had no panic attacks, right?"

"Right."

"Even when seeing a fatal car accident, and even when knowing that Dean had been in a firefight."

"Yeah."

Linden thought some more. "So there was something steadying about being in your parents' home again."

Clark shrugged. "I don't know, maybe."

"You seem doubtful...but that's when the panic attacks didn't happen. That has to mean something."

Clark sighed. "Look, I'm not moving back in with my parents!"

Linden shook his head. "Nobody is suggesting that."

"Good. I mean, I love 'em and all, but…." he finished his sentence with a mere shake of his head.

"You're a grown man and you want to stay out on your own. Perfectly appropriate."

"Glad we're clear on that."

"Absolutely." Linden thought some more. "So let's review...your father was absent a lot during your childhood because of his work schedule. A few years ago, when you were still a minor, your mother had a pregnancy-related emergency which you had to deal with because your father was working."

"Mom told you about that this morning?" For some reason that surprised him.

"Yes." Linden nodded. "They split up for the remainder of her pregnancy, though she tried to hide from you the fact that it was an actual split, and not just a move to get more help from her mother."

"I knew deep inside that something was really wrong, but I didn't let myself think about it," Clark replied. "I only knew for sure when my dad said something to me about it a couple of years later."

Linden nodded again. "And on the day your sister was born, your father was shot seven times on his way to the hospital?" Linden made it sound like a question, and his expression was a bit incredulous.

Clark nodded. "Yeah. Only our family."

"And your mom was having complications, the baby was in fetal distress, you were having to deal with fear over both of your parents and your unborn sibling all in medical emergencies. Your dad had surgery shortly after the baby was born. Who was there for you during that time?"

"My grandparents."

"Not Dean?"

"No, no, he was barely even back in his dad's life by then. Mostly living with his mom and stepdad in Dallas."

"Had he become your repository of optimism yet?"

"No, that didn't happen until he moved in with his dad a while later, and we started hanging out more."

"So...everything that formed the basis of a child's...or even a teen's...security was in danger, all at once. Your family's stability, your parents' survival, all of it."

"Yeah. I mean...I wasn't too worried that they might die. They looked too okay for that," he shrugged, "considering everything."

"Considering everything," Linden murmured, shaking his head. "And you never experienced a panic attack during all of that."

"No."

"And then the bombings. You and I barely mentioned that day during our first session, and I do want to hear all about it from your point of view, but your father told me he rescued you from the rubble of the City Hall Parking Garage, right?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, and your father also was there when you were rescued from your kidnapper. But he didn't command the team due to emotional entanglement, as I understand it."

"Right. But he was right there almost immediately. I barely remember the officer getting to me, but I remember my dad's arms around me. I remember him crying."

"Powerful memory, eh?"

"Yeah. But listen, the kidnapping wouldn't have happened to me in the first place, if Dad wasn't a cop. He never would have killed Hammond's son and made him want to take revenge by killing us."

"That's what it was about?"

"Yeah."

"So your dad was the hero, but also kind-of the cause of the crisis in the first place."

"Yeah." Clark smiled humorlessly. "That's a pretty good summary of my relationship with him. He's my hero, and the cause of my problems."

Linden sat back in his chair. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"But still no panic attacks, back then."

"No."

"How did you feel about moving out of your parents' house the first time, when you were eighteen?"

"Couldn't get out on my own fast enough. Loved it."

Linden's brows knit as he thought. Then he glanced at his watch, grimaced, and leaned over to tap his intercom. "Carol, has my next appointment shown up yet?"

"No."

"Okay, let me know when or if he does. This session will run a little over." He turned off the intercom and turned to Clark. "That is, if you can stay." He held up a hand to forestall any objections. "I won't charge for the extra time, don't worry. But this is too important to stop if we don't have to, and though I probably shouldn't tell you this, my next appointment is often late or a no-show. So if you can stay…?"

Clark shrugged. "Sure. It's not like I have classes to worry about."

