“I must confess that I haven’t visited yet, but it’s on my list,” she said. “The food, the music, and the people all seem so interesting. How long has your family been there?”
“Several generations, for sure. I’ve never done any type of research, but I know my ancestors came from Nova Scotia in the late seventeen hundreds.”
“I find family history and their dynamics fascinating—from a social and clinical perspective. Where we are born shapes so much of our lives.”
Cain laughed. “Well then, I can’t wait to hear your analysis on this one. The story goes that my mother was at home making one of her delicious chicken and sausage gumbos when her water broke. My aunt Elmer Lee was at the house, too. They jumped—well, waddled is probably more accurate—into the pickup and rushed to get my pops, who was out inspecting a nearby sugarcane field. In hindsight, my mother and aunt should have just gone straight to the hospital. But I wasn’t going to wait any longer. I popped out right there in the cane field. A field hand experienced in delivering farm animals served as my momma’s makeshift ob-gyn. A few moments later, my sister came out, too.”
“That’s an incredible story. So, you’re a twin, then?”
“Yes. My sister is Bonnie.”
“That doesn’t sound very Cajun. Right?”
“My dad has a weird obsession with everything having to be symbolic, especially when it comes to names. Since sugarcane is sweet, he wanted something that represented sweetness. Bonbon is the French word for candy. So he came up with Bonnie, and we called her Bonbon when she was a child. And Cain is for sugarcane, though my very Catholic mother chose the biblical spelling. And of course they named our younger brother Seth.”
“Like the biblical story?”
“Yes. But there’s no rivalry between us.”
“Are you close to your brother?”
“My sister and I are the closest, of course. It comes from being twins. If she stubs her toe, I can feel it. If she is in some type of danger, I can sense it.” I can’t believe how open I’ve been with this shrink. “I’m normally a much more private person, and here I’ve been just flapping my jaws.”
“No, not at all. You’re a great storyteller,” she noted.
He looked around the room for a second before asking, “So, am I cleared to report back to duty?”
She laughed softly. “Not so fast. We’re getting closer, but we still have some work to do.”
“What else do you wanna know, doc?”
Dr. Spencer put down her pen and looked directly at him. “Tell me about your nightmares.”
Chapter 16
Cain’s heart thumped in his chest. He could feel the rush of blood expanding his veins and arteries. Even if the psychologist was dangerously good at her job, there was no way she could know about the nightmares that plagued him. Cain had never shared them with anyone except Bonnie.
Stall for time! Stall her! His session was scheduled for only an hour, and he figured he could run down the clock. “Doctor, could you please repeat the question?”
“Nightmares, Cain. Tell me about yours.”
“Um.” He fumbled for an answer.
“Everyone has them,” she said with a clinical demeanor.
He let out a huge sigh of relief. She doesn’t know. She’s just fishing. “I don’t have any.”
“Ah, come on, Cain. Even tough guys have nightmares,” she replied. “It’s just the unconscious talking to us. We can learn from it.”
Don’t trust her! his mind shouted. Talk about something safe—an old nightmare. “When I was a pilot in the navy, I’d sometimes dream that I was flying over the ocean. It would start getting pitch-black and I wouldn’t be able to see the horizon. The stars would be reflecting off the water and my instruments would become too blurry for me to read. I’d lose all reference to up and down. Alarms would start sounding in the cockpit and then my propellers would stop spinning. Everything would go quiet. The silence was eerie. All I would hear was my team pleading, ‘Hurricane, save us.’ But I couldn’t see anything—I was flying in the blind.”
“What would happen?” Dr. Spencer asked.
“I’d crash. The plunge into the ocean was always violent enough to jar me awake.”
“That’s scary, indeed,” she said. “I can’t imagine being in such a terrifying situation. But nightmares teach us something about ourselves.”
Cain remained silent for a beat. “This nightmare pushed me to become better. I read more books, trained harder, and flew more missions. I trained for emergencies until they ceased to be emergencies. Making sure my crew felt safe with me was my obsession.”
“I find it interesting that your nightmare is not a monster per se, but rather a scenario.”
“Why is that interesting, doc?”
“Well, we choose our careers. And your history shows a pattern.”
Cain found himself being drawn into her line of questioning. Mike was right. I better be careful. She’s good, and I don’t know where she is leading me.
“You are attracted to dangerous jobs.”
“I guess you could say to dangerous hobbies, too. Like flying and riding a motorcycle. Or maybe I just took too many punches to the head when I boxed in high school.”
Cain saw that his official personnel file sat open on her lap. She riffled through the pages. “Or perhaps your boxing experience has helped your on-the-job ratings. I see you have excellent marks in physical fitness.”
“I don’t hit the bag as much as I’d like to anymore, but I still remember the techniques—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. I was a freshman in high school when an old Cajun hired me to help him build a boxing gym. As part of my labor, he gave me a key to the gym and I practiced every day after school. When he saw that I was committed to the sport, he started training me.”
She continued thumbing through his paperwork. “You also have excellent ratings in shooting.”
“Been shooting a gun since I was three. Comes with the territory of being born in South Louisiana, the Sportsman’s Paradise.”
