The Killer Trail (9 page)

“PSTD,” Chris slurred suddenly.

“What? Is that what she thinks you're going through— PTSD?”

“Yeah.” Chris fixed his gaze on his drink.

“So why the hell did you come back to work?”

Chris, having gulped down his drink, poured the minuscule ice cubes into his mouth. “I keep thinking about his rifle. Can't get the image out of my head.”

“Hey, Chris. That's serious shit. But it's normal, you know what I mean? He tried to kill you, but you survived.”

Chris ignored him. “I kept looking through the barrel. And then I had it. I had a chance.”

“What? You grabbed the gun?”

“Yeah. And you know what I can't stop thinking about?”

“What, Chris?”

“I should've killed him when I had the chance.”

“No, man. That's not you. You wouldn't do that.”

“I wanted to. I really did.” Chris' voice trailed off and he said something incoherent. A moment passed. Then, suddenly: “It's like that song.”

“What song?” Gerald asked, confused.

“
The Who song.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Chris.”

“I won't get fooled again.”

“What are you saying, Chris?” Gerald was having a hard time keeping up with his friend's drunken ramblings.

“Next time... Next time, I'm gonna blow his fuckin' brains out.”

“Let's go, Chris. I'm driving you home.”

EIGHTEEN

Saturday, February 11, 10:09 a.m.
Elizabeth Carrier awoke from a fitful slumber. She had vowed not to fall sleep in the presence of her captors, but after countless hours of unbearable fear, her exhausted body betrayed her and she drifted off.

She didn't know why she had been kidnapped or what her captors had in store for her. Two men took turns guarding her. They did not speak to her, and she prayed they would leave her alone. But they didn't. Her face burned and angry tears came to her eyes as she recalled how one savage had taken pleasure in fondling her breast. He had slapped her face hard when she squirmed away from his fingers as they groped their way into her bra. In that moment, she had wished she were dead.

Elizabeth listened now to determine whether her abductors were in the room. With her eyes blindfolded, she couldn't tell for certain. She knew only that her body hurt from being bound with ropes to a wooden chair. She couldn't scream, as her mouth was gagged with coarse cloth. She yearned to see her mother and father, but she was terrified that she would never see anyone else ever again.

NINETEEN

Saturday, February 11, 10:09 a.m.
Chris woke up on his couch, his mouth parched and head pounding, still wearing his clothes from the day before. Sunlight was shining through his window, and the television was blaring at a volume he found intolerable with his raging hangover. It struck him that it was Saturday and not—thank God for minor miracles—a scheduled workday. He was in no position to do anything but rest for the day.

He moved too quickly from his couch, lost his balance, and felt sick to his stomach. He sat down heavily, giving himself a few minutes. After an eon, he felt strong enough to stagger to the bathroom for a glass of water and three extra-strength ibuprofen. Returning to the living room, he saw his phone was blinking. He hit the playback button. Gerald had called, checking to see how he was doing. His manager rang to say he needed to talk with him as soon as possible. There was no message from Stephanie, but Chris knew he had no choice but to contact her for a follow-up appointment to discuss his confrontation with Ray Owens. He glanced at his television and caught a dust-up between a cackle of panel members on
Jerry Springer.
Hadn't the show been canceled? He realized he was avoiding calling Stephanie. He reached for his planner, located her office number, and placed his call.

He had expected to get Stephanie's voice recording, but she answered instead, explaining she was finishing an overdue report. She had heard about his recent plight and sounded empathetic and accommodating, offering an afternoon appointment. He took the appointment time, figuring it would be best to get it over and done with rather than wait for Monday. He lay his phone down and flaked out on his couch to catch more sleep. He was wasted.

Just as he was drifting off, he was awakened by a call from Deanna. “You sound groggy. Did I wake you? I thought you might be up by now.”

“Yeah, I'm up. I was just resting before a meeting in a few hours.” He didn't mention that his meeting was with Stephanie. For reasons that he didn't fully understand, Deanna had never warmed to Stephanie, and he wasn't in the mood for a confrontation. “What's up?”

“I was just calling to remind you about tonight? Ann Marie is looking forward to seeing you. Are you up to seeing her? Maybe just for a few hours?”

“Absolutely. What time should I come by?”

“Well...” She paused. “I'm going out tonight... so I was hoping you could come by after supper. How about six-thirty?”

She must be going on a date.
Although curious, he knew better than to pry. “Yeah, six-thirty's fine with me.” He felt alone. Deep in his heart, he knew it was for the best that he and Deanna had gone their separate ways, but that didn't prevent him from wishing for a better resolution.

“Chris, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “Just a bit tired, that's all.”

“All right. See you this evening.”

Chris looked at his watch. He had a few hours before his appointment with Stephanie. If he left immediately, he could get in a quick run. His head and stomach told him differently. The thought of bouncing up and down after the night he'd had made him nauseous. He opted instead for a long, hot shower and an even hotter coffee.

As Chris' taxi approached the IFP complex, he felt a pang in his stomach. He wasn't sure whether it was nerves about returning to the place where Ray Owens was being held, or his hangover. Either way, he wasn't looking forward to his meeting: Stephanie would have fresh evidence to plead her case that he was not well. He made his way to her office. This time, he wasted no time in knocking on her door and opened it slowly, “Hey, it's me.”

