Unrepentant Heart

The sequel to Un-Break My Heart. A 'heart' felt thanks to those who came to slap some sense into me: HDK, X_Bishop, Patricia51, RPsuch, and all the rest, and to those who requested I continue the story begun in Un-break My Heart. This is for you. And, as ever, to the bestest editor-in-chief since Perry White, LadyCibelle.

Be warned; there is no sex, no drugs (except via prescription) or rock n' roll in this. So, if you are looking for same, pass this right on by. If you want a "happy ending" the door is right over there. Exit right. This isn't about a Loving Wife. This story is about limits and what can happen when people are pushed beyond those limits. This is about the darker side of the human experience and the tenuous thread which holds us all together. This isn't Casablanca, folks! Elsa doesn't walk off with Victor, and Rick and Reynard don't form a beautiful friendship. Keep out of the reach of children. Ready for the rollercoaster? Let us begin... :)

* * * * *

Dr. Stephen Bishop, M.D., PhD stood looking through the observation window at the man in the next room. He had been in deep shock when the sheriff's department deputies had brought him in just 72 hour ago. Wet and exhausted the man had been unresponsive to the emergency rooms attending physician's questions. He had kept repeating the same phrase over and over again between sobs. Un-break my heart. Now, 72 hours later, the man just lay in bed, his face turned to the window staring with vacant eyes at the sunshine which had finally broken through three days of rain.

Un-break my heart. What had he meant by that, Bishop asked himself for the thousandth time? He felt this was the needed key to unlock this patient and allow the healing to begin. If he could find the meaning of this, he could begin to treat the man and bring him back to the world. Maybe that would be the cruelest treatment, he reflected.

A soft hand touched him on the shoulder and broke the physician from his reverie. He turned and saw the face of Deputy Inspector Pat Gibson; behind her stood her husband and fellow Inspector, Mike.

"Well, the sheriff department bookends. Aren't you supposed to be out tracking bad guys?"

Pat consulted her watch. "Nope. We track baddies from 8 til12. It's one o'clock now. Fruitcake watch." She grimaced at her own bad joke. "Sorry."

Bishop turned his attention back to the man in the room. "Pat and Mike. You know you don't look anything to me like Katherine Hepburn." He nodded to the man behind Pat. "And he's too ugly to be Spencer Tracy."

Pat smiled. "But he compensates as best he can," she assured Bishop.

"Would you two quit talking about me as if I'm not here," Mike Gibson complained.

Mike stepped to the small observation window and looked in. "How is he doing?"

Bishop stepped away from the window. "Let's go for a walk." He moved off with the two inspectors following close behind.

"I understand you two were the ones who found him," he began. "What the hell are you two doing in uniform, anyway?"

Mike shrugged. "We were short-handed from all the rain. I was off and Pat had to work in uniform. I offered to go in and ride with her. Seems the only time we get together anymore. Yeah, we found him."

"What was his condition when you found him?"

Mike snorted. "It's all in the report, doctor. What can we add?"

"Did he say anything, anything at all other than that same phrase over and over? A name you might have missed, anything?"

Both cops shook their heads in response. "Is that significant, doctor."

"I think it is more significant that we know. I just can't pin it down yet."

Pat shook her head and said, "Sorry, we can't be of more help."

Benson tried a different tact. "Anything from the wife? I haven't spoken to her yet and we can't let her in to see her husband."

"Why not?" the tall inspector asked.

"He gets very agitated. He went almost hysterical when last he saw her. We had to take her from the room and give him enough sedation to knock out a horse."

This time it was Pat's turn to snort, the disgust openly visible. "Not surprising!"

Benson looked at the man with a raised eye. "Pat and I were in on a subsequent interview with Mrs. Turner. Pat was a little ...upset."

"Bitch!" Pat muttered.

"See what I mean?" Mike smiled.

They had been walking in the direction of the hospital cafeteria. Benson stepped in and walked over to a large military style coffee urn. "Care for some? Not the best but it primes the kidneys."

Both inspectors joined him and they sat down at a small table. "Sorry, we don't seem to have any donuts," he smiled. "Tell me about the wife."

Mike leaned back and motioned to his wife. "Go ahead, honey."

