Last Man Standing

38

Romano picked up Claire and was driving her back to East Winds, taking great care that they weren’t followed.

Claire glanced at the man’s hand and said, “When did you graduate from Columbia?”

Romano looked at her in surprise and then saw that she was staring at the ring on his finger. “Good eye. I graduated longer ago than I’d like to admit.”

“I went there too. Pretty nice, going to college in New York.”

“Nothing like it,” agreed Romano.

“What was your major?”

“Who cares? I barely got in and I barely graduated.”

“Actually, Paul Amadeo Romano, Junior, you entered Columbia at the age of seventeen and graduated in three years near the top of your class with a degree in political science. Your senior thesis was titled ‘The Derivative Political Philosophies of Plato, Hobbes, John Stuart Mills and Francis Bacon.’ And you were accepted into the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard but didn’t attend.”

Romano’s gaze was chilling. “I don’t appreciate people checking me out.”

“Part of a therapist’s job is not only to understand the patient but also to become familiar with significant people in his life. Web must trust you and think highly of you for him to send you to bring me back here. So I did a few mouse clicks and looked you up. Nothing classified, of course.”

Romano still looked at her suspiciously.

“Not many people would have turned down Harvard.”

“Well, nobody ever accused me of being most people.”

“You were awarded a scholarship, so it wasn’t money.”

“I didn’t go because I’d had enough of school.”

“And you joined the military.”

“Lots of people do.”

“Lots of people out of high school do, but not those near the top of their class at Columbia with a free ticket to Harvard.”

“Look, I’m from a big Italian family, okay, we got priorities. Traditions.” He added quietly, “Sometimes people get around to them a little too late. That’s all.”

“So you’re the oldest son?”

He shot her another suspicious glance. “Another mouse click? Damn, I hate computers.”

“No, but you are a junior, and that normally goes to the oldest son. And your father’s deceased and he wasn’t a college man?”

Romano almost pulled the car over. “You’re freaking me, lady, and you better knock it off.”

“I’m not a magician, Mr. Romano, just a humble psychiatrist. You mentioned large Italian family, traditions and priorities. But you didn’t mention expectations. The oldest sons in such families usually face expectations they have to live up to. You said people get around to these traditions sometimes too late. So I’m thinking that you went to college against your father’s wishes, he died, and you left academia to pursue the occupation your father envisioned for you. And yet you still wear your college ring. That’s probably your way of showing you didn’t totally capitualate to living out your father’s plans for you. It’s just observation and deduction, Mr. Romano, just the sorts of tools law enforcement people use every day.”

“That don’t make it any easier to take.”

She studied him. “Do you realize that you talk like an uneducated man at times?”

“You’re pushing my buttons all the wrong way.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re extremely interesting. In fact, you and Web are both interesting. I suppose it comes with the territory. What you do for a living takes a very, very special sort of person.”

“Don’t try and brown-nose your way out of this, Doc.”

“I guess innate curiosity about my fellow human beings comes with what I do for a living. I meant no offense.”

They drove in silence for a while.

“My old man,” said Romano, “wanted only one thing in life. He wanted to be one of New York’s finest.”

“NYPD?”

Romano nodded. “Only he never finished high school and he had a bad ticker. He spent his life on the docks hauling crates of fish and hating every second of it. But he wanted that uniform, man, like nothing else in life.”

“And because he couldn’t, he wanted you to wear it for him?” Romano looked over at her and nodded. “Only my ma didn’t see it that way. She didn’t want me working on the docks and she sure as hell didn’t want me strapping on a gun for a living. I was a smart student, aced the college boards, got into Columbia, did great there and had my sights on maybe even teaching.”

“And then your father died?”

“Ticker finally quit on him. I made it to the hospital right before he died.” Romano stopped and looked out the window. “He said I’d shamed him. He said I’d shamed him and then he died.”

“And with him died your dreams of teaching?”

“I never could bring myself to go out for NYPD. I could’ve made it, easy. I hooked on to the military, made Delta, jumped to FBI and then on to HRT. None of it was too much for me. The harder they tried to hurt me, the more I thrived.”

“So you eventually did become a policeman of sorts.”

He stared at her. “But I did it my way.” He paused. “I loved my old man, don’t get me wrong. But I never shamed him. And every day I think about that being his dying thought. And it either makes me want to start bawling or killing somebody.”

“I can understand that.”

“Can you? I sure as hell never could.”

