Casualties.

Anger tightened around Lou’s chest. He forcefully reminded himself that there was nothing to gain from going off at the man verbally, or throttling him by the throat. Filstrup was like someone who knew nothing about weapons being presented a .45 and a full box of ammo.

“Listen, Walter, I think you should just get to the point.”

“The point is,” Filstrup said, slowing his speech to intentionally drag the announcement out, “that after considering all the facts in this case, the board has unanimously approved your suspension from the PWO pending any appeals, effective immediately and without pay.”

Lou showed no surprise because there was no surprise to show. Surprise would have been crunching Filstrup’s peanut nose with a sharp left cross.

“I was right to recommend Meacham for a return to practice,” Lou said finally. “I like this job and I’m good at it. Somewhere out there are answers as to why this happened—answers that don’t have anything to do with his need for psychotherapy. And when I find out what those answers are, I’ll be back to petition the board to reinstate me. The work we do here is too important to be victimized by your narrow views.”

“The only answer you’re going to come up with, Welcome, is that I was right.”

* * *

LOU WAS on the street a block from the PWO headquarters with no recollection of leaving the office or the building. The early afternoon was starting to get seriously warm. His mouth became dry, and he realized he was only a short walk from the dark, cozy, air-conditioned comfort of the Tam o’ shanter, for years his favorite bar.

He walked without thinking of anything but how upset he was with Walter Filstrup. The man was wrong. As usual, he didn’t have any understanding of alcoholism or addiction. The science was there—irrefutable identical twin studies and other excellent pieces of research. Alcoholism was a disease.

Lou stepped beneath the rough-hewn carving of the hat and the words THE TAM swinging over the heavy wooden doorway. The Scottish poet Robert Burns had written the epic poem in 1790, and more than once during his years of drug and alcohol excess, Lou had regaled the patrons of the place by reading the tale of a man who drinks too much and must race a hallucinated Devil for his life.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

How in the hell could Filstrup blame him in any way for what happened in Kings Ridge? Suspending him this way was like shooting the bearer of bad news.

The sounds and smells of the Tam started tapes whirring in Lou’s head. His mouth became even drier. He licked his lips and began thinking how easy it would be to get even with Filstrup by just getting smashed. Furious now, he took a step toward the already-crowded bar. Then he took another.

At that moment, other tapes began playing—snatches of nine years of meetings and long walks and talks.