Last Man Standing

21

The dinner with Debbie Riner and her children did not go nearly as well as Web had hoped. Carol Garcia was there too, with one of her kids. They sat around the dining room table, made small talk and mostly avoided matters having to do with the total destruction of their lives. When the Garcias made the sign of the cross on their chests, Web thought about what he told Danny Garcia before every mission. Web had been right, for God had not been with them that night. Yet all Web said was, “Would you pass the potatoes, please?”

HRT operators didn’t really encourage support groups among their wives. In some cases it was because they didn’t want their spouses to gossip among themselves about their husbands. Operators showed many sides of themselves at training and during missions, and not all good ones. An inadvertent slip by one of them to his wife could spread like wildfire among the women if they seriously networked. In other cases it was to discourage the wives from collectively worrying themselves to death, swapping incorrect information, speculation and outright falsehoods generated by fear of where their husbands were, how long they would be gone, whether they were dead.

The kids poked at their food, slouched in their seats and clearly did not want to be there. They treated Web, who had been their bosom friend, playing and joking and watching them grow up, like they had no idea who he even was. Everyone, even Debbie Riner’s seven-year-old daughter, who had loved Web from almost the day she was born, looked relieved when he said his good-byes.

“Keep in touch,” Debbie said, pecking him on the cheek. Carol merely waved to him from a safe distance, while she clutched her glassy-eyed son to her wide hips.

“You bet, sure thing,” Web said. “Take care. Thanks for dinner. You need anything, just let me know.” He drove off in the Vic, knowing he would most likely never see them again. Time to move on, that was clearly the message of the dinner.

At nine sharp the next morning Web stepped into Claire Daniels’s world. Ironically, the first person he saw was Dr. O’Bannon.

“Web, good to see you. Would you like some coffee?”

“I know where it is. I’ll get it, thanks.”

“You know, Web, I was in Vietnam. Never under fire, I was a psychiatrist back then too. But I saw a lot of guys who were. Things happen in combat, things you never think will. But you know what, you’ll probably be stronger for it. And I worked with POWs who’d been tortured by the damn Viet Cong. It’s terrible what they were put through, classic physical and mental manipulation, ostracizing troublemakers, robbing them of every scrap of moral and physical support. Controlling their lives down to the position of their sleep, turning each individual against the other in the name of the group, as it was defined by their captors. Now, of course it’s not ethical for one psychiatrist to poach patients off the other, although, frankly, I was a little surprised about what happened with Claire. But I think Claire would agree that the paramount issue here is your best interest, Web. So if you ever change your mind about working with Claire, I’m here for you.” He slapped Web on the back, gave what Web assumed was intended to be an encouraging look and walked off.

Claire came out of her office a few moments later, saw him and they made their coffees together. They watched as a uniformed repairman with a box of tools came out of the closet housing the office’s electrical and phone lines and left.

“Problems?” asked Web.

“I don’t know, I just came in,” answered Claire.

As they were making their coffees Web checked the woman out. Claire was wearing a blouse and knee-length skirt that showed off nice tanned calves and ankles, but her hair, though short, was in a bit of disarray. She seemed to note Web’s observation and swiped at the errant strands.

“I’ve been fast-walking around the building in the mornings to get a little exercise. Wind and humidity aren’t really good for hair.” She took a sip of her coffee and added some more sugar. “You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Once in her office Claire perused two files for a bit while Web stared over at a pair of sneakers in the corner. Probably what she fast-walked in. He looked over at her nervously.

“First of all, Web, I want to thank you for having enough confidence in me to let me take over your treatment.”

“I’m not really sure why I did,” he said candidly.

“Well, whatever the reason, I’m going to work hard to make sure your decision was a good one. Dr. O’Bannon wasn’t very happy about it, but the primary concern is you.” She held up a small file. “This is the file Dr. O’Bannon gave me when I took over your case.”

Web attempted a weak smile. “I would’ve thought it would have been thicker.”

“Actually, I was thinking the same thing,” was Claire’s surprising reply. “It shows the notes from a number of standard sessions; he prescribed various medications, antidepressants, again nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So? Is that good or bad?”

“Good, if it helped you, and I’m assuming it did, since you returned to a productive life.”

“But?”

“But maybe your case deserves a little more digging. I have to tell you that I am surprised that he didn’t hypnotize you. He’s very skilled at that, and that is usually part of his course of treatment. In fact, O’Bannon teaches a course at GW, where every third or fourth year he hypnotizes a student and does things like making them block out a letter from the alphabet so they’ll look at the word ‘cat’ on the blackboard and pronounce it ‘at.’ Or make them believe a gnat is flying around their ear, things like that. We do that as part of a routine to demonstrate visual- and auditory-induced hallucinations.”

