HER FITNESS WAS SUCH that Michelle recovered quickly from her injuries, at least her physical injuries. The effects of the concussion wore off, the ribs started to heal, and a tooth was implanted to replace the one knocked out. Sean had checked into a motel near the hospital and was there with her every day. Yet then another problem cropped up. When Sean brought Michelle home from the hospital the locks on the guesthouse had been changed and their bags were packed and sitting on the porch. Sean called his buddy the owner. The man who answered the phone said that Sean should feel fortunate the owner was not filing assault charges against him for attacking his son with a bat. And the man added that Sean should never attempt to contact them again.

Sean looked over at Michelle in the passenger seat. The woman’s eyes were blank, and it wasn’t just the pain meds.

He said, “Uh, Michelle, they’re, uh, renovating the guesthouse. I knew about it, but forgot.”

She just looked out the window, not registering on anything.

He drove to a motel and checked into a double room, not trusting Michelle to be left alone. He had gotten cash from his bank, afraid even to look at the pitiful balance of funds left. As dinner that night he had takeout Chinese while Michelle, with her badly bruised jaw and newly installed tooth, could only drink liquids.

He sat on the edge of her bed where she lay huddled. “I need to change the dressing on your face,” he said. “Okay?”

She had superficial cuts on her jaw and forehead. Both areas were still tender to the touch and she flinched as he took the old bandages off.

“Sorry.”

“Just do it,” she snapped, startling him. He glanced at her eyes but they’d already retreated into a deep glaze.

“How’re the ribs?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going. She turned away from him.

After he finished he said, “You need anything else?” No answer. “Michelle, we need to talk about this.”

In response she lay back on the bed and curled into a ball.

He stood and paced the room, his hand clasped around a bottle of beer. “Why in the hell would you take on a guy who looks like he could start at left tackle for the Redskins?”

Silence.

He stopped pacing. “Look, things will turn around. I’ve got a few leads on some work,” he added, lying. “Does that make you feel better?”

“Stop, Sean.”

“Stop what? Trying to be optimistic and supportive?”

All that got in response from her was a grunt.

“Look, you go into another bar like that, some guy’ll probably pull a gun and put a hole in your head and that’ll be it.”

“Good!”

“What is going on with you?”

She stumbled into the bathroom and locked the door. He could hear her upchucking.

“Michelle, are you all right? Do you need help?”

“Leave me the hell alone!” she screamed.

Sean stalked outside and sat by the motel’s pool, dangling his feet in the warm water and breathing in chlorine fumes while he finished his beer. It was a beautiful evening. And to top it off a cute, twenty-something lady had just slipped into the pool wearing a bikini that was so small it hardly qualified as clothing. She started doing laps, her strokes efficient, powerful. On the fourth lap she stopped and treaded water in front of him, her full breasts bobbing on the surface. “Care to race?”

“From what I’ve seen of your performance, I doubt I could give you much competition.”

“You ought to see me really perform. And I don’t mind giving lessons. I’m Jenny.”

“Thanks for the invite, Jenny, but I’ll have to take a pass.”

He got up and walked off. Over his shoulder he heard Jenny say in a disappointed tone, “God, why do I always pick the cute gay guys?”

“Damn, this has been such a great day,” Sean muttered.

When he got back to the room Michelle was asleep. He lay on the other bed staring at her.

Two more days passed with no improvement. Sean made a decision. Whatever was hurting the lady, he simply didn’t have the tools to help her. Apparently, a deep friendship didn’t cut it with matters of a wounded soul. But he knew someone who might be able to help.

THE NEXT MORNING Sean called an old friend, Horatio Barnes, a psychologist in northern Virginia. In his fifties, Horatio wore a ponytail and sported a furry, silver goatee. He favored faded jeans and black T-shirts and rode a vintage Harley. He made a specialty of helping federal law enforcement folks through myriad problems caused by the stress related to their work, which is how Sean had met him.

Sean filled Horatio in on the event at the bar and his discussion with Rodney about the fight. He made an appointment and took Michelle to see him under the pretense of a doctor’s visit for her injuries.

Located in an otherwise abandoned warehouse, Horatio Barnes’s office was large and airy, with rows of dirty windows and books stacked on the floor. His desk was made out of construction sawhorses with what looked to be a large door placed across them. The man’s black Harley motorcycle was parked in one corner.

“In this neighborhood, if I left it outside, it wouldn’t stay there, now would it?” he explained with a broad smile. “Okay, Sean, out of here. Michelle doesn’t need your sorry butt listening in while she tells me everything about herself.” Sean obediently left them, waiting in a small, cluttered anteroom. After an hour Horatio came out, leaving Michelle sitting in his office.

“Okay, she’s got some serious issues going on,” Horatio said.

“How serious?” Sean asked cautiously.

“Deep enough to qualify for some inside time.”

“Don’t you do that when you think the person’s a threat to herself or others?”

“I believe she went into that bar partly to die.”

Sean flinched. “Michelle said that?”

“No. It’s my job to read between the lines.”

“Where is this place?”

Horatio said, “Reston. A private clinic. But it’s not cheap, my friend.”

“I’ll get the money. Somehow.”

Horatio sat down on an old packing crate and motioned for Sean to do the same. “So talk to me, Sean. Tell me what you think the problem is.”

And Sean talked for a half-hour, explaining what had happened to them both in Wrightsburg.

Horatio said, “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re not both in therapy. You sure you’re okay?”

“It affected us both, but Michelle was hit a lot harder.”

“She obviously feels that she can’t trust her judgment anymore, and with her that’s a big deal.”

Sean said, “And she cared for the guy too. And then to find out what he was really like. I guess that would screw anyone up.”

Horatio scrutinized him. “And how did you feel about that?”

Sean gaped. “A guy slaughtering a bunch of people? How the hell do you think I felt about it?”

“No, I meant about Michelle becoming involved with another man?”

Sean’s face took on a more subdued expression. “Oh. Well, I had my own personal involvement at the time.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I was referring to.”

Sean looked at him quizzically, but his friend didn’t pursue it.

Sean said, “Do you think she can get better?”

“If she really wants to. If she’s ambivalent about getting better we can at least show her the steps she can take to get there.”

“What if she doesn’t want to get better?”

“That’s a different planet altogether.” Horatio paused. “But remember that I said she was in that bar partly to die? Well, Michelle going in there and picking a fight with the biggest son of a bitch she could find may be the best sign that she actually wants to get better.”

Sean looked at him oddly. “How do you figure that?”

“It was a cry for help, Sean; an awkward one, but a cry nevertheless.