Do Not Go Gentle (29 page)

The entire meal commenced in silence, save for the sounds of their utensils. Although the tension for the three managers built with each course, none of them thought about being the first to speak. They had seen graphic examples of the reaction Sedecla could have to anything she deemed inappropriate.

Finally, after the place settings had been cleared and they were once again alone in the room, Sedecla spoke. She spoke in a soft, but firm voice, which was nonetheless chilling. Her icy calm was often much worse than any angry outbursts. “I am disappointed, gentlemen,” she said, taking a sip of Inniskillin Icewine. “While my plans for achieving Abaddon by mastering the Qliphoth proceed apace, I do not feel as though my wish for pressure to be brought upon the remaining troublesome detective has been properly executed. I cannot tolerate any more interference with my process.”

“Mistress,” began ibn Ezra. He stopped when Sedecla held up a hand.

“Tomás tells me that you have each found excellent methods to ensure that former Detective Griffin back away from the case. However, no actions have yet been taken, which both puzzles and irritates me.” She stopped and nodded at ibn Ezra to continue.

“
Qedesh
,” he spoke rapidly. “We did not wish to proceed without your approval.” The small man repressed a twitch of nervousness.

“Indeed,” rumbled Choate. “I apologize if I misunderstood your instructions, Mistress. I thought you simply wished to know of these pressure points and would tell us when the time was right to proceed.”

Sedecla considered their points, and then looked at O'Neill. “Timothy, you are silent. Do you agree with your fellow managers' statements?”

Of the three men, only O'Neill appeared at ease. Inwardly, the detective seethe with turmoil. Years of experience allowed him to keep his face impassive as he replied. “Of course, Mistress. I would not dream of acting without your authority.”

“I see,” Sedecla said. She paused to take another sip of wine. “So, if I now give each of you instructions to proceed, there will be no delays in acting?” When each man voiced his assent, she nodded. “Very well, then. Let us proceed under the assumption that my previous instructions were not clear enough, despite my feelings to the contrary. ibn Ezra,” she began, smiling coldly as the small man nearly jumped out of his chair when her gaze fell upon him. “You have one of the Griffin brats coming to your island retreat, if I am correct. See to it that she has an accident while there. An accident from which she will not return.”

“It will be so, Qedesh,” ibn Ezra vowed emphatically.

Sedecla turned to Choate. “Rufus, you will proceed with selling the property that houses Eileen Griffin's business as discussed.”

“I will do so, Mistress,” replied Choate. “Do you wish for me to obtain top dollar for the property or sell it at any price?”

Sedecla dipped her head and shrugged slightly. “A fair question. Do not give away the property, but do not waste time in pointless haggling, like some cheap merchant in a bazaar. Sell it sooner rather than later.” Choate agreed with a lumbering nod of his head. Now she turned to O'Neill. “Timothy, as I recall, last time you expressed some reservations about taking action against your fellow officers. Do you still harbor these doubts?”

“I do, Mistress,” O'Neill replied, returning her intense gaze. “You do not pay me to be a sycophant. While I understand your desire to prevent interference in your project, pushing on Griffin too hard is a mistake, perhaps even more so than killing Cushing. It will not stop the investigation. It will more attention and resources to it.”

“I have acceded to your concerns, Timothy,” Sedecla said smoothly, not diverting her penetrating gaze. “Thus Detective Griffin still lives and breathes, but I will not take any chances. You will arrest Father O'Connor the next time he avails himself of one of your prostitutes.”

O'Neill shook his head. “That would also be a mistake, Mistress.”

Sedecla took the half-empty crystal wine glass in her hand and whipped it to the left of O'Neill's head, spilling wine on the table and floor as it passed him to shatter against the wall. O'Neill did not flinch. “No, Timothy. It would be a mistake to continue questioning my judgment.”

After meeting her smoldering gaze for several seconds, O'Neill looked away and meekly replied, “As you wish, Mistress. It shall be done.”