“I remember we talked about it the first time I saw him years ago. I didn’t want to do it, so we didn’t,” he said flatly.

“I see.” She held up a much thicker folder. “Your official Bureau file, or at least part of it,” she said in response to his inquisitive look.

“So I gathered. I thought they kept that confidential.”

“You signed a release when you agreed to counseling. The file is routinely given to the therapist for help in treatment minus any top-secret or other sensitive information, of course. Dr. O’Bannon transferred the file to me when you became my patient. I’ve been going over it thoroughly.”

“Good for you.” Web cracked his knuckles and looked at her expectantly.

“You didn’t mention in our initial interview that your stepfather, Raymond Stockton, died from a fall in the house when you were fifteen.”

“Didn’t I? Huh, I thought I did. But you didn’t take notes, so you have no way of checking, do you?”

“Trust me, Web, I would’ve remembered that. You also told me you got along with your stepfather, didn’t you?” She looked down at the papers.

Web felt his heart rate accelerate and his ears burn. Her interrogation technique was classic. She had baselined him and had just now jerked his chain using a five-hundred-pound gorilla for added leverage. “We had some differences, who doesn’t?”

“There are page after page of assault claims in here. Some filed by neighbors, some by you. All against Raymond Stockton. Is that what you refer to as ‘some differences’?” He flushed angrily and she quickly added, “I’m not being sarcastic, I just want to try and understand your relationship with the man.”

“There’s nothing to understand because we didn’t have a relationship.”

Claire consulted her notes again, flipping back and forth, and Web watched every movement with growing anxiety.

“Is the house that your mother left you the same one where Stockton died?” Web didn’t say anything. “Web? Is it the same—”

“I heard you!” he snapped. “Yeah, it’s the same one, so what?”

“I was just asking. So, do you think you’re going to sell it?”

“Why do you care? Do you do real estate on the side?”

“I’m just getting a sense that you seem to have issues about the house.”

“It wasn’t a real nice place to have a childhood.”

“I understand that completely, but often to get better and move on you must confront your fears head-on.”

“There’s nothing in that house I need to confront.”

“Why don’t we talk about it some more?”

“Look, Claire, this is getting pretty far afield, isn’t it? I came to you because my team got blown away and it’s messed me up. Let’s stick to that! Forget the past. Forget the house and let’s just forget fathers. They’ve got nothing to do with me or who I am.”

“On the contrary, they have a great deal to do with who you are. Without understanding your past I can’t help with your present or your future. It’s that simple.”

“Why don’t you give me some damn pills and we’ll call it a day, okay? That way the Bureau’s satisfied that I did my little mind massage and you did your job.”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t work that way, Web. I want to help you. I think I can help you. But you have to work with me. I can’t compromise on that.”

“I thought you said I had combat syndrome or something. What does that have to do with my stepfather?”

“We merely talked about that being one possibility for what happened to you in that alley. I didn’t say that it was the only possibility. We need to thoroughly explore all angles if we’re to really address your issues.”

“Issues—you make it sound so simple. Like I’m moping about having acne.”

“We can use another term if you prefer, but it really won’t affect how we approach the problems.”

Web covered his face with his hands and then spoke through this shield. “What the hell exactly do you want from me?”

“Honesty, to the extent you can give it. And I think you can, if you really try. You have to trust me, Web.”

Web removed his hands. “Okay, here’s the truth. Stockton was a creep. Pills and a boozer. He never got past the sixties, apparently. He held some low-level office job where he got to wear a suit to work and fancied himself another Dylan Thomas on his off-hours.”

“So what you’re telling me is he was some sort of frustrated dreamer, perhaps even a phony?”

“He wanted to be more of an intellectual and more talented than my mother, and he wasn’t, not by miles. His poetry was for shit; he never got anything published. The only thing he had in common with old Dylan was the fact that he drank too much. I guess he thought the bottle would inspire him.”

“So he beat your mother?” She tapped the file.

“Is that what it says in the file?”

“Actually, what it doesn’t say in the file is even more interesting. Your mother never filed charges against Stockton.”

“Well, I guess we have to believe the record, then.”

“Did he beat your mother?” she asked again, and once more Web didn’t answer. “Or did he just beat you?” Web slowly lifted his gaze to her, yet still said nothing. “So just you? And your mother let this occur?”

“Charlotte wasn’t around a lot. She’d made a mistake in marrying this guy. She knew it, so she avoided it.”

“I see. I guess divorce wasn’t an option.”

“She’d done that once. I don’t think she felt like bothering with it again. It was easier just to drive off into the night.”

