Three mornings later, the knock on my hotel door revealed an uncharacteristically serious Dino.  My first thought was that something had gone wrong with his negotiations.  I knew he hadn't had a recent contact, but I hadn't mentioned it.

"I just came from Alice's," he announced.

I froze.

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah, your lady is fine," he sneered.

I waved him inside and closed the door.  

"It's 8:00 in the morning," I watched his face to gauge his demeanor.  "Why would I be there?"

"I was trying to catch you two waking up together," he smirked.

He stared me down like he was looking for a fight.  

"Not spending the nights yet?"  

I didn't bite.  He persisted.

"Anyway, I got a free breakfast out of the deal.  And we had the nicest little chit chat."  

I felt my shoulders stiffen, but wasn't sure why.

"Getting pretty comfy there, aren't ya?"  He leaned into me for emphasis.  He never did have a good sense of the acceptable range of personal space.

Let him spout.  Get it out of his system.  

"Couple of weeks ago I saw you drinking out of the same glass.  Now you're staying later and later into the evening.  Have you had an overnighter yet?"

This was getting tedious and needed a curt response.  

"Look, I've had nothing on the radio for nine days.  Of course I'm staying later into the evening.  You think I'd risk missing an unscheduled contact?"  End of subject.

"Whiling away the hours talking about yourself, too?" he chided.  "Personal shit?"

"It's part of the job, Dino.  Standard procedure, mate.  You know that.  It was you who told her I had a son, remember?  You distract the client from their own problems with small talk." 

"Mmmmmm.  Small talk?  That's what you call it?"  

We'd danced enough.

"What are you talking about?" 

"Well, we're having this oh-so-chatty breakfast and she asks how it is that you and I first met.  Said she knew we were both in special forces, but obviously not for the same government, so she wondered if we ended up in the same POW camp."

My throat tightened.  Why would she mention that?  

Of course I had told Dino years ago that I'd been through it.   And she probably assumed that even if we hadn't been there together, I would have confided in him.  She knew we'd been through a lot as a team.  So it would be safe for her to bring it up.

"Far as I know," he leered at me, "you haven't told five people on the planet about that.  You've never even told your kid that you were in camp."

"There's no need for him to know." 

"But there's a need for her to know?"  He was really bellowing now, somehow offended.  Was he jealous that I had confided in her?

"It came up."  There was no need to explain it.

"Look, maybe you're playing some angle with her.  I mean, I'm all for sleeping with any woman who looks good and smells good, and Alice is aces on both counts."

My focus on him sharpened as my eyes narrowed and suddenly my collar seemed warm.

He pressed himself too close to me again, always his default stance when driving home a point.

"But she's a client, Terry.  You've never done a client before."

Enough.

"I'm not doing her."  I heard myself bellow back.  

He smiled that all-knowing grin, proud he'd gotten that bit of information.

"Well, not yet.  But you're on a pretty slippery slope."  His tone was unbearable.  "Tell me you haven't had at least one good wank just thinking about it."

I turned away dramatically to indicate I was losing patience.  Truth is I didn't want him to read my face and discover he was right.  On more than one night I had dreamed I was inside her, gripped tightly with her strength, only to wake and find my own hand doing the work.

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of that revelation, and instead spoke quietly, hoping to diffuse him.  

"You're way off base, mate"

When I turned back toward him, he was smirking again.

"Prove it."

I snorted an irritated laugh.  "What do you suggest?"

"Let's go out tonight and pick up a couple of locals.  Or maybe just grab the best one and tag-team her like the old days."

Jesus, would he ever grow up?

"I've got work to do, mate."

"Working Alice, yeah." he grinned.

I took a long breath, hoping to stem my rising anger.

"Just drop it."  

"Hell," he dug, "with any luck this deal could drag out another few weeks and by then it would be natural for wills to weaken, right?"

The heat rose; the patience disappeared.  I saw my hand around his throat and heard him connect with the wall before I realized I had moved.  

"I said, drop it," I panted.

His look of surprise was quickly replaced with one of victory.  The sudden calmness in his voice angered me even more.

"Thanks for proving my point," he choked as I loosened my grip.  "Gotta ask yourself: you ever started a punch up with me over a client before?"

I released him.  He had touched a nerve.  He had scored that point. 

"Look, man," he sighed, "you're in a bad place in your head."

He stretched his neck and rubbed his throat.

"You were already fucked up before you left for Chechnya and playing house guest with pretty Mrs. Blue Eyes here isn't helping."

I walked away from him, to compose myself....no, to distance myself from what he was saying.

"You told me you wanted to feel something.  Well tell me this - when this is over and you bring her husband back to her and you get to watch her run into his arms, not yours -  what're you gonna feel then?"

I pictured it and had to look away from the thought.  I gritted my teeth, turned back to face him and used my business voice.

