Last Man Standing

8

It took Web a couple of days to make an appointment with a psychiatrist whom the Bureau used on an independent contractor basis. The FBI had trained people on staff, but Web had opted for someone on the outside. He wasn’t sure why, yet spilling his guts to anyone on the inside right now didn’t seem like a good idea. Rightly or not, tell the Feds’ shrink, you’re telling the Feds, was Web’s thinking, to hell with patient confidentiality.

The Bureau was still pretty much in the Dark Ages when it came to the mental health of their people, and that probably was as much the fault of the individual agents as the organization. Until several years ago, if you worked at the FBI and were feeling stressed or were having problems with alcohol or substance abuse, you pretty much kept it to yourself and dealt with it in your own way. The old school agents would have given no more thought to seeking counseling than they would about leaving home without their gun. If an agent was seeking professional help, no one knew about it, and certainly no one talked about it. You were, in a sense, tainted goods if you did, and the indoctrination process of being a member of the Bureau seemed to instill both a stoicism and stubborn independence that were difficult to overcome.

Then the powers that be had finally decided that the stress of working for the FBI, reflected in rising rates of alcohol and drug abuse and the high incidence of divorce, needed to be addressed. An Employee Assistance Program, or EAP, was instituted. Each FBI division was assigned an EAP coordinator and counselor. If the in-house counselor couldn’t handle the situation, he or she would refer the patient to an approved outside source, as Web had opted to have done. The EAP wasn’t widely known at the Bureau and Web had never gotten any written materials on its existence. It was just sort of whispered ear to ear. The old stigma, despite the Bureau’s efforts, was still there.

The psychiatric offices were in a high-rise building in Fairfax County near Tyson’s Corner. Web had seen Dr. O’Bannon, one of the psychiatrists who worked here, before. The first time was years ago when HRT had been called up to rescue some students at a private school in Richmond, Virginia. A bunch of paramilitary types belonging to a group calling themselves the Free Society, who apparently were seeking to create an Aryan culture by means of their own version of ethnic cleansing, had burst into the school and immediately killed two teachers. The standoff had lasted almost twenty-four hours. HRT had finally gone in when it appeared imminent that the men were going to start killing again. Things were going perfectly until something had alerted the Frees right before HRT was ready to pounce. The resulting shootout had left five of the Frees dead and two HRT personnel injured, Web critically so. The only other hostage to die was a ten-year-old boy named David Canfield.

Web had been almost close enough to the child to pull him to safety when things went to hell. The dead boy’s face had intruded into his dreams so often that Web had voluntarily sought counseling. At that time there was no EAP, so after he had recovered from his injuries Web had discreetly gotten O’Bannon’s name from another agent whom O’Bannon was seeing. It had been one of the hardest things Web had ever done, because, in effect, he was admitting that he couldn’t handle his problems. He never talked about it with other HRT members and he would have cut out his tongue before he would reveal that he was seeing a shrink. His colleagues would have only seen that as a weakness, and at HRT there was no room for that.

The operators at HRT had had a previous encounter with mental health counseling, and it had not gone well: After Waco, the Bureau had brought in some counselors who had met directly with the stricken men as a group instead of individually. The result would have been comical if it hadn’t been so pathetically sad. That was the last time the Bureau had tried that sort of thing with HRT.

The most recent time Web had seen O’Bannon was right after Web’s mother had died. After quite a few sessions with O’Bannon, Web concluded that things were never going to be right on that score and he had lied and told O’Bannon that he was just fine. He didn’t blame O’Bannon, for no doc could make that mess right, he knew. It would have taken a miracle.

O’Bannon was short and heavyset and often wore a black turtleneck that made his multiple chins even more pronounced. Web remembered that O’Bannon’s handshake was limp, his manner pleasant enough, and yet Web had felt like running for the door the first time the two had met. Instead, he had followed O’Bannon back to his office and plunged into some dangerous waters.

“We’ll be able to help you, Web. It’ll just take time. I’m sorry we have to meet under such difficult circumstances, but people don’t come to me because things are wonderful; it’s my lot in life, I suppose.”

Web said that was good and yet his spirits sank. O’Bannon clearly had no magic that would make Web’s world normal again.

