“The A-Team: Murdock’s Choice”

By M.L. Zambrana

CHAPTER ONE

“We’ll be back for you in thirty minutes, Captain.”

As he spoke, Colonel John “Hannibal” Smith set a heavy hand on the shoulder of

Captain H.M. Murdock, and the older man’s iron gaze locked with that of Murdock’s. He

gave a slight downward nod of his head as he spoke, and as his cold blue eyes met

Murdock’s deep brown ones, his black-gloved hand tightened ever so slightly on the

other man’s shoulder.

“Thirty minutes,” he repeated in a meaningful tone.

Murdock’s gaze did not waver; the message had gotten through.

“Understood, Colonel,” Murdock replied.

Hannibal hesitated for the briefest of moments. Murdock’s words had come out

much softer than he’d hoped to hear, and less assured than he would have liked, but he

knew that he could not force the grieving man in front of him for a better response.

Hannibal nodded, gave Murdock another firm pat on the shoulder, then turned

around and walked back towards the road, to the black van parked alongside the coastal

road where the rest of the team waited. He climbed in and closed the passenger-side

door, then glanced back towards the cliff.

Murdock hadn’t moved. He stood there next to the crash barrier, looking just as

he always did, with his too-short khaki pants hovering just above the high tops of his

black-and white Converse tennis shoes, wearing yet another silk-screened t-shirt with a

humorous saying, with a blue-and-white flannel shirt over it, and with his well-worn blue

baseball cap perched on his head. The man’s brown leather flight jacket, with “Da Nang

1970” and the head of a tiger painted on the back of it, seemed to hang heavily on his thin

frame, yet neither it nor the buffeting winds of the Pacific Ocean seemed to bother him.

Murdock stood there, at attention, with the cardboard box firmly yet reverently clasped

between his gauze-covered hands.

He did not sway on his feet. He looked like a man decided… and Hannibal could

only hope that whatever decision that Murdock had reached, it had been the right

decision.

“Let’s go, B.A.,” Hannibal instructed.

Sergeant B.A. Baracus nodded and put the van in to gear. He gave a quick look in

Murdock’s direction as well, then checked his mirrors for traffic before he pulled the van

off the soft shoulder and back on to the deserted blacktopped road. The numerous rings

on his fingers clinked against the steering wheel as he turned it, and the gold chains

around his neck rattled a bit until he settled into driving mode.

In the back, Lieutenant Templeton “Faceman” Peck sat with his arms folded over

his chest. Once Murdock had climbed out of the van and the windowless side door had

slid back in to place, Face refused to look in that direction.

Hannibal gave Face a grim nod. “He’ll be all right, Face.”

Face frowned and shook his head. “This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be leaving him

alone. Not now, not after what he’s been through. You know that, Hannibal.”

“What I know is that we can’t be with him every hour of the day.”

“I still think we ought to at least stay nearby and keep an eye on him,” Face

argued.

B.A. glared at Face in the rear-view mirror. “What good’s that gonna do?” he

argued. “We’d be too far away to do anything.”

“B.A.’s right,” Hannibal agreed. “If Murdock does decide to jump, we’d have to

there in order to stop him. Look, Face,” he explained as he half-turned in his seat to

reason with the man behind him, “unless Murdock finds some level of acceptance in this

situation, we’ll have to be with him 24/7 in order to keep him safe. Sure, it’d be easy

enough to lock him up at the V.A., but sooner or later, he’d find a way out of there if he

wants it. No,” he argued in a gentler voice, “it’s all about trust now. We have to trust

Murdock in this. He’s our friend and our brother-in-arms, and we have to let him make

his own decision on this.”

“You don’t think he really would, though,” B.A. pressed. “Do you, Hannibal?”

Face winced as B.A. uttered the very words that he’d been thinking, but said

nothing.

Hannibal looked away, his attention on the curved road that ran along the ocean.

“I think,” he said at last, “that in twenty-eight minutes, all we can do is be here for him.

And hope that he’s here for us, too.”

B.A. snorted. “Crazy fool better be,” he muttered. Though his words took on a

light-hearted tone, B.A.’s eyes dark eyes shone with deep concern for his troubled friend.

Murdock watched the van disappear around the curve, then reappear further down

the road, then disappear again. He’d worried that the guys might pull off to the side in

order to spy on him, or park just out of sight but within radio range; several times on the

ride over from the V.A.‘s psychiatric unit, he surreptitiously checked his clothing for a

hidden bug.

But, no. They hadn’t decided to spy on him. No electronic devices clung to the

inside of his collar or under the cuffs of his pants. Now he simply found himself…

Alone.

He sagged out of the rigid posture of “attention” that he’d locked himself in to

while the team watched him. His shoulders slumped and his arms went a bit looser than

they had been, but he clutched the cardboard box tighter to his chest with his bandaged

hands as he turned to face the ocean.

Beyond the metal-and-wood crash barrier, an outcropping of rocky land hung

over the ocean. Mindful of the limited use of his arms, he carefully picked his way over

the barrier and walked out towards the cliff, then crossed his legs and sat down on the

rocky ground, several feet away from the edge. He set the box reverently in between his

crossed legs, both to protect it from the wind and to keep it close to him, then slouched

forward a bit and rested his arms on his knees. The flesh had begun to throb in rhythm to

his heartbeat.

For several minutes, Murdock simply sat there and looked out at the gray scenery,

distracted by the physical pain, and watched the monotonous crash of the waves against

the shoreline without expression. It had rained earlier that day and a heavy slate cloud

cover still hung over the coastline, promising more to come as the afternoon progressed.

The chilly winter wind of southern California tickled the longish brown hair on the back

of his neck, and he shivered slightly at its unwelcome touch.

“I am so sorry, Kelly,” he said at last. He had to force himself to utter that first

sentence. The words came out in a low raspy voice, but as he spoke, his voice loosened

up and he began to sound more like himself. “This was all my fault. And I know it. Oh,

sure, the doctors can say otherwise. And they keep telling me otherwise, too. So do the

guys. But I don‘t believe ‘em. I can‘t.” His lower lip drooped and he closed his eyes.

“Because I know that it’s not true.”

Murdock opened his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. “The simple fact stands

that if you hadn’t come to see me at the V.A., then you’d have never crossed paths with

the… the animal that did this to you.” He paused. “I should have listened to you weeks

ago, and done what was right, and then I could’ve kept you safe. But I didn’t, and that‘s

why it‘s all my fault.”

He reached down with the three fingers of his right hand--the only un-bandaged

part of his arms from the elbows down--and stroked the top of the box.

“You know, it doesn’t even matter to me that they caught the guy. I mean, sure,

he’s off the streets and he won’t do what he did to anyone else. But he did it to you, and

there’s no punishment that he can get that will ever take that back.”

Murdock grimaced and the first tears streamed down his face--tears that he’d held

back on for the past two weeks, tears that he’d not dared let himself shed until that

moment.

“I wanted to go to you,” he explained in a weak voice. “The second I read about

it in the papers, I was at my shrink’s office, begging him to let me go to the hospital and

see you. Even though you were in a coma and you wouldn‘t have known I was there, it

didn‘t matter. I just wanted to touch you and to be with you. But at first the police

thought I was guilty, and then by the time they caught the guy and cleared me, it was too

late and you were--”

Murdock stopped himself and took a minute, forcing his scattered thoughts to

organize before he spoke again.

“I wasn’t even at the V.A. that day, when you came to see me,” he admitted with a

slow shake of his head. “Me and the guys were up in Calabasas. They broke me out that

morning, and it was such a last-minute thing that I just… I tried to call you, but you’d

already left home by the time I did.” He pulled in another trembling breath. “And the

worst part was that everyone thought that I did it! The police, the newspapers, everyone

at the hospital… not the guys, of course, because I was with them at the time. They knew

the truth, but they‘re on the run, so who could they tell?”

Murdock let out a bitter laugh, and felt his eyes begin to water over again.

“And on a day that I turn up missing and you turn up dead, what was everyone

supposed to think. Am I right? The only logical conclusion is that the ‘mental patient’

broke out and killed his girlfriend. The crazy guy snapped, right? He must have! If it

hadn‘t been for the surveillance camera at the gas station, then the police would have

pinned the crime on me, sure enough. If they’d only checked the tapes one day sooner...”

He released a deep sigh through clenched teeth and stared off in to the distance.

“The doctors said the first blow was to the back of your head. That the hit with the… the

crowbar… was enough to kill you. And much as it hurts to say this, I truly hope that it

was, and that you never felt any pain after that. That way, you never knew the touch of

that man…”

Murdock let out an involuntary shiver and his face crumpled, and he half-

clenched his fists, combining the physical pain with the mental anguish. He and Kelly

had flirted for about three months with one another. She’d made frequent trips to visit

him, bringing him food and little gifts with each appearance. In turn, he doted on her as

no man ever had. And he truly couldn’t understand that. How had no one before him

seen what he could see? The very sight of her made him weak with…

Love.

He had that to cling to, at least, because not a single visit went by where Murdock

didn’t tell Kelly that he loved her--often, he said it with his hands clasped around hers

and his gaze locked on to her stunning gray eyes. She found it difficult to do the same,

but he understood her shy reluctance and, as a result, he treasured her hesitant responses

that much more when she could manage to grant them. When they’d first met, he’d first

held up a mirror and called her a pretty lady, but she had an expression that made it clear

that she didn’t quite believe him; nevertheless, she made the effort to see herself as he

saw her, if only to make him happy. Murdock had met many attractive women over the

years, but he’d never met anyone as truly beautiful as Kelly.

It took him months to get her to come out of her shell, to relax around him, and to

respond to his advances beyond the hesitant kisses and gentle hugs that they shared upon

their first meetings. Yet he remained patient throughout, and finally one evening, she

agreed to meet him at a nearby hotel. He’d have been lying if he didn’t admit that they

both felt incredibly nervous about the encounter. Yet when they finally came together

and gave themselves to one another, Murdock glimpsed the true beauty that such a

wonderful woman possessed. He thought that he’d been in love with her before that

night? Oh, but how wrong he’d been!

Seated on the cold cliff face, Murdock squeezed his eyes shut and found, with

incredible relief, that he could picture that perfect moment in its entirety--the touch of her

fingertips against his cheek, the soft glow of her eyes in the dim light, the slightly opened

lips, the arms that rose up to pull him towards her, the supple body that strained to meet

his own, and the way in which they united in a way even beyond the physical…

Murdock’s body became wracked with a series of shivers, and his eyes flew open

again as his thoughts spun helplessly out of control. Old questions clouded his mind

again. What if everyone had lied to him about how she‘d died, to try and ease his pain?

What if Kelly had been awake that whole time and she had truly suffered, crying out for

help, her fragile body pinned beneath that monster, screaming in terror? What if…?

Such doubts and dark thoughts had been in Murdock’s mind for days before his…

accident. They’d been made even worse during the time that the police suspected him of

the crime, but even having his name cleared couldn’t take away those agonizing

questions. They circled around and around in his head, night and day--a torturous

Moebius strip where his mind replayed what might have been her last minutes of

consciousness on the planet, asking about her last sights that night, and the last sensations

she might have experienced. He knew that no one would never know for sure what

happened; in the videotape, her unconscious body had been dragged out of frame by the

perpetrator.

It haunted him, the way in which he‘d lost her. This precious creature, who had

folded as easily in to his arms and she had in to his heart, had been brutally ripped from

him, and his soul cried out until he could no longer bear it. His fine, sharp mind (albeit, a

certified-insane mind, according to the Veterans Administration) began to blank out on

him. Minutes or even hours slipped past him sometimes, as he lost himself in either the

memory of Kelly’s image or the horrific imaginations of what might have happened to

her behind the gas station. He could be in his room one moment, wearing his pajamas

and watching television, and then he’d find himself standing outside, fully dressed, with

no memory or explanation of the events in between.

He only knew the sense of loss. And now, alone above the ocean, it threatened to

overwhelm him again.

“Oh, God, Kelly! I love you so much. I miss you so much!”

He screamed his words out over the water, over and over again, until they faded

off into a breathless whimper. Pulling himself together again, he wiped at his damp face

with one arm, heedless of the pain that he felt when he brought up the injured limb. He

crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back and forth a few times. His chest heaved

with each breath, so he forced his emotions back down and took several deep breaths to

calm himself.

