35- Jack

A light slap on his back woke him from his thoughts and Jack looked up to find his brother standing over him. "You alright, Jack? You look like hell."

"I’m okay. Having a bad week, is all."

T.J. took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair before sitting down at the little table Jack had procured for the two of them. "Want to tell me about it?"

No. Not really. Jack started to decline the offer but, glancing up at the concerned expression on his brother’s face, "I’m worried about my job," was what he actually said.

"But you’re a chief inspector. I should think your position is pretty secure by now."

"Detective chief inspector," Jack nodded. He’d thought so too, until just recently. He’d been back on the job for a month now, after his little vacation, but he still hadn’t been able to shake off that other case. Everyone could tell he was off his game. He was distracted, making mistakes. He couldn’t seem to make himself really care about any of his current work. His mind just kept going back to the Andrews kidnapping, and the bloody double-homicide that had gone with it.

He told his brother about all of this, about how his superiors had started double-checking all of his work and sending other officers to verify things behind his back. He told him about the frequent moments, throughout the day, when he would get so lost in his thoughts that he’d completely lose track of what was going on around him, and when became aware of his surroundings again, he’d have no idea how much time had passed. He told him about how his friends and coworkers had started avoiding him, about how most nights he would lie awake in his bed all night, just staring at the ceiling and thinking about that Jones woman and those strange people in Switzerland, until his alarm clock signaled it was time for him to get up again.

A server stopped by their table, and Jack ordered a straight scotch.

T.J. stared at him. "Since when do you drink scotch?" he asked. "I’ve never seen you drink anything stronger than a little beer or wine in your entire life."

"I find it calms my nerves," Jack replied.

"This isn’t like you," T.J. leaned forward. "You’re not usually one to let your own feelings get in the way of your job. Haven’t you ever had an unsolved case before?"

"Of course. Cases go cold all the time. Especially in the Kidnap Unit. But this one is different."

"How so?"

How, indeed. Jack began to explain. He was vague on the details at first, because he really wasn’t supposed to talk about the case with civilians at all, but in the end he decided that he just didn’t care about that anymore, and he told his brother everything. The strange manners in which the mother and the boyfriend were murdered, and the gruesome scene they had created. The near-perfect quality of Ms. Jones’s false papers. The strange people in Switzerland, and the mysterious interview he’d had with them. The warning Mr. Waiblingen had given him in the lift. The pictures and video footage that had been so expertly tampered with. The way in which the Swiss police watching that house had suddenly lost all interest in the case– that really struck him as odd; it was as if they had all been bribed, or threatened, or . . . hell, it was as if they’d all been hypnotized or something. Not that Jack believed in such things. But one day they were reporting suspicious activity, noting unusual behavior, trying to get interviews with the household help, investigating the true identities of the two who lived there, and the two new arrivals from Malta . . . and the next day, they suddenly all agreed that there was nothing of interest at that house. It just didn’t make sense! "There’s something going on there. And it’s bigger than this one incident. They’re all up to something . . . something big, and this Nadina Jones is in on it. When I spoke to the other two, I swear they were protecting something, and it wasn’t just her they were protecting. It was something important. Some huge secret."

"Like what?"

Jack wasn’t sure about that yet. He had theories, but no real clues as to what it was that they were all hiding. Perhaps they were international terrorists of some kind, or they were involved in some kind of human trafficking ring, or they were part of a drugs cartel, or they were illegal arms dealers, or maybe it was some dangerous new religious cult . . . . He didn’t know what it was, but he did know that no one was investigating it. That they were somehow just getting away with . . . whatever it was, and had been for some time now. He knew that they had to be caught– they had to be stopped, and the fact that no one seemed to care about it . . . well, it was driving him toward a nervous breakdown, and he knew it!

Jack fell silent and downed his scotch in one long gulp, then buried his head in his hands. T.J. watched him in silence for a few minutes, then began riffling through his coat pockets. After a moment, he pulled a small pad of paper from an inner pocket and, after borrowing a pen from one of the servers, he scribbled a note, ripped the paper from the pad, and placed the note on the table in front of Jack.

It was a medical prescription.

"This is to help you sleep at night. Take one every night before bed. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get you a recommendation for a good psychiatrist. You need help."

Jack looked up at his brother. "You think I’m losing my mind?"

T.J. shook his head. "No," he said, "But you will, if you don’t have someone to talk to about all of this. This isn’t healthy. You need someone who can help you get through this . . . whatever this is. Someone to help you get over it, so you can be yourself again. This obsession of yours isn’t just getting in the way of your work, it’s getting in the way of your life."

Jack nodded.

"Promise me you’ll get those pills."

"I will."

"Good. I’ll call you tomorrow about the psychiatrist." T.J. watched him worriedly for another minute, then asked, "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No, I’m alright."

"Well, take care of yourself, will you? I’ll talk to you tomorrow."

Jack watched as his brother gathered up his things and paid the bill for both of them. He glanced down at his watch. It was later than he had thought. They’d been sitting at this table for more than three hours. How many drinks had he had? He hadn’t kept track. He slowly stood up and made his way toward the door, out into the fresh night air, then decided to take the train home.

T.J. was scared for him, he could tell. Well, he was scared for himself. His job was in danger, his health was in a bad state . . . and he felt like his mind was slipping, too. Perhaps his brother was right, perhaps he did need some professional help. He just wasn’t sure what, if anything, a psychiatrist could possibly do for him.