Pat gave him a look that forewarned of what he was to expect at home later that day. "Well, it seems that our Mrs. Turner has a lover. Has had this guy on the hook for sometime now, in fact. And our Mr. Turner came in and found them bare-assed and pumping away. She says he never said a word. He just lit out the door and she hadn't seen or heard from him until we sent a car over to their place that night to tell her he was at the hospital."

Benson looked from one to the other. "You don't believe that, do you?"

Pat went on. "Oh, I believe he caught her ass in the air, all right. But there is more. We do know that on the night the cruiser went to inform her of finding her husband there was another man there. We also know that the kids were there."

Benson held up his hand. "Turner has children?"

Mike took a sip of coffee and made a face. "This is worse than Carol's. Yes, three, two girls and a boy. Ages ten, eight and four. Do you really drink this or do you use it to sterilize surgical instruments?"

Benson looked intently at the cops. "This is important. Any chance they were there when Turner caught his wife."

The Gibson's looked at one another, uncertain as to how to answer. Finally, Pat Gibson replied, "We think the odds are pretty good that they were."

Benson sat back, digesting this when Mike added "It gets worse."

"How can it possibly get any worse?" Benson asked.

"Just for shits and grins..."

"And because you didn't like his looks," Pat broke in.

Mike went on ignoring his wife. "We ran a make on the lover boy. Mrs. Turner didn't want to give him up but when Pat" insisted", she finally gave us a name. Leonard Strickland. Age forty-five. Salesman for the same company Turner's wife works for."

"Give him the rest, Mike," Pat urged.

"Mr. Strickland is in our database as a registered sex offender. Pederast. Arrested in Ohio and served time, also had treatment. Came here about eight months ago. Let us know he was in town."

Benson sat back. "Holy shit!"

Mike looked at his wife. "Yeah, that pretty much says it all," he agreed. He rose up. "Listen, as much as I would like to stay here and continue tearing up my stomach lining, we have to scoot." He held out a hand for the doctor. He motioned to the coffee cup,"You need to put a hazardous waste warning on that. I thought Quantico's shit was bad!"

Pat shook the doctor's hand. "We hope this helps. Any hope for the poor guy."

They set off in the direction of the hospital entrance. "Always hope. We just need to help Turner process this and integrate it. That isn't what bothers me. Or what should be bothering the two of you, for that matter." He reached out and opened the door leading to the outside and bright sunshine.

Mike looked puzzled. "Bother us?"

Benson replied. "Something has changed in Turner. Listen, I'll deny ever saying this if it comes out. But something died in Turner that night. Oh, I can get him functioning. But he will never be the same. You can see it in his eyes, or rather missing from them. Something which gives me the willies."

"What are you getting at, doc?"

"What you need to worry about is what happens when Turner does come to grips with this. When he realizes it's not some terrible nightmare. Over? I think that is when the trouble may just begin. Talk to you all later," he said and walked back into the hospital leaving the two inspectors looking at each other.

Six Months Later

The psychiatrist looked at the man sitting in the chair across the desk from him. The man was of medium height and in his late thirties, with dark, straight hair which fell in a comma over the right eye. His clothing, while new, fit him poorly. The man had lost weight while in the doctor's care but had replaced it with taut muscle. His skin, which at one time had been dark, had the pallor of one who had spent too much time indoors. The mouth was a thin line lying under an aquiline nose. At one time the man would have been almost attractive, the doctor noted. But today the eyes offset that.

It was the eyes that bothered the doctor the most. They were brown soulless orbs which took in everything and revealed nothing. Black holes set into a human face. On the few times the man smiled, it was with his mouth only; the eyes remained expressionless. The doctor decided that if death had eyes, these would be they.

"Mr. Turner. You are going to be released today. Isn't that good news?" the doctor asked.

"I suppose so. I have been waiting for over three months." The voice too was flat and emotionless.

"Yes you have but that doesn't answer my question. How do you feel about going home? Your wife has been very worried about you."

"Has she? I have been receiving the best of care while I'm here. What was her concern?"

The doctor smiled. "Let's try this one last time, how do you feel about going home, Mr. Turner?"

The man crossed his leg, ankle over his left knee. "I suppose I am a little apprehensive."

"Fine! I would be too if I were you. How long has it been since you last saw your wife and family, Mr. Turner?"