“We don’t have much time,” he reminded himself in a trembling voice. He gave

another quick wipe to his face with the sleeve of his leather jacket. “The guys will be

back soon,” he added.

Murdock winced at the throbbing in his hands, and brought them back down to

rest on to his lap. He felt slightly upset that the pain pills he’d taken in the van didn’t

seem to have helped at all, but then he reminded himself that the hospital had to re-stitch

the wounds, so of course they would hurt more than expected. He’d ripped open some

the original stitches three days earlier--not deliberately, but during a fall down the stairs;

his body had betrayed him, and he’d tripped over his own big feet.

He still couldn’t remember what had caused the wounds along his wrists and

arms.

To an extent, that fact scared him back to sanity more than anything else. He

remembered standing in front of the pinball machine in the psych ward’s arcade,

watching the little silver ball dart across the playing field. And then he woke out of a

medicated sleep to find both arms bandaged from elbows to fingertips, his body in

excruciating pain and restraints on his ankles and around his chest. The doctors

considered it a miracle that he hadn’t ended up with nerve damage at the very least, much

less a severed limb.

Nobody had to say it. Murdock knew that one angry blow to a piece of plate glass

could not have caused the deep, repetitious cuts that had severed so many arteries in such

a manner.

The wind threatened to pull the baseball cap off his head, but Murdock reached up

and tugged it down further over his eyes with a stubborn pout. He lifted the box up and

held it to his chest again as he stood up--with some effort, as he could not push off the

ground with his hands. He wavered in place and tapped his fingers against the cardboard,

pensive. His tears had dried up and, with some relief, he felt no others threatening to

come to the surface.

“There’s never going to be a proper goodbye, is there?” he muttered. “No. All I

can do is set you free.”

Murdock flipped open the lid of the box, pulled his arm back and, wincing from a

pain that had nothing to do with the physical sensation in his arm, flung the ashes of what

had once been Kelly Stevens in to the wind. He watched them sail and disperse in front

of him, then let the box fall to his feet, where the wind pushed and rolled it along the

gravel to the edge… before it took it away to oblivion.

“Now you’ll always be beautiful,” he whispered. “And you’ll always be with me.

Everywhere I look, I know you’ll be there. And I‘ll keep you alive, and safe. In here.”

He tapped his chest with his fingertips. “I promise you that.”

Far down the coast, Murdock saw a familiar vehicle wind its way along the road.

He trembled for a moment and gave his face a cursory wipe with his exposed fingers;

they came away dry, and he let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t feel like his usual self, but

the sorrow had abated enough to where he felt he look the rest of the team in the eyes

again, and not resent them for their very presence.

The resentment wouldn’t have been without grounds. Murdock had only the A-

Team now… when he could have had Kelly. She had, in her sweet, quiet way, all but

begged him to go before the board at the V.A. and “play it straight,” to claim a certain

level of sanity so that he might be released from the psychiatric unit. But to do so meant

to blow his cover for the team, and to leave behind a big part of his past and his present--

indeed, it meant abandoning a big part of how he saw himself as well. Yet he knew the

sacrifice would’ve been worth it, because such a sweet future awaited him and Kelly.

Indeed, thoughts of marriage--then talk of it--had been a part of their relationship for

quite some time. But he wavered. He hesitated. He put off the decision.

And, because he hadn’t made that decision to either cast off his friends or his one

true love, fate had decided which way things should go.

The van skidded to a stop along the gravel shoulder on the other side of the road,

and Murdock slowly walked towards it. The driver’s door opened and B.A. stepped out.

“Come on, sucker!” he yelled. “We can’t wait on you all day!”

Murdock watched as B.A. crossed the road with smooth, sure steps, then jumped

over the crash barrier. His strong arms closed around Murdock’s chest, and B.A. all but

carried him over the barrier--his idea of “helping.” A comfortable smile finally crept out

as B.A. made him stop while he checked for traffic (of which, there hadn’t been any over

the past half-hour) before he allowed Murdock to cross the road with him; B.A. had taken

no such precautions with his own initial crossing.

Hannibal nodded as Murdock made his way over to the open side door of the van.

The two men gave each other a quick but meaningful look.

“Hannibal.”

“Murdock.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Murdock climbed in to the van. Hannibal pulled the

door shut and resumed his seat up front, and B.A. hit the accelerator and took off.

A few minutes went by before Face turned his attention away from what appeared

to be a serious study of the back of B.A.’s mohawk haircut.

“You know,” Face began in an angry tone, “maybe nobody else is gonna say

anything, but I’ve gotta be honest with you right now. You’ve got me scared. Hell,

you‘ve got all of us scared! For you. Now, listen, we‘ve spent too much time together

and become too close of friends for me to let you put yourself in danger, and-- I--” He

gave Murdock a desperate look. “Please. I don’t want you hurting yourself again,

Murdock. Talk to us, talk to the doctors, get on some medication, do whatever you’ve

got to do. But I want you to be safe, okay? Don‘t ever do anything like this again, all

right?”

Face reached out and wrapped one hand around Murdock’s left bicep, and with

some effort, Murdock brought up his right hand and touched Face’s arm.

“I’ll be okay, Face. How could I not be, when I’ve got you guys?”

Face smiled, squeezed Murdock’s arm and settled back in to his seat, and B.A.’s

face stretched in to a grin.

But Hannibal, looking at Murdock through the mirror on the back of the visor,

couldn’t help but notice the forced, almost frozen grin, on Murdock’s face.

CHAPTER TWO

“You’re a bloody psychopath!”

Hannibal Smith grinned and took another puff of his cigar. “Is that your

professional opinion, Doctor?”

With visible effort, Doctor William Hammond forced himself to get his emotions

back under control. His face contorted into several different expressions in the space of a

minute as he seated himself at his desk, his hands clasped together and trembling on the

blotter as he fought desperately for his self-control. After a long silence, punctuated only

by his heavy breathing, Doctor Hammond grit his teeth, lifted his head and stared at

Hannibal.

“That was out of line. I’m sorry for my outburst,” he forced himself to say.

Hannibal shrugged, nonplussed. “Don’t be. I find that people are more honest

when they’re angry. You get to see who they really are. And what they really think.

Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “you think you’re the first to call me that?”

“And are you?” he challenged.

The grin widened. “Aren’t we all, in some ways? I mean, here I am, sitting right

in front of you, after essentially kidnapping and returning one of your patients. I’m alone

on V.A. property--a prime target for the Military Police to come along and arrest me. But

you haven’t called anyone. Not the local police or the military or even your secretary,

and I haven’t said or done anything to prevent you from doing so. Methinks you might

have a little bit of the psychopath in you, yourself, Doc.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows went up in surprise as Hammond suddenly let out a quick

snort of laughter.

“Maybe,” Hammond countered, “but I’d say you still trump me.”

Hannibal glanced at the man’s still-trembling hands and chuckled in wordless

agreement.

“So you’re serious? You really had no idea if Murdock would jump or not?”

Hammond shook his head in astonishment. “How could you run the risk?”

Hannibal’s expression grew solemn, and he snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray on

the doctor‘s desk.

“I had to,” he replied with a shrug. “For you, for the team, and for Murdock. It

was perfect timing, really. He’d just had his wounds re-stitched, and Kelly Stevens’ sister

granted him the right to take half of her ashes to the ocean. These things made for the

perfect combination. He’d begun the process of healing already, but it was important for

Murdock to realize that he wanted to heal, both physically and mentally.”

“And having your team there--”

“Helped accomplish that. Combining a deadline of thirty minutes with a promise

that we’d be back for him made his military instincts to kick in. I used friendship and a

sense of duty to basically force him to live. Because he knew that if he wasn’t there

when we got back, he’d be letting us down.” Hannibal gave a gentle smile. “And

Murdock has never let us down. He knows that as well as we do. So… yea, I ran the risk

of losing him altogether, but maybe I also saved him. Kind of a strong-arm tactic, but it

worked.”

“Jesus, you are something. A real piece of work.”

“Talk to the Army about that one. I used to be a really nice guy, once upon a

time.”

Hammond pulled the coffee mug toward him, lifted it and took a sip, then set it

back down. His outrage, and the shaking, had dissipated.

“I suppose that I shouldn’t complain. Murdock is back in the V.A. Psychiatric

Unit, safe and sound, and if your logic plays through, then he’s no longer a suicide risk.”

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, “but he’s still not himself. And I don’t think there’s

anything more that we can do for him at this point. No, Doc, the matter is clearly out of

our hands now. This is where you come in, and you have to do whatever it is you do to

cure your patients.”

Hammond gave him a hard look. “You’re overestimating what it is that we do

here. I don’t ‘cure’ patients, Colonel. There is no such thing as curing someone with

mental illness. You can help them control themselves with medication, and use therapy

to rehabilitate them to live a regular life, but there is no such thing as a cure. And in

Murdock’s case, we’re not only dealing with depression, here. Prior to this, he was

delusional, manic-depressive…”

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and looked away for a

moment.

“What if he wasn’t?” he asked, still not looking at Hammond.

“What are you saying? That it‘s been an act all this time?”

He shrugged. “There was, ah… well, I’m not at liberty to divulge information on

the CIA, but there was a mission in Vietnam that Murdock went on for them. The

helicopter he was flying crashed into the jungle, and an Army unit on patrol found

Murdock about a week later.”

“Was he wounded?”

“He had a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder and a fractured skull… among other

things. Nothing that was life-threatening, but there were certain wounds on his body that

couldn’t have been caused by an accident. Or from being shot down.”

Hammond frowned. “There are no P.O.W. references in his file.”

“That’s because it was never proven that they captured him. His mission was top-

secret, so nobody even reported him missing. They just filed the paperwork for the lost

chopper and waited to see if he would show up. Which, miraculously, he did.” He

paused. “He was in pretty bad shape. He became catatonic after he woke up from

surgery, and then he started ranting and getting violent. The hospital staff couldn’t

control him. I was the only one he recognized, and the only one he’d respond to, so they

brought me in to look after him.”

“Why you?”

“That was his second mission for the CIA. We went on the first one together. I

think he was so traumatized by what had happened to him that he merged the two

missions in his head. He said that he was glad to see that I was alive and all right, and

apologized for crashing ‘our‘ chopper. And he said that he was glad the Viet Cong hadn‘t

‘gotten‘ to me like they did to him.” Hannibal swallowed and looked back at Hammond.

“For quite a while, he was definitely insane, Doc. I don’t have to be a psychiatrist to

know that much.”

“When did his symptoms abate?”

He shrugged. “Who knows for sure? Murdock was always a daredevil. Always a

bit different. Never liked to play by the rules. My kind of guy. Staying insane got him

out of Vietnam. Look, Doctor Hammond,” he continued, “I‘m not willing to say that it is

or it isn’t all an act. There are some moments where he’s the most rational person I’ve

ever met, and then there are things he still says and does that echo back to ‘Nam. What I

do know is that since losing Kelly, he’s not putting on an act any more. He‘s hurting

bad.”

Doctor Hammond leaned back in his chair and put one hand to his face, then

closed his eyes.

“And you took him to a cliff over the ocean, and left him there all alone,” he

mumbled through his fingertips.

Hannibal shrugged.

Hammond let out a long, pained sigh, then dropped his hands into his lap and

looked blankly at Hannibal.

“The usual treatment in cases like this is to put Murdock on medication and place

him back in to the general population. Schedule regular therapy sessions. Have him

interact with the other patients. Encourage him to resume the routines that he had

engaged in prior to learning about his girlfriend’s death. But I’ll be honest with you, I’m

not comfortable doing that because… well, because he’s so damned smart!”

Hammond forced himself up from the desk and began to pace the room.

“Just like it’s difficult to hypnotize someone of a higher intelligence, it’s much

more difficult to treat someone who is as sharp as Murdock is. He’s more self-aware.

Not only able but eager to get the jump on everyone around him. And you’re right about

one thing--it is very difficult to say how much of what he does is ‘playing crazy‘ when

he‘s not. Certainly, we both know the consequences if he is found sane--he risks being

arrested and interrogated by the military, on account of the company he keeps with the A-

Team.”

