Cris still didn't answer; he was looking up at the screen, where his father talked with pride.
"So if you don't got nobody, then who the fuck is that jamoke up there, bustin' a gut braggin' on you?"
"He's my… my…" and Cris stopped, then said, "He agreed to.. He stopped again, and it now seemed as if Cris was off somewhere else, far away.
Clancy wondered if he should take a chance and make a guess. He had learned that people in Cris's state could be shattered easily, but he also knew that periods of extreme emotional crisis were the time when people were most susceptible to suggestion, most apt to deal with their real demons.
Clancy decided to take the shot.
"Are you adopted, man? Is that what this is all about? You tryin' t'get your daddy to accept you? So you become an over-achiever, an All-American like Dad, and a Gulf hero, so he'll finally love you and take you in. Did you feel like trash all your life, a throwaway baby nobody wanted?"
There was now a mixture of anger and self-contempt on Cris's face. Then it broke, and was replaced by a look of anguish. Clancy took a deep breath and pressed on.
"Okay, so this guy up here, this hero's father, he took you home, but he made you work to earn his love. You never felt good enough."
Cris's face turned red with embarrassment. He looked over at Clancy, but didn't answer. There was a plea for help in his eyes.
"Listen, man. You know why Kennidi died?" Cris was silent, so Clancy went on. "She died because those fucks at Fort Detrick were making poison. You went over there, you brought it back, and it killed her. Not you. It ain't yer fault, man. She didn't die because you failed her. Her death isn't proof of your worthlessness. You had nothing to do with it. If yer dad never made you feel like you belonged, then that's his fault. He wasn't smart enough to see what he had, or he was too selfish to care. But I'll tell you this, Cris-it's about time to come to grips with who you really are.
Until you find out, you'll never be at rest. Don't let this moment pass, man. You might not get so close again."
When Cris looked over at Clancy, the Black Attack could see he'd hit a bull's-eye. His wounded friend was crying.
"I ain't a psychiatrist, I'm just a broken-down middleweight who hates ta see guys layin' on street grates, but I can get you the right helpFor what it's worth, I love you, and I care. I always
did."
"I can't be alone," Cris croaked.
Clancy reached out, took Cris's good hand, and held it in the darkened hospital room. "Who's goin' anywhere?" the Black Attack said. "Not me, I ain't goin' nowhere."
It was two weeks later, and Stacy had still refused to see Cris. He had asked the hospital staff repeatedly, then had gotten the word back that Stacy had been moved out of the Burn Center and was now recuperating somewhere else in Washington.
Cris refused to talk to the press, which just made him more desirable to them. They had camped out in front of the hospital, then after he'd moved to a hotel a week later they were staked out there.
He made his statement to the FBI and agreed to testify before the Senate investigating committee. The TV news said that Admiral Zoll had been put under house arrest at Fort Detrick, and that Colonel Laurence Chittick had agreed to testify against him in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Wendell Kinney had committed suicide, taking an overdose of prescribed Xanax.
There were a lot of questions from Congress and the White House about the contents of the White Train and, more important, what had really been going on at Fort Detrick. The whole situation at the Devil's Workshop was beginning to unravel in the national press.
Cris made repeated trips to the hospital to get the dressings changed; he'd become very adept at dodging the press. The nine-millimeter bullet that had hit him had almost obliterated his shoulder blade, and he was told by Walter Reed specialists that he would never have full use of his right arm again. They set up a physical therapy schedule, which he had not kept up with.
The days stretched into weeks. The monotony of his convalescence was disrupted once a day by a balding psychiatrist, also a recovering alcoholic, whom Clancy had recommended. The man came and sat in a chair in his room while Cris tried to unscramble his feelings about himself, his father, and the death of his daughter. After the second week, Cris could no longer stand to hear his own repeated complaints about his childhood, which now sounded to him like whining. But he felt he at least understood what had happened to him and why he had cracked up. He thought the healing could be accomplished over time, but he needed Stacy's help, and he wanted desperately to help her. But she would not see him. In fact, she was hiding. He longed to see her, but she had disappeared.
One afternoon he called Carl Brill, the FBI agent who had sat with him for hours, taking his statements. He left a message for the agent that something else had just occurred to him.
An hour later, there was a knock on his hotel-room door and Brill was standing in the threshold. He was bull-necked, with sloping shoulders. He'd been an offensive lineman at Mississippi State before joining the FBI.
"Y'all got somethin' else ta tell us?" Brill said, his huge trapezius muscles stretching a starched collar.
"Yeah. Come on in," Cris said, and stepped aside, allowing the oversized agent to enter. They sat down and looked at each other. Cris wasn't sure how to begin.
"How's the shoulder?" Brill asked, breaking the silence.
"I won't be throwing any more long outs or deep fades," Cris said.
"So what? Them days are over," Brill said. "What's up?"
"I think… I remember something. I need to talk to Stacy Richardson. It's kinda something nagging at my subconscious. I think she could help me jog it loose."
"So this is basically bullshit then," Brill said, busting Cris easily.
"I need to know where she is, Carl."
"Last time I looked at my badge, 'FBI' stood for 'Federal Bureau of Investigation,' not 'Find Babes for Invalids.' "
"I need to talk to her, Carl. You took her statement. You gotta tell me where she is."
"I'm through blocking for quarterbacks," he said. "All that ever got me was bad knees and a dirty jersey."
"I don't want anything except to know where she is. C'mon, you owe me. If we hadn't stopped that train from blowing, the Hoover Building mighta been full of dead Frisbees and you'd probably be taking a dirt nap."
Carl took a deep breath and finally let it out slowly. "She's at a private hospital on Rosemont. I don't have the address on me, but you can't miss it from the Beltway. It's got five buildings with a tower in the middle. Kinda looks like a giant sculpture of a hand giving this town the finger, which makes the place a favorite of mine. She's in Room 606, under the name Laura Kendel."
"Thanks."
Carl got to his feet, moved to the door, then stopped. "Hey, Cris, you ever heard the expression 'Be careful what you wish for…'?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"She don't look too good," he said, and moved out of the room.
Cris took a cab from the hotel and instructed the driver to get on the Beltway. They drove around the huge highway that encircled the capital until he saw the building, which did indeed look like it was flipping off the town. He pointed to it and told the driver to get him there.
Cris got out of the cab, paid, and moved into the lobby of the building, skirting the desk. He moved down the sterile linoleum hallway, up the elevator to the sixth floor, finally finding the right corridor, then Room 606.
His heart was beating wildly inside his chest as he pushed the door open and entered, unannounced.
She was sitting in a large armchair by the window, wrapped in a robe, watching TV. She spun toward him as he entered.