After Linda woke him from a nightmare for the third time, he gave up on sleeping and went downstairs to the punching bag—until Jack wandered in, rubbing his eyes and whining that he'd woken him up.
"Sorry, kid, couldn't sleep."
"Are you still mad at me, Dad?"
He shook his head, took the gloves off, and sat down. "No. I…had a hard case and it made me think about a lot of those really bad things you talked about in your presentation, and…I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry."
Jack tackled him in a bear-hug, and Danny held him close.
After a while he said, "It's 5 a.m., Jack, go back to sleep so you don't fall asleep in school. You've gotta pack for our camping trip when you get home."
The kid nodded and went upstairs, yawning; and Danny went back to the punching-bag.
He was up and down the rest of the night, took a cat-nap on the couch, then went in to the precinct to wrap up paperwork before they left the following morning for their camping-trip.
His phone buzzed at 2:30, and he left for Doc's office.
Dr. Dawson was eating a slice of pizza when Danny walked in. "Hey, Danny, sorry about this. I didn't have time to grab lunch earlier. Want a piece?"
"Not hungry, Doc."
"Aww, come on, Danny, it's from Zingoni's, you know how great their pizza is."
"If this is some plot to make sure I eat, I see right through you."
"No plot, Danny; I'd just feel bad eating in front of you."
He sat down and threw his tie over his shoulder. "O, all right then."
He choked down one slice, wiped his fingers. "Happy now, Doc?"
The younger man looked at him. "Did you get any sleep?"
He shrugged.
"Nightmares?"
"Yeah. The usual, with an added twist of John Russell falling to his death over and over again."
"I'm sorry." Doc paused for a beat. "What's your 'usual' nightmare?"
He shook his head. "I can't…" He couldn't talk about those nightmares—not now, not this soon.
"Let me make a guess, then, and you tell me if I'm right or not. Your time in Fallujah?"
He nodded, pressed his back into the chair, gripping the arms so hard his fingers hurt. "I…I can't talk about that."
Doc held his hands up—a non-threatening gesture. "Okay, okay, take a breath, Danny, we don't have to talk about that."
He took a shaky breath and loosened his grip on the chair. "I apologized to Jack this morning."
"And did he forgive you?"
"He didn't say anything, just gave me a bear hug."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Ticked-off. Ashamed that my thirteen-year-old son is more forgiving than his old man."
"Children often are. Remind me: what made you snap at Jack?"
Danny rubbed the back of his neck. "He was doing a family history project for school, asked me about Pop's and Dad's and my time in the Marines, thought it was cool that all three of us served. I told him I definitely did not think it was cool. I also corrected him that the family legacy is service, not combat."
"How did Jack's question make you feel?"
Damn, he hated that question. "Angry. That he was curious. That he thought combat was something to be proud of."
"Are you telling me you're not proud of your service?"
"I didn't say that, Doc! I'm proud that I served my country. I'm not proud that I had to fight and kill for my country."
"I'd be worried if you were, Danny."
He sighed, shook his head. "Right after that, Linda got on my case for jumping down Jack's throat, said he was just curious. I told her I don't want him to be curious about the military service in this family. Then she asked me if I was really gonna try to tell her that my getting mad at Jack had nothing to do with the memories this case is bringing up. I told her yes, it had nothing to do with it."
"Do you think she was right—that the case is bringing up memories you'd rather not face?"
"Maybe. But damn, if I ever hurt one of my boys the way John Russell hurt Tommy…"
"You didn't, Danny. And remember that John Russell wasn't in his right mind-he was probably trying to protect Tommy from some perceived threat. Yelling at Jack once doesn't make you a bad father, doesn't make you the kind of guy who would kidnap his own son and nearly kill him." He stood up, walked over to the coffee machine. "Want a cup?"
"Sure."
Doc poured two mugs of coffee, then handed one to him. "What are some of the memories the case brought up?"
He was holding the mug so tightly his knuckles were white. He took a sip, set it down before he threw it across the room. "I can't…"
"Yes, you can, Danny. You're safe here, and nothing you tell me will ever leave this room. Tell me about your nightmare."
