The Bodyguard (24)
“Nope.”
“I’m just saying, the more I know, the better I can help you.”
“So therapy is included?”
“Sometimes.”
“You signed the nondisclosure agreement, right?”
“Of course.”
Jack thought about it. “Yeah. I’m still not talking about it.”
“Your call,” I said. I’d been so flustered the first time we met that I’d forgotten to run through the Very Personal Questionnaire, and now seemed like as good a time as any. I pulled my “J.S.” file out of my bag. “Let’s do some other questions, though.” We still had thirty minutes on the freeway.
Jack didn’t agree to answer, but he didn’t refuse, either.
I pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Are you on any drugs that we need to be aware of?”
“Nope.”
“Any vices? Gambling? Hookers? Shoplifting?”
“Nope.”
“Obsessions? Secret lovers?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You sound awfully monkish for a world-famous actor.”
“I’m taking a break.”
Noted. I went on. “Anger management problems? Deep dark secrets?”
“No more than anybody else.”
Mental note: a tad evasive there.
I turned back to the list. “Medical concerns?”
“Picture of health.”
“Markings?”
He frowned. “Markings?”
“On your body,” I clarified. “Tattoos. Birthmarks. Moles—remarkable or otherwise.”
“I have a freckle shaped like Australia,” he said, pulling to untuck his shirt.
“Stop!” I said. “I know what Australia looks like.” I wrote down “Australia freckle” and then went on. “Scars?”
“A few. Nothing to write home about.”
“At some point, I’ll need to get pictures of everything.”
“Why?”
I refused to hesitate. “In case we need to identify your body.”
“My dead body?”
“Your live body. Like in a ransom photo. Not that it would ever come to that.”
“That’s disturbing.”
I kept going. “Other physical abnormalities?”
“Like?”
Most people just answered the questions. “I don’t know. Crooked toes? Extra tooth? Vestigial tail? Get creative.”
“Nothing’s coming to mind.”
Okay. Next. “Sleeping difficulties?”
I waited for him to demand examples, but instead, after a pause, he just said, “Nightmares.”
I nodded, like Got it. “Frequency?”
“A couple of times a month.”
A couple of times a month? “Recurrent?”
“What?”
“Is it the same nightmare every time?”
“Yep.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“Do you need to know?”
“I mean, kind of.”
He worked the steering wheel like he was considering his options. Finally, he said, “Drowning.”
“Okay,” I said. It was only one word, but it felt like a lot. Next question. “Any phobias?”
A pause.
Then a curt nod. “Also drowning.”
I noted that in the file and was about to move on when he added: “And bridges.”
“You have a phobia of bridges?”
He kept his voice tight and matter-of-fact. “I do.”
“The idea of bridges or actual bridges?”
“Actual bridges.”
Huh. Okay. “How does that manifest?”
He chewed on the inside of his lip as he weighed his options, deciding how much to share. “Well, in about twenty minutes, we’re going to come to part of the highway that goes over the Brazos River. And when that happens, I’m going to pull over, stop the car, get out, and walk across the bridge on foot.”
“What about the car?”
“You’re going to drive it over the bridge and wait for me on the other side.”
“Is that how you always cross bridges?”
“It’s how I prefer to cross them.”
“But what if you’re by yourself?”
“I try not to be by myself.”
“But if you are?”
“If I am, I hold my breath and keep going. But then I have to pull off the road for a while.”
“Why do you pull off the road?”
“To throw up.”
I took that in. Then I asked, “Why are you afraid of bridges?”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“No.”
“Then let’s just say that America’s infrastructure isn’t nearly as sturdy as we’d all like to think. And leave it at that.”
* * *
WE NEVER DID finish the questions.
When we got close to the Brazos bridge, Jack really did pull over on the shoulder just before the bridge, get out of the Range Rover, and walk across on foot.
I did my part and drove to meet him on the other side.