"Like I did my job."  

He ran his hands through his hair, a sign he was ending the argument.

"Alright." He softened his tone.  "Just one more thought, and I'll drop it.  For now."

He stepped closer again, combining concern and warning in his eyes.

"You think you finally found something you've been looking for.  But deep down you know you can't have her."

He was pushing, but he was genuine.

"If you get wrapped up in something you can't have .....then you return to your real life.... how are you gonna feel when you have to face your empty apartment again?"

That one hit me squarely in the chest.  The apartment was the symbol of my isolation, my self imposed loneliness, my life as it was.  And had to be again.

He spoke almost softly, "You can't have her, man.  Keep that thought in front of you.  You can't have her."

I said nothing.  He knew he'd made his point.  

After he left, I did my rounds of the newsstands for the daily papers before heading for her place.  Heading for what I had found that I couldn't have....but did have, for if only for awhile.

I shook off Dino's words and worries.  He was wrong.  My head wasn't in a bad place.  In fact, despite the frustrating silence of late from Marco, I was feeling happier and more energized than I had in years. 

And his concern for the slippery slope?  Dead wrong there, too.  I was in control.  Alice and I both knew the limits.  

I shook my head and laughed.  Dino had no concept of how to get close to someone, even why you'd want to, and yet was lecturing me on allowing it to happen?  He had no idea what I was searching for so how could he know if I had found it?  Absurd.

His visit was filed silently away and completely out of my focus by the time I reached the house.  

I should have figured that the subject of the dream would come up again.  Alice and I normally passed the time between potential radio contacts by feigning small talk.  But I suppose it was inevitable.   Cinta and Maria had the day off, which left us completely alone.  After lunch, as she washed the dishes and I dried, she ventured in.

"Your eyes look tired today." 

"I'm fine."  I kept drying, without looking at her.

"The dream kept you up again last night?"

"I don't really require as much sleep as most people," I evaded.

"Tell that to your eyes."  She was trying to disarm me.  "I know when you were just coming out of it you didn't want to talk, but I thought in the light of day it might be easier to...."

"No."  That settled it.  No need to discuss it further.

But she persisted, gently.  "Terry, what's your objection to talking about it?"

I took a dramatic breath, hoping she'd get the hint.

"It's ..uncomfortable for me to revisit.  Besides, discussing it doesn't diffuse it.  So I don't see the point of talk."  

She washed another dish and I sensed her formulating a rebuttal.  True to form, she pressed on, but with a surprising strategy.

"The point of a tactical operations center is to solve problems, right?"

I tilted my head, but gave no other response.  She was not deterred.   As she put the last dish in the drainer, she faced me.

"It works like this, right?  You have a situation.   To solve it in the best manner, you develop various scenarios."  She paused to give her argument some punch.  "How could scenarios possibly be devised without first articulating the problem?  Talking is important; clarification leads to options for solution."

I was amused.  "You're using military procedure to appeal to me?  You understand so much about the military mind, do ya?"  I dried the last dish and placed it in the cupboard.

"My father was military," she smirked, "so I have some idea."

She'd never mentioned that.  I was intrigued.

"Really?"  I didn't mask my surprise.  "An officer?"

"Yeah.  He was a Colonel.  A career man."

Hmmm.  That might explain some things.

"He's retired now?" I asked, flippantly.

"Died a few years ago.  Lung cancer."

"I'm sorry."  I felt like a shit.   Ask something polite.   "Was he Army?  Navy?  Marines?"

"Army," she said briskly.  "But he would have called it the Armed Forces."  She smiled, remembering.

I teased to lighten the mood.  "Ah, an army brat joins the Peace Corps.  Your own little rebellion against daddy?"

She was half serious.  "I felt some obligation to help rebuild things while he blew things up, yeah.  But don't redirect the subject.   We were discussing situations and scenarios."

I stiffened.

"There's no problem to articulate.  I was in camp.   I survived.   We were liberated.   End of situation."

Let it go.  I walked away from her, toward my favorite chair.  She followed.

"Not quite the end," she said gently.   "The situation is the continuing nightmares.   Talking it out might be productive."

"It doesn't help," I said swiftly as I eased myself into the chair.

She curled into the love seat.  "You've tried?"  

"Yes."  

"When?"  

She wouldn't let it go.  Alright, I figured I'd give her the abbreviated story, and then maybe she'd drop it.   So I put it as succinctly, and impersonally, as possible.

"When we first returned to base, we weren't put back into active duty until our condition could be evaluated.   As part of that process, we had to meet with PTS... Post Traumatic Stress counselors."

I felt myself frowning and rubbed my face to disguise it.

"Then a review board of officers looked at the recommendations of the doctors regarding our physical condition, and the PTS counselors regarding our emotional state, questioned each of us and determined if we were fit for duty, and in what capacity." 