“You’re not my patient, obviously, but just a friendly piece of advice: At some point you have to live your life the way you want to. Otherwise the building up of resentment and other negative factors can do great damage psychologically. You’ll find that not only will you hurt yourself, but those you love.”

He looked at her with a level of sadness that touched her deeply.

“I think it might be a little too late for that.” Then he added, “But you’re right about the ring.”

“So, talk to me about this hypnosis,” said Web.

Romano had dropped Claire off at the carriage house and gone on to watch over the Canfields. Claire and Web were sitting in the living room staring at each other.

“I know that you didn’t agree to do it with him, but didn’t O’Bannon explain it to you when he offered to hypnotize you?”

“I guess I forgot.”

“Just relax and go with the flow, Web. You know, seat-of-the-pants kind of guy. You’re one of those types.”

“Oh, you think so?”

She smiled at him over the rim of the cup of tea he had made for her. “I don’t have to be a psychiatrist, Web, to see that.” She looked out the window. “This is some place.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I suppose you can’t tell me what you’re doing out here?”

“I’m probably breaking every rule in the book just by having you out here, but I figured Romano would know if anyone was following him.” And it’s not like whoever was behind the killings didn’t know where the Canfields lived, thought Web, because they had gotten the phone bomb in here.

“Romano would make an interesting case study. I identified about five major psychoses, classic passive-aggressive posturing and an unhealthy appetite for pain and violence just in the car ride here.”

“Really? I would have guessed more.”

“And he’s also intelligent, sensitive, deeply emotional, incredibly independent but amazingly loyal. Quite a smorgasbord.”

“If you need somebody to cover your back, there’s nobody better than Paulie. He’s got this rough outside, but the guy has a big heart. But man, if he doesn’t like you, watch out. His wife Angie is even more of a piece of work, though. I found out recently that she’s seeing O’Bannon. So are some of the other wives. I even saw Deb Riner there. She’s the widow of Teddy Riner—he was our team leader.”

“We have a large number of FBI and other law enforcement clientele. Years ago Dr. O’Bannon worked in-house at the Bureau.When he went into private practice, he brought quite a few patients with him. It is a specialty practice because law enforcement people have unique jobs and the stress and personal issues associated with that occupation can be devastating if left untreated. I personally find it all fascinating. And I admire what all of you do very much. I hope you know that.”

Web looked over at her, his expression searching and pained.

“Is there something else bothering you?” she asked quietly.

“My Bureau file you were given. Did it by chance have the background interview with Harry Sullivan in it?”

She took a moment to answer. “Yes. I thought about telling you, but I thought it better for you to find out for yourself. I take it you did.”

“Yeah,” he said in a tight voice. “About fourteen years too late.”

“Your father had no reason to say anything good about you. He was going to be in prison for the next twenty years. He hadn’t seen you in forever. And yet—”

“And yet he said I’d make the best damn FBI agent there ever was or ever would be and you could quote him on that.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Maybe some day he and I should meet,” said Web.

Claire met his gaze. “I think, Web, that that might be traumatic, but I also think it might be a good idea.”

“A voice out of the past?”

“Something like that.”

“Speaking of voices, I was thinking about what Kevin Westbrook said to me in that alley.”

Claire sat up straighter. “‘Damn to hell’?”

“What do you know about voodoo?”

“Not much. You think Kevin put a curse on you?”

“No, the people behind him. I don’t know, I’m just thinking out loud.”

Claire looked doubtful. “I guess it’s possible, Web, though I wouldn’t count on that being the answer.”

Web cracked his knuckles. “You’re probably right. Okay, Doc, pull out your watch and start swinging.”

“I use a blue pen, if you don’t mind. However, first I want you to sit in the recliner over there and lean back. You don’t undergo hyp- nosis while standing at attention, Web. You need to relax and I’m going to help you do that.”

Web sat in the recliner and Claire positioned herself across from him on an ottoman.

“Now, the first thing we need to address are the myths surrounding hypnosis. As I told you, it’s not a state of unconsciousness, it’s an altered state of consciousness. Your brain, in fact, will experience the same brain wave activity it would in a relaxed state, which is alpha rhythm. While in the trance you’ll be incredibly relaxed, but it’s also a heightened state of awareness and of suggestibility and you are in complete control of what goes on. All hypnosis, in fact, is self-hypnosis, and I’m merely here to help guide you to the point where you are relaxed enough to reach that state. No one can hypnotize anyone who doesn’t really want to be hypnotized, and you can’t be forced to do something you really don’t want to do. So you are completely safe. No barking dogs need apply.” She smiled reassuringly. “Are you with me?”

