Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,84
sips of her morning coffee in the staff room and then heads to the therapy room. Inside, Tom Miller is already setting up. The lieutenant, in the wheelchair, turns and sees her.
Let’s get this hour over with, she tells herself. You’re a professional.
“Hey, Michelle!” Tom Miller sings. At least Tom brings some levity and merriment to the hour. She’ll have to rely on him for a buffer, as usual.
The first half an hour passes without incident. They walk with him using the walker and brace, they build his leg strength using weights, and soon it’s time for the Lokomat. Not so bad, she thinks, pep-talking herself through it like it’s a dental exam.
“Michelle is upset with me, Tommy,” says Lew, wiping his face with a towel.
“No, Lew, that’s not true.” Tom adjusts the straps in the Lokomat.
You’re a professional, she reminds herself. You’re a professional…
“She thought my comment about the homeless people dying in Chicago was…insensitive, I suppose.”
“I’m right here in the room,” Michelle snaps. “And I didn’t think anything. I know it. It was an asinine thing to say. Now, can we leave it alone?”
Lew claps his hands and chuckles. “That’s the spirit, woman. Speak up for yourself.” He holds out his hands. “Michelle, do you know how much taxpayer money was spent on those homeless people in Chicago? Did you know that most homeless people are homeless by choice?”
“By choice? Are you kidding me?” She marches over to him, her face burning. “Most homeless people are either mentally ill or destitute. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“She’s right, Lew,” says Tommy, his tone different, asserting himself for the first time. “You’re out of line.”
Lew seems as surprised as Michelle. “Et tu, Tommy? Well, isn’t that nice. And I suppose it’s our job to care for these people. To pony up cash for them.”
“We don’t—we should want to help them,” Michelle says. “It’s called compassion.”
“Fine.” The lieutenant waves. “You want to hand over part of your salary to people who don’t want to take care of themselves, go right ahead. Nobody will stop you. But the government shouldn’t force us to do it. That’s not compassion. That’s compulsion.”
Michelle, her stomach full of acid, her hands balled into fists, looks over at Tom, who seems to be searching for words to make this all go away.
It’s the first time in her life that she’s wanted to punch someone in a wheelchair. But she relaxes her hands. She’s not going to give him this much power over her.
“You know what?” she says to Tom. “I’m done here. I’m done.”
“Michelle, wait,” Tom says. He walks up to her, whispers, “Let’s just get through the next twenty minutes and then we can—”
“No, I’m sorry.” She puts up her hands. “I’m done listening to this idiot.”
“So she walks away,” says Lew. “The first sign that she’s losing the argument.”
She stops on that and turns, her blood boiling. “You know what, Lieutenant? Maybe someone should check your alibi for the Chicago bombing.” She walks out. Returns to the staff room, the pot of burned coffee, the torn couches, the bulletin boards with notices and reminders haphazardly displayed on pink and yellow slips. She drops down on the couch and puts her head in her hands.
Wondering, on the one hand, How can people think that way?, while on the other hand scolding herself for not turning the other cheek. He’s a broken man, she tells herself. He was horribly injured and he’s angry at the world. A professional would have finished the session and not engaged him, just let the whole thing slide…
Tom Miller opens the door. “Hey.” She glances at the clock over his head. It’s a bit past ten in the morning. She realizes that, while she’s been lost in her thoughts, almost thirty minutes have passed; the session with Lew has ended.
“Tom, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have walked out.” But one look at Tom’s face, and she can see that he’s not upset with her. He looks…spooked.
“What’s going on, Tom?” she asks. “Did Lew do something else?”
Tom rubs his head, his hand grinding over his buzz cut, a nervous habit. “He wasn’t happy about your last comment, about whether he had an alibi for the Chicago bombing,” he says.
Michelle sighs. “Okay, fine, I admit I shouldn’t have suggested that he would kill hundreds of people.” She chuckles. “Yeah, it crossed the line. But screw him. He can be as pissed off as he wants. I’m done working with him.”