Outcast. Joan Johnston

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      8

      “Damn it, Benedict! Did you have to shoot at the kid?” Tony Pellicano, the special agent in charge of the D.C. ICE office, gripped the top of the swivel chair behind his cluttered desk with white-knuckled hands and glared at Ben. “That was the mayor on the phone. He’s not happy. I had to explain to him why one of my agents was firing bullets at a fourteen-year-old. What were you thinking?”

      Ben stared at his boss with disbelief. “I watched that kid cut another kid’s throat. And I shot once—over his head. Sir.”

      Ben’s boss smacked his black leather chair as though it was the back of Ben’s head, then stalked back and forth behind his desk, waving his hands and ranting. Ben followed his tall, rail-thin boss’s constant, agitated movement with his eyes, while his hands gripped the arms of the maroon leather studded chair in which he sat.

      “This isn’t a war zone,” Tony ranted. “We don’t shoot first and ask questions later.”

      Ben felt his heart thudding in his chest, licked at the sweat beaded above his lip, and said, “You don’t have to tell me this isn’t—”

      “You returning vets have the wrong—”

      Ben came out of his chair as though he’d been catapulted from it. “The last thing on earth I want to do is kill some kid. I shot over his head to slow him down. I wanted to catch a killer. What’s wrong with that?”

      Tony stared at him stony-faced and said, “I want you to see a doctor, a psychiatrist who specializes in cases like this.”

      Ben stood stunned. “What?” If Tony only knew how hard it had been for him to fire his weapon at all, he would realize Ben wasn’t going to be a threat to the peace and harmony of D.C. streets. “There’s nothing wrong with me, sir,” Ben managed to say.

      “You shoot, you talk. Those are my rules,” Tony said implacably.

      “I’m not talking to any shrink.”

      “Then pass me your credentials and your weapon,” Tony said, holding out his hand. “Your choice.”

      Ben’s stomach rolled. He swallowed down bile. If there was one thing he didn’t want to do, it was talk to some doctor about killing kids. Especially after what had happened in Afghanistan. But his boss wasn’t giving him any choice. He lowered his gaze and said, “Who do I have to see?”

      “We’ve got a psych trauma team on the payroll,” Tony said.

      “I’ll make an appointment.”

      “I had them called when I heard you’d fired your weapon. They sent over a therapist—Dr. Schuster. She’s waiting for you in the conference room.”

      “Waverly’s wedding rehearsal is tonight, and I have paperwork to finish. I don’t have time—”

      “You don’t leave this office until you talk with a doctor. That’s an order.”

      “Fine,” Ben said between tight jaws. “Are we done here?”

      Tony sighed. “Until today, I’ve been happy with the way you’ve been doing your job, Ben. The gang kids like you. You write great reports. You can type. Even better, you can spell. You’re responsible. You’re respectful. You’re reliable. I just can’t have a gunslinger working for me.”

      “I’m not a—”

      “Go see Dr. Schuster,” Tony interrupted brusquely. “Do it now.”

      9

      Dr. Annagreit Schuster recognized the ICE agent standing in the doorway. He’d yelled at her yesterday morning at the vet’s office. He’d ignored her at the urgent care clinic. He’d fallen apart in her arms last night, then walked out of her apartment leaving her unsatisfied.

      She noted the wary look in his cold blue eyes as he leaned against the doorway to the conference room. She saw the tension in his bunched shoulders and the anger in his tight jaws and balled fists. She looked for a bandage on his left forearm, but he was wearing a long-sleeved Georgetown University T-shirt that covered it.

      He spoke without saying a word: I don’t want to be here. There’s nothing you can say or do to help me. I’m fine.

      “Have a seat, Agent Benedict,” Anna said, gesturing to one of the comfortable swivel chairs across from her at the center of the oval-shaped, highly polished conference table.

      Anna had read in Ben’s personnel file that his job was to make friends of the kids in local gangs, in conjunction with similar MPD efforts, in order to direct them away from unlawful activities. He was also tasked with locating and arresting gang members with a possible terrorist agenda—and, of course, deporting illegal aliens who infiltrated the gangs.

      It was work with an indisputable humanitarian goal. And numerous possibilities for violence.

      “How long is this going to take?” he demanded from the doorway.

      “As long as it takes,” she replied in an even voice. As with all Federal government clients involved in a shooting, she needed to evaluate how the subject was coping with the traumatic incident and to make a judgment whether he needed immediate or follow-up counseling. Sometimes that took five minutes, sometimes it took much longer.

      Anna had firsthand information about this man that didn’t come out of his file. She’d seen what she believed was evidence of post-traumatic stress last night. But she wasn’t sure she could—or should—use that information against him in this evaluation.

      For the first time since he’d left her townhome, Anna was glad their encounter had ended so abruptly. If their relationship had become physical, she could not ethically have treated him. Perhaps it was shaving hairs to say she was emotionally uninvolved, but she very much wanted to help this man.

      Anna didn’t repeat her request for Benedict to sit. She waited, letting him approach on his own. She shouldn’t have been surprised by his caution, considering what she’d learned about Benjamin Preston Benedict from the personnel file she’d been presented with when she’d arrived at the ICE office a half hour ago.

      She’d taken one look at Ben Benedict’s picture and actually felt a little thrill at the thought of seeing him again. Which she’d immediately quelled. If she wanted to treat Agent Benedict, their relationship had to remain professional.

      According to his file, Ben Benedict was a former army major, the veteran of several military campaigns. He’d been trained as a sniper, and he’d employed those skills in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’d apparently been a good soldier. Heroic, in fact. He’d been decorated for his valor with the Distinguished Service Cross, two silver stars and a Purple Heart.

      She had her own evidence of his good character. Not many men would have tried to approach an injured rottweiler, let alone succeed in rescuing it. He was obviously a man who’d learned how to survive in life-threatening situations. Part of which was reconnoitering the terrain before venturing into hazardous territory.

      Anna observed Ben Benedict, looking for signs of trauma. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and his darkly СКАЧАТЬ