Web nodded.

She held up the pen. “Would you believe this is a pen that Freud himself used?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

She smiled again. “Good, because he didn’t. We use an object like this when hypnotizing patients. Now I want you to become totally focused with your eyes on the tip of this pen.” She held it about six inches from Web’s face and above his natural line of sight. Web raised his head to look at it. “No, Web, you can only use your eyes.” She placed a hand on top of his head to keep it level. Now Web had to direct his gaze nearly straight up to see the tip.

“That’s very good, Web, very good. Most people get tired very quickly, but I’m sure you won’t. I know you’re very strong and very determined, just keep staring, staring at the tip of the pen.” Without seeming to, Claire’s voice had dropped to an even level without being a monotone, her words coming steadily and always in the same soothing manner as she offered him encouragement.

A minute passed. Then, as Web continued to stare at the tip of the pen, Claire said, “And blink.” And Web blinked. Claire could see that his eyes were becoming strained staring from that very uncomfortable angle, and then they started to water. And he had actually blinked first and then she had instantly said, “And blink.” But he wouldn’t be sure of the sequence of events. He was too busy concentrating on the pen’s tip, on keeping his eyes open. But it made him believe something had happened, that she was slowly assuming control over him. Even if he’d been through it before he would still be wondering whether this hypnosis thing actually worked. First came eye fatigue, and next came mind confusion. All to get him relaxed enough to open up.

“You are doing so well, Web,” she said, “better than just about anyone. You’re getting more and more relaxed. Just keep staring at that tip.” And she could tell he was so determined to keep staring, to keep getting that encouragement. He was a classic overachiever, she easily deduced; he was eager to please and receive praise. He needed attention and love because he obviously had not gotten much of either as a child.

“And blink.” And he did so again and she knew it felt so good to him, relieved the strain. She knew the tip of the pen was starting to grow larger and larger for him, and that he was beginning not to want to look at it anymore.

“And it seems you really want to close your eyes,” Claire said. “And your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. It’s hard to keep them open and it seems you really want to close them. Close your eyes.” And Web did, but he immediately reopened them. That almost always happened, Claire knew. “Keep staring at the pen, Web, just keep staring at the tip, you’re doing really well. Outstanding. Just let your eyes close naturally when they’re ready to close.”

Web’s eyes slowly drifted closed and stayed that way.

“I want you to say out loud the word ‘ten’ ten times fast. Go ahead and do that.”

Web did so and then Claire asked. “What are aluminum cans made from?”

“Tin,” Web said in a proud voice, and smiled.

“Aluminum.”

His smile faded.

Claire continued in her soothing voice, “You know what a strop is? It’s a rough leather strap that men used to use in the Old West to sharpen their razors. I want you to say the word ‘strop’ ten times very fast. Go ahead and do it.”

Obviously very wary now, Web said the word ten times.

“What do you do at a green light?”

“STOP!” he said loudly.

“Actually, at a green light, you go.” Web’s shoulders collapsed in obvious frustration, but Claire was quick to praise him.

“You’re doing really well. Almost nobody gets those answers right. But you look so relaxed. Now I want you to count out loud backward from three hundred by threes.”

Web started to do so. He had counted back to 279 when she told him to start counting backward by fives. He did so until she had him do it by sevens and then by nines.

Claire interrupted and told him, “Stop counting and just relax. Now you’re at the top of the escalator, and that point represents more relaxation. And the bottom of the escalator is the deepest relaxation there is. You’re going to take the escalator down, okay? You’re going to be more relaxed than you’ve ever been. Okay?” Web nodded. Claire’s voice was as welcome and as gentle as a wispy summer breeze.

“You’re going slowly down the escalator. You’re gliding down, as if on air. Deeper into relaxation.” Claire started counting backward from ten and offered soothing words as she did so. At the count of one she said, “You appear to be very relaxed.”

Claire studied Web’s features and his skin color. His body had gone from tense to loose. His face was red, evidencing enhanced blood flow there. His eyelids were closed yet fluttering. She told him that she was going to pick up one of his hands—before she did so, to avoid startling him. She gently took it. The hand was limp. She let it go.

“You’re near the bottom of the escalator. You’re just about to get off. Deepest relaxation, like nothing you’ve ever felt. It’s perfect.”

She once more picked up his hand after warning him first that she was going to do so. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” Web said softly.

“Green, a nice soothing color. Like grass. I’m putting a balloon, a green balloon, in your hand. I’m doing that right now. Do you feel that?” Web nodded. “Now I’m going to pump it up with helium. As you know, helium is lighter than air. I’m pumping up the green balloon. It’s getting more full. It’s beginning to rise. It’s getting fuller.”