I felt a tinge of resentment creep into my tone and tried to minimize it.

"So I met with a counselor once a week over the required six week period.   It didn't help."  There, that should take care of it.

"Was he an idiot?" she probed.

"No, not at all."  I remembered his college boy glasses, his vast collection of books, his concentrated interest.   

"He genuinely wanted to be helpful."  

All those books.  Theories and case studies, and still it did no good.

"He told me the goal of therapy was to get me to a point where I could remember it without reliving it.  Good theory.  Didn't quite get me there, but he tried."

She was not defeated.  "But did discussing it relieve the stress at all?"

"No.  In fact, it was its own kind of hell." 

I found myself in his office again, that comfortable chair I refused to relax into, that note pad on his desk I tried, unsuccessfully, to read from my angle.

"Having to recount the experience so he could write it down and distill it into something the review board could absorb quickly to determine my future."

I felt the resentment bubbling under the surface.  Despite my attempt to contain it, my voice became louder and my tone confrontational.

"Watching his pen race across the page as I spoke, knowing some Major or General who now sat in a cushy office somewhere and had long ago forgotten what battle requires, and had no concept of what captivity requires...knowing they would pass judgment on me and how I handled myself and my men...." 

I stopped, took a breath, and brought myself out of his office, back into her gaze.  

"No, it didn't relieve the stress."  

She spoke slowly, as if approaching her point by inches.  "You were an officer then?"

"Yes," I said, curtly.  "I was a Lieutenant."

She proceeded, cautiously.  "I imagine the process to return an officer to active duty was more involved than that of a private?"  She waited for an answer.  I gave her none.

"Since an officer's decisions in the field would affect men's lives," she continued, "there may have been more scrutiny in determining signs of emotional stress, things that might impair judgment?"

She was trying to get me to admit something.  

"What's your point, exactly?"

"That you may have been hesitant to discuss things like recurring nightmares and sleep deprivation."  

She tried to gauge my mood, couldn't, and made her final point. 

"You didn't tell him about the dream, did you?" 

The resentment rose up like bile through my system and I stopped trying to regulate my anger.

"You think you know so much about military procedure.  I doubt you understand how difficult it can be for an Australian to secure promotions in the British Army.  There is an inherent belief we are somehow inferior."

I took a deep breath.  

"I wasn't the son of some officer, sliding through on daddy's coat tails.  I earned it, brick by brick, through performance in the field.   My rank was hard fought for and well deserved."

I nearly spat the words at her.

"Then I spent five months in hell for the honor of the crown, only to return and find that, as a result, the review board had the opportunity to revoke my rank?"  Fucking Bastards.  Aussie haters.  

"No, I didn't give them ammunition to demote me.  In those sessions with the counselor, I talked about the techniques I used to keep my men strong and our heads clear.   I didn't show him any sign of weakness or lingering emotional effects."

Alice said nothing.  She didn't need to.  I was playing into her hand, so I did so with force.

"No," I shouted.  "I didn't discuss dreams or sleep patterns.  You think I should have?"

She spoke softly.  "No.  My point isn't that you should have.  My point is that you didn't.  You've never talked about the dream with anyone.  So you don't know if talking helps.  Talking with someone who has no say over your career, I mean." 

Her calmness diffused my anger, and I slowly realized that she wasn't the enemy.  She was on my side.  I remembered Henry's words from not so long ago:  Why do you always make it so hard for people to care about you?

"Alice," my tone was now conciliatory, genuinely grateful.   "I know you're trying to help me.  And I appreciate it.  I really do.  It's been a very long time since anyone...." 

I stopped myself.  How did I explain how long it had been since someone had actually cared, how long since I had let someone care?  

"I do appreciate it.  But I just can't talk about that part of my life."

"What would happen if you tried?" she asked.

My shoulders stiffened at the thought.  

"When I think about it, I...I do relive it, to some extent.  If I talked about it..."

Tell her.  Say it.

"I'd...I'd most likely break down."

She sighed, "Is that all?"

I frowned in surprise.

"That's rather significant to me."

Her smile was edged with apology.  "What I mean is: do you believe I would think less of you if you cried in front of me?"

I imagined it and winced at the thought.

"I would think less of me." 

"But what if helped?" she insisted.   "What if it meant you wouldn't have the dream tonight?"

"I don't have the dream every night."  I tried not to sound defensive.

She paused.   "Did you have it last night?"

She had sensed it.  It wouldn't do any good to deny it. 

"And here," she continued, "two nights before that?  Doesn't that warrant some action?  Isn't it worth a try?"

I was running out of ways to say no to her.

She took my silence as acquiescence.   "I think you can talk about it.   I think you can do it for me."

Those words drilled deep into me.  Could I do it for her?  I was beyond denying her anything I could do.

I chose my words carefully.