“Oh, my,” she said. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
“I think it’s safer when you have a respect for it, rather than a fear.”
“One of your supervisors described you as ‘fiercely loyal and married to the job.’”
Cain liked the compliment but was embarrassed by all the praise. “This ain’t just a job. It’s a vocation. This profession called me. I know this probably sounds cliché, but I wanted to serve my country at the highest level. Protecting the president allows me to do that.”
“Your Secret Service file is thicker than most I see,” she observed.
“That’s probably because it contains my military records as well,” Cain said.
“It shows assignments all over the world—many that would give a normal person a case of adrenal fatigue or PTSD. Do you feel like you’ve experienced any symptoms of the illness?”
“Is that what the experts call PTSD nowadays? An illness? Like catching the flu?”
“PTSD affects everyone differently. Some become more aggressive, while others become more withdrawn. Many of my clients are veterans returning from Iraq or Afghanistan.”
“I appreciate your trying to help them,” Cain said. “We are quick to send people to war, yet slow to treat them when they come back. It’s a real shame.”
She nodded in agreement.
An awkward silence followed. “You asked earlier about my brother,” Cain finally said. “He’s not the younger brother I remember growing up. Operation Iraqi Freedom changed him. He’s a different person now. He can barely hold down a steady job. He lives with our parents. Farmwork seems to be helping him with his anxiety.”
As he spoke, Cain had been studying Dr. Spencer’s Stanford University degree, hanging on the wall behind her desk. Why would such an educated woman choose the bureaucracy of government employment instead of private practice? Fear of failing at private practice?
“Mind if I ask a question, doc?
”
“That’s not normally how my sessions go, but sure. I’m flexible.”
“Why did you spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to graduate from the number one college in psychology, only to end up becoming a government functionary like myself?”
“I’m actually in private practice. I contract with the Secret Service on a limited basis. They find it cheaper to hire me case by case instead of full-time.”
Cain chuckled. “I’m a patriot. I love my country. But the government trying to save money is something I rarely see—if ever.”
“Economics is tied to behavior. Some risky, some conservative. But a decision is always required. You made an assumption—a snap judgment—based on a degree hanging on my wall. Am I correct?”
“Yeah,” Cain replied. “I’ll give you that. In my line of work, I have to make judgments, or people get killed. When I see a crowd clapping for their favorite politician but one man is not, it catches my attention. When I see people out wearing T-shirts and shorts yet one is in a heavy jacket, it catches my eye. So, yes, I make judgments based on my observations. It comes with the job.”
She continued probing. “Do you think you have good judgment?”
“In some things. In others, probably not. If you ask my supervisor, I have poor judgment in clothes, because my style is more subdued.” Cain chuckled. “The Service is peculiar in that regard: they’ll judge your value to the team based on the quality of your tie or cuff links.”
“What about judgment in your friendships?”
“I’m loyal to a fault.”
She looked up from scribbling notes on her yellow legal pad. “Please explain.”
“I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I don’t always succeed, but I try to see the good in people.”
“Loyalty is usually an admirable trait. But many people don’t realize there is a dangerous subcategory of loyalty. We refer to it as toxic loyalty. For example, those who were loyal to the Nazi regime.”
“Doctor, I work for the Secret Service, not the gestapo. You don’t have to lecture me on toxic loyalty. I’ve walked the grounds at Dachau. It made me sick to my stomach.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Cain.”
“You didn’t upset me,” Cain replied flatly, masking his spike in blood pressure.
“I’d like to transition from friendships to relationships. Many of my clients struggle with relationships. As you know, the Secret Service has a 70 percent divorce rate. I notice you’re wearing a wedding ring, but your file says nothing about your being married—except to the job.”
A flood of emotions—a mixture of anger and guilt—suddenly overcame him. He still wasn’t ready to confront it. “I still wear my wedding ring to honor my wife, Claire. She and our baby boy, Christopher, are dead. My file doesn’t mention them because I joined the Secret Service afterward.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No,” Cain said. “It’s got nothing to do with my job performance, or my ability to protect the president.”
He looked at his watch. “My hour is up, doctor. I wouldn’t want Uncle Sam having to pay for any extra services that aren’t necessary, just so you can make the payments on your BMW X5.”
Her mouth opened in shock. “How did you know I drive a BMW?”
“I told you, doc. I read people for a living. Your accent is German, and I saw a BMW parked outside with personalized plates. The Service never authorizes personalized plates. It’s a security issue.”
“Ah,” she said with a tinge of relief. “Good observation. I guess I should change those?”
“Only if you’re concerned for your safety. I’m sure you deal with a lot of crazies in here, but I’m not one of them. I believe I’ve demonstrated that I’m capable of carrying out the duties of a Secret Service agent.”
“Yes. My report will give my blessing for you to continue your service.”
“Thank you, doc.” Cain stood to leave.
“One last bit of advice, if I may, Cain.” She phrased it in such a way that he knew the advice was coming whether he wanted it or not.
“Don’t let loyalty be your downfall.”
Chapter 17
Cain walked out the office door and took a deep breath. It was midmorning, and while the sun was out, dark clouds were moving in from the east. Thank God that’s over.
