hash was gone.
"You were afraid of facing the facts of your life: You lived with someone for over a year. You thought you loved her. Part of you — a very dark part — probably did. And you say you didn't know her from Adam."
"Fine. Maybe you're right. But that's not why I'm here."
He pointed his fork at me. "Don't ‘maybe’ me, or I'll take a chunk out of your cheek." He soaked up some grease with a piece of bread that disappeared, as if by magic, into his mouth and down his throat. "You've got work to do figuring out why you'd rather live with a stranger."
"After living with my parents, I guess I thought it was safer."
"Well, now you know better. Or you should. Strangers don't necessarily have fewer demons. They just haven’t introduced you to them."
I though about how much I had confided in Cynthia. I stayed silent.
Hollander patted his mouth with a napkin. "The real issue here is that you don't have the balls to get introduced to yourself."
"Huh?"
"You're a beaten little boy, Frank. All that helplessness and rage is still inside you. The need for vengeance. You didn't pick up booze and cocaine for no reason. And you didn't pick a killer to live with by accident."
"You're saying I chose her because she was violent?"
"Yes. I am." A forkful of potato and another piece of bread disappeared. "Because, unconsciously, my friend, violence reaches to the core of your being like nothing else. And it always will — until you open yourself up and take the risk of letting someone get close enough to hurt you, who loves you, instead."
The waitress, a fiftyish woman with a man's build and voice, stepped to our table. "Hit you again, doc?"
Hollander pointed at his plate. His eyes stayed on me.
"I guess that's a ‘yes.’ What'll you have, honey?"
"Coffee, that's all."
"Cream and sugar?"
"Neither."
"Mutt and Jeff," she chuckled, then left.
"I know none of this is easy, Frank. I'm just getting around to embracing my own fragile, foolish, miserable, magnificent soul."
"Congratulations."
"It's been one long, wretched courtship. And it's not over by a long shot. But it's well worth the effort." He winked. "So tell me: Why did you pick today to call?"
"I may not be around for a while."
"Where you headed?"
"I've got to get some things straightened out with my family. I don't know if I ever told you about the trouble my aunt..." I stopped. I couldn’t lie to him. "I'm going onto the locked unit to negotiate with Trevor Lucas."
Hollander's lip curled. "Don't be a goddamned fool. If you go in there, you may never come out."
"He's got seven hostages. Two other people are already dead."
"And you want to be the third?"
"One of the hostages is a nurse who's pregnant."
He kept staring at me. The anger slowly left his face. "I heard everything on the tube," he said. "All three networks ran it as the lead story. I worried you'd blame yourself."
"I let Lucas sit in jail. I let him go to trial, even though I knew the truth. Why wouldn't I blame myself?"
"I don't know, Frank. I'm not in the business of assessing blame. Neither were you, last I remember." He glanced over my shoulder to make sure he couldn’t be overheard, then stared directly into my eyes. His voice grew kind. "Unless I was hallucinating, you snuck a murderess into my home in the middle of the night six months ago, almost to the day, and begged me to hide her on my Secure Care Unit. You were horrified by the idea that a woman who became a killer because she was tortured as a child, ruined before she had a chance, would end up behind bars for life, never mind electrocuted by the state. And I'm dead certain you told me that your Rachel — who may just have been what you really needed in a woman — would have wanted her killer treated, not destroyed. I remember I was struck by that. I thought it spoke volumes about her."
My throat tightened.
The
"You were afraid of facing the facts of your life: You lived with someone for over a year. You thought you loved her. Part of you — a very dark part — probably did. And you say you didn't know her from Adam."
"Fine. Maybe you're right. But that's not why I'm here."
He pointed his fork at me. "Don't ‘maybe’ me, or I'll take a chunk out of your cheek." He soaked up some grease with a piece of bread that disappeared, as if by magic, into his mouth and down his throat. "You've got work to do figuring out why you'd rather live with a stranger."
"After living with my parents, I guess I thought it was safer."
"Well, now you know better. Or you should. Strangers don't necessarily have fewer demons. They just haven’t introduced you to them."
I though about how much I had confided in Cynthia. I stayed silent.
Hollander patted his mouth with a napkin. "The real issue here is that you don't have the balls to get introduced to yourself."
"Huh?"
"You're a beaten little boy, Frank. All that helplessness and rage is still inside you. The need for vengeance. You didn't pick up booze and cocaine for no reason. And you didn't pick a killer to live with by accident."
"You're saying I chose her because she was violent?"
"Yes. I am." A forkful of potato and another piece of bread disappeared. "Because, unconsciously, my friend, violence reaches to the core of your being like nothing else. And it always will — until you open yourself up and take the risk of letting someone get close enough to hurt you, who loves you, instead."
The waitress, a fiftyish woman with a man's build and voice, stepped to our table. "Hit you again, doc?"
Hollander pointed at his plate. His eyes stayed on me.
"I guess that's a ‘yes.’ What'll you have, honey?"
"Coffee, that's all."
"Cream and sugar?"
"Neither."
"Mutt and Jeff," she chuckled, then left.
"I know none of this is easy, Frank. I'm just getting around to embracing my own fragile, foolish, miserable, magnificent soul."
"Congratulations."
"It's been one long, wretched courtship. And it's not over by a long shot. But it's well worth the effort." He winked. "So tell me: Why did you pick today to call?"
"I may not be around for a while."
"Where you headed?"
"I've got to get some things straightened out with my family. I don't know if I ever told you about the trouble my aunt..." I stopped. I couldn’t lie to him. "I'm going onto the locked unit to negotiate with Trevor Lucas."
Hollander's lip curled. "Don't be a goddamned fool. If you go in there, you may never come out."
"He's got seven hostages. Two other people are already dead."
"And you want to be the third?"
"One of the hostages is a nurse who's pregnant."
He kept staring at me. The anger slowly left his face. "I heard everything on the tube," he said. "All three networks ran it as the lead story. I worried you'd blame yourself."
"I let Lucas sit in jail. I let him go to trial, even though I knew the truth. Why wouldn't I blame myself?"
"I don't know, Frank. I'm not in the business of assessing blame. Neither were you, last I remember." He glanced over my shoulder to make sure he couldn’t be overheard, then stared directly into my eyes. His voice grew kind. "Unless I was hallucinating, you snuck a murderess into my home in the middle of the night six months ago, almost to the day, and begged me to hide her on my Secure Care Unit. You were horrified by the idea that a woman who became a killer because she was tortured as a child, ruined before she had a chance, would end up behind bars for life, never mind electrocuted by the state. And I'm dead certain you told me that your Rachel — who may just have been what you really needed in a woman — would have wanted her killer treated, not destroyed. I remember I was struck by that. I thought it spoke volumes about her."
My throat tightened.
The
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