"There is very little I can think of I wouldn't try for you," that thought clouded all others.  "...and I don't want to disappoint you, but..."

"Then don't," she cut me short.   "Just try and if it gets too much, then we'll stop.  Just try.  For me."

She had shown she had a power to reach me and to heal me.  She had proven it the evening when the loneliness at sundown engulfed us both and her healing touch brought a warmth I had never felt.  And only a couple of nights ago, she brought me back out of the nightmare and into the calm ease of waking to her.

Maybe talking to her could help.  Maybe what was inside of her would surpass the book learning of the counselor.  Maybe her heart could erode the stronghold of the memories and release me to peace.  Maybe.

"Should I lie down on the couch, Dr. Bowman?" I delayed.

"You're fine in the chair," she smiled.

I felt a familiar thirst.  We were denied water after questioning.  Denied anything that might rejuvenate us.  We were allowed only the pain and the fatigue and the thirst.

"I'd like some water," I started to get up, but Alice waved me back down.

"I'll get it." 

She grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator, set it down beside me, touched my shoulder, and returned to the love seat.

I shifted again, stretched my neck, and took a long, slow breath.  I opened myself to the memories and a sudden flood of vague images swelled into my chest.  Walls, smells, faces, pain, shackles, punishments, my men in anguish, the uncertainty, were they searching for us, how long would this go on, would we survive it.  I cleared my throat and tried to focus on one thing at a time.  And couldn't.

"I don't know how to start."

"Focus on the dream.  Tell me who is hurting you."

I pictured his face, and almost shivered.  For most of the sessions my back was to him, but on the nights when he came for me, I saw that smirk, that look of eager anticipation, that promise of agony.

"His name was Preston," I started slowly.  "He was British.  A former member of the British army, in fact, who after being passed over one too many times for promotion, defected and became an interrogator."

I paused to keep him at a safe distance.

"Because of his history with the army, he had an underlying resentment toward all British soldiers, especially officers.  But he reserved a particular anger for Australians who had been promoted passed him, so he took a special interest in me." 

I rolled my shoulders and took another breath.

"There were other interrogators, but he was...he did the most damage...to my men... to me.  He was ....a sadistic fuck."

I could see his eyes, those laughing, bastard eyes.   Holes of hatred, those eyes.  I squeezed mine shut to push away the thought of him, but she pulled me back.

"What does he do to you in the dream?" she whispered.

A sigh escaped before I could stop it, and I chewed at my bottom lip.  I could almost feel those walls around me.

"When we were captured, they recovered most of the intel as well.  They knew as much about the operation as we did, so there was no real reason to interrogate us.  But he wanted to have some fun, anyway." 

I took a deeper breath.  "Are you familiar with techniques of classical conditioning, sometimes called mind control?"

Alice shook her head no.  

"Well, you've studied about Pavlov's dogs, right?" I paused.  "They ring the bell; they bring the food; the dogs salivate.  Again, they ring the bell; they bring the food; the dogs salivate.  And so on until the dogs no longer need to see the food.  They so associate the bell with the food, that just hearing it makes them salivate."

She watched me but said nothing.

"The mind is tricked into thinking that the trigger is the same as the stimulation.  So you no longer need the actual stimulation to get the same reaction from the brain.  You understand?"

She nodded.

"Mind conditioning is the same logic and process.  They introduce a thought; then they administer pain.  They introduce the thought again, and they administer more pain.  Then they talk about something else, and there's no pain.  Then they bring up the thought again and you already start to dread it, knowing the pain inevitably follows." 

I tried to lick my lips but my mouth was dry.  I opened the bottle and took a hurried gulp.

"And soon at the mere mention of the thought you register the pain, even if they don't administer it.  So the mind is tricked into sending the message to your nerve endings that something is causing you pain even when it's not and your conscious mind knows it's not.  The subconscious can be trained to override the conscious."

She watched me, intently, trying not to show sympathy.  She knew I wouldn't tolerate that well.

I felt those walls getting closer, and I could almost smell that smell.  It was getting more difficult, but I was in the thick of it now.  I cleared my throat and went on.

"P..P..Preston conditioned me so that looking at my son, or any physical contact with him, would make my skin feel like it was being burned."

She closed her eyes for a moment as her lips parted.  But then she looked at me again, as if to encourage me to keep going.

"He'd gotten it out of one of my men that I had a son, even got his name and age.  Henry was seven then.  Preston smoked a cigar and he used it to burn me.  Those scars on my back are layers of burn marks."

There was that smell.  That God awful stench.  First cigar smoke, then flesh burning.  Would the sharpness of that sense never lessen with time?  I dragged my hand across to wipe my nose and stop the smell.

"He would talk about Henry  ....and burn me.  Then tell me to picture his eyes, and burn me.  He'd talk about Henry hugging me, and burn me again.  The marks are primarily where he imagined the arms of a seven year old would reach."

