Free Gundown by Ray Rhamey

Stone.”
    Surprised, she said, “You looking at them?”
    He shrugged. “Everything we see appears clean. The way they turn out the vote, they seem to be do-gooders with muscle.”
    “On the surface, yeah, but what worries me is where their so-called reforms could take this country.”
    He shrugged. “All I know is that since they got going good our caseload in Oregon keeps dropping.”
    But Hitler’s Germany had a really low crime rate, too.

    Old Pain, Still Hurts
    Hank was sitting on his hospital bed when an aide came in with a tray of the stuff the hospital served in lieu of food. Hank said, “No thanks, I’ve been discharged and I’m leaving now.”
    “You can still have this.”
    He caught the aroma of a yellow pool of squash the consistency of soup and said, “No thanks, I’m leaving now.”
    The aide grinned. “Don’t blame you.” She left, and he went to his closet to dress. His T-shirt was snug over his bandages. His ribs were wrapped, and the dressing on his arm wasn’t due to come off for a couple of days. But he felt sound enough.
    He had just slipped his Windbreaker over his shoulder holster when a man he’d hoped to never see again stepped into his doorway. Hank had always hated the thought of anybody tinkering with his mind, and this guy had tried his best after Amy and Marcie were— He closed the closet door.
    The psychiatrist stroked his salt-and-pepper goatee, and irritation churned in Hank at the sight of the gesture. But he kept it cool. “Hello, Doc. You’re a long way from the VA hospital. Run out of heads to shrink?”
    Dr. Kensington grinned. “I never finished with yours. Saw the story on the news and thought I’d look in.” He scanned the room. “You’re out of here pretty fast.”
    “Got things to do.”
    The psychiatrist focused on Hank. “How are you feeling these days?”
    Hank shrugged.
    “Having any dreams about kill—”
    “Nope.” He wasn’t about to mention tears on his cheeks when he woke up. The shrink would be all over that.
    Dr. Kensington frowned. “That’s not good, Hank. It’s part of your PTSD. You need to—”
    “I don’t!” The vehemence in his voice surprised Hank . . . but the guy ought to leave well enough alone. He lowered his volume and said, “I’m fine.”
    The doctor studied him. “You’re still troubled by it, aren’t you?”
    Hank lifted a fist, then uncurled it and smoothed his jacket instead. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any reason to be troubled.” He advanced on the doctor, forcing him to back up and step out of the way. “Good to see you.”
    It felt so good to get out of the hospital that the cab ride through Chicago’s muggy air was almost refreshing. Equally refreshing was the anonymity of his high-rise apartment building on North LaSalle—encounters with neighbors were few and far between, the way he wanted it. But it was nice to get a smile from Jim the doorman, a retired cop Hank liked.
    In his bedroom, he glanced at the dirty clothes littering the floor and decided they were fine right there—he had enough clean stuff for his trip. Tidying for guests was no problem, because he never had them. No place to sit, for one thing. He kept things lean: one phone, one TV, one TV tray, one lamp, one table, one chair, one computer, one dresser, one nightstand, one bed.
    He changed into fresh jeans and a black T-shirt, and then packed a suitcase, raiding the bathroom for his anxiety meds, regretting having to leave his stash behind. Weed helped keep the PTSD triggers down. But it was legal in Oregon, so he figured he could get some there. He left his gun and holster. It felt like he was going on a mission naked.
    Back in the living room, he got online, bought a plane ticket to Oregon, and reserved a room at the Ashland Springs Hotel.
    When he scanned the bedroom to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he stopped at the photo of Amy on his nightstand. She gazed up at him, forever five