Last Man Standing by David Baldacci
whole lot of help, is it? How much is the Bureau paying you to tell me nothing?” He abruptly got up and left.
Once again Claire didn’t try and stop him, not that she could have. She had had patients walk out on her before, although never during their first two sessions. Claire settled back in her chair and started going over notes and then picked up a recorder and started dictating.
Unknown to Claire, hidden in the smoke detector attached to the ceiling was a sophisticated listening device that ran off the building’s electrical current and also had a battery backup. Every psychiatrist and psychologist who worked here had a similar listening device secretly housed in his office. The phone closet in the office housed additional electronic taps, one of which had broken down, prompting the “repairman’s” visit that morning.
These prying ears had swept up enormous amounts of intelligence on every patient who had come through the doors. Over the last year over one hundred FBI agents from all divisions, including undercover, Public Corruption, WFO, uptown and HRT, and over twenty spouses of those personnel, had come here expecting the utmost confidentiality as they revealed their secrets and problems. They had received anything but that.
As soon as Web stormed out of the office, Ed O’Bannon slipped out as well, rode the elevator down to the garage, climbed in his brand-new Audi coupe and drove off. He picked up his cell phone and punched in a number. It took a few rings, but the phone was finally answered.
“Is this a good time?” he asked anxiously.
The party on the other end answered that it was as good as any if the conversation was short and to the point.
“London came here today.”
“So I heard,” said the voice. “My guy was there to repair a glitch. So how’s it going with old Web?”
O’Bannon swallowed nervously. “He’s seeing another psychiatrist.” He quickly added, “I tried my best to stop it, but no go.”
O’Bannon had to hold the phone away from his ear, so loud and angry was the response from the other person.
“Listen, it’s not what I intended,” said O’Bannon. “I couldn’t believe he would actually see another psychiatrist. It came out of the blue. . . . What? Her name is Claire Daniels. She used to work for me. She’s been here for years, very competent. Under other circumstances there wouldn’t be a problem. I couldn’t make too much of a stink without them getting suspicious.”
The other person made a suggestion that caused O’Bannon to tremble. He pulled the car off the road. “No, killing her would only arouse suspicion. I know London. Too well, maybe. He’s smart. If anything happens to Claire, he’ll latch on to that and never let it go. That’s just how he is. Trust me, I’ve worked with the man a long time. Remember, that’s why you hired me.”
“But that’s not the only reason why,” said the other person. “And we pay you well, Ed. Real well. And I don’t like it one bit that he’s seeing this Daniels chick.”
“I’ve got it under control. If I know London, he’ll come a few times and then blow the rest of it off. But if anything else comes of it, we’ll know it. I’ll keep on top of it.”
“You better,” said the other. “And the second you no longer have it under control is the time we step in.” The line went dead and O’Bannon, looking very distraught, pulled back on the road and drove off.
22
Web had spent considerable time in the Vic cruising the streets near where the slaughter had taken place. He was on unpaid leave and not part of the official investigation. Thus he could request no backup, should he need it, nor did he have a clear idea of what he was looking for. The darkness of the streets was broken by the uniform glare of traffic lights. There were cameras at many of these intersections ostensibly to photograph drivers who ran red lights. However, Web thought they actually might be serving the dual purpose of surveillance devices in these high crime areas. He had to appreciate the ingenuity of the local criminals, though, because many of the cameras had been knocked out of their viewing lanes. Some pointed to the sky, others to the earth, a few at buildings, still others had been smashed. Well, so much for Big Brother.
Web kept checking messages at home. No more wives had called. Cynde and Debbie had probably worked the grapevine, informed the others that they had done the dirty work of getting him clear of all their lives. Web could almost hear the ladies’ collective sigh.
Web had finally made another appointment to see Claire. She did not mention his parting insult and second abrupt exit from her office. She merely noted the time and said that she would see him then. The woman must have a really thick skin, he thought.
There were several other people in the waiting room when Web got there. None of them made eye contact and Web attempted none. He supposed that’s the way it was in a shrink’s waiting room. Who wanted strangers to see you attending to your insanity?
Claire came out and got him with a reassuring smile and handed him a fresh cup of coffee, the cream and sugar already in it, just like he liked it. They settled in her office.
Web slid a hand through his hair. “Look, Claire, I’m sorry about last time. I’m not usually that big a jerk. I know you’re just trying to help and I know none of this is easy to figure out.”