My mind traveled back to Henry at age five or six, running toward me when I came home on leave.  His torso snuggling into my chest as we relaxed in the easy chair after supper.   His face beaming up at me as I read a bedtime story.   His giggle when he saluted me.  All of that lost.  Burned away.

"There was a time when Henry and I .....when we were close.  Preston sensed it...and used it."

I noticed my hands were shaking and I rubbed them together to hide it.

"That's what I dream about.  The questions, the cigar smoke, the burning.  That's it."

I can't go any further.  Don't ask me to.  That's deep enough.  Say we can stop now.

She hadn't spoken for so long, the sound of her voice startled me.

"I think there's more," she whispered.

"That's the whole dream.  I get free in the end of it and then generally I wake up about then, by hitting something," I tried to smile.

"Terry."  It was all she needed to say.  I knew she wouldn't let go without a fight.

"We agreed I would talk about the dream.  I think that's enough for now."   I stalled, but I knew I would follow her direction.

Her gaze held me and there was no escaping it.

"There's more to talk about." 

I narrowed my eyes in response.

"How did you react when you got home?"  

Her eyes softened, not into sympathy, but into a steady encouragement.  As if to say, I'm here.  I'm with you.  You can go further.

"Did the conditioning work?" she asked.

A surge of adrenalin shot through me so suddenly I gritted my teeth in response.  I grabbed the water bottle and drank as if I could wash it away.  The bottle top was more difficult to screw on, and placing it on the table beside me seemed to take extra care.

"Maybe I should get some air," my voice sounded distant.

"Just a little further," she said softly, as if she had some foreseeable destination in mind.

I rolled my shoulders and made a slow circle with my neck.  It was as much of a delay tactic as it was an attempt to contain the adrenalin.  

She has healed you before.  Believe now.  You've climbed harder terrain.  

Her voice brought me back.  

"Just tell me about coming home."

I wiped the residual water from my lips.  I've come this far.  I could do this.  For her.

"When we were first liberated, we were taken to the nearest base hospital to be treated for dehydration, malnutrition and general wounds." 

I let myself drift into that hospital again, the stark whiteness, the smell of bleach and sickness, the tired, apathetic nurses, the lack of mirrors so we couldn't confirm the toll it had taken.

"They notified the families that we'd been rescued, but wouldn't be shipped home immediately, so my wife sent me a photograph of Henry.  I...." my throat was closing so I cleared it again.  "I...couldn't...I couldn't hold it."

I saw again that silly smile and his tilted, affectionate salute.  I remembered my trembling hand, pushing the photo further from me, looking the other way.

"I knew a bit about desensitization therapy, sometimes used to treat phobias.  I tried those techniques with the picture, to bring it closer and closer, then trying to hold it, but it only intensified the pain.  I couldn't reason my way out of it."

I sucked in a deep breath and faced the worst of it.

"When I was finally sent home...." I stopped.

I returned to that day.  That morning.  That moment, when my life turned a corner and put me on that dark path.

"Henry came running toward me.  He had this wonderful smile on his face, like he was so relieved to finally see me.  It hurt to look at him, so I closed my eyes and braced for his touch.  I figured I could handle the pain for a minute."

I blinked my eyes to clear them.  I didn't want to remember.  I didn't want to say it out loud.  I shook my head and gulped from the bottle again.

"B..but when he hugged me, everywhere he touched it felt like I was on fire.  He wrapped his arms around me, right over the bulk of the scars.  The pain was so intense, I had to hold my breath so I wouldn't cry out."

I closed my eyes and sucked in a shallow breath.

"And he wouldn't let go.  He held on so long I started to get dizzy."

Don't say it.  Don't see it.  Don't focus on his face.

"I was afraid I'd pass out in front of him, scare him.  So I figured if I just pulled him off of me for a moment, I could catch my breath."

Henry, I'm sorry.

"But I was out of control and shaking.  I unwrapped his arms and pushed him back with such force, it knocked him down."

I clenched my jaw and squeezed my eyes shut to block out the vision.  I didn't mean to.  God forgive me.  Henry forgive me.  

"I reached for him, trying to apologize, but he slid back away from me and hid behind his mother, crying.  The look of rejection on his face is still so clear in my memory.  He'd run to welcome me home, and instead of hugging him back, I pushed him away, shoved him to the ground."

I could see that face now, a mixture of fear and disappointment.  And hurt.

"He thought that I was mad at him, that I didn't want him, that I didn't love him.  All the things a seven year old heart would feel.  He looked at me like that for days."

I swallowed hard, took a jagged breath, and felt a burning in my eyes.  My voice was just a whisper.

"I couldn't tell him why I did it.  I didn't want him to know what they'd done to me.  I didn't want those images in his head."