"You know the answer to that, doctor. Six months."

"Why haven't you seen them? They come by once a month yet you have never seen them. Why is that?" the doctor leaned back in his chair.

"My wife went through a lot, so have my..." the voice stumbled, "my children. I didn't want her or my children to see me until I was well."

The doctor sat up and folded his hands across his desk. "And are you, Mr. Turner? Are you well?"

The figure motioned to the thick folder on the doctor's desk. "You have my record right there, doctor. What does it say?"

The doctor picked up the folder. "These? Rorschach, Advanced Multidimensional Personality Matrix, anger matrix, everything within the norm."

"Isn't that what we have been working for?"

The doctor sniffed. "Mr. Turner, you are so goddamned normal it scares me."

"So am I being released or not, doctor? I am a bit confused."

"Oh you are being released, Mr. Turner. Your wife and children want you back at home and I have absolutely no reason to keep you here. Besides, we can use the room." The doctor replied.

"Great, you should be pleased."

The doctor stared at the man for a long minute as if measuring him. The man just sat and looked back, a vacant smile on his lips. Finally the doctor asked, "Mr. Turner, are you a movie buff? Have you ever seen the movie 'Death Takes a Holiday'?"

"Yes, 1930's, Frederick March. Remade in the '40's and then again as Mr. Black with Brad Pitt, I believe."

The doctor slammed his hand down hard on the desk. "Exactly! Exactly, Mr. Turner, but you know I never believed it. You know why? Death never takes a holiday, Mr. Turner," the doctor said while signing a piece of paper. The buzzer sounded and he picked up his phone.

"Very well, I'll send him along." The doctor handed the paper to the man. "Here is your release, Mr. Turner. Your cab home is waiting outside. Have a good life, Mr. Turner."

The patient rose and took the paper. Looking at it he held out his hand. The doctor took it loosely as if Turner had held a snake out to him. "Thank you, doctor." Tuner turned and let himself out the door.

The doctor rose and looked out his window for long minutes. Finally he turned and picked up his phone and hit nine for an outside line. He opened his address book and consulted a number before punching it in. He waited for a moment before a voice answered.

"Yes, he just left. Notify the Sheriff's Department and any local PD." He said into the receiver. "What? How do I feel about it?" His eyes stared at the door through which Dan Turner had passed.

"I think I have just let Hannibal Lecter and Michael Myers' lovechild walk out my door."

The man stood watching the children play. They scuttled about in the bright sunshine. A child picked up a softball and yelled at her sister to catch. She tossed it and went wide off the mark. The man almost smiled. Teresa, the eight year old, no she was nine now, still threw like a girl. Just beyond her, Patrick, his son was trying to round second. He nearly made it before being tagged by the second baseman. Helen, Ellie, he had called her, was clapping wildly from the pitchers mound.

"See, I told you to stay home, fartface! Daddy always warned you to never steal second" she admonished. "You're too little!"

He missed the retort as his eyes moved to the house adjacent from him across the street. It had once been his house but, it wasn't his house any longer. It was home to Cheryl and the kids. He had given it up that night over six months before. He looked down at the suitcase sitting at his feet. He picked it up and stepped in the direction of the house. It was best to get this out of the way quickly, now, while the kids were occupied with playing softball.

He came up to the familiar door and rang the bell. After a moment his wife Sheryl opened it. For a moment she looked at the man before her. "Well, may I help you," she began. Then she recognized him and threw her arms around his neck.

"Dan! Oh my god, Dan!" she exclaimed.

He stepped back away from her. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a police cruiser drive slowly past his street. He took her arms from around his neck.

"Dan, we were so worried! Why didn't you call? How did you get here? I would have come to get you." Her words rushed out in an unbroken stream.

"Sheryl, we need to talk." He began.

"Of course. Just let me get the kids." She moved to call to the children. He stepped in from of her.

"Leave them, Sheryl. We need to talk."

She tried to push past him. "But the kids will want to see you! You're their father, Dan!" she screeched as he took her arm.

"Later. We need to talk. There is plenty of time for that." Still holding her arm he pushed her inside.

This was not the way Sheryl Turner wanted the beginning of her reconciliation with her husband to go. She needed to explain and Dan would have been more amiable with the children present.