“Don’t apologize for doing exactly what you should be doing, Web, which is getting all these thoughts and feelings out in the open so that you can deal with them.”
He gave her a weak smile and said, “So where to today, Doc? Mars or Venus?”
“To start off with let’s explore post-traumatic stress disorder and really see if it applies to your case.”
Web inwardly smiled. Now, this he could handle. “Like shell shock?”
“That term is very often misused, and I want to get a little more precise. Now, clinically speaking, you have probably suffered traumatic stress with the events that transpired in that courtyard.”
“I’d probably agree with that.”
“Well, let’s test that conclusion. If that is the diagnosis, then there are several proven methods of coping with it, including stress management techniques, proper nutrition and sleep patterns, relaxation drills, cognitive reframing and prescription anxiolytic medications.”
“Damn, sounds simple,” he said sarcastically.
She looked at him in what Web thought was a strange way.
“Sometimes it is simple.” She looked down at her papers. “All right, have you noticed any changes in yourself physically? Chills, dizziness, chest pain, elevated blood pressure, difficulty breathing, fatigue, nausea, anything like that?”
“The first time I went back to the courtyard and went over what happened, I felt a little dizzy.”
“Anything since then?”
“No.”
“All right, have you been excessively excitable since then?”
Web didn’t have to think long. “No, not really.”
“Any type of substance abuse to help you cope?”
“Nothing! I’ve been drinking less, actually.”
“Flashbacks of the event?”
Web shook his head.
“Do you feel numb, wanting to avoid life, people?”
“No, I want to find out what happened. I want to be proactive.”
“Are you more angry, irritable or hostile than normal with people?” She looked at him and smiled. “Present company excluded.”
Web returned the smile briefly. “Not really, Claire. I think I’ve been relatively calm, actually.”
“Persistent depression, panic attacks, heightened anxiety or phobia formations?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Okay, do you have repetitive memories of the event that intrude suddenly on your thoughts? Traumatic dreams or nightmares, in other words?”
Web spoke slowly as he picked his way through this mental minefield. “The night in the hospital, after it happened, I had some bad dreams. They had me drugged up, but I remember I kept apologizing over and over to all the guys’ wives.”
“
Web shook his head. “I’ve been really busy with the investigation,” he said by way of defense. “But I think about it all the time. I mean, what happened in that courtyard, it crushed me. Like a pile driver. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”
“But in your line of work you have experienced death before?”
“Yes, but never to any of my team.”
“Do you find you’ve blocked part of what happened out of your mind, something we refer to as memory dysfunction or amnesiac syndrome?”
“No, I pretty much remember every damn detail,” Web replied wearily.
While Claire looked down at her notes, Web blurted out, “I didn’t want them to die, Claire. I’m sorry that they did. I would do anything to have them back.”
She looked up at him and put aside her notes. “Web, listen to me very carefully. Just because you don’t have the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder does not mean you don’t care what happened to your friends. It doesn’t mean you’re not suffering. You have to understand that. What I see in you is a man who is suffering all the normal symptoms of having gone through an ordeal that would have left most people unable to function, at least for quite a long time.”
“But not me.”
“You have unique skills, years of training and a psychological makeup that aided you considerably in being selected for HRT in the first place. I’ve learned a lot more about HRT since you came to me. I know that the physical pounding and stress they put you through is extraordinary, but the ordeal they put you through mentally is even more daunting. Because of both your physical and psychological makeup, you can deal with more than just about anyone, Web. You survived that courtyard, obviously not just with your life but also with your mind intact.”
“So I don’t have post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“No, I don’t think that you do.”
He looked down at his hands. “Does this mean we’re done?”
“No. Just because you’re not traumatized over what happened in that courtyard doesn’t mean you don’t have some issues that need working through. Perhaps some issues that have been with you since long before you joined HRT.”
He sat back, instantly suspicious; he couldn’t seem to help himself. “Like what?”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about. You mentioned that you felt a part of your colleagues’ families. I’m wondering if you ever wanted a family of your own.”
Web thought about this for a while before answering. “I always thought I’d have a big family, you know, lots of sons to play ball with and lots of daughters to spoil, let them wrap old dad around their pretty little fingers, and me smiling all the way.”
Claire picked up her pad and pen. “And why didn’t you?”