Claire watched as Web’s hand rose from the arm of the recliner as if buoyed by the imaginary balloon.

“Now, on the count of three, your hand will drop back to the chair.” She counted to three and Web’s hand returned to the chair. She waited about thirty seconds and then said, “Your hand is now getting cold, very cold, I think I see frostbite.”

She watched as Web’s hand curled and shook. “All right, it’s gone now, all normal, all warm.” The hand relaxed.

Typically, Claire would not have been as elaborate in putting Web through these paces, the deepening of relaxation techniques. Normally she would have stopped with the balloon. However, she had been curious about something, and that curiosity had been answered because Claire concluded that Web was probably a somnambule. Most people in the field would agree that between five and ten percent of the general population was highly susceptible to hypnosis, with the same percentage highly resistant to it. Somnambules went a step further. They were so susceptible to hypnosis that they could be compelled to experience physical sensations hypnotically, as Web had just done. They could also be expected to reliably execute posthypnotic suggestions. And, surprisingly, very intelligent people often were the easiest to hypnotize.

“Web, can you hear me?” He nodded. “Web, listen very carefully to my voice. Focus on my voice. The balloon is now gone. Just keep on relaxing. Now you’re holding a video camera in your hand. You’re the cameraman. What you see through your lens is all that you and I can see, do you understand, Mr. Cameraman?” Another nod. “Okay, my only role is to point you around in time, but you control everything else. Through the camera you’ll be looking in on other people, to see what they’re up to. The camera has a microphone, so we’ll be able to hear too. All right?” He nodded. “You’re doing so well, Mr. Cameraman. I’m so proud of you.”

Claire sat back and thought for a moment. As a therapist who had studied Web’s background, she knew exactly the area she should be focusing on in his past to help him. His most severe psychological problems did not stem from the death of his HRT col- leagues. They came directly from the triangular relationship between his mother, stepfather and himself. And yet her first stop in Web London’s past would be earlier.

“I want you to go back to March eighth, 1969, Mr. Cameraman. Can you get me back there?”

Web didn’t respond for a bit. Then he said, “Yes.”

“Tell me what you see, Mr. Cameraman.” She knew that his birthday was March 8. In 1969, Web would be turning six years old. That was probably the last year he would have been with Harry Sullivan. She wanted to establish a baseline for Web with the man, a pleasant memory, and a birthday party for a little boy would set that tone perfectly. “The relaxed Mr. Cameraman will focus and swing his camera around. Whom do you see?” she prompted again.

“I see a house. I see a room, a room with no one in it.” “Concentrate and focus, swing your camera around. Don’t you see anyone? March eighth, 1969.” She suddenly feared that there had been no party for Web.

“Wait a minute,” said Web. “Wait a minute, I see something.”

“What do you see?”

“A man—no, a woman. She’s pretty, very pretty. She has a hat on, a funny hat, and she’s carrying a cake with candles.”

“Sounds like somebody must be having a party. Is it a boy or a girl, Mr. Cameraman?”

“A boy’s. Yes, and now there are other people coming out, like they were hiding. They’re yelling something, they’re yelling, ‘Happy birthday.’”

“That’s great, Web, a little boy’s having a birthday party. What does he look like?”

“He has dark hair, sort of tall. He’s blowing out the candles on the cake. Everybody’s singing happy birthday.”

“Does this boy hear a daddy singing? How about daddy, Mr. Cameraman?”

“I see him. I see him.” Web’s face was turning red and his breathing had accelerated. Claire watched his physical signs closely. She would not put Web at risk physically or emotionally. She would not go that far.

“What does he look like?”

“He’s big, really big, bigger than anybody else there. A giant.”

“And what is happening between the boy and his giant daddy, Mr. Cameraman?”

“The boy is running to him. And the man’s lifting him up on his shoulders, like he doesn’t weigh anything.”

“Oh, a strong daddy.”

“He’s kissing the boy, they’re dancing around the room and they’re singing some song.”

“Listen carefully, Mr. Cameraman, turn up the sound control on the microphone. Can you hear any of the words?”

Web first shook his head and then nodded. “Eyes, shining eyes.” Claire searched her memory and then it hit her: Harry Sullivan, the Irishman. “Irish eyes. Irish eyes are smiling?”

“That’s it! But no, he’s made up his own words to the song, and they’re funny, everyone’s laughing. And now the man’s giving the boy something.”