He stood there in the foyer, suitcase dangling from his hand. He reached out and locked the door.

"Dan, what are you doing? How will the children get in?" She moved to unlock the door.

"I don't want them in here until we have talked. Don't worry. You're safe, I am not going to hurt you," he assured her.

Thank God for that, she thought. "Would you like some coffee? Sure you would. You always loved my coffee!" She laughed nervously. She went into the kitchen and took down two cups.

"You know, the company has kept your job open for you. Mr. Fraser said that you always have a spot with him. Wasn't that nice of him?"

"I'm not going back to the firm, Sheryl"

She stopped pouring the coffee. "But, how will we make a living? You don't know how hard it has been for these last few months. I had to go on food stamps. This has been very hard on me, on the children." She began. "Since you left, the police have been here asking questions after questions. That terrible Inspector Gibson. I don't think she likes me, Dan"

He wasn't listening; her voice was a drone of background noise. He looked around the room. It remained the same as he remembered the last time he saw it, a lifetime ago. The family photos were in the same pace. The kid's rooms were off and to the left of the hall. Her bedroom – off to the right past the guest bathroom. The furniture was the same, a bit more worn and a new juice stain in the carpet. He stepped into the kitchen. Sheryl was just filling his favorite cup with black liquid. In a moment she would reach down into the top right hand drawer and take out a spoon to stir his non-dairy creamer and two sugars. Memories, yes, but without any connection or context for him.

"Honey, you must be hungry. I can fix you a sandwich if you'd like." She watched her husband looking for some sign. He was thinner, more compact, the face was gaunter. His mouth was thinner as well. Did he ever smile?

"No. Sit down."

"Dan, I want to start by telling you I am sorry, I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you." She began. He raised a hand.

"Don't. I don't care. Sit down." His voice emphasized the last two words, made them a command.

"Dan, I know you are tired, upset. Let me get you something," she began sitting his coffee on the breakfast nook.

"Sheryl, sit down before I knock you down."

"Dan Turner! I know you have had a hard time but I won't be spoken to that way! I am still your wife!"

The eyes turned to her and drank her in. A shiver ran through her body. The eyes were dead. Slowly, her eyes never leaving his face, she sat at the breakfast nook.

He looked about the room again. "Tell me why."

"Why? Why what?" she asked innocently.

His eyes swiveled and focused on her. "Sheryl, I have come to do a job. How I do it and what happens afterward depends on you and what you tell me. I will tell you one more time. Tell me why."

The words came out in a rush. She told him of how their marriage had begun to deteriorate, how they had grown apart. She recounted how loving and full of passion they had been at first. How they made love at every opportunity. How he had brought her gifts. He spent more time at work. Her career considerations weren't as important to him. Then the children were born. Their demands grew on her as well. He ignored her and her needs as he became more caught in work. Weekends were spent with the kids. She admitted he had been an excellent father but she needed more. She needed love and passion. She had met a man. He paid attention to her, flattered her. At first there was lunch, followed by a meeting in a Comfort Inn for a quick session before coming home and another meeting after that. Finally, she was hooked. He told her he loved her, loved her body, and loved having sex with her. Then one night, he came home with her and she had sent the children over to the neighbors to play. It really was her husband's fault for never being there for her. She still loved him. Could he forgive her? Out it all came in a torrent of words. When he had heard enough, Turner held up his hand to stop her.

"But, Dan, let me finish. I love you. We can work this out!"

"But I don't love you, Sheryl."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "What did you say?"

"I said I don't love you, Sheryl." He looked out back to the street where his children played. "I don't know if I love anything anymore. At least, not like I did. But, I don't love you at all."

She had not expected this. He didn't love her? He didn't love their children? "Dan Turner, I'm your wife! Those are your children out there! They did nothing to you. They love you!"

"True. But, that doesn't change the fact that I don't love you."

Sheryl sat back, rocked to her core. Didn't love her? This wasn't possible. "But, I am your wife."

"Were you my wife when you were giving yourself to him. Were you their mother," he added nodding in the direction of where his children played, "when you whored yourself out to him? Where is he by the way?"

"We broke it off over six months ago. When I realized what I had done to you. The children never knew about him. I always sent them away. He wanted to meet them, talk to them, but I didn't want them to be confused." she protested.