"I was handling this so much better in Kentucky."

"Why do you think that is?"

Mike was sitting in the armchair in his living room, a cup of coffee in his left hand, his gaze unfocused. Doctor Murchison was leaning back on the sofa, relaxed, his legs crossed, cradling his own coffee mug in both hands.

The older man, still not making eye contact, took a loud deep breath and slowly shook his head. "I don't know." He shrugged as much as he could without jostling his right shoulder. He'd been through this routine before; he knew the psychiatrist wanted him to think it through, come up with an answer. "Maybe because there were too many other things going on and didn't have time to think about it… I don't know." His voice died away.

Murchison nodded, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, putting his coffee cup on the floor. "Think about what… specifically?" He watched closely as Mike just sat there, breathing calmly and evenly, continuing to stare at nothing.

Mike took a deep breath and held it. "When, ah, when we got ambushed," he said finally, his voice small and far away. "I mean, ah, you know, I've been in my fair share of firefights when I was in the service, and I've had a couple of pretty intense encounters on the job but…" he exhaled loudly, "but never anything like this… never…"

Murchison slowly and carefully leaned in a little more. "What happened?" he asked gently as, offering no resistance, Mike allowed him to take the coffee cup from his hand and put it on the floor.

After a few seconds of silence, Mike raised his eyebrows. "We were outgunned, plain and simple. We didn't have a chance. They just started firing and they didn't stop…" He paused, and Murchison watched as he sat there, still breathing evenly but obviously reliving the ordeal. "Have you ever seen a bullet from an M-16?" he asked, surprising the psychiatrist as his clouded blue eyes turned suddenly in that direction.

Caught off-guard, Murchison swallowed, sat back slightly and shook his head.

"It's a military rifle; the bullet's almost three inches long." He stared into the younger man's eyes as he spoke, but the doctor knew he wasn't in the room, he was sitting in the back of a car on a dark deserted road in rural Kentucky, facing his worst fears.

As Mike's eyes slid away from his face to stare once again at nothing, Murchison swallowed heavily again and took a deep breath. He knew he could never understand exactly how it felt to have a gun pointed at him, let alone a semi-automatic military rifle, and he was grateful for that. But he still hoped he could find some way to help this uncharacteristically vulnerable man.

"How many shooters were there?" the psychiatrist asked softly.

Mike blinked slowly, coming back to the room and the present. "Three, at least three… They put forty-seven shots into our car in less than thirty seconds."

Murchison caught his breath, hoping the older man hadn't noticed. He'd been told what had happened in Kentucky, but he wasn't aware of the horrifying details. Getting himself quickly under control, he leaned forward again. "That was when you were shot?"

Mike nodded, still not making eye contact. "It went right through me… it was white hot; I could feel it burning… my arm went numb but I didn't taste blood, so I knew I wasn't going to die right away… and they kept firing… I just waited for the next one to hit me …the bullets were tearing up the inside of the car all around us… and it wasn't stopping… I thought we were all going to die…" His voice faded away.

"How did the three of you get out of there alive?"

"We, uh, we had a split second to react before they started firing."

Murchison cocked his head, frowning. "How did that happen?" he asked slowly.

Mike looked down then carefully leaned forward, trying not to wince. He rested his left elbow on his thigh, covering his mouth with his hand. "I, ah, I yelled for Steve to… ah…"

"To what?"

"To hit it, to get down…"

Murchison shifted slightly, knowing he was on to something. "How did you know?" He was keeping his voice low, his tone reassuring.

Glancing up and clearing his throat softly, Mike took a breath before answering. "I, uh, I was sitting in the back seat with Rutter. When the truck blocked our path, we were blinded by the headlights. Rutter was staring at the truck like he recognized it. I thought it was his family… come to take him from us." He paused and cleared his throat again. "Some people got out of the truck… We couldn't tell what was going on, Steve and I… Then somebody stepped in front of one of the headlights, and Rutter's smile disappeared. He looked scared. I guess that's when I knew…"

"And you yelled at Steve to get down?"

Mike nodded.

"And nobody else got hit except you?"

Another nod, and a deep inhaled breath. "Thank god," came the whispered response.