“A present? Is it a birthday present?”

Web’s face contorted and he lurched forward. Claire looked alarmed and she sat forward too. “Relax, Mr. Cameraman. It’s just a picture you’re looking at, that’s all. Just a picture. What do you see?”

“I see men. Men have come in the house.”

“What men? What do they look like?”

“They’re in brown, dressed in brown with cowboy hats. They have guns.”

Now Claire’s heart skipped a beat. Should she pull the plug on this? She studied Web closely. He appeared to be calming down. “What are the men doing, Mr. Cameraman? What do they want?”

“They’re taking him, they’re taking the man away. He’s yelling. He’s screaming, they’re all screaming. The cowboys are putting shiny things on the man’s hands. The mommy is screaming, she’s grabbed the little boy.”

Web covered his ears with his hands and was rocking back and forth so violently he was close to tipping the recliner over. “They’re yelling, they’re yelling. The little boy’s yelling, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’” Web was now screaming himself.

Oh, shit, Claire thought. Shiny things on his hands? The police had come to arrest Harry Sullivan right in the middle of Web’s sixth birthday party. Good God!

Claire looked back at Web. “Okay, Mr. Cameraman,” she said in her smoothest, most comforting voice, “just relax, we’re going somewhere else. Take your camera and turn it off for right now until we decide where to go. Okay, your camera is going dark now, relaxed Mr. Cameraman. You see nothing. You’re relaxed and seeing nothing at all. Everyone is gone. There’s no one left yelling. All gone. All dark.”

Web slowly calmed and put his hands down and leaned back.

Claire sat back and tried to relax as well. She had been through some intense hypnosis sessions before and discovered some surprising things about patients’ pasts, but each time was still new, still emotional. For a minute or more Claire wavered. Should she move forward? There was the very real possibility she would never get Web in a hypnotic state again.

“Okay, Mr. Cameraman, we’re moving forward.” She glanced at the notes she had pulled from the file she had placed under a couch pillow. She had waited until Web was under hypnosis before taking them out. She had noted from their previous sessions that the use of files bothered him. That wasn’t unusual, for who would want their life set forth on paper for all to see and scrutinize? And she remembered how she had felt when Buck Winters had pulled the same tactic on her. The pages had dates scribbled on them. She had gotten them from Web’s file and discussions with him. “We’re moving on to . . .” She hesitated. Could he handle this? Could she handle this? She made up her mind and told Web the new date to move on to. It was the date his stepfather had died. “What do you see, Mr. Cameraman?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Claire remembered. “Turn your camera back on. Now what do you see?”

“Still nothing. It’s dark, totally black.”

That was odd, thought Claire. “Is it nighttime? Turn on the light on your video recorder, Mr. Cameraman.”

“No, there are no lights. I don’t want a light.”

Claire leaned forward, as Web was now referring to himself. This was tricky. This now placed the patient right in the bull’s-eye of his very own unconscious. Still, she decided to press forward.

“Why doesn’t the Cameraman want a light?”

“Because I’m scared.”

“Why is the little boy scared?” She had to keep the objectivity here even as Web continued to wander to the cliff of subjectivity. It could be a long way down, Claire well knew.

“Because he’s out there.”

“Who, Raymond Stockton?”

“Raymond Stockton,” Web repeated.

“Where is the little boy’s mother?”

Web’s chest started to heave again. He was gripping the sides of the recliner so tightly his fingers were shaking.

“Where is your mother?”

Web’s voice was high, like a boy still a ways from puberty.“Gone. No, she’s back. Fighting. Always fighting.”

“Your mother and father are fighting?”

“Always. Shhh!” Web hissed. “He’s coming. He’s coming.”

“How do you know, what do you see?”

“The door’s coming down. It always squeaks. Always. Just like that. He’s coming up the steps. He keeps it up here. His drugs. I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him.”

“Relax, Web, it’s all right. It’s all right.” Claire didn’t want to touch him, for fear she would startle him, but she was so close to Web there was practically no discernible space between them. She watched over Web as she would have over her mother if it were the woman’s last minute on earth. Claire prepared herself to end this before it got out of control, yet if they could just get a little further. Just a little further.

“He’s up at the top of the stairs. I hear him. I hear my mother. She’s down there. Waiting.”

“But you can’t see. You’re still in darkness.”

“I can see.” The tone of voice took Claire by surprise, for it was deep and menacing, no longer the cry of a terribly frightened boy.

“How can you see, Mr. Cameraman? What do you see?”