“I don’t see the problem, myself. We bathe regularly,” Hannibal replied with a

smile.

“At the very least, Murdock’s been confined to mental health facilities for the past

eleven years. Adjusting to life on his own might not be what he wants. Hell, it can’t be

what he wants, otherwise he’d have scammed his way out of here years ago.” He chewed

on one fingernail. “There’s a dependency issue going on. Has been going on. Not just

with the V.A., but with you guys…”

Hannibal watched with a certain level of interest as Hammond tried to work out

the puzzle. Finally, he broke the silence.

“I‘d love to stay and chat,” Hannibal interrupted, “but I’m a little uncomfortable

these days around anything related to the military. You understand, I’m sure. But do you

think we’ll ever get Murdock back? Because when I look at him, I don’t recognize the

man that I knew. He’s colder. Going through the motions. Not connecting with us the

way he used to.”

Hammond stopped his restless pacing. “I don’t know,” he replied with a sharp

shake of his head. “Grief and mourning are difficult enough for healthy people to deal

with. Throw those elements on to a troubled mind, and you can’t even begin to guess the

outcome.”

“Well, do your best, Doc.”

Hannibal stood up, and the two men shook hands.

“I will,” replied Hammond. He clasped Hannibal’s hand tighter. “You brought

him back to me. Let’s see if I can do the same for you.”

As the two men separated, Hammond gave a worried look to the office door while

Hannibal exited through the window--the way he’d come in earlier. Hammond leaned

out the open window and looked several feet down, where Hannibal had landed with cat-

like grace.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Hammond continued. “Keep in touch, Colonel. I

might need the A-Team on this one.”

Hannibal chuckled and pulled out a cigar from the inside of his coat pocket.

“Sure, Doc. Murdock knows how to get a hold of us. If we’re in this, then we’re in it

together. All of us.

“Oh, I’m gonna go to jail,” Hammond muttered as he closed the window.

CHAPTER THREE

“Good morning, Murdock.”

H.M. Murdock grunted and let his head drop to the side as he pulled to

consciousness. A few moments passed where he stared at the dark outline of Doctor

William Hammond in confusion, then blinked a few times to clear his vision.

“Doctor Hammond?”

“Yes, I’m here.” He paused. “I’ve been here all night, really. Waiting for you to

wake up.”

“Well, I’m awake. I think.”

“Good to have you back with us.”

Murdock hummed. “Maybe. But it was bad timing on my part--to show up when

you weren’t here.” He moved his legs and tugged at the restraints around his ankles.

“The doctor on call doped me up and tied me down. Again. He seems to like this form

of ‘treatment.’ I’ve gotta say, maybe for him, this is a fun Saturday night. But it doesn’t

do a thing for me.”

Doctor Hammond responded with a gentle laugh.

The flash of humor faded. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Ah… a little after 4 a.m. I think. I can’t see my watch. I’m going to turn on the

light, if that’s all right?”

“Sure.”

With a grunt, Hammond stood up and crossed the room, then flicked on a light

switch and turned around. Both men winced and released low groans of displeasure as

the harsh fluorescent lights bathed the room, then Hammond resumed his seat next to

Murdock’s bed and rubbed at his face. Murdock squinted and looked him over--the

tousled hair, the dark circles, the wrinkled clothes and the way he slouched in the chair.

“Geez, Doc, you look pretty damned lousy. No offense. When’s the last time you

got some sleep?”

Hammond waved off the question. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been up doing

some thinking, and once we get things settled, then I’ll be able to crash out for a while.”

“Settled?”

He nodded. “I had a talk with your friend, Colonel Smith, yesterday. He came to

my office. Or rather, he snuck in to my office.” Hammond lifted one hand up, then let it

drop. “Don’t worry, nobody knew he was here. He didn’t exactly sign the register.”

Murdock gave him an uncomfortable look. “What’d he say?”

“It’s not what he said that got me thinking. It’s what he did. He had absolutely no

reason to risk his freedom by coming here to check up on you. I mean, he brought you

back. He knew you’d be looked after. But he still wanted to follow up.”

“Yea.” Murdock’s face took on a grave expression. “I’m touched by the gesture.”

The sudden flash of a negative mood took Hammond by surprise, but his fine

mind (comparable, he felt--and hoped--to that of Murdock’s) turned quickly enough to

keep him from reacting to it.

“So,” he continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the remark, “I’ve been doing some

thinking. And I made some tentative plans for your long-term care which I hope to put in

to action. Because clearly this isn’t appropriate. Restraining you and rendering you

unconscious isn’t exactly a productive method of treatment.”

“No, it’s not. I’m with you, there.”

Murdock nodded down at himself. He’d been secured to the bed in the same way

as before--one restraint on each ankle, a strap across his chest, and one on each arm; the

arm restraints usually looped around a patient‘s wrists, but the hospital had to make do

with one around each bicep so as to not interfere with Murdock‘s injuries.

“Speaking of which, can you un-strap me, please? I’d kind of like to get up and

stretch my legs, if you don‘t mind. I’m feeling a bit stiff. Ten hours in bed will do that,”

he added with a half-smile.

Hammond sighed. “I wish that I could. But right now, you’re under the

jurisdiction, as it were, of the night shift. And the doctor is not happy. If I understand

correctly from the orderlies’ gossip, your unexpected return disturbed him at a delicate

time… well, let’s just say, he shouldn’t have been conducting that particular activity with

a member of female staff in the first place. To be interrupted in the process did not put

you on his good side.”

“But you’re my usual nutcase worker! Don’t you have your own jurisdiction over

me?”

“I might,” he agreed, “if you hadn’t gone missing twice over the past two weeks

that you‘ve been assigned to me. And if you hadn‘t hurt yourself on my watch.”

“It wasn’t on your watch, it was on your pinball table,” Murdock muttered. His

eyebrows went up. “And you should be thanking me, Doc. Now they only use tempered

glass on those tables. I’m a hero! I helped the V.A. identify a safety hazard in their

midst, man!”

Hammond crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “Murdock, this has put me in

a bad light with my superiors. In the morning, I’m going to have to go in and basically

beg to get your case back.”

“Why would they say no?”

“Because of this…”

He touched the bandage on Murdock’s right arm.

“They’re blaming this on me, for not keeping a close enough eye on you.”

“If anyone’s to blame for anything,” Murdock whispered, “it’s that scumbag that’s

locked up in jail.”

“That ‘scumbag’ didn’t come in here and force your arms down on broken glass…

repeatedly. Did he?”

Murdock looked up at him. “Neither did you,” he replied quietly.

“So who is responsible?”

Murdock squeezed his eyes shut.

He leaned forward. “I need you to say it, Murdock. Out loud. For both of us to

hear.” He paused. “Please.”

“I… I am,” he forced himself to say. “I did this to myself.”

“You did what to yourself?” Hammond pressed.

A long, agonized pause took place. Murdock’s lips trembled with the effort to

speak.

“I… tried to… kill… myself.”

“Yes, Murdock. You did.”

He opened his eyes again, then shook his head sharply back and forth. “But I

don’t remember it,” he added quickly.

Hammond wiped one hand over his face. “That’s not the point, is it? Not being

able to remember your suicide attempt doesn‘t absolve you--”

“I don’t remember it!” he insisted in a louder voice. “It was an accident, damn it!

It happened when I wasn’t in my right mind. I mean, I would’ve have never done

something like this to myself if I was thinkin’ straight!” He pulled in a long breath. “It’s

just that lately,” he explained in a calmer tone, “I’ve done things and I don’t know that

I’ve done them. That‘s all.”

“No. No, Murdock, that’s not all. Have you been experiencing other instances

like this, where you’ve blacked out?”

“A… a few,” he stuttered.

“A few? Murdock, you should have told me what was going on! Before it got out

of hand. Before this--” he tapped gently on Murdock‘s arm, “--happened. If you‘d let

me know, maybe we could‘ve prevented this.”

Hammond paused and studied the bandages for a moment, then sighed.

“Oh, man. You’ve got a lot of plasma seeping through,” he muttered. “Hopefully

you didn’t pull the stitches open again. I’m going to go and get someone to change these

out. Sit tight, huh? And try not to move.”

Murdock winced as he lifted his arms to see the orangish-pink stains on the white

cloth, then slowly eased them back down and watched Doctor Hammond go back across

the room and knock on the door. An orderly’s arm pushed the door open, and Hammond

left. After a few moments, the door opened again and a familiar figure stepped through,

dressed in black shoes and white scrubs.

Murdock blinked in surprise. “Face!”

Templeton Peck pushed the door open all the way and flipped the door stop down,

then smiled and approached the bed. Murdock, however, did not give him a pleased look

in return.

“What the hell are you doing here, man?” he insisted in a tense voice. “Isn’t it

bad enough that Hannibal was running around here yesterday? Do you want to get

caught?”

Face’s grin slowly faded. “I… I’m just looking out for you.”

“You don’t need to be here. I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Yea, you look great,” Face replied testily.

Murdock glared at him. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed.

“No, you shut the hell up.” He put his hands on his hips and stepped closer to the

bed. “I heard what you said to the doctor, about blanking on certain events. Now, like it

or not, you are definitely sick, Murdock.”

Murdock turned his head away, but Face reached down and cupped him under the

jaw, then pulled his head back to the right.

“Look at me, Murdock. And listen to me,” Face demanded.

After an initial struggle, Murdock relaxed the muscles in his neck and Face

released his tight grip on Murdock’s chin, then crouched down next to the bed and put

one hand on his friend’s chest.

“You are sick,” he said in a slow, patient voice. “Okay? You are experiencing an

episode of mental illness. And this guy Hammond, he can help you. If you let him.”

“What if I don’t?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Face‘s eyebrows went up. “Oh, this is better, is it? To spend your days on a

suicide watch? Strapped to a bed?” He tightened his fingers over Murdock’s hospital

gown, balling the thin material up in his fist. “Damn it, we need you--”

He shook his head. “No. No, you don’t need me. You need ‘Howlin’ Mad’

Murdock. You need the happy-go-lucky lunatic that you get the adventure of breaking

out of the psych ward of the V.A. hospital. You need the wacky pilot who can fly the A-

Team in and out of danger on a moment’s notice. But what I am--me, as a man, as an

individual, what you’re looking at right now--this is someone that you don‘t need.”

Face loosened his grip and stood up with an expression of mild shock.

“This,” Murdock continued, “is a man destroyed, Face.” His body shook as he

spoke, but he continued, unaware of the tremors. “I am not what I was. I can never be

what I was. My ability to function as a human being has been severely, irrevocably

maimed.” He held up his arms, palms up. “I’ll tell ya what. You said that you’re here to

look out for me, right?”

Face nodded slowly.

“Then I want you wait here,” he ordered. “You wait here, Face, until the doctor

comes back and they take these bandages off. Because I want you to see what it looks

like underneath here…”

He lowered his shaking arms.

“--and then I want you to try,” he hissed, “as best you can, to picture the exact

same damage that’s been done to me on the inside. Only the wounds are twice as deep,

because I have had a big chunk of my soul ripped out by some stranger at a gas station.”

He puffed out a breath and looked away. “You know, I thought that everything I went

through in ‘Nam was bad. That nothing could be worse than that. Well, I was wrong.

Because everything I experienced in Vietnam… as bad as it was, combined… didn’t

make me want to stop breathing.”

“You’re not going to try to kill yourself again?” Face asked in a weak voice.

“The truth is that right now, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But what I do

know is that I need some understanding from someone who knows me.” Murdock gave

Face an emotionless stare. “And if you’re really my friend, then you will bear witness,

Face.”

Before he could answer, Face turned instinctively at the sound of footsteps

echoing from the hallway, and backed away from the bed. Doctor Hammond entered

with one of the night nurses, who carried a silver tray stacked up with several instruments

and packages. Doctor Hammond accompanied the nurse over to the bed, then glanced at

Face and gave him a quick, meaningful nod.

“Glad to see you,” he muttered. “Are you going to help me keep an eye on my

patient?”

“I have made it my mission.”