He stood up and stalked over to the window. With his back safely to the doc he let the memories wash over him, pinching his arm so the pain would keep him grounded in the present.
He's on the roof of an abandoned factory in Fallujah. There's nowhere to hide from the bullets and bombs. John Russell is in his Army uniform, feigning a fall. "Thought you could save me, Marine?"
He hears the thuds of bullets hitting soft flesh, the whines of the missiles. Screams fill the air.
John Russell salutes him and then falls.
As suddenly as he had fallen, John reappears on the ledge, salutes him, and then falls again…over and over and over again.
In the distance, he sees the desert towns and destroyed buildings of Fallujah. Bullets whistle past him, and he darts behind the makeshift shelter.
But John is still there, taunting him. He cries out, again, "John, look at me! It's time to come home, man! Don't do this! Dammit!"
His voice broke, and he stomped angrily on his own right foot.
"Don't do that, Danny."
"Don't do what, Doc? Try to keep myself from having a full-blown flashback?"
"Don't hurt yourself."
Doc had seen that. Damn observant man. "High pain tolerance."
"Come sit down, Danny, please."
"I'm good over here, Doc."
"That's a pretty intense nightmare. John Russell's death was not your fault."
"You said that yesterday."
"And it bears repeating-his death was not your fault." He paused. "Tell me about the case—anything that struck you, or walk me through it from the beginning."
He sighed, stalked back to the chair, picked up his coffee cup, and drained it. Then he sat down cautiously, on the edge of the chair.
He shrugged. "Not much else to tell."
"What about Detective Baez? She's your partner, so I take it there are things you share with her that, perhaps, you don't tell other people?"
He sighed again. He had hoped to keep this moment to himself, but it had been playing on an endless loop behind all the other crap. "When we visited John's best friend...they were in the same unit on their first tour…he gave us the run-around. I told Baez if we waited long enough, he'd lead us to John—that because they served together, they're like brothers."
He swallowed hard, let out a shaky breath. "She asked me if I still keep in touch with any of the men from my unit. I told her no. She pushed it, and threw my own words back in my face: she thought we'd be like brothers. I told her I don't, and she still pushed, dammit!"
He swallowed again, ran his tongue over his dry lips. "I…had to tell her that I don't keep in touch with them because…I'm the only one who made it home."
"I'm sorry, Danny."
"Linda knows…Pop and my dad know, and maybe Jamie and Erin, but…that's all they know: that I'm the only one that made it home. I couldn't…I can't…talk about any of the rest of it."
"How does that make you feel, Danny…being the only survivor?"
"Dammit, Doc, how do you think I feel? I feel angry, I feel guilty—there was this kid, we called him 'Chuckles,' he was 19 freakin' years old, and he died because he took my turn on patrol because I'd twisted my ankle! If I'd gone out on patrol that night, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting here talking to you, because a sniper would have put a bullet in my neck!"
He took a shaky breath, feeling his heart pound in his chest. "Why him and not me? Why the hell am I the only one who made it home?"
"I don't know, Danny. But I do know that it's not your fault you're the only one who made it home."
He glared at the psychologist. "You did that on purpose, dammit…you asked an open-ended question so I'd open my mouth and spill my guts. Dammitall, Doc."
Alex Dawson shrugged. "Sorry, hazards of the job."
Doc locked eyes with him. "Do you remember asking me last year why anger is such a problem? It becomes a problem when it masks other, more painful emotions, like sadness, depression, guilt. I asked you a few days ago, but you didn't answer: Are you depressed, Danny?"
He sighed.
He wanted to bolt. No one had asked him this question since that last debriefing after he returned from Fallujah, and then it had been easy to lie.
He nodded quietly.
His phone rang...saved by the bell...his dad, with a reminder to pick up the kerosene for the camping trip.
He stood up. "Sorry, Doc, I've gotta run...have a bunch of things to do before we leave at 0500 for our Manly Man Camping Trip."
The doc rose. "You did good today, Danny. Have a good time with your family. Call me when you get back, and we'll schedule your next appointment."
He nodded and left.