I cleared my throat again and stopped.  I pressed my eyes shut, feeling wetness there.  Hopelessness there.  I couldn't go back.  I couldn't change it.  I could only curse Preston every night and dream of beating him to death with those chains.

I opened my eyes and confessed the worst of it.  

"Preston had made a particular point of discussing Henry's eyes, so it would be painful for me to look at them.  Between that conditioning and the way Henry looked at me, after awhile I made the decision to minimize my attachment to him."

I looked into Alice's unfaltering gaze, not caring about wetness in my eyes or the sound of my gulps for air.  I just wanted her to know.  To know all of it.

"There are special ops techniques that teach you how to devalue the people you care about so they can't be used against you to extract information.  For my own preservation, I employed those techniques with Henry."

My expression hardened into a military game face.

"I avoided him.  I didn't look at him.  I didn't attempt to touch him."

Tell her the worst of it.  Say it.

"I instructed him to call me...to call me sir instead of dad." 

What a thing to do to a child.  What a selfish, heartless thing to do.  

"I thought it would be temporary, something I could reverse later."  I lied to myself. 

It was a decision that numbness was easier than pain.  Numbness was easier than the guilt of breaking a seven year old's heart.  Self preservation.  Just like the military taught me.  Survival at all costs. 

I felt the resentment start again, and rage through my system.

"Preston took my son from me.  No.  Worse.  He made me reject my own son.  He made me want to reject my son and my connection to all other people."  

From then on, nothing had much impact on me.  I wouldn't allow it.  That's why I cut myself off.  That's the reason.

"I decided no one would be able to get to me that way again if I closed down the part of myself that felt something.  So I shut myself down.  And I've lived like that ever since."  

The vision of Henry as a three year old fluttered into my focus.  Affectionate, excited to see me.  I saw myself swinging him by his arms, hefting him onto my shoulders, feeling his little hands grabbing at my ears, hearing his laughter.

"It's only recently that I began to crave attachment again.  To have someone in my life I valued again."

I swallowed and tried to look away from Alice, but couldn't.

"Perhaps that's why I've been more....susceptible ...lately."

The memory of little Henry faded away, and I saw him years later, not so long ago, pleading to understand my aloofness:  Why do you make it so hard for people to care about you?

I gulped from the water bottle, looked down and took a long breath. Yeah, I cut myself off.  Shut myself down.  And I was damned successful at it.  

I felt completely alone again, until I looked up at Alice.  She sensed I had gone away and was lost again on where to go next.  She pulled me back, as surely as if she had led me by my trembling hands.  I'd gone down deep, and she sought to raise me up again.

"Is everything in the dream just as it happened?" she asked.

"Except for the end.  During the sessions, I was bound at the ankles, and shackled at the wrist to a chain suspended from the ceiling.  In the dream, I pull against it continually until the ceiling mortar gives way, releasing the chain, and I have a certain range of motion again.  That's why I wave my arms around.  But that was just the dream.  The chain never came down."

"Are you happy at the end of the dream, then?" she wanted to encourage me.  Find a ray of light.

"It isn't happiness." I confessed.   "It's more of a maniacal anger.  A rage to defend myself and destroy Preston."

"And a sense of freedom?" she tried again to bring me out of that dark tunnel.

"I'm not really free.  Although I can stand firmly on my feet, my ankles are still bound.  The chain doesn't hold me to the ceiling anymore, but it's still attached to me with the cuffs." 

I wanted to see it through her eyes.  I wanted to feel the hopefulness she was spoon feeding me.  

"I'm able to swing my arms.  I do have that much freedom."

"So you end the dream fighting, not defeated.  Defiant."

I smiled at her continued attempt.  She was strong and was trying to pull me up to her.

"Is that significant, Dr. Bowman?"   

She laughed at the sudden lightness in my voice.   

"I think so," she grinned.  "You were ultimately victorious.  You survived it.  You were liberated."  

I took a deep, reviving breath and felt that surge of hope.  Maybe she was on to something.  Maybe I should view it that way.

"Shall I give you my recommendation, Mr. Thorne?"  She feigned a professional tone.

"Please do," I played along.

She turned serious.  "To defeat the conditioning you need to find your way back to Henry.   Give up the emotional arm's length your devaluing techniques taught you.  Embrace him again.  You can now."

I furrowed my brow and shook my head.

"Isn't it too late for that?"

"How could it be too late?  You're both alive.  You both have a need for a relationship with each other."

As if her revelation pumped energy into her, she sat up straighter, and tilted her head for emphasis.

"If your father contacted you and wanted a relationship, would you reject him?"

Of course not.  I would fly to Australia.  I would run home.  I longed to see him, to talk with him.  Even to shout at each other would be better than these years of silence.  Of course a son needed his father, no matter what shit they had been through together or apart.

