“What you’re experiencing is called a panic attack,” he said. “It can be triggered in many different ways. For you, it shows up as an acute claustrophobia. When you were in combat, was there a lot of fighting inside, clearing buildings?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “Fallujah. Twice. But now I can barely go inside the dining hall. That’s not a combat zone.”
“Your body is reacting to an environment that was very stressful over a relatively long period of time. It was a useful reaction in Fallujah. It helped keep you alive. But now it’s too sensitive. It’s overreacting to a perceived threat, and your fight-or-flight reflex goes into overdrive.”
“Well,” said Peter. “Shit.”
“I have to ask this,” the man said, watching Peter closely. “Again, this is just you and me. But I need a brutally honest answer. Do you feel like you’re a danger to yourself? Or to anyone else?”
“No,” said Peter. He drank in the fresh air. “I don’t want to hurt myself or anyone else. I just want to solve this problem.”
The Navy shrink nodded again.
“A lot of combat vets are changed by war,” he said. “Some of them are physically changed, wounded, missing limbs. That’s very difficult. But some have other effects. Stress effects, which are no less real. And for some vets, they’re harder to live with, because you can’t see them.
“Sometimes those effects diminish over time,” he said. “Sometimes they go away entirely. Sometimes they don’t. But there are things you can do to help.”
“Like what?”
The shrink said it depended on the individual. “For some people,” he said, “the solution is to stress yourself in a controlled manner, a little more each time, and allow your unconscious to realize that in the civilian world, nothing bad happens. Like curing fear of flying by getting on a plane.
“And sometimes,” he said, “you do the opposite. You back away, reduce the stress, and allow the brain to reorganize itself to a life where people aren’t shooting at you all the time. Sometimes it’s a combination of the two. You work with a therapist to find the right course of treatment. That’s the best way to get better.”
Peter nodded, thinking that sitting in a shrink’s office was going to drive him crazy all by itself.
Reading his face, the shrink kept talking. “Not everyone wants to work with a therapist,” he said. “Some people can learn to just listen to themselves and pay attention. Find someone to talk to, and work it through.”
“What if it doesn’t go away?” asked Peter.
The shrink gave him the same kind smile. “Then that’s just who you are now,” he said. “If there are limitations, there are also benefits. That’s your life. Learn how to live it. Find something to do. Someone to love. Get on with things.”
15
Detective Sam Lipsky returned two hours later, flipping through his notebook. Peter still sat in the back of the cruiser, his legs out the open door. He couldn’t get comfortable. The white static buzzed and crackled. He worried about Dinah.
“I thought you were fresh off the plane,” said Lipsky. “But you got discharged over a year ago.”
Peter nodded.
“So for the last year, you’ve been doing what?”
“Working, here and there. Hiking out West.”
“Is this some kind of hippie dropout thing?”
“All due respect, Detective?” said Peter. “Fuck you.”
Lipsky smiled. “You won the silver star,” said the detective. “And a lot of other medals. You were a lieutenant for eight years. I didn’t know that was possible. You should have been a captain, even a major. But my contact says the details are sealed. So what happened?”
“I had a problem with the chain of command.”
“I can see that,” said Lipsky. “You and me both.”
He produced Peter’s keys and wallet from his coat pocket and handed them over, stepping back so Peter could stand.
“License expired five years ago,” he said. “Like I give a shit. Renew it tomorrow. Go get something to eat, find your dog. Then go home and see your parents. And stay out of neighborhoods like this one.”
Peter climbed out of the cruiser and stood in the night air. He felt the wind open him up. His shoulders loosened, and his hands unclenched. Then he asked the question he’d wanted to ask for the last three hours. “So who’s the dead guy?”
Lipsky’s smile fell away.
“I’m more interested in the guy who killed the dead guy,” he said. “One thing, he was a helluva shot. ME won’t say anything for sure yet. But probably a large-caliber handgun, a .45. Between the eyes, from a distance of fifty yards or more. While getting sprayed by an AK-47? That’s a shooter with some practice.”
Peter had been in a few target competitions in his time. That was probably in his service record, too. He hadn’t won any, but they hadn’t laughed at him, either. And he’d certainly gotten used to shooting back under fire.