Hammond nodded, then looked back at Murdock. The nurse had begun to cut the

soiled bandages away from Murdock’s right arm. She carefully pulled away several

layers of gauze to make her way down to the large cotton squares at the bottom, the

surfaces of which bore a deeper red color than the filtered blood-plasma combination that

Hammond had noticed.

“You might want to step outside for this, actually,” he suggested.

Murdock looked up at Face then, his eyes dark and demanding. Face swallowed,

then glanced at Hammond and shook his head.

“I’ll stay,” he replied. He turned his attention back to Murdock.

“Suit yourself,” Hammond muttered.

Hammond made his way back to the chair next to Murdock’s bed and sat down

heavily, then released a long, deep sigh of exhaustion. Face moved to stand behind him,

slightly off to one side, and watched as the nurse cleared away the last of the blood-

stained bandages. His eyes widened at what he saw, and Face clenched his fists and

forced down the gasp that wanted to escape from his lips.

Three disturbingly deep cuts, held closed by thick black stitches, ran along

Murdock’s right forearm at different angles. The most dangerous one had, clearly, been

the long incision that traveled from just below the top of his wrist almost to the crook of

his elbow. The other two cuts ran at different angles across the meat of his arm. His

hands and the areas of the skin not sliced open bore smaller scratches; he wore a small

splint on his pinky finger, and it appeared by the look of the stitches that the vulnerable

digit had almost been cut off.

The staggering injuries that Murdock had done to himself--to the skin, muscle,

tendons, ligaments and possibly even the bones of his arm--made Face more nauseous

than he’d been in a long time… but he stood and watched, obedient and more than aware

that his friendship with Murdock hung in the balance.

The nurse cleaned up the wounds as best she could, and Face blanched as he got a

better look at the stitches--more than that, at the difference in the stitches. He could see

the re-stitching that had been done to Murdock, as the pattern of the second attempt

(where the thread appeared closer together) differed in style from that of the first surgery,

and he reached out towards Hammond’s chair for support. His hand missed the metal

back and came down on the man’s shoulder, but he didn’t realize it until Hammond

reached up and squeezed his hand in a show of support.

After re-dressing the wounds, the nurse moved over to the other side of the bed.

This time, Face could not restrain the sympathetic whimper that came out from

between his lips. Comparatively speaking, the left arm did not look quite as bad as the

right arm had, with two massive angular cuts and a thinner stitched line along the inside

of the forearm, but the hand… it might as well have been a piece of hamburger meat

wrapped up in gauze. It looked better after the nurse wiped away the blood, but not by

much.

“Seems like your stitches may have pulled out a bit in this hand, Mr. Murdock,”

she muttered. “It’s not too bad, though. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

Murdock obeyed and the damaged digits twitched under the nurse‘s hand,

however his attention remained locked on Face--who, in turn, could not move his gaze

from the sight before him. Slowly, a look of muted satisfaction came over his features…

one that did not escape the attention of an exhausted yet still attentive Doctor William

Hammond.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I heard,” Hannibal Smith drawled, “that you almost didn’t get Murdock back.”

Doctor William Hammond gave a sideways glance to Hannibal, and Hannibal did

the same, then both men turned to face the two-way mirror again.

In a repeat performance of his out-of-the-blue appearance several days earlier,

Hannibal had just climbed in through Hammond’s office window. Hammond noticed

that the older man made more noise on the second attempt than he had on the first,

though--out of some level of courtesy, no doubt, so as not to scare Hammond quite so

much as he had before.

Hammond let out a low hum and crossed his arms. “It was a close thing, having

him transferred in to my care again. Almost didn’t happen. Do I have you to thank for

that?”

“No,” Hannibal replied. “I’m afraid we don’t have any pull in this area of the

hospital. Oh, we‘ve got a few connections on the medical side, but nothing on the psych

ward angle.”

“Well, you do now, don’t you?”

“I guess so. But no, Doctor, whatever it is that you did to make this happen, it

was all you.”

Hammond snorted out a laugh. “I just think that nobody else wants to be

responsible for him. He’s cost five different psychiatrists their careers here, you know.”

They looked past their reflections in the glass. Murdock sat on the twin bed with

his back to the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and the thick hardcover

book (something about UFO’s, which Hammond had bought for him earlier that day)

open on his lap. Murdock’s bandaged hands fumbled with the pages until he finally

managed to advance through the book, but he grimaced when he saw that all his effort

ended up moving a clump of pages rather than just the one that he needed to turn. He

tried to pick the pages apart but couldn’t manage it. With a loud snarl of impatience,

Murdock uncrossed his legs, shoved the book down and kicked at it with his slippered

feet. The book struck the wall beneath the mirror.

Hannibal flinched; Hammond didn’t.

“He keeps doing that,” Hammond muttered. Although low and controlled, his

tone of voice betrayed his interest. “Murdock starts some random activity, then when he

can’t do it, he just gives up and destroys the object. You ought to see what’s left of his

Atari 2600. I’m just glad that I had the orderlies put the TV put in a plexiglass box.”

“That’s not like Murdock. He‘s not violent.” He paused and cocked his head to

one side. “Well, wantonly violent, that is.”

They watched for a minute as Murdock began to pace the small room, then

Hannibal broke the silence.

“Why do you?” he asked. “Want to be responsible for him, that is?”

Hammond shrugged. “Maybe because you asked me to. Maybe because I’m

interested in seeing this case resolved to some degree.” He crossed his arms and an odd

smile played over his features. “Then again, maybe it’s personal.”

“Personal?” Hannibal turned and gave him a curious look. “In what way?”

A gentle laugh escaped him. “Oh, never mind. It doesn‘t matter.” He gave his

head a slight shake. “Anyway, what we’re essentially faced with here is a man in

recovery. He’s gone cold turkey from his drug. In Murdock’s case, that drug is love.”

With a grunt, Hannibal turned and walked across the room, then stopped at the

window and stared out at the hospital grounds. He squinted against the sunlight.

“I’ve never been in love, Doc,” Hannibal told him. “Oh, sure. Over the years,

there’s been some women I cared about more deeply than others, but nothing that ever

amounted to much of anything. Which means that I’m not even going to pretend to

understand.”

“Do you think it’s a joke, then? Being in love?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s a shame. Because it is. It’s the biggest joke in the world. Only it’s the

one joke that nobody ever laughs at.” Hammond moved over to his desk and sat on the

edge, studying Hannibal’s profile. “You know, Colonel, I think you understand it more

than you want to admit. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be nearly as concerned for Murdock as

you are. There’s no way that you’d be able to either recognize or acknowledge the fact

that Murdock is, as you said, ‘hurting bad.’”

Hannibal shifted his stance, then turned to face Hammond.

“So am I right in guessing that there’s no twelve-step program involved in this

process?”

He sighed. “If only it was that easy.”

Murdock’s voice echoed behind them, and the two went back over to stand by the

mirror. In the observation room, Murdock stood in front of B.A. Baracus who, just as

Face had done, had snuck in to the facility in the guise of an orderly. The thin, pale man

(even thinner, Hannibal couldn’t help but notice, than he’d been when they’d driven him

to the ocean) stood raging at B.A., his face flushed, shouting a series of almost

unintelligible obscenities in B.A.’s direction--mostly to the effect that because he

considered the book to be his property, then he could do whatever he liked to it.

B.A., for his part, sidestepped Murdock and retrieved the abused book from one

corner of the room, then weaved around him again to pick up the dust jacket from the

other corner. Then he simply stood in place, slowly putting the pieces back together, his

attention seemingly taken up with the task of putting the dust jacket on to the book.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t smashed Murdock’s face in yet,” Hannibal mumbled.

“B.A.’s not usually this tolerant at people who yell at him.”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The odd little smile had returned to Hammond’s face.

“Are you seeing this? I mean, really seeing this? For some reason, Murdock has the

upper hand here. It’s as if B.A. knows that he has no choice but to stand there and take

the abuse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Baracus probably doesn’t understand, either. But

instinctively, he knows it and he’s acting accordingly.”

B.A. bowed his head and his thick fingers played with a tear on the back of the

dust jacket. After shifting the book around in his hands for a moment, he tentatively held

it out to Murdock, who batted it away with his left hand without thinking… then

screamed out in pain, turned and kicked the book yet again. With that, B.A.‘s shoulders

slumped, then he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Hammond took a step closer to the glass and watched Murdock drop down on the

bed, his right arm wrapped protectively around what must have been a badly-hurting

limb. He rolled on to the bed and turned his back to the mirror, curling up on his side

with his face to the wall. Low moans of agony echoed over from the room.

“Shouldn’t you give him something?” Hannibal asked with obvious concern.

“He’s due for his pain meds in another ten minutes,” came the cool reply. “He did

the same thing with the Atari--raged against it about ten or fifteen minutes before he

knew the drugs were on their way.”

“He wants to be in pain?”

“No… well, not exactly. It’s more that he wants his pain to be outside of his head.

The physical injuries are just one way for him to try and distract himself from what he’s

feeling inside.”

“Let me guess. Yelling at B.A. was another way?”

Hammond nodded. “You know your men, Colonel.” A troubled look came over

him as he looked at Hannibal. “But I suspect that it’s even more than that. He did

something similar with your other man, Peck, the morning after you brought him back

here. He got the upper hand on him, too. I don’t quite know what he said to Peck before

I got in to the room, but he somehow convinced him to stay and watch the dressings

being changed on his arms.”

“How do his arms look, by the way? Are they that bad?”

He paused. “The injuries are… horrendous.”

A knock at the door made Hammond freeze, and Hannibal quickly and silently

moved behind the door, then gestured for the other man to open it. Hammond nodded,

then unlocked it and turned the knob. He pulled it open about a foot, then stepped back

as B.A. Baracus entered. Hannibal closed the door behind him and gave him a nod.

“What’s up, B.A.?”

“Hannibal, we need to get Murdock somethin’,” B.A. said as he turned to Doctor

Hammond. “He lost his temper and hit that book. Caused him a lot of pain. We gotta

get him some drugs.”

Hannibal spoke up. “He‘ll get his medication shortly. Don’t worry about him.”

“I am, though,” B.A. replied. He gave a quick wipe to one eye with the back of

his hand. “The fool ain’t right. He needs some real help, man.”

Hammond noticed that although he showed concerned for Murdock‘s comfort,

B.A. hadn’t come to the office right away. He suspected the reason why, based on the

wet look in the man’s eyes, but said nothing. Nor did Hannibal remark on B.A.’s slightly

shaken expression.

He put a hand on B.A.’s shoulder. “It doesn’t look like Murdock’s going to be a

problem until the pain subsides, and the drugs he’s going to get are probably going to put

him out for a couple of hours. I’d suggest that you two--” he looked at Hannibal as he

spoke, “--take this opportunity to leave.”

Hannibal checked his watch. “Yea, we’re approaching rush hour. We should get

out of here before we get tied up in traffic. Face will be coming in for his shift in another

couple of hours. Do you have another orderly to watch over Murdock?”

“Ha. Given how understaffed we are, I doubt it. But it‘s time we had a session,

anyway, so I’ll be staying with him.”

Hannibal gave him a look. “I hope he listens to you.”

“So do I,” Hammond replied. The strange smile reappeared. “I think he will.

Because now, I’m the one with the upper hand.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“I need my pills… I need my damned PILLS!”

H.M. Murdock shifted restlessly in the wheelchair, his throbbing left arm crooked

up in to his chest, but neither his movements nor his loud words slowed Doctor Willam

Hammond’s footsteps. The doctor had pulled him out of the observation room and put

him in the chair, ignoring the questions and demands put before him by his patient, and

wheeled him down the hall to the isolation wing. Once there, a waiting orderly unlocked

the door to one of the rooms and he and Hammond pulled Murdock to his feet and put

him inside.

“I don’t know if I like this,” the orderly remarked. He glanced at Murdock, who

glared back at him from his crouched position on the padded floor. “But,” he added, “I

guess you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

“And I’m not above using blackmail to do it, if it means that I can make some

progress in his treatment.”

Hammond held out his hand and the orderly accepted the folded wad of cash

thrust in to his palm. He grinned.

“And I’m not above taking it, if it means that I can make my next three car

payments, Doc.” He stuck the money in to his pocket, then jangled the key ring in his

other hand. “One hour, right?”

“That should be enough time, yes. All you need to do is come back and let us

out.”