"Tell him, Terry," she almost pleaded.  "Tell Henry the basics of what you told me, the reasons why you pushed him away.  Maybe not the details that would scare him, but the circumstances and the choices you made based on them." 

She smiled.  "He's older now.  Thirteen.  A young man.  If he's like his father, he has an inner strength that will help him."

Maybe she was right.  I could be careful to leave out the brutal images, and just give the overview.  He would understand that at thirteen.  

"If you embrace Henry again, the dream might have less effect, because you will have ultimately overcome the conditioning."

Her smile was convincing and contagious.   I was being swept up into her giddiness and conclusions.

"Besides," her voice held such enthusiasm, "the story ends victorious.  You survive.  You can keep coming back to that when you talk to him.  You beat them.  You survived.  And I assume your captors didn't, right?"

She wanted to make her point, and asked the question I wish she hadn't.

"What happened to Preston?"

My stomach turned at hearing her say his name.  It made him more real, knowing Alice knew.  The mood shifted completely and I felt him near me again.  

There was always an underlying panic when I thought of him, knowing I wasn't in control, knowing he could do to me what he wanted to, knowing he got inside my mind and I couldn't get him out. 

He had affected me in a way that no other interrogation had, prior or since.  He changed me.  He had total control over me: body, mind and soul.  When I thought of him, I felt the cold spike of fear.

Should I tell her all of it?  She had pulled me through this far.  Maybe she could pull him out of me, forever.  I spoke in a whisper, almost a hushed reverence.

"British intelligence finally zeroed in on the camp and we were liberated.  Preston was killed during the attack."

I cleared my throat, and felt my hands curl into trembling fists.

"I insisted on seeing his body.  I wanted visual confirmation of his death."

I looked down at the floor.  There he was, clear in my memory, as plain as if he was lying right in front of me.

"When I saw him, I knelt beside him to take his pulse."

I saw again the look of horror and pity from my men as I knelt there.  They knew part of me had been destroyed.

"He had taken a shot to the chest at point blank range, and two to the head, one of which blew out part of his skull." 

Blood everywhere.  Silence in that room.

"But I knelt there," I choked, "taking his pulse," I cleared my throat again and found the words, "because I was still scared of him."  

I squeezed my eyes shut, and lived that moment again.  

"But it wasn't there.  There wasn't any pulse." 

I opened my blurry eyes to Alice.  A shaky but gleeful smile overtook me, and the tears that came were happy ones.   Tears of relief, of closure, of victory.

"That was one of the high points of my life - holding that dead fucker's wrist in my hand, searching for that silent pulse.  I'd been picturing that moment for months.  And when it finally came...."

I inhaled deeply and let out a long, cleansing breath.

"... it was sweet."

I tried to laugh, but it sounded like something else.

"Rising up in that chopper, watching that place get smaller and smaller.... knowing it was over and we were free....that was sweet, too."

I closed my eyes again and my palms slid the wetness from my cheeks.  

What would she think of me now?  A man who broke his son's heart to save himself.  A man who still shook at the thought of a dead enemy.  

She would think I was heartless.  She would think I was weak.  She would think I was frightened.  She would think all the horrid things I thought about myself.

I was almost afraid for her to speak.  I felt raw and vulnerable, aching for her approval rather than distain.  She stood slowly, and came toward me.  I could feel her nearing presence restore my energy.  She sat on the ottoman in front of me and placed her hand gently on my arm.  Her voice was just a whisper.

"That's why you do it, isn't it?"

I looked into her eyes, searching.

"Do what?"

"K & R.  Negotiate for people's release."

Her eyes held a mixture of wonder and resolution.

"You understand captivity and want to end theirs.  You want them to have that same sweet feeling of knowing they're finally free."

I nodded, silently.  Someone understood.  She knew.  Alice knew.  Alice, my....my client.

I brought myself back into professional mode.

"Alice," I spoke strongly, that business voice I defaulted to when clients questioned me.  "Peter is not being interrogated nor conditioned.  He's a hostage, not a prisoner.   It's different.  You don't need to worry about..."

"I know."  She squeezed my arm and looked into my eyes.  Her voice was confident, but quiet.  "I'm not thinking of Peter."  Her eyes held me still.  "I'm thinking of you."

The force of that thought filled my lungs, and my heart.  I drew her in through my eyes and felt her touch more strongly than ever.   

She leaned closer to me.  "Dino says sometimes you have to go into the places where they're being held to rescue them."

"Sometimes."

"Doesn't that remind you of," she stopped herself, took a breath and continued, "....where you were?" 

I hesitated, then nodded.  "Sometimes."

"Isn't it terrifying for you?"

My heart sank.  She did think less of me.  I had told her too much.  I had undermined her belief in my ability to help her.

"Alice, I have a job to do here."  My professional voice returned in earnest.   "You have to trust in my abilities."

"I do," she insisted.