He straddled his Harley and cruised the short distance to Old Ebbitt Grill, a favorite hangout of Secret Service agents. The establishment teemed with energy and political history. Former presidents had played dominos there while discussing policy, but Hollywood made it even more famous when Clint Eastwood played the piano there during a scene in In the Line of Fire.
Cain pushed through the rotating door and grabbed a pack of matches from the hostess table. He knew the restaurant well and sat himself at the bar. Cain removed his tie and folded it before placing it in his suit’s inner pocket. He plopped his heavy elbows onto the thick wooden bar. He looked around the place, studying the stuffed animal heads mounted on the wall.
“Your usual, Mr. Cain?” the freckle-faced bartender, clad in the uniform issue of suspenders and a bow tie, asked from behind the bar. Bill was a young college student working to pay for his political science degree at nearby George Washington University.
“Not today, pal. Make it a sweet tea. Craving a taste of home.” Cain then mumbled under his breath, “Sometimes this city reminds you just how far from the farm you are.”
“One sweet tea coming up,” Bill said.
“Could you also put an order in for the shrimp and grits?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Bill punched the lunch order into his computer and then hurried to make the drink.
When it arrived, Cain squeezed the sliced lemon into his tea. He used the straw to stir the drink before tossing the straw onto the bar. He took a large sip. That hits the spot.
As Cain continued gazing around the room, the flat-screen television in the corner caught his attention. Normally a sporting event played, but today something much more important was broadcasting. The volume was too low for him to hear, but the caption read SECRET SERVICE PROSTITUTION SCANDAL. Then the photo of Cain, Tomcat, and the others playing darts with drinks in their hands at the British pub flashed on the big screen.
Cain pushed the tea aside. “Bill, I will have my usual.”
Bill looked confused. “Was it not any good, Mr. Cain? I can make you another.”
Cain was still staring at the screen.
“Hey, Mr. Cain. Isn’t that you and Mr. Tom?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Cain replied, too angry to be embarrassed.
Bill poured a double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for Cain. “This one’s on the house, Mr. Cain.”
Cain pounded back the drink. Strong. Just like I like ’em. He didn’t enjoy drinking out of bitterness or anger, but the alcoholic drink was familiar to him. It was comforting, and he hoped it would help calm the anger boiling to the surface.
“Make me another, will you?” Cain asked.
“No judgment from me, Mr. Cain.”
Tom Jackson arrived shortly afterward and grasped Cain’s shoulder. “I love this place—for the scenery, if nothing else.” Tomcat gazed upon a group of young professional women sitting at a table about ten feet away. They were enjoying cocktails, and giggled and looked away when Tomcat made eye contact with them.
Cain pointed at the empty stool next to him. “Sit down, Jackson. Be serious for once in your life.”
His face reddened. “I am being serious.” Tom then motioned to the bartender. “Billy, get me a beer.”
“His name is Bill. Why do you call him Billy?” Cain snapped.
“What’s got you so pissed off?” Tom asked.
“His name is Bill. Not Billy.”
“He’s wet behind the ears. Probably still a virgin. When he grows up, then I’ll call him Bill. But forget about him. How did that meeting go with LeRoy? You didn’t call me afterward.”
“I didn’t call anyone afterward.”
“Yeah, but I told you to call me right afterward.”
Cain scoffed. “When are you going to get it, Jackson? It’s not always about you.”
“You’re complaining when it’s me they’re looking to fire, man?”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Cain replied. “Which is something you need to start doing.”
“The truth, huh? How about this for truth? I hear they’re going to make you and me take polygraphs.”
Cain shook his head and exhaled deeply. “The King didn’t mention anything about a polygraph, only a psych eval.”
“So, what else did the King say, man? Is he on our side?” Tom asked.
“On our side? Of course not. You know the King. Think of the position you’ve put him in, and—”
“Hey, it wasn’t just me, pal. There was a bunch of guys screwing off down there.”
“Yeah, maybe. But the others paid their debts.” Before Tom could open his mouth to reply, Cain lifted his finger to Tom’s face. “Let me finish. He’s also pissed because they’re squeezing him hard on this one. Management is not going to sweep this one under the rug.”
“Management? What a joke! With all the stuff they used to pull, now they’re the moral authority?”
Cain finished his second Jack on the rocks with three swigs, just as Bill brought out his shrimp and grits. The plate was sizzling and smelled delicious, but Cain had lost his appetite. “Bill, Mr. Tom Jackson will cover my tab. He still owes me several hundred.”
“You know I’m good for it. I’ll get your money. Payday is next week.”
“I’m not going to hold my breath. You squeeze a quarter so tight the eagle screams.”
“Ah, come on, now. My wife and kids bleed me dry.”
“You don’t give a shit about your family!” Cain shouted.
“At least I have one,” Tom said without thinking.
Cain clenched his fist and launched it at Tom’s face. It connected with a thud, and Tom knocked over two barstools as he fell to the floor.
“This is all your fault,” Cain barked at Tom. “You’re fucking with my life and career, and you don’t even give a shit.”
Cajun Justice Page 6