“Years got away from me.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
She looked at his face, both the good and the bad. Web turned away just like he had last time.
“Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Turn the injured side of your face away when someone looks at it.”
“I don’t know, I don’t really think about it.”
“It seems to me, Web, that you think very carefully about everything you do.”
“Maybe you’d be surprised.”
“We haven’t talked about personal relationships. Are you dating anyone?”
“My job doesn’t leave a lot of time for that.”
“Yet the other men on your team were all married.”
“Maybe they were just better at it than me,” he said curtly.
“Tell me, when did you receive the injuries to your face?”
“Do we really have to go there?”
“It seems as though you’re uncomfortable with this. We can go on to something else.”
“No, what the hell, I’m not uncomfortable about it.” He stood, took off his jacket, and while Claire watched in growing amazement, Web undid the top button on his shirt to reveal the bullet wound on his neck. “I got the injuries to my face right before I got this injury.” He pointed to the wound on the base of his neck. “Some white supremacists called the Free Society took over a school in Richmond. While my face was on fire, one of them got me with a .357 Magnum round. Nice clean wound, went right through me. Another millimeter to the left, I’m either dead or a quad. Now, I got another one, but I won’t show you the hole. It’s right here.” He touched the wound near his armpit. “That bullet was what we in the business call a Chunneler round. You know, like the tunnel under the English Channel and those monster drills that dug it? It is damn wicked ordnance, Claire, steel-jacketed. It spirals into you at about Mach Three. And if anything gets in its way, it’s pulverized. It went right through me and then killed the guy behind me who was looking to pop my head open with a machete. If it had been a dum-dum round instead of steel-jacketed, the bullet would still be in me and I’d be dead from a machete sticking in my skull.” He smiled. “I mean, can you believe the timing on that one?”
Claire looked down, remaining silent.
“Hey, Doc, don’t look away, you haven’t seen the best yet.” She glanced up as he cupped his chin with his hand and angled the damaged side of his face so it was fully on display for her. “Now, this beauty came from a flame gusher that almost took out my good buddy Lou Patterson—you know, the late husband of the woman who dissed me to the whole world? I’m sure you saw that on TV, right? Damn shield melted right to my face. They tell me a doctor and a nurse fainted when they saw me at the hospital in Richmond. The whole side was a raw, open wound. Somebody said I looked like I had already decomposed. Five operations, Claire, and the pain, well, let me tell you the pain just doesn’t come any better. They had to strap me down more than a few times. And when I saw what was left of my face, all I wanted to do was put a gun in my mouth and chew on a round, and in fact I almost did. And after finally getting past all of that and checking out of the hospital, it was really fun to see how the women ran screaming when they saw old Web coming their way. My little black book just went right down the old toilet. So, no, I really don’t date that often, and marriage just seemed to take a backseat to important things like taking out the garbage and cutting the grass.” He sat back down and buttoned his shirt. “Anything else you want to know?” he asked amiably.
“I actually saw the Bureau press conference where they revealed a lot about how you received your injuries. What you did was incredibly heroic. Yet it seems like your view of yourself is someone who is unattractive and unacceptable to women.” Then she added, “And I’m also wondering if you think you would have made a good father.”
Damn the woman, she just didn’t quit. “I’d like to think so,” he said evenly, trying very, very hard to keep his temper in check.
“No, I’m asking you if you do think so.”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” he said angrily.
“Do you think if you had children, you would have ever abused them?”
Web came halfway out of his chair. “Claire, I’m about two seconds from walking out of here! And not coming back.”
She stared him down. “Remember, when we first started therapy, I said you had to trust me. Now, therapy is not easy, Web, particularly if you have issues you don’t want to address. All I’m trying to do is help, but you need to deal straight with me. If you want to waste time with histrionics, that’s your call. I’d prefer to be more productive.”
Psychiatrist and lawman stared at each other for a very long moment. Web finally was the one to blink and he sat back down. He had just achieved a much better appreciation for Romano’s plight with Angie. “I wouldn’t have beaten my kids. Why would I, after what Stockton did to me?”
“What you say seems perfectly logical. However, the reality is that most parents who abuse their children were also abused as children. It’s not as easy as learni
“I would never raise my hand to a child, Claire. I know what I do for a living might make me seem that way, but I’m not like that.”
“I believe you, Web. I really do. But more to the point, do you believe you?”