Web screamed the next words out so suddenly that Claire nearly fell to the floor.

“Damn it, you already know this.”

For a split second she was sure he was talking directly to her. That had never happened before in a hypnotic session. What did he mean? That she already knew this information? But then he calmed and continued.

“I lifted up the pile of clothes a little. I’m under the pile of clothes. Hiding.”

“From the little boy’s stepfather?”

“I don’t want him to see me.”

“Because the little boy is scared?”

“No, I’m not scared. I don’t want him to see me. He can’t see me, not yet.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“He’s right in front of me, but his back is to me. His stash is right over there. He’s bending down to get it.”

Web’s voice was growing deeper, as though he were growing from a boy to a man right in front of her.

“I’m coming out of hiding, I don’t have to hide anymore. The clothes are rising up with me. They’re my mother’s clothes. She put this pile up here for me.”

“She did? Why?”

“To hide under, for when he came. I’m up. I’m standing up. I’m taller than he is. I’m bigger than he is.”

There was a tone to Web’s voice now that made Claire very nervous. She realized that her own breath was coming in gasps even as Web had calmed. She had a cold dread of where this was going. She should pull him out. Every professional instinct she had told her to stop this, and yet she just couldn’t.

“The carpet rolls. Hard as iron,” Web said in his deep-man voice. “I’ve got one, had it under the clothes. I’m up now, bigger than he is. He’s a little man. So little.”

“Web,” began Claire. She dropped all pretense of the cameraman. This was getting out of hand.

“I’ve got it in my hand. Like a bat. I’m a great baseball player. Can hit it a mile. Swing harder than anyone. I’m big and strong. Like my dad. My real dad.”

“Web, please.”

“He’s not even looking. Doesn’t know I’m there. Batter up.” She changed tactics again. “Mr. Cameraman, I want you to turn off your camera.”

“Pitch is coming. Fastball. I see it. Easy. I’m getting ready.”

“Mr. Cameraman, I want you—”

“It’s almost here. He’s turning. I want him to. I want him to see this. See me.”

“Web! Turn it off.”

“He sees me. He sees me. I’m swinging for the fences.”

“Turn off the camera. Stop, you don’t see this. Stop!”

“I’m swinging. He sees me, he knows how hard I can hit. He’s scared now. He’s scared! He’s scared, I’m not! No more! No more!”

Claire watched helplessly as he gripped an imaginary bat and swung for the fences.

“It’s a hit. It’s a hit. Slash of red, slash of red. The ball’s going down. It’s going down. It’s a home run, a country mile. It’s outta here. Outta here. Good-bye, good-bye, mister asshole.” He grew quiet for a long moment while Claire studied him carefully.

“He’s getting up. He’s getting back up.” He paused. “Yes, Mom,” he said. “Here’s the bat, Mom.” He reached out his hand as though handing off something. Claire almost reached out her hand to take it before she caught herself.

“Mom’s hitting him. In the head. Lots of blood. He’s not moving anymore. He’s not. It’s over.”

He became silent and slumped back in the recliner. Claire slumped down too, her heart beating so hard she put a hand over her chest as though to prevent it from bursting through. All she could envision was Raymond Stockton plunging down the attic stairs after being hit by a hard roll of carpet and hitting his head on the way down and then being finished off by his wife with the same roll of carpet.

“I want you to completely relax, Web. I want you to sleep, to sleep, that’s all.”

She watched as his body dissolved even farther into the chair. As Claire looked up, she received another shock. Romano was standing there, staring at her, his hand near his gun.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

“He’s under hypnosis, Mr. Romano. He’s all right.”

“How do I know that?”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me.” She was still too stricken to argue with the man. “How much did you hear?”

“I was coming back here to check on him when I heard Web screaming.”

“He’s reliving some very delicate memories of the past. I’m not sure what it all means yet, but it was a big step to get to this point.”

Claire’s experiences in forensics had prompted several theories to consider. It had obviously been planned that the blows had been struck with the rolled-up carpet. Stockton presumably would have had carpet fibers in his head wound when he hit the floor. And if the carpet on the floor were the same carpet as the remnant in the attic, then the police would just assume that the fibers became embedded in his head wound when he hit the floor. They would not suspect that someone had slugged him with a rolled-up remnant in the attic. After all the complaints of abuse against the man, everyone, including the police, had probably been grateful he was finally dead. Finished with the stepfather, Claire moved on to the mother.

