“It’s nothing,” Koller said, bursting to tell the truth to the arrogant little shits, but knowing he wouldn’t. “Just an alert that an art dealer I like to buy things from has posted an item for bid on eBay. I get notified whenever he lists something new.”
“What are you buying, a blow-up?”
“Ever hear of sarin, Stankowsky?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it, then? What are you buying?”
Koller glanced up at the clock. Four minutes before last bell.
“Want to see?” he asked.
Anything but chemistry.
The class begged him in unison.
He clicked a link in his e-mail and opened up an eBay product description and photo. Then he passed his cell phone around, allowing each student a chance to see the wooden desk lamp shaped like an old sailing ship that was now open for bids starting at $0.99.
“That’s a piece of crap,” one student exclaimed. “Wal-Mart wouldn’t carry it.”
There were guffaws from some of the others, but Koller didn’t react.
“What do you think, Rebecca?” he asked.
Rebecca’s eyes were fixed on her test booklet.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Take a look,” Koller said. “You’re the smartest one in this class-the only one whose opinion I would trust. The only one worth saving when the flood comes. I think it’s simply beautiful. How about you?”
Rebecca glanced up at the phone as if half expecting something gross.
“It’s a very nice lamp,” she managed.
Last bell sounded, and Koller was out the door without even looking back at his class.
As soon as he was back at his apartment, he would decode the message encrypted within the picture of the lamp. Then, once he had all the facts, he would decide if $990,000 was enough for the job or whether $1,500,000-a million five-would be more appropriate.
Later that day, John Sykes, the principal of Woodrow Wilson High, called to say that the feedback from his chemistry classes was excellent, especially F block, the last period. Could Greene possibly come in and substitute again tomorrow?
CHAPTER 4
The interior of the Helping Hands Mobile Medical Unit was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Every inch of available space inside the 1996 Fleetwood RV was being used for something-notices, storage, medical equipment, office machines-creating a quaint, homespun feel, which was enhanced by the white honeycomb window shades, beige textured carpet, and incandescent accent lighting. The steamy windows and the grizzled, hardened faces of the three men at the center fold-out table, each in a different posture, each clutching a mug of coffee, completed the masterpiece.
It was a Wednesday, and at this stop-the muddy lot of Jasper Yeo’s Dependable Used Autos-that meant Nick would be teaching his weekly class on obtaining VA benefits for post-traumatic stress disorder. Outside, the heavy rain was continuing unabated, pelting the roof of the clinic, and scrubbing the air clean after what had been an unseasonably warm day. The RV was crowded, so the seven men and one woman seeking treatment were using the covered bus stop at the corner as their waiting room. The inconvenience bothered them little. Most of them were near the bottom of life’s totem pole, and quite used to being put on hold.
Inside the RV, the stakes in the tiny classroom were high. Benefit money each of the three men needed to survive had been denied by a VA review board. In fact, Nick’s credential to run the course he had started was a protracted, ultimately victorious battle for his own benefits. It was a struggle that had begun with a rejection by the antichrist of VA claim evaluators, Phillip MacCandliss, and ended with a high-level review board reversing the decision. Not long after that, possibly because of his heavy-handed opposition to Nick’s petition, MacCandliss was passed over for promotion.
War.
“Sorry to keep questioning you, Doc,” Eddie Thompson said. “It’s just that this is my third go at trying to get my benefit pay. I’m running out of steam and I’ve already run out of cash.”
Nick set his hand on the shoulder of the bullnecked ex-infantryman, whom he knew had witnessed inconceivable brutality-many of the victims, his friends.
“I know, Eddie,” he said, not even attempting to cull the huskiness from his voice. “I know.”
Given the flashback during the ride into D.C., it wasn’t a great night for him to be doing the class. In spite of himself, Nick felt his concentration begin to slip. He glanced up past Eddie at the corkboard wall, festooned with job notices, lists of AA and NA meetings, nightly shelter possibilities, and other hints for survival on the streets. At the center of the announcements was the four-year-old poster requesting any information on the disappearance of Umberto Vasquez. The sepia photograph was slightly faded, but not enough to wash away the visage of the intensely funny, bright, compassionate Marine, who was the only other one to have survived the nightmare of FOB Savannah.
Vasquez, suffering from PTSD at least as debilitating as Nick’s, had nevertheless helped him to grieve for Sarah, and had often held him for as long as it took for Nick to stop shaking, even as Umberto’s own demons, and omnipresent cheap wine, were tearing away at his guts.
REWARD
For Validated Information Regarding the
Disappearance of Staff Sgt. Umberto Vasquez
Last seen 2/20/06; Fort Stanton Park
Call Capt. Nick Garrity 202-966-9115
“Damn, they make it hard,” Eddie moaned.
“For a reason. Three out of ten claims get VA approval. Three out of ten! That’s millions, if not billions of benefit dollars that don’t have to get paid out. They’ll pay it if they have to, but they’ll sure make you work for it.”
“Ain’t right,” Corporal Matthew McBean added in his dense Mississippi drawl.
“But that’s the way it is. When I was diagnosed with PTSD I made the mistake of asking the VA regional office and their lead benefits blocker, Phillip MacCandliss, to expand my claim to include that diagnosis. MacCandliss knew the rules and interpreted my request to mean that I had a claim previously denied. The proper wording for what I wanted to do would have been to ‘amend my claim.’ That misstep cost me four months of tedious paperwork. And that was just my first of a number of mistakes. MacCandliss counts on us caving in at some point and just giving up. He and many of the rest of them equate depression and PTSD with weakness. He underestimated me-at least in that regard he did.”
“Shit, I’d give up all my bennies for one decent night’s sleep,” McBean said.
Nick nodded empathetically.
“Have any of you called the EMDR Institute yet?” he asked. “If not, let’s make that your next homework assignment. Ask for Dr. Deems and tell her I recommended you call.”
“You really think it’ll help?”
Nick hesitated. Did he think it would help? The jury was still out on that one. Even so, the thought of ridding himself of his torment was enough motivation to continue experimenting with the relatively new psychotherapy tool. The idea of EMDR-eye movement desensitization reprocessing-was simple enough, and the technique had been used successfully for a number of conditions including performance anxiety, phobias, sexual dysfunction, and eating disorders.