“And she left you with a man who she knew abused you? And how did that make you feel?”

Web said nothing.

“Did you ever talk to her about it? To let her know how it made you feel?”

“Wouldn’t have done any good. To her, the guy never existed.”

“Meaning she repressed the memory?”

“Meaning whatever the hell you want it to mean. We never talked about it.”

“Were you home when your stepfather died?”

“Maybe, I don’t really remember. I’ve sort of repressed it too.”

“The file just said your stepfather fell. How did he fall?”

“From the top of the attic stairs. He kept his secret stash of mind goodies up in the attic. He was wigged out, missed a step, cracked his head on the edge of the opening going down and broke his neck when he hit the floor. The police investigated and it was ruled an accidental death.”

“Was your mother home when it happened, or had she gone out on one of her drives?”

“What, are you pretending you’re an FBI agent now?”

“Just trying to understand the situation.”

“Charlotte was home. She was the one who called the ambulance. But like I said, he was already dead.”

“Have you always called your mother by her first name?”

“Seems appropriate.”

“I imagine you had to feel relief at Stockton’s death.”

“Let’s put it this way, I didn’t cry at the funeral.”

Claire leaned forward and spoke in a very low voice. “Web, this next question is going to be very difficult, and if you don’t want to answer it now, fine. But in instances of parental abuse, I have to address it.”

Web held up both hands. “He never touched my private parts, and he never made me touch his private parts, okay? Nothing like that. They asked back then and I told the truth back then. The guy wasn’t a molester. He was just a cruel, sadistic asshole who made up for a lifetime of insecurities and disappointments by beating the shit out of a boy. If he had messed with me like that, I would’ve found a way to kill him myself.” Web realized what he had just said and hastily added, “But the guy saved everybody the trouble by taking his tumble.”

Claire sat back and put aside the file. This small measure relieved Web’s anxiety somewhat and he sat up. She said, “You obviously remember your time with your stepfather and loathed it for good reason. Have you thought more about any memories with your natural father?”

“Fathers are fathers.”

“Meaning what, you lump your real father and Raymond Stockton together?”

“Saves the trouble of thinking about it too much, doesn’t it?”

“The easy way out usually solves nothing.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin, Claire, I really wouldn’t.”

“All right, let’s go back to the courtyard for a bit. I know it’ll be painful, but let’s go through it again.”

Web did so and it was painful.

“All right, the first group of people you met, you don’t remember that having any sort of effect on you?”

“Nothing other than wondering if one of them would try to kill us or tip somebody off, but I knew the snipers had them covered. So other than the potential of instant death, everything was cool.”

If she was put off by his sarcasm, the woman didn’t show it. That actually impressed Web.

“All right, in your mind’s eye, picture the little boy. Do you remember any better exactly what he said?”

“Is that really important?”

“At this stage we really don’t know what’s important and what’s not.”

Web sighed heavily and said, “Okay. I saw the kid. He looked at us. He said . . .” Web stopped here because he could see Kevin clearly in his mind. The bullet hole in his cheek, the slash across his forehead, he was a little wreck of a kid who had obviously already lived a long, crappy life. “He said . . . he said, ‘Damn to hell,’ that’s what he said.” He looked at her excitedly. “That’s it. Oh, and then he laughed. I mean, this really weird laugh, like a cackle, really.”

“At which part did you feel affected?”

Web thought about this. “I’d have to say when he first spoke. I mean, it was like this fog pushed into my brain.” Web added, “‘Damn to hell,’ that’s exactly what he said. It’s happening again, I can feel my fingers tingling. This is nuts.”

Claire wrote some notes down and then looked at him. “That’s pretty unusual for a young boy to use that phraseology, especially from the inner city. Certainly ‘damn’ and ‘hell’ would be used, but ‘damn to hell’? I mean, it sounds sort of archaic, like from another era. Maybe Puritanical, fire and brimstone. What do you think about that?”

“To me it sounds like from the Civil War or around that time, actually,” said Web.

“It’s all very strange.”

“Trust me, Claire, the whole night was strange.”

“Did you feel anything else?”

Web thought hard. “We were waiting for final orders to hit the target. Then we got them.” He shook his head. “As soon as I heard the orders in my earpiece, I froze. It was immediate. You remember I was telling you about the Taser guns we messed around with at HRT?” She nodded. “Well, it was like I’d been hit with one of those electrified darts. I couldn’t move.”

“Could someone have actually shot you with a Taser gun in the alley? Could that be why you froze?”

“Impossible. No one was that close, and the dart wouldn’t have penetrated my Kevlar. And last but not least, the thing would’ve still been sticking in me, right?”