“Simple enough. I‘ll see you in an hour.”

The orderly gave a two-fingered salute, stepped back and pulled the heavy metal

door in to its frame, then locked it from the outside. Hammond listened for a minute but

could hear nothing.

“Okay. We’re alone. And just so you know, this is more than an empty isolation

room at the end of a wing. Nobody knows we’re here except for one money-hungry

orderly. Nobody can see us or hear us.” He turned around to look at Murdock. “That

means that nobody is ever going know your secret. Not the government, not the hospital,

and not your team.”

Murdock grit his teeth. “Give… me… the pills,” he demanded in a low,

menacing tone.

Hammond shrugged. “Sure. Here.”

He reached in to his pocket and withdrew two white pain tablets, then popped

them in to Murdock’s open mouth. Hammond stepped back and leaned against the wall.

“It’ll be about fifteen minutes until the pain goes away,” he said, “but they’re a

lower-dosage pain medication than you’re used to. Enough to take the edge off. Not

enough to knock you out again.”

Murdock, breathing heavily from the radiating pain in his hands, frowned at the

news. “Why not?”

“Because this place has spent enough time catering to you in that respect. And

this is it,” he added. “This is where I draw the line. You‘re going to stay conscious until

we‘re done talking.”

“Talking about what?” he sneered. “You think I’ve got a secret of some kind?”

“No, I don’t ‘think’ it. I know you do.”

Murdock shifted himself until he rested his back against the padded wall. “And

just what might that be, hmmm? What little nuggets of gold are buried in the cave of my

mind, Doc?”

Hammond leaned on the opposite wall, his arms crossed and one leg crossed in

front of the other. “Wouldn’t you rather talk about you first? To address your problems

here and now, rather than those of the Army? Or… MACV?”

A long silence passed between Murdock and Hammond. They stared down one

another, then Murdock finally spoke in a low, controlled tone.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re going on about,” he replied, his jaw tight, “but

given the way things have turned out recently, I think that I have every right to be angry

right now, don’t you?”

“Of course, you do. You’ve suffered a tremendous loss. Your girlfriend drives

three hours out of her way to see you, only to find that you’d gone off with your friends

instead of waiting for her.” He tilted his head. “The thing is, last week, you were saying

that it was your fault. Now you’re not. At least, not out loud. Do you still think that

you’re responsible?”

“That piece of garbage in county lock-up is responsible. Not me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Murdock looked away.

“Don’t make me make you say it,” Hammond pressed.

“All right.” Murdock let out a low hiss, then forced out his words. “To an

extent… it is my fault. If we’d never met, she’d never have left her town and visited the

V.A., and been in this part of Los Angeles. She…” He swallowed. “Kelly was a very

sheltered, small-town girl. Outside of attending veterinary school, she never drove more

than two hours out of town on her own. Until I came along.”

Hammond nodded. “Right. Right. So over the next forty or fifty years of her

life, she’d have never gotten it in her head to take a trip? Or visit relatives out of state?

Hypothetically speaking, she‘d have never slipped in the bathtub or fallen off her back

porch, either. If she hadn‘t met you.”

“I… yea, all right,” he acquiesced. “Okay. I see your point. Maybe that’s a bit of

a stretch, then. But it is my fault,” he insisted, “in that she trusted me to be here for her,

and I wasn‘t.” He made a vague gesture with his right hand. “The thing is… look, Doc.

I’d feel no different about that part of it if she had been killed in a car accident instead

of… how she died. The facts stand that Kelly came here specifically for me, and I was

off playing Robin Hood with my old Army buddies. I put them first, when I know that I

should have put her first.”

Hammond nodded again. “Well, that’s something you’ll have to reconcile with,

then. Is that why you’re angry with the team? You feel like their influence pulled you

away from her?”

“I… no… yes… ah…” Murdock shook his head. “I don’t know. They needed

me that day. Kelly needed me, too, but it was a different kind of need. With the guys, it

was a priority thing--a right-here, right-now, gotta-hit-the-road kind of situation. Lives

were at stake. Did you know, we were the ones that saved that school bus full of kids up

in Calabasas? Some slimeballs were trying to put a bussing company out of business,

and they went and attacked a bus full of kids! Probably thinking it was empty, but still,

the driver would’ve been killed.” He gestured in front of him. “All Kelly and I had in

mind was to spend the day at a hotel together. Making plans.” He gave Hammond a

baleful look. “And you’re wrong about something. Kelly wasn’t just my girlfriend,

Doctor Hammond. She was my fiancée. I gave her a ring the week before she died.”

Surprised, Hammond uncrossed his arms and stepped away from the wall. “You

never--”

“I never told anyone,” Murdock interrupted sharply, “because it was nobody’s

damned business but ours! We wanted this for us, for ourselves, because of how we felt

about each other. Something separate from the mess that is the rest of my life. Now

just… please, just let it go, all right?” He shuffled his feet against the floor. “That’s over

and done with now.”

“All right,” Hammond agreed. “I’ll let that go.” He crouched down and forced

Murdock’s attention on him. “But now we’ve got something else to talk about. Like why

you’re taking this all out on the A-Team.”

Murdock hunched his body up a bit and said nothing.

“I’ve been here and I’ve been watching. I’m not stupid, Murdock.”

“No,” he replied slowly. “No, you’re definitely not.”

“My first thought was that you’re hurting your friends to try and push them away,

and close yourself off from the world even more than you have been.”

“Standard psychiatric diagnosis,” Murdock muttered.

“Exactly. That’s right in line with my medical training. And then I thought that

maybe you were radiating your inner pain outward. You failed to kill yourself and take

away the pain, so instead of trying suicide again, you decided to turn everything around

you into a world of pain. If there could be no peace, then there would be nothing but

misery.”

He winced. “Interesting theory.”

“That’s when I saw the pattern. You were practicing controlled chaos and

manipulation. Because that was part of your training… under the CIA.”

Murdock gave him a scared look. “I-- I only worked for the CIA twice. It’s in my

military record, clear as day. Just two times, just in ‘Nam. But I wasn‘t actually a part

of--”

This time, Hammond interrupted. “You were eighteen years old when you joined

the Army, Murdock. By the time you walked in to Vietnam at the age of twenty-one, you

were trained to fly not only helicopters but also fixed-wing aircraft, including jets. You

had extensive weapons training, hand-to-hand combat skills and you knew how to speak

Vietnamese with a high level of fluency. Among other skills, I’m sure. Now, go ahead.

Try and explain to me how someone goes from being an eighteen-year-old cherry to an

experienced chopper pilot in a mere three years.”

A long, confused silence radiated from Murdock. Finally, he leaned his head back

against the wall and stared at Hammond through eyelids narrowed to slits.

“Cherry.” Murdock mulled the word over. “Geez, I haven’t heard that one in a

long time, Doc.” He paused. “How’d you come up with MACV? My record was

scoured. I know there’s no paperwork saying that I was ever there.”

“Because I remember you.”

Murdock’s entire body jerked with the shock of the revelation. His deep brown

eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

Hammond gave a grim smile. “It was a mess, wasn’t it? Those days in Vietnam?

The fire fights. The explosions. Security breaches. Clearing out. The CIA might’ve

trained you and had you working under their command, but that didn’t mean the suits in

Washington had any idea of the nightmare that we were living in.”

“Wh--” His lips pursed together, but he couldn’t complete the word.

“I was just a greenie,” Hammond replied. “Nothing more than a clumsy, scared

hick who they barely trusted with a mop at MACV. The Army stuck me in menial jobs

from Day One in boot camp and never saw my potential. Everyone called me Joe

Soldier. I only stood out in the sense that I didn’t stand out. I was quiet. Passive.

Obeyed the rules. But I saw things and I remembered things. Like you, Captain

Murdock.”

Murdock swallowed as Hammond seated himself in front of him.

“It took me a while to remember, I‘ll admit, but it finally came back to me when I

saw you looking at Templeton Peck the other day. The look on your face, when you were

making Peck see what you’d done to yourself, was the same look that you wore in ‘Nam

when you were working with MAC-SOG and General Collier.” He let out a quick exhale

of air that fell short of a laugh. “Oh, sorry. Nobody was supposed to know about him

being there, either. Were they?”

“How do you know, then?”

“Because nobody ever paid any attention to the kid doing the grunt work.” He

stared down Murdock. “They just ordered me to get them more coffee. Or more

chewing gum.”

The pointed words made Murdock blinked rapidly.

“But that’s neither here nor there any more,” Hammond continued, his voice calm

and dismissive. “Let me guess. Your next question is, ‘how did I know you weren’t just

a regular Army pilot?’ Well, I already told you. You were too young and you had too

much training behind you--and you were arrogant enough not to even try to hide it. The

boasting you did should’ve tipped somebody off. But it never did, maybe because

nobody wanted to believe they had a spook in their midst.” He leaned forward. “Were

you spying on them, Captain? Keeping tabs of the military‘s actions in an unfavorable

war? Making sure there was nothing hinky going on?”

“Hinky,” Murdock chuckled in a humorless tone. “Oh, you are whippin’ out the

old words today, aren’t you?”

With considerable effort, Murdock got to his feet and walked the short distance to

the corner, then turned his back on Hammond. Hammond, too, stood up.

“That’s all neither here nor there any more,” Murdock said in a hollow voice,

echoing Hammond’s own words back to him. He took several deep breaths and turned

back around, his expression blank as he slumped against the corner. “I’m sorry that I’m

not behaving well towards my friends. I really am. But I was trying to feel something

through them--to have their feelings… I don’t know… transferred on to my own, if that

makes any sense. Because I don’t know how to feel anything right now other than what I

feel right now.”

“Which is?”

“Utter loss.”

“Murdock, you have secrets buried that can’t stay that way any more. You’re at a

time of crisis and those secrets are influencing you in ways that you never expected and

clearly aren’t sure about how to deal with them. And this isn’t an area where either

depending on or defining yourself through the A-Team is going to get you through this.”

The sudden, wracking sob that came out of Murdock made both of them tremble.

“Then what will?!?” he cried.

Murdock’s legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees. Hammond was next to

him instantly, his arms around the fallen man, holding Murdock close as he rocked back

and forth, his screams and his sobs and his tears and the weeks--no, the years--of inner

turmoil spilled out of him in a torrent of uncontrollable despair.

CHAPTER SIX

“So what is this, huh? A shakedown? Extortion? You want to turn in the A-

Team, just like everyone else, and collect on the reward?”

Doctor William Hammond shook his head and smiled as a short snort of laughter

escaped him.

“I could have certainly done that before now. Damn, man. You have really been

paranoid for the past decade, haven’t you?”

Murdock gave him an odd look. “Have you… even looked at my file?”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Or maybe it is? Okay. So

everything’s a conspiracy, then. Everyone’s out for a piece of you. Everyone‘s in to

some underhanded activity except for you and three of your Army buddies.”

“No,” he replied slowly. “No, I guess not.”

Murdock shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench and looked around the

hospital grounds. The beautiful summer day, and the calm world outside the walls of the

V.A., felt wrong to Murdock. After such a torturous night where he seldom stopped

crying for more than ten minutes at a time, and got almost no sleep, he could find no joy

in the simple act of sitting in the courtyard and enjoying the morning sun. He studied

Doctor Hammond’s profile and smirked.

“I am clearly depriving you of your beauty sleep.”

Hammond cocked an eyebrow. “Thanks for that. Next time, just skip the

smartass remark and hand me a paper bag for my head.”

“Instead of the unknown comic, you’ll be the unknown shrink.” Murdock‘s

expression grew serious. “You didn’t have to stay up with me all night, you know.”

“Eh.” He waved a hand in the air. “What’s another night of sleep deprivation,

anyway?”

“Pretty soon, you’re gonna start to see the walls shimmy.”

“What do you mean, ‘pretty soon’? Why do you think we’re out here, so I can

work on my tan?” He pointed a thumb at the building behind them. “I don’t know about

you, but I’m tired of being cooped up in there.”

“Yea. Well, for me, it comes with benefits.”

Hammond let out a little laugh. “Not the kind I‘d want.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what you can get, if you ask for it.” Murdock winked. “I

used to get regular conjugal visits, courtesy of the pimp-daddy skills of one Templeton

Peck and his bevy of house-call beauties.”