"Okay, great. So you were happy to be out on your own. Your parents were back together, right?"

"Right. Dad was working a lot more, though, like before the breakup, because he took over as sergeant in command of Team One after Sergeant Parker...Dean's father...became disabled."

"Wait...Dean's father was the sergeant in command of your dad's SRU unit? How did he become disabled?"

"You remember, he was the cop defusing the bomb in the catwalks at Fletcher…."

"That guy is Dean's father?" Linden's eyebrows were threatening to merge with his hairline.

"Yeah, and my dad saved his life by killing Marcus Faber."

Linden shook his head, eyes wide. "He told me about rescuing you...but after that he went back to work? And he's the one who killed Marcus Faber?"

Clark nodded. "He did a lot more than that. He was the Team Leader of Team One."

Linden's brows knit. "Wow. And how did you feel about him going back to work instead of staying with you?"

"I insisted on it. He wanted to stay with me, but I knew the city needed him. And if I hadn't insisted, Dean's father would probably be dead now. My dad wouldn't have been there to save him."

"It's quite a burden, having such an amazing story and, frankly, an amazing father who was never there, except in emergencies."

"Yeah." Clark nodded, eyes focused on nothing. "'Ordinary' would have been a lot easier."

"How do you feel when people treat your father like a hero?"

Clark shrugged. "He is a hero."

"But while he was off being a hero, he caused you a lot of pain, and some of the stuff he had to rescue you from was at least an indirect result of his actions." He held up that hand again. "I'm not talking about blame here. Not saying your father is to blame for what your kidnapper did. Not at all. But still, the link between their actions is undeniable."

"Yeah, I've thought about that, believe me."

"It's got to be hard to figure out whether you've got solid ground under your feet or not, when your hero lets you down so much. Which is he...hero or letdown?"

"Both!" Clark replied.

"So who or what did you depend on?"

"Mostly myself. I mean, after I called 911 for my mom that time...I wasn't quite sixteen...and my dad said he was so proud of me...I just decided to pretty much be an adult and rely on myself."

"What did that look like?"

"Not pretty. Cutting classes, blowing off music lessons, spending the money on beer instead, having a major bad attitude toward authority most of the time."

"But then you must have become a responsible person again, since you've been doing well in a highly competitive music college, as I understand it."

"That's easy. Music is my life. My soul."

"And then the kidnapping...tell me about your recovery from that. Did you stay with your parents?"

"No, I wanted to be home alone, with my instruments."

"So you were feeling confident of your ability to cope with the demands of your life, including recovering from two major life traumas in as many years, without much help from your parents."

"Yeah. I mean, it's not like they disappeared. I knew they'd be there if I needed them."

"You knew that?"

"Sure."

"Why, when your father so often wasn't there?"

"Well, when he was there for me during my emergencies, it brought us a lot closer. He made more of an effort. Even when his work hours went back up, he made the effort to keep in touch during his off hours, at least sometimes. And my mom...she's good to talk to."

"But...by this time, Dean was 'storing' your optimism for you, right? And you had a pretty pessimistic outlook on life...I mean...that's about all that's left if you can't be optimistic, right?"

"I wouldn't say I was a pessimist," Clark replied, his brow furrowed. "More like an escapist. When I needed a good dose of optimism, I could always talk to Dean. But the rest of the time, I just buried myself in my music."

"Until you heard about the gas pump explosion."

"I buried myself in music even more after that."

"But you didn't talk to Dean or anyone else about how it affected you?"

"No, I was too scared. I mean, with Dean being so close to his dad, and his dad being so close to my dad, I knew word would get around."

Linden thought some more. "Have you ever asked yourself why that news story impacted you in ways that your own personal traumas never did?"

"No. But it's pretty obvious it brought back the fear of being burned alive."

"But your own personal brush with immolation didn't lead to panic attacks."

"No. I mean, I was seriously traumatized, don't get me wrong. But not actual panic attacks, no."

