Chapter Four

Chapter Four

They drove to Missoula in silence. Samuel, trying not to look at the man brooding in the passenger seat, and John, pretending to focus on the scenery. Thirty minutes seemed to drag on for hours.

Then, finally, they were passing the houses and lumber mill of Bonner and on through East Missoula... each mile marker they passed prompting a small celebration in Samuel's mind. The feeling was clearly mutual because as soon as he'd pulled into the parking place, John had the door open and was sliding out of the Bronco.

Samuel caught John by the elbow and pointed to the coffee house up the street. "I'll settle in at Illusions in an hour. You can meet me there whenever you're ready."

"A session only lasts fifty minutes, right?" The hesitation in John's voice was amusing, but Samuel felt fragile enough himself to know he'd be better served by not laughing.

"You may want some time to yourself when you conclude with Alan. Take as long as you need. I can wait." And he turned before he let too much slip. "The office is one street over... There, that building on the second floor. Are you okay from here?"

And then he was alone in a town he tried to avoid whenever possible. The shops held little interest; he would undoubtedly be spending some time at Illusions later as John would be dealing with some powerful emotions and would likely need some space to compose himself, and he didn't like the squealing children that gathered around the carousel. That left the park, under the bridge.

He turned right when he reached the bridge, following the stairs down toward the river, and found himself staring at three giant trout (salmon?), well... big fish. The sculpture boasted clean lines and avoided the types of abstractions that tended to curl Samuel's hair. In a strange way, he liked it. So he found a spot nearby to sit and watch the heron and egrets fish along the bank.

He decided that he still had enough time to explore the tiny bookstore next to the coffee house and was soon the proud owner of a paperback mystery novel and a very bad cup of coffee. He'd barely turned the page and begun chapter five when he noticed a familiar pair of brown pants beside his elbow.

"How's the mystery?" asked John, as though they did this everyday.

"Compelling."

"Clearly, what's it about?"

"There was a dead person, and some foolish sheriff is... I don't really know, okay?"

John had the temerity to laugh. "Why are you nervous? I can assure you I'm not about to 'throw you over.'"

Samuel forced himself to feign indifference. "Oh, what did you decide then?"

"To meet weekly for now. If you teach me to drive, I can save you the trip."

"And I will likely spend as much time in the car either way..."

"Did you know there's a cafe down the street that serves crepes? And it's almost time for lunch."

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Somehow Samuel kept himself from asking any more about what was discussed with Alan. He wouldn't mind staying out of the loop if this was Potter he'd referred out, but it was different precisely because this was John. And now he was getting a sour taste of what he assumed most parents and spouses experience when a loved one 'hits the couch.'

He didn't like it. At all.

Samuel's insecurities aside, John seemed open and upbeat, filling the back of the Bronco with groceries they certainly wouldn't find in Potomac's small convenience store and pressing Samuel for details covering what Jack would like to eat (Samuel had never made a point to know) to what time the man would want to turn in for the evening (with a two hour time difference to overcome, likely very early).

By the time they had put away all the groceries and said good bye to Potter, Samuel was confused enough to welcome the opportunity to look in on Amanda. He was glad to note that color was returning to her face, the ghastly grey tone under her eyes was fading, and she would willingly participate in casual conversations. It was still too early to force her into more structured counseling, but perhaps he could coax her out of her glorified hospital room.

"John said that he will serve lasagna at six... Well, I'll be in my office if you need me." There was a look of longing in her eyes that gave him hope enough to set the table for three.

And she was there at six, in clothes that Potter, no doubt, had brought for her. John took his cue flawlessly from Samuel and served Amanda as though her joining the dinner table was a common event.

They chatted easily about favorite foods and popular songs and Samuel felt a lightness in his chest when Amanda smiled as she bit into a warm, garlicky roll. Maybe this could work. Keep the focus on the present tense, and help her form a group of friends... Don't dig into the emotions too quickly; build her confidence in both of them, a foundation to work from. She would let him know when she was ready.

He wondered if she might be ready before he was.

Later, it was as if someone threw a switch with Amanda. They were clearing dishes, and Samuel clicked on the evening news, and when he looked back Amanda had 'checked out.' She was staring at her shoes, holding tightly to the silverware, and refused to respond to him.