“Used to?”

“Before Kelly.” Murdock paused, then sighed. “Is that what my life is going to

be like from here on out, Doc? ‘Before Kelly’ and ‘After Kelly’?”

“Only if that’s how you want it,” Hammond replied. “You made some great

progress last night, you know. You got out a lot of your guilt and anger, and I’m very

proud of you for that. Even if we didn’t get around to talking about--”

Hammond cut off his words and glanced around them in a way that made

Murdock smile.

“Now who’s paranoid?” he teased Hammond.

“It’s not paranoia. It’s being cautious,” came the terse reply.

“Yea. Sure it is.”

The two men sat in silence for a little longer before Hammond spoke again.

“If this was a situation regarding outpatient treatment,” he remarked, “then this is

about the time that I’d suggest group therapy, where you’d bring in your loved ones and

we’d discuss your ongoing issues in regards to your relationship with them. But right

now, the closest people to you are your team, and I can’t exactly put them at risk by

having them gather for a group session.” He rubbed at his face and grunted. “One at a

time, maybe, but not all together.”

“Which one, then?” He paused. “How about B.A.?”

“Ha. Of course B.A. Baracus would be your first choice. An apology and some

chit-chat, and whatever issues you two think you might have going on would be

‘resolved,’ right?” Hammond shook his head. “No, you’re not getting off that easy,

Murdock. Not even Face would challenge you enough. If you want to continue to make

progress, then I think you and Colonel Smith need to sit down together.”

Murdock sat back on the bench, his expression one of mild confusion. “Doc, this

isn’t the way it’s done, you know. You’re not even trying to pull any psychological

mumbo-jumbo on me. You’re supposed to sneak up on the patient. Ambush them with

revelations. Not let ‘em know about the head games you’re playing until they fall over

them like a tripwire.”

“And do you honestly think that I’d dare to insult your intelligence by doing

that?” Hammond responded. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Tripwire, huh?”

He stiffened and looked down, his lips drawn in and his teeth visible.

“That’s the first military reference you’ve made.” He put a hand on Murdock’s

shoulder and lowered his voice. “Is that how they got you? In ‘Nam?”

Murdock hissed and looked away. “Then again, who needs the mumbo-jumbo

when the patient steps in to his own bear trap. Am I right?”

With his three exposed fingers hooked under the receiver, Murdock lowered his

arm and hung up the phone on Doctor Hammond’s desk, then walked around and sat

down in the chair opposite Hammond. He settled his bandaged limbs onto the arms of

the chair and fixed the doctor with a dark look.

“If this is a trap for Hannibal, Doc,” he said in a deep, menacing voice, “then I

swear to you that I will not rest until I get revenge.”

Hammond shook his head. “No traps, no tricks. This is something that is crucial

to your recovery. I’m your doctor, you are my patient, and these are your friends, and

this is a case where everything has to be done in everyone‘s best interests. No

deceptions.”

“So what should we say to each other? I mean, what do we talk about?”

“I don’t know. It’s the first things that come out of your mouths that need to be

discussed, because whatever does come up, you can bet there’s more behind it than you

thought there was.” He raised his eyebrows. “How’s that for mumbo-jumbo?”

“I’ve heard better,” came the flippant reply. Murdock stirred restlessly in the

chair. “We’ve got a little time before he gets here.”

Hammond blinked. “Yes, I suppose we do. Why?”

“Because, ah… I’m thinkin’ that maybe you and I ought to have a chat about

something.”

“Which would be?” he pressed.

Murdock licked his lips. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve been thinking that maybe we

should discuss some of those secrets you were talking about yesterday. Get some things

off my chest. So do you want to talk about… MACV? Or MAC-SOG? Or ‘Nam?”

“Given that you’ve never really gone in to your experiences in Vietnam, I am

tempted to take you up on that third offer here and now. But let’s just leave that for later.

I think it‘s more important that we all discuss this more recent event and its affect on

you.”

“I found another ‘tripwire,’ huh?” Murdock mumbled.

“Yes, you did. You chose to bring up MACV and MAC-SOG first, just like you

suggested B.A. out of the three of your friends first. That means that talking about those

subjects is less painful to you than talking about ‘Nam. And so I’ll say it again--I’m not

going to let you off that easy. I’m going to make you work for your recovery, Murdock.”

“Yea,” he drawled, “I kinda figured that you would.” His expression sobered.

“You’re right, though. I didn’t have a whole lot of problems with the Army in general,

and it didn‘t give me a lot of grief, being associated with MAC-SOG. It was just another

job. Everything was mostly, ‘here’s your mission, try not to get killed, and get the job

done right.’ You’d get briefed, go out, come back, get de-briefed and get a couple of days

off.” He swallowed. “There were some missions that I went on that I didn’t much care

for the objective,” he said slowly, “but I still did ‘em… and I don’t regret it.”

“We were in a war,” Hammond agreed. “You did what you were ordered to do.

There‘s no shame in that.”

“Exactly.”

Silence settled on the room. Murdock ran the fingers of his right hand over the

gauze on his left arm. Hammond locked his hands together, put them on the desk and

leaned forward.

“What are you thinking right now, Murdock?”

A long pause passed between them.

“Murdock?”

“I… I’m just missing her. That’s all.” He gave Hammond a miserable look.

“She’d be ashamed of me, you know. I haven’t done anything but make things worse.

Like with my arms. I broke V.A. property, made a hell of a mess in the arcade room, and

twice now, the doctors have had to go in and sew ‘em up for me. None of this had to

happen.” He closed his eyes. “None of it,” he repeated.

“This was a warning to yourself,” Hammond explained. “My best advice would

be to consider it a wake-up call, learn from it, and move on.”

Murdock cracked his eyes open. “You know, there’s a… there’s a bit by Richard

Pryor about love. Have you ever hear it? It’s about how guys can be so in love that when

they get their hearts broke, they’ll go around and get hit by buses. After someone gets

run over, one man says, ‘Didn’t he see that bus?’ And the other one goes, ‘That guy

wouldn’t have seen a 747.’ I always laughed at that joke until now.” He closed his eyes

again and let his head fall back. “It’s not so funny when it’s you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Nice accommodations.”

Hannibal Smith looked around the isolation room, obviously ill-at-ease with his

surroundings. The room had no windows and only the one door, which made his usual

method of scanning for escape methods both easy to do and more nerve-wracking. Even

though Doctor Hammond had agreed not to lock the door (and had not pressed the

money-hungry orderly back in to service for the upcoming therapy session), that didn’t

lessen Hannibal’s discomfort. The threatening steely-eyed glare that Hannibal gave

Doctor Hammond, as Hammond closed the door of the confined space, didn’t do much to

make Hammond feel good, either.

Murdock didn’t seem to care. Hammond had no sooner closed the door than

Murdock stepped up within a foot of Hannibal and held out his hand.

“Colonel,” he demanded.

Hannibal reached in to his pocket and slowly extracted a black rectangular device,

which he passed over to Murdock, who slowly waved the device around the room. Then

snapped the dial to “OFF” and handed it back to Hannibal.

“The room’s clean. No bugs.” He gave a sideways glance to Hammond. “Just

like you said.”

“And yet another building block of trust is stacked in to place,” Hammond

replied.

The words brought the hint of a smile to the edges of Murdock’s lips, but it faded

as the silence in the close quarters prevailed, disturbed only by Hannibal’s heavy

breathing. Hannibal moved over to stand against the door. Hammond leaned against the

wall next to him. This left Murdock to pace in the majority of the tiny room. After a few

moments, Hannibal spoke up.

“So why are we in here, in particular?” he inquired. “Why not a standard

isolation room?”

“Because they echo, of course,” Murdock replied, his eyebrows raised. “Your

usual iso room is all about bare walls, concrete floors and a metal door. It lets everyone

in the ward know what you’re thinking and doing.” He paused. “And, well, let’s just say

that not everyone needs to know our business.”

“And our business is…?”

“First, I want to talk about us. Then I want to talk about the war.”

Hammond crossed his arms and put one hand to his chin, studying Murdock’s

body language. Even though Murdock had to be as tired as he felt, nobody would have

been able to tell by the smooth, controlled way in which he moved. It confirmed

Hammond’s initial impression: that Murdock had clearly been through a great deal of

pilot and survival training in order to put such exhaustion on the back burner at will.

“It might be better,” Hannibal suggested, “to leave that second discussion alone.

Or at least, we should talk about it in private.” He nodded at Hammond. “Your doctor

here doesn’t need to know any more about us than he already does. He’s already put

himself out on a limb by not turning us in. More than that, he falsified I.D.s to get Face

and B.A. on V.A. grounds.”

“Not to mention making a few under-the-table payments to get things done below

the hospital‘s radar,” Hammond chimed in. “Out of my own pocket, at that.”

“Speaking of which, just to get the formalities out of the way,” Murdock

remarked with one bandaged hand to his chest, “let me thank you personally for those

efforts, Doctor Hammond. Now…” He cleared his throat as he stopped his restless

pacing, then squared off with Hannibal, who gave him a curious look.

“Colonel,” Murdock began, “one of the things that we’re taught in this lovely

little facility is how to identify our emotions. There are five that we have to choose from.

They‘re all printed on a nice, neat, four-by-six white piece of cardboard, written in pretty

little black block letters. Those emotions are happiness, sadness, guilt, fear and anger.”

Hammond recalled the placard that Murdock referred to. It hung in the patient

common room, where the hospital held group therapy sessions.

“I,” Murdock continued, blank-faced, “am angry.”

“All right.”

His eyebrows went up. “Do you have any idea why I’m angry?”

Hannibal gave a curt nod. “You’ve lost a loved one in a violent and unexpected

manner. It’s only natural.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I’m angry about. That is, I am angry about

losing Kelly, but that’s not what we’re here to discuss. We’re here to discuss,” he said

slowly, “why I’m angry at you in particular.”

Hannibal repeated the nod. “That’s also easy to understand. I was the one who

called you away to duty that day. If you want to get psychological about it,” he added

with a glance at Hammond, “I’m the authority figure that you’re rebelling against.”

Murdock frowned. “That’s an explanation that’s about twenty years out of date,

Hannibal. This isn’t the sixties any more and I‘m not on a college campus, burning my

draft card.”

“Look, Murdock, I don’t have all day to sit here and play Twenty Questions--”

“Ah!” Murdock lifted his arm and pointed at him, though the effort to do so made

him wince with pain. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

A puzzled look came over Hannibal‘s features. “What?”

“We’re on my time schedule right now, Hannibal. Not yours. But oh, no, once

you’re in the room, it’s all about you and what you want and what you need and

everything else… even your friends,” he hissed, “comes second.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” came Murdock’s quick reply. “You cannot, will not, and

have never taken ‘no’ for an answer. It’s gotten to the point where all of us--me, Face,

B.A.--we don’t even dare to tell you ‘no’ any more. Not directly or indirectly. Not in

word or in action.” He stepped forward. “When I went with you that morning, it was out

of conditioning. It wasn’t out of some misplaced sense of duty, because we’re not in the

Army any more. Sure, we run around, using Army titles and showing due respect, but it’s

such a farce sometimes, don’t you think? We are fugitives who are still clinging to the

thing that made us outcasts. Still holding on to what we think defines us.”

“We’re friends,” Hannibal interjected. “That has to count for something.”

“Are we?” he inquired in a harsh tone. “Friends would care. Friends would show

some sympathy, at least. But you know what I’ve gotten from you? From all three of

you? A step-back approach. Not one of you ever asked, ‘Are you all right, Murdock?‘

Not one of you has said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Nobody has so much as given me a

hug, for crying out loud. It’s like you’re all just waiting for good ol’ Murdock to come

back on the scene, just as wacky as ever.”

“You’re wrong. We don’t have any expectations, Murdock,” Hannibal replied.

“That’s what our friendship is all about.”

Murdock chewed on his bottom lip. “Maybe I need some expectations, you know.

Maybe that’s part of what my anger is tied to. See, I had two reasons why I didn’t kill

myself out there on the bluffs the other day. The first was because of Kelly. You see, as

long as I’m alive, and I can remember the way she looked and the way she smelled and

the sound of her voice, then to some degree, she’s still here on this earth. As a part of me.