"Did the SRU have any involvement in that gas station incident?"

"No. It was a freak accident, not a crime."

"So you're out on your own, and a crisis comes up that brings back your terror from the kidnapping, and there's no way to connect your father with all of that. He can't come to your rescue, because you're not actually buried under rubble, or handcuffed to a tree. And you don't want to tell him about it, because you're afraid he'll react in ways that will endanger your college career."

Clark nodded.

"In all your life, your dad missed the mundane, but he was there for the emergencies."

"Yeah."

"Going to gas stations is pretty mundane."

"I don't do it any more. I pay someone else to do it."

Linden wrote that down. "Driving past gas stations is pretty mundane, too. When you've had panic attacks while driving, has it been after driving past a gas station?"

Clark scoffed. "There are gas stations on every corner. I drive past them all the time. No way to know if they're related to my attacks."

"Have you noticed any correlation between the length of your drive and the occurrence of attacks?"

"Longer drives were more likely to have attacks. But that just makes sense, right?"

"Look, I don't want to put any ideas in your head, so if I'm way off, tell me. I'm just sounding you out here. Does it ring true that it could be related to seeing gas stations on every corner...since you would naturally see more of them on longer drives…?"

Clark shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. I never really thought about it."

"But regardless, they all happened during the mundane routines of life, right?"

"Right."

And your hero doesn't do 'mundane,' does he?"

"No, not really."

"He only does emergencies...the kinds of emergencies that the cops deal with. But cops don't deal with panic attacks, do they?"

"No, not really. Not unless the guy's a danger to himself and they have to rescue him from that."

"Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself, Clark?" Linden gave him a very penetrating gaze.

"No. I can't imagine doing that."

Linden seemed to accept that statement, which was good, because it was true.

"So, for the first time you've got a type of major life emergency that your father can't help with."

"Yeah. But that couldn't be what caused the first panic attack. That would be circular reasoning."

"You're right. I have no doubt that the first panic attack was completely tied to the news story. But panic attacks tend to be self-perpetuating. People don't just fear the stimuli that cause the attacks. They fear the attacks themselves. And the fear of an attack can bring one on, all by itself sometimes."

"Okay, what are you driving at?"

"This situation you're in now is the first emergency you've had to deal with that excluded your father. It's the first one in which you separated yourself from your family altogether. You didn't even tell them about it. And when did the panic attacks stop happening?"

"When I was home." Clark hated that answer. "Are you saying I'm not man enough to live on my own?"

"No, Clark, that's not what I'm saying. But I am saying that your sense of security...and in some ways your sense of self...are pretty splintered."

"What in the world is that supposed to mean?" Clark snorted.

"That's what we're going to spend a lot of time unraveling."

The intercom buzzed. "Your next appointment is here."

Linden sighed. "Thanks, Carol." He turned back to Clark. "Here's your homework assignment for this next week. I want you to seriously consider whether you can give yourself permission to own your optimism...to store it for yourself for a change." He closed his notebook and stood, extending a hand.

Clark picked the magazine up, stood, and accepted the handshake. "Look, it's not about 'storing it.' That was just the best word I could think of at first. It's about believing in it. Dean believes in optimism, and that made me feel good about being around him."

"Ok then, I'll be asking you about believing in optimism the next time we see each other. So please think about what it would be like to try to recapture the optimism you used to have." Linden offered a smile and showed Clark to the door.

I can tell you right now what it would feel like. He paused at the table where he'd first found the magazine, and had to stare at the photo for a while before he put it down.

It would feel like being a chump.

He strode back out to his car, his steps firmed up by a vague sense of irritation. But as he cranked the engine he thought of Dean...the way he'd always looked when they'd hung out, and as he'd looked in the magazine.

Do I really think Dean is a chump?

He couldn't put that label on Dean, but he couldn't figure the guy out, either. Just like my dad.

He cranked up the stereo and put it all out of his mind.

Next: Chapter 11 - Connecting Is Healing