“It’s my job to recommend whether you get your guns back or not. I’m the consulting psychiatrist. Dr. Webb and I work together and share medical information. He’s a big fan of yours, Lonnie. He believes in you.”
At the sound of his name, Lonnie Rovanna felt the familiar knot form deep down in his throat. It was painful and he knew it well. It was the aggregate of all his sorrows and regrets, a lifetime of bad actions and misdeeds large and small-everything he wanted to be rid of, or at least forgiven for. All of these, compounded into a hard sedimentary lump. Shame. Even something so minor could summon these things out and bring them together: a kind word, a smile, a small gesture. He had no idea Dr. Webb was a big fan of his. He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the beaten braided rug.
“Do you still hear demons in the walls?”
“Occasionally.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“No, sir.”
“Do the men with similar faces still follow you when you walk your neighborhood?”
The knot in his throat was painful now so Rovanna raised his head and took another deep breath. Why had Webb revealed these things about him? Why had the good doctor sold him out to this soulless judicial bureaucrat? The Identical Men all had the same face and the same clothes and the only reason he knew that there were five of them was because he’d actually seen them together, trailing him down the streets and sidewalks, in the park, and even, occasionally, waiting for him right here in the living room of his own home. Five men. Identical clothing. Same face. The quints from Washington, D.C. Maybe Langley. Or maybe hell itself. “Yes,” he said softly.
“Do you consider yourself dangerous to yourself or others?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you consider yourself sane?”
“Pretty much so, yes.”
“I see that your larynx has constricted. I know this can be painful. And there are tears ready to come out. Are you ashamed?”
“Yes.” Rovanna lowered his head and dropped his gaze to the floor again. His tears came faster than he could wipe them away, hot drops born of the aching knot in his throat, tapping on the old rug and his canvas sneakers.
“Now, this is important, Lon. I need to ask you about the body-guarding. I understand that early last year you were hired to protect Congressman Scott Freeman.”
At the word Freeman, Rovanna shivered. After a long minute his tears finally stopped and the clench in his neck relaxed a little. Now his shame was beginning to leave him, too. Without anger and shame he felt abandoned and uncontrollable, like a boat without crew or rudder. “He hired me. I protected him a few times. I’m not licensed but I’m good at it because of my military training and experience. When my firearms were taken away I couldn’t get more jobs with him. That’s one of the main reasons I need to get my guns back.”
“How many were confiscated?”
“Twelve.”
“Of what type?”
“Handguns and legal assault-style semiautomatic rifles.”
“For work as a bodyguard?”
“To protect Representative Freeman.”
Stren sat forward. “When was the last time you saw him in person?”
“After the last big rain.”
“Three weeks ago, then. Late January.”
“He was at a rally in El Centro,” said Rovanna.
“And you had no gun?”
“No. They’d been taken. But I wasn’t hired to protect in El Centro.”
“Yet you were present. Do you have a personal relationship with Representative Freeman?”
“No, only as a politician. I never talk to him except about security. His staff, I mean. Obviously. I talk to his staff.”
The doctor was quiet for a while. When Rovanna looked at him Stren was neither writing nor looking at anything determinate, just gazing out through the screen door, his magnified pupils large and black, gorging on the new morning light.
“Then why did you go to the rally, if not to protect him?” asked Stren.
Now Rovanna was silent for a long moment. “I. . I thought it would be good to be seen.”
“By him?”
“Yes. As a future potential bodyguard. A bodyguard again, I mean.”
Stren sat back. “I’m confused about something here, Lonnie. Scott Freeman does indeed represent your district, the fifty-fourth, which is the southeasternmost district in the state. He’s a proponent of immigration reform, tougher gun-control laws, and decriminalizing marijuana. He’s considered very liberal. Some say radical. His recent book has raised the ire of the right-wing Tea Party types.”
“So?”
“So, Dr. Webb tells me that you are precisely that type. You are vehemently against everything Scott Freeman stands for. Yet Mr. Freeman hires you to carry a gun, and stand close by and protect him.”
Rovanna rubbed his hands together then set each one palm down on a knee. “I don’t mix politics and business.”
“Everyone does. Tell me, have you been hired to guard other politicians, or perhaps celebrities of another kind? Actors? Athletes?”
“No. Scott Freeman was my first job. But I know there are other people who need me. That’s why I need my guns back. Personal security is a growing business. I want it to be my career. I want to get a letter of recommendation from him someday. So I can protect other people.”
Stren looked at Rovanna, then wrote something down and underlined it. “Have you ever dreamed of using one of your guns to save the life of Representative Freeman?”
A ripple of embarrassment went through Rovanna, then indignation. He looked through the screen door to the sycamore tree. A big leaf fell. It came down faster than Rovanna expected it would, an old leaf, folded in, hugging itself on the way down. “No one can control their dreams.”
“Have you ever imagined using a gun on him?”
“I’ve imagined worse things than that. But you can’t control your imagination either.”
“Have you ever just wanted to shoot him, Lon?”
“I really don’t like you using my first name. It’s for friends and you’re no friend of mine.”
“Isn’t Representative Freeman due to make a public appearance in the near future?”
“Later this month. A Sunday. He’s signing autographs at the Alternative Book Fair in San Diego.”
Stren pursed his lips and nodded curtly, then he flipped his notebook shut and capped the pen and returned them both to his coat pocket. He leaned elbows to knees and looked at Rovanna. “Thank you for your time and honesty. I’ll be writing my letter of recommendation later today. Of course, the final decision will be left to one of the judges and this could take some time. The courts are terribly backed up at the superior level.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I haven’t decided. But, in the meantime. .”
The doctor straightened, set his hat on his head, tilted it back at a casual angle, then brought his black leather medical bag to his lap and opened it. He held out the sides with both hands and stared down into it for a long moment, then reached in. Rovanna expected a syringe and vial, or maybe a sample packet for a new prescription drug, or maybe a form to sign. Or one of the dread orbitoclasts used in lobotomies. He even imagined a cobra, because, just as he had said, he could not control his imagination, and a cobra had just crawled into his mind.
Instead Stren pulled a firearm from the bag, then set the bag aside. He balanced the gun in his small hands, framing it like a salesman for Rovanna to behold. It looked like a common, medium-size, semiautomatic handgun, although Rovanna had never seen one exactly like it. The finish was stainless and the grips were checked black polymer, and it had a slightly plump and heavy look.
“What is it?”
“The Love Thirty-two.”
“Love?”
“The manufacturer was the old Orange County outfit, Pace Arms.”
“I never heard of them.”
“Saturday night specials. Pace Arms was run out of business not long ago.”