He swore internally, both for pushing her past her limits and for missing the trigger. It could have been a word, a motion... who knew. If he mined her thoughts for the cause, he would likely set her off again. Stupid, rookie mistake, with the only solace being that she was allowing John to take the cutlery and guide her back to bed. At least she still trusts one of us.

Samuel spent the rest of the evening brooding. He truly tried to listen to the evening news, but kept finding himself stewing over their setback. Would John believe that he could find more effective help elsewhere? Would he take Amanda and leave, never look back, just when Samuel had begun to hope for more between them?

The maelstrom of his thoughts only made it more difficult to look up as Wolfe returned and joined him on the couch.

"You're supposed to tell me that we were expecting that, it's completely understandable, and you're not giving up just because she had a bad episode." Samuel didn't even want to respond. "And then you would do well to let me remind you that I chose to bring her here because I know that even though this will be very difficult, you won't give up or back off."

"You think I need a 'pep-talk'? What gives you the right to have unwavering faith in me now?"

"We talked at length about how difficult this was going to be for you and for me."

"What?"

"You've been itching all evening to ask me what it is that I discussed with Alan. He spent most of the session helping me prepare for what's to come; adaptive problems that plague survivors for the rest of their lives, the nightmares, the stress this will place on you. It must be terribly difficult for you to have no idea what's being discussed with a colleague who holds you in such high esteem."

"Discussed that too, did you?" Samuel asked darkly.

"I could puzzle that out for myself. I'm not a complete idiot, and I know you quite well."

"Perhaps too well."

"I never wanted it to be this way between us. Let me..."

"Please, John, not right now. I can't deal with this on top of the other."

"When do you think you'll be ready to deal with 'this'?" Samuel winced at John's sharp tone.

He knew that 'perhaps never' was not a wise answer, so he settled for a shrug. "I need to arrange a ride for Jack." Then he escaped down the hall to call Troy.

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Samuel thought back to their early days in New York. Both he and Troy had new names to answer to, false lives to memorize, and a new culture in which to become immersed. It was truly a whirlwind after spending three months in Owlshead, Maine, keeping to themselves with Samuel frantically pouring over books to gain the necessary knowledge to back-up false credentials.

Jack was their first contact, personal or professional. He knew their names were false, but he believed that they had fallen in with an extremist faction in the IRA and had needed to fake their deaths to get out. Jack had sharp eyes and a mind to match; he had run Samuel through every challenge he could devise to be sure that the title and credentials were deserved, no matter how Samuel may have acquired them.

But he had become so much more than fierce protector of the common good and faithful keeper of deadly secrets. He had pushed Samuel out of his solitary existence, pulled him through his days of deep depression, and drove him to accept clients who could keep him wearing Armani. Without those contacts there would be no clinic.

Jack connected with Troy on a level that, even now, Samuel couldn't reach. The haunted and desolate youth had become a confident man with modest goals but a solid work ethic. While Samuel's credentials may not have been earned by conventional means, Troy's were entirely above board. In short, they both owed their new lives to Jack Brown.

Troy would enjoy the time spent on the road with Jack; that would buy Samuel a little more time to find composure. This was a very bad time to fall apart. Thankfully, Troy had agreed to co-operate.

But Samuel was almost out of time, and no closer to equanimity than when he had sat down an hour ago.

Perhaps Troy could stop in Missoula for smoked ribs. That would make a nice lunch, eat up a little more time, and give Samuel a venue to convince Jack that he was fine, not mental at all.

The mobile sounded a tinny ring and then connected.

"Troy," he charged in, "John wanted to try that new barbecue restaurant. Since you're already in Missoula, would you..."

The fool laughed at him. "Sorry, Samuel, we're already in town. Be at your house in two minutes. Bye."

He cursed every deity he could remember. Then cursed his pajamas for good measure and scrambled into respectable clothes to be wearing in the early afternoon.

He found John in the kitchen and, with a pleading look, began a quick list of things best left unsaid. "...and by Merlin's purple night light, please don't mention... oh, hi, Jack. You're already here."

Samuel didn't like the silence in the kitchen as Troy and John stared at him like fish and Jack gave him a cool assessing look starting with the short, combed hair that he had managed and ending with the shoes that he hadn't.

"Samuel, I'd like a private word."

Oh crap.