Several seconds hung heavily over the group, like storm clouds. At length, Sedecla exhaled softly, then said, “Very good. You are dismissed. Report the completion of your tasks to Tomás.”

The three managers stood and walked in silence out of the room, each man inwardly breathing a sigh of relief that they were still able to walk out of the room under their own power. Once ibn Ezra had quietly closed the door behind him, Sedecla turned her gaze upon her seneschal. “Do you believe they will accomplish their tasks as directed, Tomás?”

“Perhaps, Mistress,” da Silva replied smoothly, “but I am not confident that you will get the results you desire from their efforts.”

Sedecla smiled. “Nor am I, Tomás, nor am I. Come,” she said standing and walking to comfortable chairs in front of the blazing fireplace. At her instruction, da Silva poured them both more wine, and then seated himself across from Sedecla. She took a long sip, and then smiled at him. “I have some ideas, Tomás, about how you may proceed in a more direct and expeditious manner.” da Silva nodded and returned her mirthless smile. He listened as Sedecla gave him orders that he would enjoy carrying out, despite their brutal nature.

Jamie looked out the window impatiently. He did not want to be answering these stupid questions. He examined the snowy day. Jamie had called the first name on the list that Johnny had given him, Doctor Ray Steinhaus. It had taken a week to get his first appointment. Now, sitting here in the man's office, Jamie struggled to deal with the idea of being in therapy. After waiting a few seconds, he looked back to the man seated across from him. Steinhaus was about Jamie's age and height, but rail thin and spoke with a slight accent. He was friendly enough, and Jamie had no problems with the man himself. He
was
a psychiatrist, though, and despite what he promised his brother, Jamie was not dealing well with this. Steinhaus returned Jamie's gaze placidly. Clearly, he was prepared to wait as long as it took to get an answer to his question.

What would he do if I just sat here until the end of our session?
Jamie wondered. Finally, he sighed and answered Ray's question.

“I don't know. Maybe it's just the way I was raised, but I've always believed that one of a man's primary responsibilities was to provide for his family.”

“Okay,” Ray said, nodding.

I swear to Jaysus Christ and all the blessed saints, the next time he says ‘Okay' and nods, I'm going to go berserk.
Now Jamie waited again. He answered the man's question. Now it was up to Ray to ask another or follow-up.

Ray crossed the ankle of his right leg atop his left knee, and then grasped the knee as if he needed it to hold him in place. “Well, it's not an uncommon belief, certainly, but you said yourself that your wife works outside the home and has done so for years. So are you okay with that or has it been a source of conflict between the two of you?”

“No, I've never had a problem with Eileen working outside the home. She waited until the girls were all in school full-time, and given the fact that she runs her own business, she can pretty much schedule things so she's there when they get home from school.”

“Umm-hmmm. So you think it's primarily the woman's role to raise children?”

“I didn't say that,” Jamie replied with a great deal of exasperation. “Look, what does all this have to do with the reason I'm here? I'm struggling to deal with the loss of my job due to my illness. My family is concerned and has bullied me into getting help.”

Steinhaus uncrossed his legs, leaned back, and clasped his hands together behind his head. The windows streamed in deceptively warm light given the cold temperature outside. While the chairs they sat in were comfortable, Jamie would not be napping in them. “Well, it's important that I get to know about you in some detail before we can start addressing your current problems.”

“Why is that?” Jamie asked pointedly. “Do you have to know every detail of my personal life to know what this is doing to me?”

“Actually, yes,” Ray said calmly. “Otherwise, I'd be like a doctor prescribing medicine or recommending surgery without first understanding the patient's complete medical history and all his symptoms.” His dark green eyes fixed keenly on Jamie's. “Jamie, I can't help you if you won't be honest and open with me.”

“Fine, I'll be a good boy.” Jamie paused, and then realized that Ray was not going to go on until Jamie answered the psychiatrist's original question. “No, I don't think it's the woman's primary role to raise children. I've played an active role in their upbringing, and we both made the decision for Eileen to stay home until they were in school full time.”