In here.” He paused and touched his chest. “The second reason was because of that

conditioning of yours. You expected me to be there when you got back, and I obeyed.

The good little soldier, showing due respect to his leader. Even in a moment of personal

crisis.”

“Are you going to blame that reaction on me,” Hannibal challenged him, “or on

the Army?”

Murdock shook his head in a dismissive manner. “Oh, I can’t blame it on the

Army. Heck, I don’t even blame the CIA.” He drew in a slow breath. “Doctor

Hammond mentioned that I had ‘secrets,’ and that I had to confront those secrets if I

wanted to get over what losing Kelly has done to me. Now, there are a lot of secrets but

the biggest one is that… I didn’t just work for them a few times. I WAS them. I was

their man inside. I was inside the inside, really--not just keeping an eye on the activities

of our soldiers in an unpopular war, but also keeping an eye on the Army and MACV, and

even SOG.”

Hannibal wiped one hand over his mouth. “You were a spook, spying on the

military? On your own?”

“Until I met you, and Face and B.A. I was, yes. Then we got to know each other.

Hang out together. Work with each other. And, slowly, I realized that I’d had enough of

that kind of life and that I wanted out. The problem was that the CIA had invested a lot

of time and money in me, and they owned me, and nobody gets out of it that easy, you

see. But I did, after… Hanoi.”

“The chopper crash in the jungle,” Hannibal remarked. “Getting captured and

escaping from the Viet Cong. You never talk about it--”

“I don‘t need to talk about it,” Murdock interrupted sternly. “They only had me

for a week. That was nothing. That was a blip. Feel sorry for the guys they held on to

for years. My experience was nothing compared to theirs.”

Hannibal slowly shook his head. “No, Murdock. Whatever happened to you, it

drove you over the edge. I was there, remember? I saw how badly you were torn up.”

Murdock’s face took on an odd expression, then with a great deal of mental effort,

he pushed aside whatever thoughts had come to his head and his face smoothed out.

“That little bout of temporary insanity,” he said softly, “started before the crash.

Hell, Hannibal, for all I know, it might have even caused the crash.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took a life in Vietnam.”

Both Hammond and Hannibal froze at the words--Hammond, because nothing in

Murdock’s records had ever suggested that he’d killed anyone, and Hannibal because the

notion of his friend doing such a thing ran completely against his impression of Murdock.

Murdock nodded. “I did it for a very good reason, Hannibal, and that’s all you

ever need to know. Hopefully you’ll never find out the details, because I would hate for

you to think any less of me because of it.” He gave Hannibal a long look. “But it was

devastating because it went against all my training. It broke me. I… phased out. Over a

week of my life was lost to Vietnam, from about a minute after I pulled the trigger and

saw what I’d done, until you started talking to me in the hospital.”

Hannibal swallowed. “Was it the enemy, at least? Not… one of us?”

He nodded, but his face took on that odd expression again. “It was the enemy,

yes.” He studied Hannibal’s face, then gave him a pleading look. “Please, Colonel, don’t

think about it too much. Just know that it was the right thing to do, and that I have paid

the price for it.”

Hammond spoke up. “You certainly did. What you experienced put you in to a

fugue state. Lacunar amnesia is one-time amnesia, but since this kind of thing has

happened again--” he indicated Murdock‘s arms, “--it‘s more along the lines of

dissociative amnesia.”

Murdock gave him a look. “Yea, excuse me, but I don’t have my reference guide

from the AMA.”

Hammond smiled. “Sorry.”

“The problem was that the bout of mental illness I suffered might not have been

enough to end my career with the CIA. So I had to expand on it. Stretch it out. Go

totally off the wall and stay there--”

“And ten years later, here we are,” Hammond finished. “Am I right?”

“Quite right, yes.”

With a long sigh, Murdock leaned against the wall, then slumped to the floor--a

burden lifted. He glanced up at Hannibal.

“Seeing as how I’ve just gone beyond revealing classified information,” he said

slowly, “I will have to ask you not to tell the guys.”

Hannibal stood up a bit straighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tell

them what?”

“Exactly.” He let out a long sigh. “Anyhow, since I’m too tired to be angry any

more, and my hands are hurting pretty badly, let me just wrap this up by saying that I still

am, a bit. After all I’ve done for you, and for the A-Team, Hannibal… well, I would’ve

liked something for myself.”

“Kelly.”

“Yea.” The word came out as little more than a puff of air.

With a tight smile, Hammond seated himself beside Murdock. “Tell me how you

feel,” he encouraged Murdock.

A weak smile came over him. “I feel… like I really want to take a nap.”

After a moment, Hannibal stepped up to Murdock and knelt down, then reached

out and put one hand on Murdock‘s thigh. “So are we good, Captain?”

Murdock winced as he laid one hand gently on top of Hannibal‘s. “Yes, Colonel.

We’re good.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Doctor William Hammond picked up H.M. Murdock’s hands and pulled the man’s

arms straight out in front of him, then smiled as he studied the fairly well-healed scars.

Murdock also looked at the damage he’d done to himself, and let out a hum of mild

surprise before his face broke in to a grin.

“You see? Face was right,” he said. “That cream from the clinical trial really is

making those scars fade.”

“I suppose that’s the benefit of being in the backyard of a major university

hospital like UCLA. And having a friend like yours who’s a professional scam artist.

There‘s nothing he can‘t get his hands on, is there?”

“No, sir, there isn’t.”

Hammond let go of him, and Murdock rubbed his arms with his hands.

“The physical therapy’s going really well, too,” Murdock continued. “I’ve got a

lot of feeling back, the muscles are getting stronger…” He paused and held up his left

hand, the fingertips slightly curled in, and his smile faded a bit. “The left one’s still

givin’ me trouble,” he admitted, “But I’ll keep working at it. Maybe it won’t ever be one

hundred percent again, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m lucky to have it.”

“Don’t worry too much. It’s only been a month and a half. I’d say you’ve made

tremendous progress--on every front.”

Murdock nodded and stretched his arms out on the armrest. “Pretty much every

front, Doc.”

Hammond nodded in understanding. While Murdock had tackled some major

issues in regards to Kelly’s loss, he still experienced occasional moments of grief and

anger. He’d had a setback several days earlier, when in casual conversation, Face

flippantly described Kelly as a “former distraction.” Murdock’s knee-jerk reaction

involved a level of verbal abuse that transcended almost all the displays of anger that had

come before it, as Murdock accused Face of not being worthy enough to say her name

and of being a heartless bastard. The other profane descriptions that followed would have

been enough to destroy their friendship… had Face not unexpectedly broken down in

tears; Murdock’s remorse came out, and Face offered a sincere apology in order to heal

the temporary rift.

Later on, when Hammond asked Face about what made him cry, Face admitted

that he feared Murdock had gone over the edge again, this time because of him, and that

he felt guilty over his words. Although Face didn’t say anything more on the subject,

Hammond couldn’t help but think back to the accusations of Hannibal’s conditioning, and

how more than behavior modification bound those three men to their leader.

Rather than mention the argument and let Murdock know what went through his

mind (still, in his own private way, trying to keep the upper hand on his intelligent

patient), Hammond leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “Some day, I’m sure you’ll

get that week in Vietnam back, Murdock. Don’t worry too much about that, either. I‘m

just sorry that I couldn‘t help you uncover those memories.”

“Yea, well, I’m startin’ to think that it’s a good thing that I can‘t remember,”

Murdock replied. “Whatever traumatic events took place when I fugued out, I don’t

think I want ‘em back.”

“But there is a clue that we have to go on as to what happened to you at that

time,” Hammond pointed out.

“Which is?”

“In relation to something Hannibal said. He said when you talked to him after

your ordeal, you mentioned something about being grateful that the Viet Cong hadn’t

‘gotten’ to him.” He paused. “Would you like to know what that suggests to me? Or can

you guess?”

Murdock’s lips pulled in. “Yea,” he whispered. “I can guess.”

“Do you want to… talk about that guess?”

A click emitted from Murdock’s throat as he forced himself to swallow. “Not

really, no,” came the faint reply.

Hammond nodded as he accepted the short answer. The discussion would have

been pure speculation, anyway… but Murdock’s resistance to simply talking about what

that telling statement might have meant, coupled with the related circumstances tied to

the death of his fiancée, would at least give Murdock something to think about in the

future. Hammond hoped that maybe it would even unlock that closed door in his mind at

some time or another.

He settled down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Murdock, do

you mind if I tell you something about my life?”

“No, not at all. Go ahead.”

“When I got out of boot camp and was sent to Vietnam, my uncle--a colonel--

pulled some strings to have me at his command.” He curled his lip up in self-disgust. “I

was just a pansy, as far as he was concerned. He had me there so he could keep me under

his thumb and go through that good old tradition of ‘making a man out of me.’ Getting

rid of the wimp and replacing him with a grunt that he could be proud of.” His

expression shifted to one of bitter amusement. “When that failed, he had me transferred

back to the States. To wait out the war at an Army base just outside of Maryland. Fort

Meade.”

Hammond looked away for a moment, then back at Murdock.

“My uncle was not a nice man, either before the Army or during his service. Any

illegal activities going on that would earn him money, he was on top of them. Everything

from gun-running to prostitution, he had a piece of the action. I think when he realized

that I had more morals and more brains than he would’ve liked, he considered me a

threat… but you can’t exactly do anything to your own nephew and expect to get away

clean, can you? My transfer took place the day before something big was going down,

but I never found out what.”

“Would you have told someone, if you did?” Murdock asked.

“Yes,” came the quick reply. “Because I got the distinct impression at the time

that he’d gotten involved in something bigger and more dangerous than he had a right to

mess with, something that involved the enemy. And he should’ve been stopped, but

without any proof, I didn‘t know how to go about doing that.” Hammond shifted in his

seat. “The next day… he was killed.”

“How?”

“He died in his office. At his desk. Shot twice in the head.”

Hammond studied Murdock’s reaction, but not the slightest sign of either

deception or understanding could be found in those wide brown eyes.

“Whoever did it,” Hammond continued, “did us a favor. Nobody outside of the

military ever learned about my uncle’s activities in Vietnam. To them, he died as close to

a hero as you can get… given that he was murdered, of course.”

“Of course,” Murdock mumbled. A dawning look began to creep in to his eyes.

Hammond let out a short puff of air, both of relief and of ironic laughter. “As the

old expression goes, someone did me a solid. My uncle didn’t die as a mislabeled ‘baby

killer’ in the jungle and the family never knew about his activities over there. Instead, he

was a victim that would be remembered with respect. At that time in our country’s

history, I’m sure you can appreciate what that meant.”

Murdock nodded. His hands closed in to fists and his body became rigid, but he

said nothing.

“When I first got here, to the V.A.,” Hammond continued, “and I heard that you

were one of the patients in the hospital, I all but begged to be given your case file. I

desperately wanted H.M. Murdock to be under my care.” He waved a hand towards the

window. “This is the third V.A. facility that I’ve been at, and I know how they tend to

treat patients here, so I wanted to make sure that a member of the A-Team was receiving

proper care.” He gave another meaningful pause. “Because you guys did me a solid.”

Murdock’s fists grew tighter, and the knuckles whitened.

“Now.” Hammond clasped his hands together and leaned forward over the desk.

“While I don’t know which one of you might’ve done it, I have my suspicions.”

“And you’re not mad?”

“No,” came the truthful reply. “Murdock, you are a highly intelligent and highly

skilled former CIA-trained operative. You have a lot of talents, and you are in many

ways the heart of the A-Team. But for your sake--for the sake of your future mental

health--I’m asking you to please tell me about what happened.”

Murdock forced himself to swallow.

“This is all a part of doctor-patient confidentiality,” he reassured his patient.

“And yea, I’ll admit, it’s also to satisfy my own curiosity. But you need to talk it out.”

He reached out to the thick folder on his desk and rested one hand in it. “The majority of

what’s in your record consists of lies that you made up in order to get out of the CIA, but

you have been through two--quite serious--mental breakdowns, and those must be

addressed and treated. It’s not fair that you continue to suffer. Not to you, or to your

team, or even to Kelly.”