"I mean," I fumbled, "you can't focus on what I ...what you think I may be afraid of.  You need to believe I have the courage necessary to do the job." 

Why had I told her all of this?  She was a client, for God's sake.  Had I forgotten what I was here to do?

"I know you have courage."  

I was suddenly embarrassed.  She had seen my tears.   She had listened to my broken heart.  She had heard me cry out in my sleep.

I forced an ironic laugh.  "A courageous man with nightmares."

"What do you think courage is?" Her voice was strong, her eyes sparkled.  "It's not the absence of fear, but knowing it's there and still going forward."

She reached her other hand to my arm and gripped me with her will and her strength.   

"That's what makes you courageous.  It's the fact that you dream your worst fear, and yet get up every day and face it.  You fear captors, but you confront them.  You fear the thought of captivity, but you surround yourself with it in order to free others.  You even go so far as to risk recapture, but you do it."

I held my breath as she spoke.

"I don't think I'll ever admire another man as much as I do you."

Her hands reached for my face.  Would she kiss me again?  

Her kiss on my cheek after the dream was tender, almost nurturing.  But to touch her lips to my cheek now would be sympathy, like kissing away the tears of a child.  I held her gaze and didn't allow her to turn my chin.

Look at me.  Don't look away.  

I leaned toward her, cupped my hand around the side of her neck, nestling it in her hair, and gently, slowly, simply eased her face closer to mine. 

Her eyes were lit with a fire I welcomed and her lips parted in consent.  

And I kissed her.

I kissed her softly at first, then deeply, almost desperately.  And she responded, lightly, then freely, then fully.  

My head spun with dizziness and need.  She had no idea how much I wanted her.  She would stop us; I could count on that.  But until she did, I could revel in this: the softness of her hands on my face, the gentle pressure of her lips against mine, the moment when loneliness was as far from me as the furthest star in the universe.  

What was behind her kiss?  It may have been to confirm her belief in my courage.  It may have been to reward me for confiding my darkest hours to her.  Whatever its intention, it bridged the remaining space between us and brought us completely together.  It was so much more than I'd ever felt.

Don't let go.  Don't pull back.  Let me wander inside your heart and bring part of yours back to mine.

It felt as if I traveled through the center of her, wrapped around her and came back to myself.

If this was what her kiss could do, making love to her would overwhelm as much as invigorate me.  To taste her, to hold her, to feel her skin against mine, to hear her breath quicken with my touch, to spark her passion and rise together to that moment I'd dreamed of and searched for. 

We parted slowly and I eased my grasp on her hair.  I wanted to look into her eyes again.  I needed her to know what that kiss had meant to me.  I needed, even more, to know what it meant to her.

I tried desperately to read her face.  Was there guilt or regret?  Was there embarrassment?  Was there a denial of responsibility?  Or was there evidence that she felt the connection, too?  That she yearned for my touch as I ached for hers.

But her simple smile revealed nothing.  It was as if she was making it my choice.  She wasn't stopping us. 

I wanted her more than ever, but this wasn't the right time.  Not like this.  Not with me weakened and vulnerable.  If we were meant to take each other further, it would have to come naturally, not after the exhaustion of ravaging through the past, not after tears. 

This couldn't happen now.  And if she wasn't stopping us, I would have to show her my strength.

I knew, however, that I couldn't be strong this close to her, this lost in her gaze.  

I kissed her forehead.  "Thank you," I whispered.  

"You alright?" she asked.  

I could have said no and pulled her toward me.  I could have wrapped myself in her warmth again.  I could have grabbed this moment when I was spinning and allowed her steady hand to guide me.  But I needed to show her I was in control now.  Even if it didn't feel like I was.

Without looking away, I smiled gently and forced myself to retreat.

"Yeah.  I have a lot to think about, and I need some air.  I think I'll head back to the hotel, okay?"

She caressed my cheek and nodded.  As she took her hand away, the chill of loneliness returned to my skin.

I pulled back from her, in every sense: slowly, unwillingly, begrudgingly.  It took incredible effort.  Like swimming an endless ocean.  Like running a losing race.   Indeed, like crawling back up that slippery slope.

I drove back to the hotel almost in a daze, unable to separate thoughts from feelings.

And of all the things rolling over in my mind: letting Preston die once and for all, finding my way back to Henry, the hope of less frequent and less powerful dreams, the mystery of what Alice's kiss had meant, whether admiration was the sum total of what she felt for me.... of all of this these thoughts, one pervading truth overwhelmed them.

 And in my ears, ringing with a vengeance and with that truth, was Dino's voice: "You can't have her, man.  Keep that thought in front of you.  You can't have her." 

  Even though I would have to give all of this up, I knew it was still worth it.  To see how life could be, how much more I could be by allowing her to complete me. 

Yeah, it was worth it all....even if it was only for awhile.