The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 6

"Shitty luck?"

"Cute," Resnick replied. He sighed deeply, set his chart on the counter, and crossed his arms. His face softened, and he put on a sincere expression. "I'm a doctor. It isn't just my job to make people feel better, it's the reason I live... my purpose." There was a depth of feeling in Resnick's words, a look of kindness on his face that struck a chord in Chris. "There. I've revealed something intensely personal. Now you."

"Trust me, there's nothing you can do."

"I'm not going to pass judgment. I'm trying to help."

"It's not like that. I don't have anything to hide," Chris said. "I just know you can't help. And it's not easy to talk about."

"Give me a chance. You might be surprised."

He sure was persistent, Chris thought. Obviously there would be no escaping Resnick until he talked, so he resigned himself to just get it over with. "About a year ago, I lost my daughter and my partner. They were probably murdered, although I don't think anybody's really sure about that---they never found the bodies." He paused, looking at his lap, the wall, the magazine he'd been reading, anywhere but Resnick. "They even tried to pin it on me for a while," he said. He glanced quickly at the impassive face of the doctor. "Today, the police cold-cased the file. Any hope I had for justice, for finding out the truth, is locked up in some filing cabinet downtown, and now I have to spend the rest of my life dealing with it."

Resnick's eyes reflected genuine sympathy. Chris's story may have shocked him, outraged him, intrigued him, but his expression displayed only concern. "In all that time, following the murders, during the investigation, you haven't seen a psychologist? You haven't joined a support group?"

Chris shook his head. "Had a lot of advice, a lot of offers, but I'm not much of a team player. I'm better at dealing with things on my own."

Resnick nodded slowly, thinking. "Let me be frank. You're obviously not better at dealing with things on your own. You're not sleeping well, you're undernourished, you're edgy, adversarial---you're putting your body through the wringer, and it's paying the price. The human machine is a miraculous and highly resilient piece of bioengineering, but it can only take so much before it starts to break down. You got a taste of that today, and it's not going to get better unless you deal with the root cause."

"I know I have issues, but I don't agree that a support group or a psychologist can help me. Remember, I've been there. I know what it's like."

"I respectfully disagree." He leaned forward and focused imploring eyes on Chris's face. "I don't know what led you to your suicide attempt. Presumably the variables here are different. You've suffered a terrible, painful trauma---one I can scarcely imagine going through myself. You need grief guidance. You need the support of others to help mitigate the toll it's taking on you. Don't you have any family?"

Chris stood abruptly. There was a limit to the amount of probing he would tolerate. "I appreciate the advice. I really do."

Resnick frowned, realizing he had been defeated. "But you're not going to take it." There was no attempt to mask the obvious disappointment on the earnest doctor's face.

Chris struggled into his sweater. "Am I going to die?"

"I guarantee it. But it's probably not imminent."

"Then may I leave?"

Doctor Resnick scratched out a prescription and handed it to him.

"Here's something to help you sleep. Do your body a favor and at least try to get a good night's rest."

Chris took the sheet of paper. "Thank you for your time," he said and turned to leave.

"Those pills aren't going to solve your problem. They're a temporary fix at best."

He did not look back. As he passed into the hallway, he tossed the prescription into the trash. "No worries," he said. "I wasn't going to take them anyway."

CHRIS was oblivious to the beauty of the late-afternoon sun that splashed like burnished gold upon the hardwood floors. He sat perfectly still on his leather sofa, staring over the mug of long-cold tea and the bottle of sleeping pills he'd placed beside it.

The barbiturates were poised directly in his field of view so that he could contemplate carefully what he was about to do.

The prescription had been Michael's. After Chris had brought Brianna home from the hospital, his all-nighters in service to the needs of an infant had kept Michael awake. Michael had gotten the pills to help him sleep so he would always be sharp in the courtroom.

Chris's visit to Dr. Resnick had given him the idea, if not the means. His conscience wouldn't allow him to burden an innocent bystander with the responsibility he would doubtless feel if, by some odd circumstance, he learned of Chris's death. He really did care. His admission in the examination room hadn't been a canned speech designed to coax Chris out of his shell. He'd honestly wanted to help.

Well, at least tossing the prescription into the trash would absolve Dr. Resnick of any false sense of culpability for what was to come.

Chris clenched his jaw and stood. He was going to do it. It was almost time. He just needed to take one last walk through his house--- partly to ensure that it was in order, but also because he wanted to immerse himself in happier times. Before the murders, this had been his sanctuary---a happy place, filled with Brianna's laughter and the security of hearth and home. However flawed his relationship with Michael had been, they had once been a family. He needed to remind himself that the damaged goods he was about to throw away had not always been so.

At least this time, he wouldn't be so afraid. He'd touched that other world once before and had been terrified. It hadn't been as bad as he'd expected, though. The body had mechanisms for