The use of Kelly Stevens’ name earned Hammond a sharp glare, but no verbal

rebukes such as Face had endured.

Hammond’s body trembled slightly as he struggled to suppress his emotions.

Only a slight pleading tone in his voice gave away the depth of his concern for Murdock.

“Let me do this for you,” he asked quietly.

Murdock forced his mouth open. It stayed that way for about half a minute as he

pondered his words.

“Doc, I do honestly believe,” he finally began, “that you have helped me get over

the pain of losing Kelly. You got me through the worst of it, and I am grateful. But

you’re asking me to talk about something that the Army doesn’t know, that the

government doesn’t know and that even Hannibal doesn’t know.”

Murdock paused and licked his lips, then looked away, towards a corner of the

room, then closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, and his face took on a peaceful

expression as he envisioned Kelly standing there, almost glowing as he brought her

image fresh to his mind. As if receiving an answer, his eyes opened and he looked at

Doctor Hammond with a blank, empty stare, then spoke without hesitation.

“When I dropped the guys in North Vietnam and got back to H.Q., I overheard

Colonel Samuel Morrison--your uncle--talking on the phone. In Vietnamese. And he

used the name of a known Viet Cong general in that conversation… well, it was not a

name that would’ve been known to your average soldier, but our organization had been

keeping tabs on him for quite a while.” Murdock gave his head a sharp shake. “In that

conversation, he also mentioned using my guys as ‘muscle’ for their operation. He ended

the call, turned out the lights, left his office… and I went in.”

Murdock’s gaze flicked past Hammond.

“I wanted evidence,” he continued. “I wanted proof that what I had heard was

true, and that Colonel Morrison was working for the Viet Cong. So I searched through

his office. Came up dry. I’ll say this about your uncle, Doc. He knew how to cover his

tracks.” He took in a slow breath. “A little while later, I heard him coming back down

the hall. There was nowhere to hide, so I just turned off the lights and stepped in to the

corner, hoping that he’d just come, get whatever he needed, then leave again.”

He wiped at his mouth with his weak left hand.

“But the longer I stood there, the madder I got, man. Just thinking about how he

was using us this way. I mean, this was in the middle of a war! I’d risked my life just

flying the guys there and back, never mind what they were doing in Hanoi, right under

the nose of the V.C. And he lied to us--it hadn’t even been for a good reason. We didn’t

do it to put an end to the war, like he said. We did it so he could fill his own hungry little

pocketbook.”

“What happened, Murdock?”

Murdock glanced back at Hammond, then looked away again. “I had my pistol

out. I was mad, but I couldn’t just shoot him down in the doorway. I still needed

answers. I needed proof. Then the door opened, and I saw his arm come up as he

reached for the light switch. So I started talking. In Hannibal’s voice.” His eyebrows

went up and he offered up a tiny, proud smile. “I can do voices pretty well, y’know. I

wanted to mess with him a bit. And sure enough, Hannibal’s voice stopped him cold,

because it was so unexpected. He followed my instructions, didn’t turn on the light, and

just went around and sat down at his desk like I told him to do… or, well, just like

Hannibal told him to do.”

The smile evaporated. “And just like I’m doing now, he talked. He told me his

entire plan. Offered me a cut.” His lips twisted. “Can you believe that? He has me drop

my guys off in a danger zone, and then he’s talking about having me betray them. Betray

my team.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘Hannibal’s team‘?” Hammond interjected.

Murdock fell silent, thinking, as Hammond ventured on to the subject.

“Is that part of what you never addressed with Hannibal? I mean, you are the

senior officer in this group. You’re a Captain. You outrank everyone, and your skills are,

in many ways, superior to the others. Don’t you think that you should have been in

charge of the A-Team?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I was never a leader. Not in college, not in the

Army, not in any training session that I participated in. Okay, yea, I admit that I feel a bit

of… resentment. But it’s not towards Hannibal--it’s towards myself. For being good at

the things I can do… just not good enough.”

Hammond sat back, and Murdock continued his story.

“Colonel Morrison knew it was me by the time he offered me a cut of the action,

by the way. He turned on the light. We talked for a while.”

“What was the trigger point?” Hammond asked quietly.

Murdock squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then stood up and began to pace

alongside the desk, his right hand clenched in a fist and his left hanging loose by his side.

Hammond watched him closely. His movements seemed sharper, like those of a different

man (a younger man, Hammond’s mind whispered), as he watched Murdock

unconsciously reenact that evening.

“He just would not shut up!” Murdock explained through clenched teeth. “He just

kept talking, and talking and talking. Explaining how he got involved with the Viet Cong

general. What he was really going to do with the money. How he and the general had

other people waiting until after the break-in, and how they were going to scoop up

whatever was left behind. How my guys were going to get the blame for clearing out the

entire bank. How I‘d be in the clear, because he had kept me safe. How he had been

‘watching me’ and wanting me as his second-in-command…”

Murdock stopped cold with his right arm extended towards Hammond. Then,

almost ashamed, he lowered his arm and quickly sat back down.

“That’s probably what did it,” Murdock admitted. “Knowing I’d be second

banana again, only this time, it wouldn’t be in a buddy-type situation like with the team.

It’d be siding with the enemy. For profit. The thing is, Doc, I’ve never cared about

money. I’m not a greedy person. So long as I’ve got enough around to take care of

myself, I don’t see no reason to stockpile it.” He sighed through his teeth. “He was still

telling me all about how great life was gonna be once I had a few million in the bank,

when I flipped the safety off and shot him.”

Hammond nodded slowly. He said nothing, and let Murdock continue.

“There was no pause between shots,” Murdock said in a low voice. “I did not

hesitate, and I did not regret it. And I wanted to make sure.”

It took Hammond a minute to find the right words to say, but finally he uttered

them. “Thank you, Murdock.”

Murdock fixed Hammond with a baleful look. “I killed a fellow soldier,” he

reminded the doctor. “A man with a wife, kids, and a member of the United States

Army.”

“You killed a man,” Hammond corrected him, “who was in collusion with the

enemy. The penalty for that particular crime during wartime is capital punishment. All

you did was shorten his walk to the electric chair.”

“I took a life!” Murdock cried out. “A real, human life! I didn’t bayonet some

dummy on a training field. I didn’t shoot some paper target during marksmanship

practice.” He leaned forward and held out his right hand hand, palm up, in front of him,

then curled his fingers in as he spoke. “I put a pistol to the head of a living, breathing

human being and snuffed that life out in a matter of seconds. I took his insides and put

them outside. And maybe what I did was the right thing in the end, but I… me… I didn’t

have to do it, Doctor Hammond! That should‘ve been someone else‘s job, far down the

line, a long way from that confrontation in his office. After a trial, after the evidence

came out, after that scumbag had been locked behind bars for a while… then justice

could‘ve been served. But I… shouldn‘t have been the one!”

“But you made yourself the one,” Hammond pointed out. “Don’t you see? What

you did,” he said in a softer tone, “is to take charge. You confronted a situation that

threatened you and your team, and in that moment, you did the right thing to protect those

under you, and to be the leader that you’ve always wanted to be.”

Murdock slid back in his chair, blinking rapidly. “You don’t understand,” he

breathed. “I acted without orders and without intelligence information. If I had, I’d have

found out that the V.C. were going to bomb the compound in order to take everything

from Colonel Morrison for themselves. And they did bomb H.Q. They were going to kill

him anyway, I just--” A bitter expression came over his features and his shoulders

hunched with the effort of his words. “I made sure that he paid for his crime. Personally.

And you want to know what eats me up sometimes? Knowing that it’s almost as if I

made sure for them. For the enemy! I can’t help it, but it still feels like I did the enemy a

favor.”

“You stepped up,” Hammond told him in a firm voice, “for the good of the men

under you, Captain, and for the good of the United States during a wartime situation. You

did what you felt was right at the time that the situation arose, and that’s all that anyone

could have asked from you. I’m sorry that nobody is ever going to know that, but I hope

that now that you do, you can find some peace in that. I hope that, in some way, it helps

you to live with what you went through.”

They came slowly… those first few tears. Tears that had never been shed at the

time. Tears that Murdock thought he’d buried long ago in both real and mocked-up

madness.

“What I went through,” he repeated in a shaky voice.

“Murdock, someone took you, used you, took everything you’d learned and

practiced and trained for, and turned it inside out for their own greedy purpose. More

than that, they used other people--your team--as pawns. From what I can see, nobody in

your team is a victim… because you’ve got each other’s backs. You won‘t let each other

be victims.”

Murdock clapped his hands over his eyes and leaned forward, breathing heavily.

“And when you crashed in to the jungle,” Hammond continued, “you were still

refusing to be a victim. You can say to Hannibal that being in the hands of the enemy

was a ‘blip’ if you’d like, but I don‘t buy it. You overcame some incredible odds,

Murdock. Give yourself credit for those.

And with that, Murdock finally broke down and weeped. Over a decade of pain

and confusion and anguish bubbled out of him, and he rocked and cried and, a few times,

even screamed out the pain. Hammond leaned back in to his chair and closed his eyes.

Every instinct he had told him to go and hold Murdock, but he knew that logically, he

could not do that. It would be too… victimizing for him. It would make the proud

soldier feel ashamed for his reaction when, in fact, his reaction fit perfectly with the way

that he should feel. Hammond waited until the crying slowed down before he spoke

again.

“Now we’re square,” Hammond said softly. “You guys did something for me, and

I’ve repaid the favor.”

“I don’t know if it’s such a favor,” Murdock replied in a tight voice. He took a

minute to wipe at his face and get his breath back, sniffing repeatedly, then he cleared his

throat and spoke again. “You’ve done more than just get me through the rough spots,

here. You’ve seen me without the ‘Murdock’ edge. That means I’m going to be judged

sane now, aren’t I?”

“I’ve always thought that pet ownership is a big responsibility,” Hammond said.

Murdock shook his head and looked at Hammond with red-rimmed eyes filled

with confusion. “Huh?”

“You’ve got to learn to keep Billy on a leash, Murdock,” Hammond said in all

seriousness. “If you really love your dog, you’ll look after him. You’ve been letting him

run around this office throughout our whole session. That ain’t right, man.”

A slow grin crept over Murdock’s face.

“And now,” he said as he stood up, “I think it’s time that you head back to your

room, Mr. Murdock. We’ve had a long session and I know you’re tired--”

Murdock mirrored his actions, and Hammond walked around the desk and put an

arm around Murdock’s shoulder. The two men strolled to the door.

“Now, I know that it was mean of me to yell at Billy like that,” he continued in a

light tone, “but you can’t be letting an animal do that kind of thing in someone’s office,

am I right?”

“But… but Doc,” Murdock broke in. “Billy didn’t mean no harm. I mean, we all

gotta go some time, don’t we? Huh?”

Hammond opened the door and Murdock stepped out in to the hallway, then

turned and clenched his fists. They glanced at a nurse who happened to be walking by at

that moment.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Murdock.”

Murdock took a step back, nearly bumping in to the nurse, who let out a sound of

surprise and put a hand on Murdock’s arm.

“Ya still oughta not yell at a man’s dog like that!” Murdock screeched at Doctor

Hammond before the door closed.

Murdock wiped his still-moist eyes as the nurse put another comforting hand on

his arm.

“It’ll be all right, Mr. Murdock,” she consoled him.

“But he yelled at my Billy, nurse!” Murdock whined. “I mean, he’s… he’s just a

sweet, innocent little--” He gave a sharp jerk, then pointed a finger at the floor. “Quiet,

Billy! You be quiet, now, I’m talkin’ to the nice nurse, here--”

Murdock put one hand up and then pushed down. “SIT, Billy! I said SIT! You

mind me, now!” he shouted sternly before he turned back to the nurse and sniffled. “Doc

didn’t have to lose his temper. I mean, Billy didn’t mean him no harm. When a dog’s

gotta go, a dog’s gotta go.”

“Of course, Mr. Murdock,” she consoled him. She gave a gentle tug on his arm.

“Come on, let’s go back to your room now. It‘ll be all right…”

On the other side of the door, Doctor William Hammond smiled to himself and

leaned against the wall.

“I think you’re right, nurse,” he muttered. “I think it will be all right now. I truly

do.”

END