Song of the Blackbird (Albatross Prison #1)

by DB Michaels

  “I’m glad you’re his friend.”

  “Not anymore.” Sam threw himself on the sofa and slammed his fist on a cushion. “He died. He got murdered.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. It was all my fault.” Sam buried his face in his hands again. “Please don’t make me talk about it, Em. I can’t. I can’t. Oh God! Make it stop!” He curled himself into a little ball on the sofa, his body trembling from head to toe.

  Her poor brother. Was this his typical panic attack? “Sam. It’s okay. Please, Sam, stop. It’s okay. I’m here.” She crouched down to hug him and accidentally knocked a book off the table. It crashed to the floor, making a loud slapping sound.

  Sam catapulted out of the sofa and started screaming at the top of his lungs. “Stop it! Go away! You’re hurting me!”

  “Jesus. Sam, calm down.” Emma reached out a hand, but he flung her arm away, all the while screeching at her to leave him alone.

  Emma’s heart thudded a mile a minute as she ran out to get help.

  “Oh my God, Charles. Help! Something happened. He’s screaming. I can’t make him stop.” She collided with Charles and dragged him into the room.

  Sam was sitting curled up in one corner with his head between his legs, his hands over his ears, moaning incoherently.

  “Sam, it’s okay. It’s Dr. Stewart,” Charles said softly. He shook his head at Emma. “Remember our breathing exercises. Keep your mouth closed. Take a deep breath through your nose. Yes, that’s it. Hold it. Now release it through your mouth. Do it again. It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you. Breathe again. Yes, just like that. Keep breathing.”

  Luckily, Sam calmed down enough to make his way back onto the sofa. His eyes were bloodshot and tear-stained, and he looked like he’d woken up from a deep stupor. Emma stood frozen by the sofa, scared one wrong move on her part might trigger the agonizing outburst again. She glanced over helplessly at Charles. Thank goodness the psychiatrist seemed to know what to do.

  “Are you all right?” Charles handed Sam some tissues and sat down next to him on the sofa. “That was another panic attack. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Try to relax and do the deep breathing again.”

  Sam took several deep breaths. His lips quivered as he turned her way. “Sorry, Em. That was a pretty bad one, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I’m sure we can help.” She’d be willing to do anything. “You’re going to get better. Isn’t that right, Dr. Stewart?”

  “Yes.” Charles clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I know you feel bad right now. The meds haven’t worked. We’re going to try something new. It’s called cognitive processing therapy, or CPT.”

  Sam looked up, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “You think it can help me?”

  “I think so but it’s a lot of work. We have to meet every week, sometimes twice a week, at least an hour each time. I’ll assign you homework. Exercises you have to do.” Charles squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Are you game?”

  “Of course.” Sam sat up straighter. “I’m sick of the flashbacks and nightmares.”

  “Flashbacks to what?”

  “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.” Charles shot her a warning look.

  “I can’t sleep, can’t concentrate, can’t even spend time with my sister without going berserk.” Sam kept on talking. “I want to get better. You deserve a functioning brother.”

  “I just want you healthy.” Tears pricked behind Emma’s eyes. She smiled tentatively at Sam and despite it all, he smiled back.

  For a minute there, it seemed to Emma that they were all connected by an invisible bond, a common thread that stretched from one to the other. It was a strange, comforting feeling. She had had it only a few times before, years ago when her mother had been alive and Sam was still living at home. The three of them would be sipping hot chocolate by the fire or playing a board game like Monopoly or Trivial Pursuit. They’d laugh at a silly joke and Emma would feel this deep bond stretch between them, just like now. But Charles wasn’t her mom and Sam wasn’t the carefree boy he’d been back then. Yet it was nice to catch a fraction of the deep love she used to share with her family. If only she could feel such kinship again.

  “So let’s get started.” Charles seated himself behind the desk and motioned Sam to the opposite chair.

  Emma chose to stay on the sofa, a part of her still reminiscing about the past when her mom had been alive.

  “CPT can treat PTSD but I need you to tell me about what happened, Sam,” Charles began. “We need to know what the trauma was. If you can talk about it, each time it should get a little better.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Sam grasped the armrest of his chair.

  “You have to.” Charles tapped his pen. “That’s the only way you’ll get better.”

  “The only way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Sam.” Emma pulled a second chair to sit next to him. “You can do it. What happened with your friend Peter?”

  Chapter 21

  Several minutes went by. The clock ticked relentlessly forward. Emma grew antsy with the silence but Charles seemed not to mind. He gazed at her brother and then turned those brilliant blue eyes toward her. How kind and wise he was. She could never repay him enough for all his help.

  “Okay,” Sam finally blurted, his story coming out in a rush. “I’ll tell you what happened. I see it all the time. Peter was so scared. He kept looking at me. The first kick knocked him down flat. But they kept kicking him, anywhere you could think of. His head, his chest, his arms, his legs. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t stop them. I yelled and screamed but nobody came. They beat me, too. I blacked out and next thing I knew, the paramedics were there. They rescued me but Peter they pulled a sheet over. I killed him, Em. Oh, God! What am I going to do? He’s dead because of me.”