“Okay.” More nodding, but Jamie managed to restrain himself. “Let's make a deal—you answer every question honestly and in complete detail for the rest of this session. Then, I'll tell you what I think and give you my recommendations. Deal?”

“Deal,” Jamie replied tersely.

They spent the rest of the hour with Jamie honestly answering Ray's questions without hesitating or temporizing, no matter how uncomfortable or ridiculous the questions seemed. It wasn't easy.

The man asks some damn tough questions,
Jamie thought at one point.
He would have made a good cop.
They ended by discussing Jamie's nightmares.

Ray didn't say anything until Jamie finished describing his nightmare. “You've been having these since you first got sick?”

“Yes,” Jamie replied. “Frequently at first, less often in recent weeks.”

“Well, the whole ‘sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' shtick aside, it's pretty clear that your nightmare is about your fears over the changes in your life. Your life is collapsing about you, like the bridge, and the thing trying to pull you down into darkness is your depression over the loss of your job.”

Jamie shook his head. “It sounds so neat and simple when you put it that way.”

“Hardly. It's complex and messy, but not surprising.” Ray leaned back in his chair again, tilted his head back, clasped his hands behind his head, and said nothing for a long time. Jamie was starting to believe the man had gone to sleep on him when Ray leaned forward, bringing his hands forward swiftly. He clapped them loudly against his knees. “Okay, here's what I want to do, Jamie.” Steinhaus paused again, but only long enough to make sure Jamie was paying attention. “I want to set up a treatment plan that includes twice weekly meetings for a month, tapering off to weekly, then monthly, based on my opinion of your progress. I'm also going to prescribe two anti-depressant medications, based on your medical history and my reading of your current mental, physical, and emotional state. We're going to start with a pretty strong dose, but again, based on your progress, we can taper those off as warranted.” He paused for Jamie to comment.

Jamie was struggling not to yell “Bullshit” and storm from the room. He believed that therapy was for weaklings and anti-depressants were just a crutch. Now, here he was, forced to agree to both, which made his stomach roil and his head hurt worse. Deep inside, Jamie knew that Eileen and Johnny were right, but he could just hear the reaction of his father and eldest brother. The moment stretched out as Steinhaus once again waited for Jamie. Finally, Jamie nodded. “Okay. I agree, not that I really think I've got much of a choice.”

Steinhaus shrugged. “Maybe not, but it's the right decision. I also need you to give me your word that you'll genuinely participate in our sessions, take your medications, and do the homework I assign you.”

“Homework?” Jamie asked. “I haven't done homework since college, Ray.”

“Well, you'll just have to remember how it's done. I want you to start a journal. You're to make entries at least twice a day—once in the morning and once in the evening.”

“What the hell do I write about?”

“You write about how you're feeling, both physically and mentally. It's important for you to start getting in touch with yourself and for me to better understand your current condition. Write about your thoughts, your symptoms, your feelings, your mood. Write about whatever comes to mind—daily events, issues you have to deal with, doctor's appointments, etc. I want you to bring this journal to each session and we'll discuss your entries. This will help us both start to identify ways in which you can get better.”

“Ray, my condition is physical, not mental. My body is betraying me, not my mind.”

“I disagree,” Ray said emphatically, leaning forward. “Your mind is also letting you down. This physical ailment challenges your whole value system, your core beliefs, your self-awareness, and your identity. They are inextricably linked, Jamie.”

“Okay, okay, you win, doc.”

“Excellent.” The psychiatrist stood and walked back behind his desk. “Just let me write out these prescriptions for you. We'll set up our twice weekly meetings starting next week. That will give you some time on the medication and some time to journal. Do we have a deal?” Ray held out his hands—the left with the prescriptions, the right to shake Jamie's hand.

Jamie took the slips of paper and shook Ray's hand. “Deal. You have my word.”

“Good enough for me.” They both turned to walk to the door to Ray's office. The psychiatrist opened the door and touched Jamie gently on the shoulder. “We'll get you through this, Jamie, I promise.”

