Part 2 (1/2)
Rapp glanced at his watch. It was 6:58 A.M. ”The plane is on its way to Mobile as we speak. And the man on board has no idea I even exist.”
”I still don't like it,” Hurley grumbled as he began digging for a pack of cigarettes.
Rapp almost said, tough s.h.i.+t, but didn't, because he knew this was harder on Hurley than he'd ever admit. He had been best friends with Adams's father. Had served all over the world with him. Wanting to get off the subject, Rapp asked, ”Did you listen to the audio from last night?”
”Yeah.” Hurley exhaled a fresh cloud of smoke.
”And?”
Hurley stepped behind the desk and looked at the flat-screen monitor on the left. It showed Adams sitting in the next room talking to a fiftyish man with curly blond hair. His name was Thomas Lewis, and he was a clinical psychologist. Hurley wasn't sure who he was more upset with, himself or the little t.u.r.d sitting in the other room. ”He's a f.u.c.king traitor . . . an embarra.s.sment to his family name.”
Rapp didn't know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut, and since Maslick wasn't much for conversation the three of them stood there in silence watching the screen. Across the room, though, the man napping on the couch decided to make himself heard. From under his baseball cap he announced, ”Embarra.s.sing the family name is no reason to kill a man.”
Rapp wasn't surprised by the comment, but it still p.i.s.sed him off. He'd been arguing with Mike Nash about this entire mess for the last few hours.
”How about committing treason, boy genius?” Hurley asked.
”Definitely a capital offense, but then again it doesn't exactly fall under our jurisdiction.”
Hurley's eyes scanned the surface of the desk, his hands beginning to tremble with rage. He skipped the stapler, grabbed a ceramic coffee mug, and whipped it across the room. The mug hit the concrete wall just above the leather couch and shattered into a thousand pieces, shards raining down on Nash.
Nash jumped off the couch shouting, ”What the h.e.l.l?”
”You wanna argue with me, sport, you do me the courtesy of getting off your a.s.s and looking me in the eye!” Hurley turned to Rapp and snarled, ”What kinda s.h.i.+t show are you running? If I wanted personal opinions I'd join a f.u.c.king book club.” Hurley set out across the room, growling and cursing under his breath. When he reached the steel door he banged on it several times with his cane and then punched in the code to release the lock.
Rapp looked at Nash and mouthed the words, What in the h.e.l.l is wrong with you? What in the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?
Nash didn't bother to reply. He was too steamed at Hurley to deal with Rapp.
A moment later Dr. Lewis joined them and the door to the interrogation room was closed and locked. No one took a seat. Rapp and Hurley faced Lewis while Maslick stayed behind the desk to keep an eye on the monitors and Nash stayed on the other side of the room, still stewing about his rebuke.
”Give it to me straight,” Hurley said to the shrink.
Lewis started to speak and then paused as if deciding where to begin. He ran a hand through his curly blond hair and said, ”Cla.s.sic narcissistic personality disorder.”
”That's it?”
”No, it's quite a bit more complicated than that.” Lewis hesitated and then asked, ”You knew his parents?”
”Yep.”
”Dad not around much?”
”None of us were. That's how it was back then.”
Lewis nodded in understanding and studied Hurley with his blue eyes. ”He was in the clandestine service with you?”
”Yep.”
”So he was around even less than the average dad?”
”I suppose so.”
”Was his mother detached?”
”Marge,” Hurley said, as his eyes became unfocused, as if trying to remember some distant memory. ”She wasn't exactly the warmest person.”
”Not very affectionate?”
”About as affectionate as that desk over there.”
Lewis nodded. ”It all fits the profile. Adams has an overinflated sense of worth and that carries over into a sense of ent.i.tlement. The flip side is that his self-esteem is very fragile. It would be extremely difficult for him to take criticism. To deepen the problem, he lacks empathy, which enables him to be extremely exploitative of others. He feels that he is special . . . and can only be understood by brilliant people. That he should only a.s.sociate with others whom he deems talented enough, while at the same time he needs their real talent to validate his underlying insecurities.”
”Martyr complex? Always thinks he's getting screwed by someone and needs to let everyone know it?”
”Very common. When he comes across someone like Mitch, for instance,” Lewis gestured to Rapp, ”someone who is strong-minded, independent, results-oriented, not p.r.o.ne to handing out compliments, someone who is acknowledged as being at the top of their game. When that happens,” Lewis winced, ”he feels that person is the enemy and has to be knocked down to size. It is not uncommon for people with this disorder to become lawyers. It makes them feel smarter than most other people, and they can use their knowledge of the law to bully those who do not validate their imagined genius.”
Hurley thought back to some of the family trips they'd taken some forty years ago. He remembered his friend Mark getting mad as h.e.l.l at the way his son would pout if he didn't get his way. ”Suicidal?”
”No . . . virtually unheard of. He's too in love with himself. Might fake it or threaten it, but most certainly would not follow through.”
”Anything else?” Hurley asked.
”He's asked for you.”
”He knows I'm here?” Hurley asked in surprise.
”No, he has no idea you're involved in this. He claims you'll understand what is going on.”
Hurley frowned. ”Understand? How could he possibly think that of all people out there, I would understand what he's doing?”
”I wouldn't read too much into it. As I said, he has an overinflated sense of his own importance. Also . . . remember, it is extremely difficult for someone with this disorder to ever accept responsibility for his actions. There is always a rationalization.” Lewis looked at Rapp and added, ”He's scared to death of Mitch because he knows nothing that he can say or do will change his mind. With you,” he looked at Hurley and shrugged his shoulders, ”he's hoping that he'll find some empathy from an old family friend.”
Rapp could see that Hurley was having a hard time with this new twist. He took no joy in seeing the tough old b.a.s.t.a.r.d like this, so he touched his arm and said, ”Let me take care of it.”
”No.” Hurley shook his head and stood up as straight as his seventy-eight-year-old frame would allow. ”I need to do this.”
CHAPTER 7.