Murchison eased himself forward a bit more. "Why were you hit, do you think?" he asked quietly and saw the older man frown, as if not understanding the question. "What I mean is, why didn't you react as fast as Steve, if you were the one that warned him?"

"I, ah, I pushed Rutter down first. I had my hand on the back of his t-shirt, keeping him quiet. When I yelled to Steve, I pushed Rutter down out of the way…"

Murchison smiled slightly to himself. "You pushed him out of harm's way before ducking yourself… That's why you got hit…" he said quietly.

Mike didn't move. "Steve got us out of there… I don't know how he did it, but he got the car moving, he went around the truck… they kept shooting at the back of the car… I don't know how he did it…"

"Why didn't you tell him you'd been shot?"

The cop looked at the psychiatrist sharply then dropped his head. "I knew he'd want… he'd want to stop and, ah, and take care of me," he cleared his throat, "and I knew we didn't have the time, that whoever was shooting at us were gonna find us and kill us if we didn't keep moving."

"How much pain were you in?"

"It, ah, it wasn't too bad…"

"You said you couldn't feel your arm."

"My shoulder was numb and I couldn't lift my arm… but I could flex my hand, so I didn't think it was too bad…" His gaze had drifted away again and stared into the middle distance. Murchison knew there was more to come so he sat back quietly and let the older man deliberate. The progress they had already made was encouraging; he would let Mike reveal as much or as little as he cared to, in his own time.

"What is it that you're having the most trouble dealing with?" the psychiatrist probed gently.

Mike took two deep breaths before he said quietly, "The sound… it never stopped… the sound of those huge rounds hitting the car, over and over again… it felt like it was never going to stop… I knew, I knew we were all going to die and there was nothing I could do about it…" The breath he took was ragged and his entire body shook. His worried, hooded eyes turned slowly towards the doctor. "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he said quietly.

Murchison's brow furrowed, and he strained to keep the growing concern out of his voice. "Don't know if you can do what?"

Mike looked away. "My job," he sighed with a mirthless snort. "I was scared, like I've never been scared in my life before. I knew I was going to die, that Steve was going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it. I'd failed us both… I never want to feel that way again. I can't go through that again… I just can't..."

Murchison, for one of the few times in his professional life at a loss for words, sat back on the sofa and studied the deeply troubled man before him. He let the silence lengthen between them, and watched as the older man sat quietly, his head down, left hand over his mouth, staring blankly into space.

Finally, the psychiatrist leaned forward and put a gentle hand on Mike's knee. When the cop finally met his eyes, he smiled. "You didn't fail anybody, Mike. You, Steve, and even Rutter – who owed you his life at that moment – you all walked away from that because you did what you do best, what makes you the great detective you are. You notice things, you understand people and how they act and how they react. You saved lives in that split second before the shooting started, Mike, and you know that, right?"

Mike stared at him but didn't say anything at first. Then, "I got lucky," he said quietly.

Murchison grinned. "Bullshit. You can read people like nobody else I know." He patted Mike's knee, knowing they had made a break-through. "You're still here, Mike. Steve's still here. You saved him, just like you saved Rutter." When Mike opened his mouth to interject, the younger man cut him off. "What happened to Rutter later was not, and will never be, your fault. And I'm not going to let you go on believing that, if I have to talk to you from here to doomsday." He stared the older man down. "Now I can't begin to know how it feels to be sitting in a car that's being blown apart by semi-automatic rifle fire, and I'm not going to pretend that I do. But what I do know is that you have nothing to feel guilty about, and you definitely have nothing to fear anymore. You and Steve are both alive, you're both home and you're both healing. And you'll both be back at work before you know it. You won, Mike, you beat this. Now don't let it beat you… You faced probably the worst situation a cop can get himself into, and you're still here. You and Steve, you're both still here. And I think that's something to feel good about."

With a wink, Murchison reached down and picked up Mike's cup, then reached for his own. "You just sit here and think about that and I'm gonna refresh our coffee, and when I get back, we're gonna keep talking and we're gonna tackle anything else that bothering you, all right?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started towards the kitchen. As he crossed the threshold, he looked back.

Mike had sat back in the armchair, still staring at nothing in particular. But, although there was still a long way to go, the lines of guilt and worry were beginning to recede from his weary face.