Web had said Charlotte London had placed the pile of clothes there. Had she also supplied the rolled-up carpet? Had she coached her tall, strong teenage son on how to do away with the abusive husband? Was that how the woman had decided to handle it? And then stepped in to finish the job, leaving Web to later pick up the pieces, allowing him to repress guilt so deep he couldn’t even remember the event except under hypnosis? But such an extraordinary repressed memory would taint every aspect of his being and of his future. It would manifest itself in many ways, none of them positive. Claire could now clearly understand why Web was like he was. He had become a lawman not to make up for Harry Sullivan’s felonious ways but because of his own guilt. A boy helping to kill his stepfather at the instruction of his natural mother; from a mental health perspective it didn’t get more screwed up than that.

Claire looked over at Web, who just sat there so peacefully, with his eyes closed, awaiting her next instruction. She also now understood his somnambulism. Children from homes of terrible abuse often withdrew into fantasy worlds as protection from the horrors of reality. Such children created imaginary friends to combat loneliness and also invented wonderful lives and adventures to ward off feelings of insecurity and depression. Claire had treated somnambules who could control their higher brain functions to such an extent that they could either embellish or completely wipe out whole sections of their memories, just as Web had done. Though a dynamic, independent, self-reliant sort on the outside, Web London, she concluded, was obedient and relied upon others on the inside; hence, his dependence on his HRT team and his exceptional ability to carry out orders. He was eager to please, to be accepted.

She shook her head. The man was a mess inside. And yet he had withstood the psychological battering of both the Bureau and HRT. Web had said he had figured out the MMPI test and had managed to lie his way right through it. He did not know how right he was about that.

She looked at Romano as something new occurred to her. She would have to craft the question delicately because she couldn’t reveal any patient confidences. Web had told her previously that he wasn’t taking any medications, and she had accepted his word on that. With what she had just learned, though, she wondered if he were taking something that would help combat the internal traumas that were clearly eating away at him. She motioned Romano over to a far corner, out of Web’s hearing. “Do you know anything about any medications Web might be taking?”

“Did Web say he was taking any pills?”

“I was just wondering. It’s sort of standard operating procedure for shrinks to ask,” she answered evasively.

“Lots of people take pills to help them sleep,” Romano said defensively.

She hadn’t said they were sleeping pills. So Romano did know about them, thought Claire. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, I was just wondering if he ever mentioned to you if he took anything, and if so, what he took.”

“You think he might be addicted, is that it? Well, I’m telling you you’re nuts.”

“I’m not implying that at all. It’s just important that I know in case I want to prescribe something for him. I don’t want any dangerous drug interactions.”

Romano still was not buying it. “So why don’t you ask him?”

“Well, I’m sure you’re well aware that people don’t always tell their doctors the truth, particularly the kind of doctor I am. I just want to make sure there are no problems.”

Romano looked over at Web, apparently to make sure he was still out. He looked back at Claire and seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. “I saw him holding what looked like a prescription bottle the other day. But look, he’s hurting right now and he’s probably a little screwed up about things and maybe needs a little help pill wise, but the Bureau’s real stiff on that crap. They throw you overboard and let you sink or swim on your own. Well, guys have to look out for each other, then.” Romano stopped, looked over at Web and said a little wistfully, “He’s the best HRT’s ever had.”

“You know he thinks very highly of you too.”

“I guess I did know.”

Romano left the room. Claire went to the window and watched as he crossed the road and was soon out of sight. It would have been very hard for him to reveal a confidence like that about his friend, and he probably felt himself a traitor for doing it. But in the end it would help Web far more than hurt him.

She sat across from Web, leaned forward and spoke slowly so that he wouldn’t miss a word. Ordinarily hypnosis was used to pare away the inhibitions and layers covering repressed memories that prevented patients from really talking about their troubles. Typically the patient was brought out of hypnosis fully remembering everything that had happened while he was under. Here, Claire could not do that. It would be too traumatic. Instead, she gave Web a posthypnotic suggestion. It instructed him that when he came out of the hypnotic state he would remember only enough to allow him to deal adequately with the situation. What would control what, if anything, he remembered would be his unconscious. Under the circumstances, Claire felt certain he would remember almost nothing. He was not prepared to deal with this, so buried was it within his unconscious. She slowly brought him up the escalator, step by step. Before he came fully out of it, she finished composing herself, prepared herself to face him.

When he finally opened his eyes, he looked around the room and then at her. He smiled. “Anything good?”

“First I need to ask you a question, Web.” She paused to collect herself again before saying, “Are you taking any medication?”

His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you already ask me that?”

“I’m asking you now.”