  “Hold on, Sam.” Charles raised a hand and leaned forward. “Why is his death your fault?”

  “Because he didn’t want to go inside. Handball was his thing, you know. But I was so fed up with it.” Sam brushed a shaky hand over his face. “I told him he was being a big baby, always playing a kid’s game. He got this hurt look in his eyes, but he followed me. He always followed me...”

  “And?” Emma prompted.

  “So I went to the dorms to chill. Something didn’t feel right as soon as we entered. He felt it, too. He wanted to go back outside. But I kept walking to my bed and that’s when I saw them.” Beads of perspiration dotted Sam’s forehead. He began tapping his hand on his thigh.

  “Them?” Charles prodded.

  “Gang members. Two I’d never seen before.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “One of them was selling.” Sam swallowed a couple of times. “One was buying and the others were using. They ganged up on us. The tall one told us not to snitch or else. But poor Peter didn’t understand. I told you he was slow, right? He hollered for the guards, and that’s when all hell broke loose. So much blood, and that terrible slapping sound their boots made when they kicked him. I keep seeing his eyes looking at me, hoping I’d save him. But I couldn’t. I screamed and screamed but nobody came.”

  “Where were all the guards?” Emma asked, horrified.

  “The Unit 3 sergeant apparently had some chest pain at that time so most of the officers were with him.” Sam clutched at his hair and put his knees to his chest. “I killed him. I killed him.”

  “How did you kill him?” Charles calmly asked. “Did you kick him? Did you beat him with your fists?”

  “Of course not.” Tears streamed down Sam’s face.

  “Then you didn’t kill him. They did,” Charles said. “Don’t blame yourself. You had nothing to do with it.”

  “But I led Peter in there. If I’d played handball with him, like he wanted, none of this would have happened.”

  “Maybe.” Charles spread out his hands. “But you didn’t know the gang members were there. You didn’t plan on walking in on a drug deal, did you?”


  “Of course not.”

  “Then none of this is your fault. It’s theirs. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

  Sam gulped down several deep breaths. “It’s hard. I keep seeing him whenever I close my eyes. I can’t sleep sometimes.”

  “I know.” Charles put the tips of his fingers together and brought them up. “That’s why we have at least nine sessions and not just one. But you see the processing part of the therapy? I’m trying to reset your thinking. You didn’t commit a crime. They did. They killed your friend, and they should be punished for it.”

  “Ha.” Sam gave a grotesque imitation of a laugh. “They told me to keep my mouth shut or else I’d wind up like Peter. So I didn’t say anything. By the time the guards came, they’d all run off. It was just me and Peter. His eyes were open, but I don’t think he saw me. I think he was already dead.”

  “So you didn’t tell Custody who did it?” Surely her brother knew better.

  “No, I didn’t.” Sam glared at her. “I didn’t want to die, okay? You don’t know what it’s like in prison, Emma. One wrong move and you’re toast.”

  “What did Custody do?” Charles asked.

  “Thank God they didn’t blame me or else I’d have at least ten more years added to my sentence.” Sam wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I told them I didn’t know who did it. That it was too many of them to count.”

  “It’s not too late. You can still tell them,” Emma urged. “I’m sure the warden can help you. You can’t let them go like that, Sam. Those inmates need to be punished so they won’t do it again.”

  “They’re going to kill me if I snitch. No way. I’m not doing it.” Sam shook his head vehemently and dried the rest of his tears away.

  “It’s okay.” Charles rose from his chair. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Let’s sleep on it. I’m glad you opened up about Peter. That took a lot of courage.”

  “I think so, too.” Charles was right. There was no need to push her brother so hard. She laid a hand on his arm. “Thanks for telling us about what happened.”

  “And it didn’t hurt you, did it?” Charles’s eyes were full of sympathy. “You survived, Sam. Thinking about it isn’t going to bring it back. For homework, I want you to do the rebreathing exercises and read this CPT handout.”

  “Okay. What about my meds? Should I keep taking them?”

  “No. They don’t seem to be helping you, so I’ll taper them off. The lower doses will be at the pill line starting tomorrow. Let’s give CPT a shot.”

  “Okay, cool.” Sam shook Charles’s hand. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “My pleasure. We’ll set up an appointment for next week.” Charles opened the office door. “Go with the guard out there. He told me he’d escort you back to your dorm when we’re done.”

  Thank goodness it was a different guard and not Smith. No way did she want him attending their sessions. She hoped his replacement wouldn’t insist on being there either. “How did you get the officer to stay for so long?” Emma asked as she waved good-bye to her brother.

  “Bellamy is assigned to the pill line and they already passed out their meds.” Charles locked the outer office door. “Nice guy. We’ve known each other since I came here.”

  Darkness had fallen by the time they made it out to the yard. A multitude of brilliant stars twinkled overhead, and the full moon lay like a golden offering in the sky. Was it only yesterday she’d been searching for the comet at Maxim’s house? It seemed like forever, almost like another lifetime.

