GOOD MAN TURNED BAD?

Chapter 7

The relatively quiet period at the lab changed abruptly, as uncovering a cocaine smuggling ring led them into a shootout with one of the many gangs that made their base in Miami. Although they had prevailed - two gang members dead, two more wounded, and one uniformed officer with a non-fatal bullet wound to the leg - and seven arrests - it left them with a huge amount of work to do. Forensics, ballistics, reconstructions. The gang weren't poor people, and the caliber of lawyers engaged would be high. They could not afford mistakes, or slipshod work.

Horatio knew he functioned best under these conditions, but he had cancelled three appointments in a row with Cecile.

He had told her it was necessary - he was just too busy. "Anyway, me, full of adrenaline, is probably not the best state for what we're doing."

She had agreed. "So how do you feel?"

"OK, at the moment. Once the pressure's off, I'll probably come down with a bump…"

"When you do, call me. Don't leave it too long."

It was three weeks since he had been to see her. They sat drinking coffee. "I'm sorry it's been so long."

"I understand." She smiled at him. "'You, full of adrenaline'… I'd quite like to have seen that. But, I agree, it wouldn't have been very productive. How are you now?"

He sighed. "Not too good. Very… anti-climaxed. It's happened before."

"And is probably normal. You see? You still do a good job… Still lead that precious team of yours… I know you're very conscious that things aren't right with you - and I'm not making light of it in any way - but I doubt it's half as obvious to everyone else as you think it is."

He smiled briefly, but didn't reply.

"But you still feel… what's your word?… 'horrible'?"

"Yes. You see, what we've had the last few weeks isn't complicated… Not mentally… They were evil men, we went in hard, and we took them down. And we'll get them in court. But I don't have to think much about these sort of cases. I mean, I have to think about the evidence, and making the case watertight, but I don't have to think -" He smiled ruefully. "- emotionally."

"You mean no gray areas… No doubts over the right thing to do. No soul-searching."

He nodded.

"And now you've got time to think - emotionally - again…"

"Something like that."

"So have you given any thought to this defense mechanism of yours? This emotional shut-down?"

"Not much, except to think that you're probably right. That I'm 'shut down'. I'd call it 'switched off' or 'unfeeling'. Only thing is, if I didn't feel, I wouldn't hurt. So I don't understand… not really. What do we do about it?"

"Keep talking… Where were we last time?"

"Good things and bad things…" He smiled suddenly. "And Jackson."

"Jackson?"

"My dog. I haven't thought about him in years." He was silent for a while. "He meant the world to me… All I had… I mean, Ray was still a baby… Other kids wouldn't come round, because of my dad…" He looked at Cecile. "Do you know about my parents?"

"Tell me."

He suspected she had researched him enough to know, but he said tonelessly, "My father was a violent and abusive man. He killed my mother. Later, I killed him." He frowned at Cecile, narrow-eyed, and challenging. "Yes, I had a lousy childhood, but I've never denied it, and I doubt it has any relevance now."

"Probably not."

He was conscious of his desire to argue with her, but she had effectively forestalled him. He looked down at his hands, which were suddenly shaking. "He also killed Jackson…"

"Your father did?"

"Kicked him to death." He felt a completely unexpected rush of tears. "Oh God…"

He tried to halt the huge wave of emotion, and failed. He felt Cecile's hand on his knee, patting him gently. He didn't know how long the tears lasted. Once started, he couldn't stop. He curled up, arms round himself, head on his knees, and wept. After a while, he became aware of Cecile sitting beside him on the sofa, her arm round his heaving shoulders. Gradually… it seemed distant… he heard her voice. "All right… enough now…"

He raised his head, groped for the box of tissues she held, and tried to control himself. "I'm sorry…"

"Sshh… It's fine…" She released him as he sat up.

Voice still choking, he whispered, "I didn't expect that…"

"I know… Sit back… Just take it easy for a few minutes."

The persistent ache from his bullet wound was a tight pain across his belly, and he lay back, eyes closed, and tried to breathe normally. He felt Cecile get up and return to her usual seat.

After a few minutes, he opened swollen eyes, and murmured, "May I use your bathroom?"

Cecile silently directed him.

He rinsed his face, dried it, and gazed in the mirror. He hadn't cried like that in fifty-odd years, and the physical effect was considerable. His eyes were reddened, nearly closed, his skin blotchy. And he felt peculiar. Almost ill. Certainly dazed… He went back into the main room and sat down again.

Cecile was watching him, but didn't break the silence.

He said quietly, not looking at her. "I don't think that's ever happened to me…" He pulled another tissue out of the box, not using it, but twisting it in his fingers. "Certainly not over a scruffy little mongrel…"

"It's all right, you know," she said quietly. "At least we know your emotions are all there."

"Rather more than I bargained for. Why, Cecile? Why that?"

"I think, possibly, it was one thing you hadn't really rationalized - to use your favorite word."

"I suppose I hadn't. Compared with what came afterwards…" He looked at her then. "Is this good? Is this what you wanted to happen?"

"Horatio… you know better than that. I told you it was never about trying to break you."

"Well, you just did. Psychiatry's fall-back position, isn't it? Bad childhood?" He felt a flash of anger.

"I think, if you hadn't sorted out your feelings about your upbringing a long time ago, you wouldn't have got where you are…"

"Which is where? A snivelling wreck on a shrink's couch?" He gestured to his face. "You realise I can't even go back to work, looking like this?"

He fell silent, a silence that lasted several minutes. Then he stood up, turning away from her.

"I can't do this anymore. Not today."

"That's all right… Do you want to just stay here a little while?"

"No, I want to go home."

"You'll come on Thursday?"

He nodded.

"Go on then. Take care."

He put his sunglassses on and went down to the car. He felt disoriented. His eyes stung, he felt sick, and his head was beginning to ache. Fairly sure, however, that his voice was steady, he phoned Calleigh.

"Anything going on?"

"No, boss. At least, nothing new."

"Good. I'm not coming back in today then." He didn't need to elaborate, but did anyway. "I'm… not feeling too good. Think I'm getting a cold…"

She accepted the explanation, even if she didn't believe him. After all, he never went sick with minor ailments. He rejected her offer to come round.

He started the car and headed home, finding he had to concentrate harder than usual just to negotiate the traffic. He turned up the air-conditioning, trying to feel better, to feel… normal. A couple of miles from home, head throbbing, he had to pull into a lay-by to throw up, grabbing his side as his bullet wound reminded him of its existence. He wondered, for a moment, if he really was ill. But probably not… just shell-shocked, he thought… And he was - shocked. Shocked that he could fall apart so completely. He had enough understanding of psychology to know that it wasn't just remembering little Jackson's miserable death that had caused it. Triggered it, certainly. But he suspected something far more complex had just happened.

He regretted walking out on Cecile, because he needed to understand, but, in truth, his physical state was making him seek the privacy of his own apartment. Out of public view… Even hers.

He drove home, took two painkillers, closed the thick drapes on his bedroom windows, stripped off his clothes, and crawled into bed.