Jamie nodded and walked down a short hallway back to the reception room, where Eileen waited. He smiled crookedly at his wife, and then started setting up his appointments.

* * * *

The drive back home was snowy and silent—Eileen, because she was concentrating on the bad road conditions, and Jamie because he was caught in a confused web of shame and anger over being in therapy. The girls were in school and Eileen did not have any lessons until mid-afternoon. Eileen made a new pot of coffee, poured cups for her and Jamie, then took them to the living room where Jamie had ensconced himself on the sectional with Finn MacCool. Jamie thanked her for the coffee, and then Eileen sat beside him and looked at him expectantly.

Finally, after several seconds, Jamie grunted and shook his head. “Don't
you
be doing that, too. It was bad enough that the shrink would sit and wait me out until I answered his questions.”

“Smart man.”

“Maybe, but you didn't ask me anything.”

“Because we both know the questions, you daft man. How did it go? What did you talk about? How do you feel about it? You know, the type of questions you love to avoid answering.” She blew on her coffee and took a long sip.

“I do not avoid answering those types of questions,” Jamie protested. Eileen did not respond. She tilted her head and arched an eyebrow. “Alright, alright. Maybe I'm
reluctant
to talk about those things, but I don't
avoid
them.” When Eileen refused to be drawn into a discussion of semantics, Jamie continued. “How did it go? Okay, I guess. Ray's a decent guy. He can ask some tough questions. He reminds me of certain Irish women I know and love,” Jamie said with a sly grin. “What did we talk about? About my life, our family, how I was raised, what color my underwear is—.”

“You did
not
talk about that,” Eileen insisted.

“No, of course not, but it was a lot of ‘why do you hate your mother' crap that he insists is important and I think is just a waste of time.” Eileen took another drink of coffee and looked at him. “How do I feel about it? I feel it's ridiculous, but I'm going to give it an honest shot because you and Johnny will beat me on the head if I don't.”

“Damn straight,” Eileen muttered. “Being in therapy is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I didn't say I was ashamed,” Jamie protested.

“No, but you're acting like it. You've been acting like your life is over, like you have nothing left to live for now that you're no longer a cop. Is that what you really believe?”

Jamie sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment. “No, but this whole thing is humiliating. I feel like I've let you and the girls, my family, and the force down. I feel like a total failure.”

“Why? Did you intentionally get sick?”

“No.”

“Can you just ‘man up', as Paddy said, and work your way through it?”

“No. I know, but I'm supposed to take care of you, not vice versa.”

“Oh, darlin,' you're so dense and frustrating sometimes. Behind all of your claims to the contrary, you still believe that if you'd been a better person, a stronger man, you wouldn't have gotten sick or you'd have found a way to work through it. I've
seen
you, my love.” Eileen sat her coffee cup down and took her husband's face in both hands. “I've
seen
how sick you get—you turn pale as a ghost, you get clammy and dizzy, your headaches get worse, and you can't seem to do even simple tasks. As far as taking care of us, well there's nothing wrong with us taking care of you for a change. You're more than just a breadwinner to this family. You're a wonderful, loving husband and father, son and brother, and you can't put a price tag on that. You care deeply about your friends, and they value your friendship, not your bank account. Damn it, Jamie, you're sick. That's not your fault, so stop beating yourself up.”

Jamie whistled softly. “Wow. An actual swear word.”

“Don't get me started.”

Jamie held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I know all that, but it doesn't change how I
feel
about it.”

“That's precisely what the therapy is for. That's why you need the pills, too.”

Jamie scratched the dog, who perked up his ears at the tone of their voices. “You're right. I know it. So the man gave me ‘homework.' I'm supposed to start a journal and write in it at least twice each day.”

“I think that's a grand idea,” Eileen replied. “It might help you ‘get in touch with yourself,'” she said in a mocking tone.

“Yeah, I'll get in touch with myself alright. Some Guinness and cigars would be a great help.”

Eileen finished her coffee, her face serious and her head down.