He waited.
“It takes more to trigger a nightmare,” I said, giving in. “Some things still bother me — I still can’t stand to be in confined spaces for very long. Sometimes, I’ll think, Oh, it’s all behind me, and then I’ll find myself standing in line in a grocery store, and someone is saying, ‘Lady? Lady? Are you okay?’ because I’ve let my mind wander, and it’s wandered to that time, and I’m remembering.”
“But it isn’t like a memory.”
“No. It’s as if I’m there.”
“You think about being hurt?”
“No, not usually. If I’m thinking about myself, I think about being scared, afraid of what would come next. Other times….”
“Other times?” he prompted.
“I killed someone,” I said. “I think about him. About ending his life.”
“What happened?”
“I thought you said Frank talked to you.”
“You tell me.”
I almost balked again, but there he was, relaxed as ever, and I wanted to shake his complacency. At first, that’s what I wanted. But by the time we were over the Tejon Pass and looking down into the San Joaquin Valley, I had confided in him to a degree that I had confided in few others. Usually, recalling those events is an invitation to a certain amount of emotional upheaval, and I found myself wondering not only why I had spoken so freely, but also why I felt relieved rather than devastated. I began to realize that in some way Cassidy’s quiet calm had been extended to me, and I had grabbed on to it. It had slowed my reactions, protected me from all the emotions usually so easily aroused when I thought of the time of my captivity.
Cassidy was silent, but there was no uneasiness in it.
He stopped at a gas station in Grapevine even though he still had half a tank, paying an extortionist’s price for a few gallons of regular while I went into the rest room and washed my face.
When I came out he had pulled the car away from the pumps and parked it on the side of the station. He was leaning against the car, arms folded, watching the other customers. The wind was gusty, and I had to use both hands to hold my skirt down as I crossed the pavement. When I had dressed that morning I had considered wearing jeans, but when I’d remembered that he was wearing a suit, I’d decided to wear work clothes. I didn’t know who else might be hanging around at the
“You doing okay?” he asked once we were both inside. He hadn’t put the key in the ignition yet.
“Yes,” I said, self-conscious again.
“Thanks for talking to me about it,” he said, starting the car.
“I surprised myself,” I admitted. “Frank and Jack are the only other people who’ve heard the whole story. Unless Frank already told you most of this?”
“No,” he said. “No, he hasn’t. He really didn’t give me too many particulars.”
“Are you friends?”
“With Frank?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, not exactly. We’re friendly, but not close. I do like Frank. Probably because he is one of two people in the whole damned department who never thought it would be a hilarious and original joke to call me ‘Hopalong.’ ”
“Who’s the other one?”
“Me.”
I laughed. “I’d think the two of you would get along well.”
“We do get along. We just don’t usually end up handling the same cases. Once or twice he’s caught one of the ones that didn’t turn out the way I had hoped.”
“What does that mean?”
“The CIT — our team — gets called out to negotiate all sorts of critical incidents — suicide threats, kidnappings, hostage takings, and barricade situations — bank robberies, domestic violence, you name it. Much as I’d like to say we’re one hundred percent successful, we’re not. Over the years, Frank’s caught a couple of cases where someone threatening suicide went ahead and did it before I could talk them out of it. Had a domestic barricade situation go bad last year.”
“The one where the man was holding his wife and three kids at gunpoint?”
“Yes.”
“But you got the kids out.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t say anything more.
“I think I remember the story — something about one of the wife’s relatives?”
“Her brother. The brother was with an intelligence negotiator, giving us information on the husband and weapons he might have, and so forth.”
“What’s an intelligence negotiator?”