  Charles walked quietly by her side as they approached the hill to go up to the Eagle gate. They passed a row of dilapidated buildings and dorms. What were the inmates doing now? According to Smith, dinner was usually around six p.m. Did they have their nighttime routine like everyone else? Brushing their teeth, changing into pajamas, showering? Or were they using drugs, getting high? Or were they itching to start another fight, tired of being cooped up for so long?

  “Are drugs that prevalent in the prison?” Emma huffed out as they climbed the hill. It’d been a long day. Too bad there wasn’t a taxi around.

  “I think so, but no one knows for sure except the inmates.” Charles guided her around some rocks in their path. “Several times a year, someone overdoses.”

  “Two already since I’ve been here.”

  “I know. Sometimes they come in clusters. It could be heroin, meth, morphine, whatever the flavor of the month is.”

  “And Custody does nothing?”

  “They try.” Charles shrugged. “But there aren’t enough guards. They do the best they can with the limited resources available.”

  “Which means not much, right?”

  “It’s hard, Emma.” Charles’s face turned solemn as they showed their IDs and passed the Eagle gate checkpoint. “You know, these men are criminals. They’re locked up to protect the public. Rehabilitation isn’t anyone’s top priority.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I know. My sister is a counselor in a drug rehab program. She says they’re always scrounging around for funding.” Charles gave a rueful shake of his head. “The government doesn’t have enough money to fix everything.”

  “I wish it did.”

  “So much idealism. You remind me of my sister.” They were now in the brightly lit parking lot and he was escorting her to her car. “Don’t burn yourself out trying to fix the world. Do what little bit you can, whenever you can.”

  “What a good philosophy. Is that what you do?”

  Charles gave a self-conscious shrug. “I try. When are you free next week for another session?”

  “I’m usually done by four so any time after that is fine.” Emma touched his arm and gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you for doing all of this.”

  “You’re welcome.” Charles’s charming smile was back in full gear. He pulled out a business card and scribbled something on the back before handing it to her. “Call me when you get home. I want to make sure you get there okay. My number’s on the back.”

  “Alright.” He was so sweet. Underneath that playboy demeanor existed a heart of gold. How many psychiatrists would have volunteered their free time to treat an inmate? Nil or at most one, and lucky for her that one was standing right in front of her. She leaned over and gave him a fierce hug. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”

  “Can I get that after every session?” Charles asked, his voice light and easy.

  “Let me think about it.” Emma laughed in spite of herself. She was sure the man had to beat away women with a stick the way he flirted so effortlessly.

  “Oh no. It’s Chambers.” Charles pulled back from her hug and frowned. “I swear the man sleeps here.”

  “What? Where is he?”

  “Going to his car, behind you. Damn. He sees us.” Charles gave a mock shudder. “We’re in for it now. God. He needs an anger management class.”

  “Stewart. Dr. Edwards.” Maxim’s peremptory voice rang out a couple of seconds later.

  Emma turned and sucked in a breath. Maxim’s face looked like thunder, those silver eyes blazing at them like bullets.

  “This is where you’ve been? All this time?” Maxim pointed to his watch. “You realize it’s almost eleven o’clock?”

  “And your point is?” Charles asked in an insouciant voice.

  “You should have left hours ago.”

  “We were working.” What the heck was wrong? The man was glaring at her as if she’d committed some great sin.

  “This late?” Maxim scoffed. “Come on. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Fine. Believe whatever you want but it’s the truth.” Emma turned to Charles. “So next week, same time maybe?”

  Something like a growl emitted from Maxim’s throat.

  “Sure.” Charles cast Maxim a wary look. “You want me to stay?”

  “No, I can handle it.” Emma waved good-bye and rounded on Maxim as soon as they were alone. “What’s wrong with you? You told us it was okay just this mo
rning.”

  “I never—” Maxim sputtered. “Never gave you permission to use the prison as a dating ground.”

  “Dating?” Emma reared back. Had he lost his mind? “What are you talking about? We were doing CPT sessions.”

  “Don’t even try to deny it. I saw you throwing yourself at Stewart a minute ago.” He gestured to Charles’s retreating back and then swung back as if he’d been hit. “Wait. CPT?”

  “Yes. Cognitive processing therapy.” Emma glared at him. “With a patient at the mental health building. We finished fifteen minutes ago. And I wasn’t throwing myself at Charles.”

  “Sure looked like that to me,” Maxim said, stretching his shirt collar.

  “I was thanking him.” Emma fished the keys out of her purse. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business. You and Stewart were reported as missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Nobody knew where you were. All we knew was that you hadn’t returned your keys yet.” Maxim clasped his hands behind his back. “Which meant you were still in the prison somewhere. Unaccounted for. You could have been mauled by an inmate for all we knew.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” No wonder he was concerned about them. But did he have to act like such a boor about it?

  “I got carried away,” he said.

  “Yeah. You get that a lot, don’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.” Emma clicked open the car with her remote. She had to leave now before she said something she regretted.

  “If this is about last night, that was a totally different situation,” he said.

  “Yeah? How? You do things without thinking and then regret it afterwards.”

  “I do not regret it. Not last night, at least.”

  “What?” Emma breathed out, not sure she’d heard right.

  Maxim dug a hand through his hair. “Never mind.” He shook his head, stepped away but then swung back.