“Hi, Chris. Make yourself comfortable. Want some coffee?” Stephanie appeared to be working on a report.

“No. I've had my fill for today, thanks.” He was staring at Stephanie's ivory skin, marveling at how lovely it looked, wondering how soft it would be to touch.

“So how are you doing?” Stephanie's question abruptly brought Chris back to the moment.

There's a loaded question if ever there was one
. “You tell me.”

“I don't want to start off like this, Chris. And I don't think you really want to, either.”

Chris sighed. “I guess not. What I meant was, I'm sure you heard what happened yesterday, right?”

Stephanie nodded. “David told me. He also talked with my manager. They're asking me to continue seeing you for the time being, given that it's a
unique
situation—their word, not mine.”

“And David wants to hear from you before I return to work. He told you that, too?”

Again Stephanie nodded. “It's not a punishment, Chris. You came here yesterday and really pushed for an early return. Against my better judgment, I agreed. I take as much responsibility for that as you do. I think it was too early. I don't think you were ready. That's my professional opinion.”

Chris looked around the office, glancing at the framed degrees on the wall along with an obscure French painting that he guessed had some type of relevance to the human condition
.
Finally, he replied, “It was all my fault, Stephanie. Not yours.”

“So tell me, what happened?”

“I saw him—Ray Owens—and I froze.”

“Was that your first indicator that something was wrong, or were there earlier signs?”

Chris realized his answer to this question would have implications for his return to work, but he opted to come clean. He took a deep breath before answering, “My sleep has been crap. I have flashbacks where I keep discovering the body— James Carrier's body. I have nightmares about Ray Owens. I get sick to my stomach just thinking about him. So yeah, there have been signs.”

Stephanie nodded. “What happened when you saw Ray Owens?”

“I didn't know what to do. I didn't do anything. I couldn't do anything. It was like I was in a dream. I just... froze. I don't know any better way of saying it. I froze.”

Now it was Stephanie who took a deep breath. “Thank you, Chris. For being honest with yourself. How long have you been having the nightmares?”

“Pretty much since day one.”

“Do you remember them? Are they the same each time?”

“Yeah. There was a point on the trails where he...where Ray had his rifle pressed up against my head. I was on the ground. He was standing over me, looking down with that stupid smirk on his face. And... and there was nothing I could do about it.” He finished in a rush of words.

“You felt powerless?”

“Yeah, I felt powerless. I can't shake that image—that feeling. I hate him so badly. But there's nothing I can do about it. Goddamnit.” He could feel his face growing hot and his muscles tensing, and fought to keep from losing control.

“You still feel powerless?”

“Yeah,” he admitted in a defeated voice.

“So what happened? He obviously didn't shoot you in the head.”

“I don't know... I can't remember.”

“Can't remember? Or don't want to remember? Or don't want to talk about it?”

“Jesus, Stephanie. I'm trying here.”

“I'm not criticizing you, Chris. I'm searching for more information. To determine whether you may have blocked out the memory, either consciously or subconsciously.”

He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair for support. Reliving his experience from the trail was making him extremely uncomfortable. “I had pissed him off. I was trying to get inside his head, trying to distract him so that I could grab the rifle. That's when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“He hit me across the face with the rifle and then pressed it against my forehead.”

“Then what?” Stephanie leaned forward.

Chris' skin was becoming clammy, his breathing quickening as anxiety bubbled inside of him. He tried to focus on the question. “I kept pushing his buttons. I knew it was working, so I kept it up and seized the chance when it came. He took a swing at me and missed. And I grabbed the gun.”

“And you're alive today because of your actions.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess I am.”

“You discovered Ray's weakness. You exposed it, and capitalized on it.”

Chris nodded and relaxed a bit in his chair. He could feel the wetness of his shirt, but his breathing was returning to normal.

“Because you helped the police, he was apprehended. A killer is off the streets because of you.” She paused to let that sink in for Chris before going further. “It seems to me that far from being powerless, you actually took control of the situation.”

Chris knew what Stephanie was doing. She was reframing his trauma, highlighting the positive aspects of his actions and the positive outcome. This was a technique he could have predicted—he used it himself with his patients. To his surprise, however, it was working for him now. He felt a huge sense of relief that he had finally taken what was percolating inside his head and brought it out into the open. “I guess you have a point.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Stephanie broke the silence. “I think we've made great progress here today. What do you think?”

“Yeah, I agree.” Chris felt physically and emotionally drained, but for the first time in days, he also felt hopeful about his future.

“We should probably stop for today and set another appointment.”

Chris was perplexed. “Look, Stephanie, I can do that, but it may be hard to find the time. In between work and Ann Marie, you know. How many more appointments are you thinking?”

“It's difficult to nail down precisely how many may be necessary. And I don't want to rush this. We've already seen what happens when we rush through this process.”

“Yeah, but I really need to get back to work. I mean, I was counting on going back as soon as possible.”

“I'm sorry, Chris, but I don't think you're ready to return yet.”

“Well, what the hell was this all about today? A waste of time?”

“Absolutely not. You've made great gains here today. But it isn't as simple as one breakthrough session and that's it—case closed, problem solved. The brain doesn't respond to trauma that way.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” He felt himself getting anxious. He was uncomfortable with having his position as a social worker reversed, and finding himself in the role of patient.