“Why?”

“You mentioned voodoo as an explanation for why you froze. Let me offer another one: negative drug interaction.”

“I wasn’t taking any medication before we went into that alley, Claire. I would never do that.”

“Drug interactions are funny,” replied Claire. “Depending on what you’re taking, the effects can materialize some time after you’ve stopped taking them.” She paused once again and added, “It’s important for you to be entirely truthful on this point, Web. It really is, if you want to get to the truth.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Web rose and went into his bathroom. A minute later he came back and handed her a small vial with pills in it. He sat back down as she examined the contents.

“Since you have them with you, should I assume you’ve been taking them recently?”

“I’m on a job, Claire. No pills. So I deal with the insomnia and the pain you sometimes get with two big holes in you and half a face.”

“So why do you have them?”

“Security blanket. You’re a psychiatrist—you understand that and thumb-sucking, don’t you?”

Claire took out the pills and examined them one by one. They were all different. Most she recognized, some she didn’t. She held up one of the pills. “Do you know where you got this?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“Perhaps. Did you get these pills from O’Bannon?” she said doubtfully.

“It’s possible, I guess. Although I thought I finished his prescription a long time ago.”

“Well, if not O’Bannon, who, then?”

Web became defensive. “Look, I had to get off the painkillers they were giving me for my injuries, because I was growing dependent on them. And then I couldn’t sleep, for like a year. Some HRT guys have the same problem. It’s not like we’re doing illegal drugs or crap like that, but you can only go so long without sleep, even at HRT. Some of the guys have given me pills over the years. I just collect them in a bottle and take them when I need them. That pill might have come from one of them. What’s the big deal?”

“I’m not blaming you for taking medication to help you sleep, Web. But it’s stupid and dangerous for you to take an oddball assortment of pills, even from friends, when you have no idea what drug interactions might occur from their use. You’re very lucky something serious hasn’t happened to you. And maybe it did. In the alley. Maybe this odd method of pill taking is the reason you froze.” Claire was also thinking that the traumatic events surrounding Raymond Stockton’s death might have bubbled to the surface at the worst possible time—when Web was in that alley. Perhaps, as she had thought earlier, seeing Kevin Westbrook had triggered something in Web, disabling him.

Web covered his face with his hands. “Shit! This is unbelievable. Unbelievable!”

“I can’t say for sure that’s the case, Web.” She looked at him sympathetically, but there was something else she needed to know. “Have you reported the medication you’ve been taking to your supervisor?”

He uncovered his face but didn’t look at her.

“Okay,” she said slowly.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“Are you still taking them?”

“No. As best I can recall, the last time I took one prior to the mission in the alley was a week before. That’s it.”

“Then I have nothing to report.” She held up the same pill again. “I don’t recognize this medication, and as a psychiatrist I’ve seen just about all of them. I’d like to get it analyzed. It’ll be on the QT,” she quickly added, as he looked alarmed. “I have a friend. Your name will never come up.”

“Do you really think it was the pills, Claire?”

She stared at the pill before pocketing the vial and looking back at him. “Web, I’m afraid we’ll never know for certain.”

“So was the hypnosis a bust?” Web asked finally, though Claire could tell his mind was clearly on the pills and their possible implication in what had happened to Charlie Team.

“No, it wasn’t. I learned a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Like Harry Sullivan was arrested during your sixth-year birthday party. Do you remember talking about that?” She was reasonably certain he might recall that from the hypnosis session. But not the event with Stockton.

Web slowly nodded. “Actually, I do. Some of it, anyway.”

“For what it’s worth, before the arrest, you and Harry were having a great time. He clearly loved you very much.”

“That’s good to know,” Web said, without enthusiasm.

“Often situations that are traumatic are repressed, Web, sort of a safety valve. Your psyche can’t handle it, that level of confrontation, and you basically bury it so you don’t need to face it.”

“But that’s like burying toxic waste,” he said in a low voice. “That’s right. And it sometimes seeps out and does considerable damage.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Do you recall anything else?”

He shook his head.

Claire looked away for a moment. Web, she knew, was in no shape to hear the truth about his stepfather’s death. She looked back at him and managed a tiny smile. “Well, I think that’s enough.”

She looked at her watch. “And I need to get back.”

“So my dad and me were really getting along?”

“You were singing songs, he was carrying you on his shoulders. Yes, you were having a great time.”

“It’s starting to come back to me. So there’s still hope for me, right?” Web smiled, perhaps to show he was partly kidding.

“There’s always hope, Web,” Claire replied.