“Right.” Claire made more notes and said, “Now, you stated before that even though you froze, you were able to actually get up and move into the courtyard.”

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, Claire. It was like I weighed two thousand pounds, nothing on me was working right. And it finally won and I just fell and stayed there. And then the guns started up.”

“When did you start to recover?”

Web thought about this. “It felt like years where I couldn’t move. But it wasn’t all that long. Right when the guns started firing, I felt everything start to come back. I could move my arms and legs, and they were burning like hell, like when your arm or leg falls asleep and the circulation starts going again? That’s what my limbs felt like. And it wasn’t like I needed them at that point, I pretty much had nowhere to go.”

“So it just came back on its own? You don’t remember doing something that might have paralyzed you? Maybe a back problem suffered in training? Have you ever had any nerve damage? That could immobilize you too.”

“Nothing like that. If you’re not in top-notch condition, you don’t go on an operation.”

“So you heard the guns firing and the feeling started to come back to your body?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“The kid, I’d seen a million just like him. And yet he seemed different. I couldn’t get him out of my head. It wasn’t just that he’d been shot, I’ve seen kids like that too. I don’t know. While the guns were firing I saw him again. He was crouched down next to the alley. Another step and he’d have been cut in half. I screamed for him to get back. I belly-crawled over to him. I could tell he was scared to death. He heard Hotel Team coming from one end, me from the other, these damn guns firing. And I could tell he was going to run for it, across the courtyard, and that’d be it. I just couldn’t let that happen, Claire. So many people had already died that night. He jumped and I jumped and I caught him, got him calmed down because he was yelling that he hadn’t done anything, and of course when a kid says that you know he’s hiding something.

“Like I said, I got him calmed down. He asked if my team was dead and I told him yes. I gave him the note and my cap and shot the flare. I knew that was the only way Hotel wouldn’t kill him coming at them in the dark. I just didn’t want him to die, Claire.”

“It must have been an awful night for you, but, Web, you should feel good about saving him.”

“Should I? What did I save him for? To go back to the streets? See, this is a special little kid. He’s got a brother named Big F who runs one of the local drug ops. He’s bad news.”

“So maybe all this could involve some of this Big F person’s enemies?”

“Maybe.” He paused and decided whether to reveal this or not. “Somebody switched kids. In the alley.”

“Switched kids? What do you mean?”

“I mean the Kevin Westbrook that I saved in that alley was not the boy that delivered the note to Hotel Team. And the little boy that disappeared from the crime scene was not the Kevin Westbrook I saved.”

“Why would somebody do that?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and it’s driving me nuts. What I do know is I saved Kevin Westbrook’s butt in that courtyard and the kid he was switched for told Hotel Team that I was this big coward. Why would he do that?”

“Sounds like he was almost trying to intentionally discredit you.”

“A kid I didn’t even know?” Web shook his head. “Somebody was trying to make me look bad, that’s for sure, and must have told the kid just what to say. And then they waltzed right in and waltzed out with the fake kid. He’s probably dead. Hell, Kevin’s probably dead.”

“Sounds like somebody put a lot of planning into this,” said Claire.

“And I’d love to know why.”

“We can only try, Web. I can help you with some of it, but the investigation part is way out of my bailiwick.”

“It actually may be out of my league too. I haven’t really been doing much detecting over the last eight years.” He played with a ring on his finger. “O’Bannon gave me a little pep talk on combat syndrome when I came into the office this morning.”

Claire hiked her eyebrows. “Oh, did he? His Vietnam angle?” She seemed to be trying hard not to smile.

“I didn’t think it was the first time he’d used that line. But is that what you think it is—I mean, despite this other stuff with the kid?”

“I can’t tell you that, Web, not yet.”

“See, I know soldiers get that way. Folks shooting at them and they freak. Everybody can understand that.”

She eyed him closely. “But?”

He started talking very quickly. “But most soldiers get a little boot camp and then they’re thrown into the firestorm. They know nothing about killing somebody. They know nothing about what it’s like to be in the line of fire for real. Me, I’ve trained most of my adult life to do this job. I’ve had stuff coming at me that you wouldn’t believe, Claire. From machine gun fire to frigging mortar rounds that if they hit me there’d be nothing left of me. I’ve managed to kill men with most of the blood in my body pooling on the floor. And never once, not one damn time, did I ever lose it like I did that night. And there hadn’t even been one damn shot fired at that point. Tell me, how the hell is that possible?”

“Web, I know that you’re looking for answers. We have to keep plugging. But I can tell you that when we’re dealing with the mind, anything is possible.”

He stared at her, shaking his head and wondering where the hell he could get off whatever road he was on. “Well, Doc, that’s not a 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.