They had sat in O’Bannon’s office. There was no couch but rather a small love seat not nearly long enough to lie down upon. O’Bannon had explained it as, “The greatest of all misperceptions in our field. Not every psychiatrist has a couch.”

O’Bannon’s office was sterile, with white walls, industrial furnishings and very few items of a personal nature. It all made Web feel about as comfortable as sitting on death row waiting to do a last dance with Mr. Sparky. They made small talk, presumably to ease Web into opening up. There was a pad and pen next to O’Bannon, but he never picked them up.

“I’ll do that later,” O’Bannon had said when Web asked him about his lack of note-taking. “For now, let’s just talk.” He had a darting gaze that had been unsettling to Web, though the psychiatrist’s voice was soft and relatively soothing. After an hour the session was up, and Web could see nothing much that had been accomplished. He knew more about O’Bannon than the man knew about Web. He had not gotten around to any of the issues disturbing him.

“These things take time, Web,” O’Bannon had said as he led Web out. “It’ll come, don’t you worry. It just takes time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Web wanted to ask him exactly how long it would take to build Rome in this case, but he said nothing except good-bye. At first Web had believed that he would never go back to see the short, pudgy man with the blank office. And yet he had. And O’Bannon had worked through the issues with him session after session, getting him to deal with things. But Web had never forgotten the little boy who had been gunned down in cold blood with Web mere feet away and unable to save him. That would have been unhealthy, to ever forget something like that.

O’Bannon had told Web that he and others at his psychiatric practice had catered to the needs of Bureau personnel for many years and had helped agents and administrative staff through lots of crises. Web had been surprised at that because he assumed he was one of the few who had ever sought professional counseling. O’Bannon had looked at him in a very knowing way and said, “Just because people don’t talk about it doesn’t mean they don’t want to address their issues or don’t want to get better. I can, of course, reveal no names, but trust me, you are definitely not alone in coming to me from the FBI. Agents who hide their heads in the sand are just ticking bombs waiting to explode.”

Now Web wondered if he was a ticking bomb. He went inside and over to the elevators, each step heavier than the previous one.

With his mind clearly elsewhere, Web nearly collided with a woman coming from the other direction. He apologized and pushed the elevator button. The car came and they both got on. Web punched the button for his floor and stepped back. As they headed up, Web glanced over at the woman. She was average height, slender and very attractive. He put her age at late thirties. She wore a gray pantsuit, the collar of a white blouse topping it. Her hair was a wavy black and cut short, and she had on small clip earrings. She carried a briefcase. Her long fingers curled around the handle, pressing tightly, noted Web, whose whole professional life was spent obsessing over the small details, because the little things almost always determined his future, or lack of one.

The car stopped at Web’s floor and he was a little surprised when the woman got off too. But then he recalled she had not pushed another floor button. Well, so much for always observing the little details. He followed her to the office he was going to. She glanced back at him.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice was low, precise and somehow inviting, comforting to him. The unusually deep blue of her eyes caught Web’s attention. The eyes were also big, sad and peering. They held you, those eyes did.

“I’m here to see Dr. O’Bannon.”

“Did you have an appointment?”

She seemed wary, Web thought. Yet he also knew women had every right to be suspicious when confronted with strange men. He had seen the ugly results of many such encounters and those images never left you.

“Yes, for nine o’clock, Wednesday morning. I’m a little early.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “Actually, today is Tuesday.”

Web muttered, “Shit,” and shook his head wearily. “Guess I’m getting my days sort of mixed up. Sorry to bother you.” He turned to leave and he was reasonably sure he would never come back.

“I’m sorry, but you look very familiar to me,” the woman said. Web turned slowly back. “I apologize,” she added. “I’m not usually that forward, but I know I’ve seen you before.”

“Well, if you work here, you probably did. I’ve been to see O’Bannon before.”

“No, it wasn’t here. I believe it was on TV.” Realization finally swept across her features. “You’re Web London, the FBI agent, aren’t you?”

He couldn’t decide what to say for a few moments and she simply looked at him, apparently awaiting confirmation of her observation. “Yes.” Web glanced past her. “Do you work here?”

“I have an office here.”

“So you’re a shrink too?”

She put out her hand. “We prefer psychiatrist. I’m Claire Daniels.”

Web shook her hand and then they stood there awkwardly.

“I’m going to put some coffee on if you’d like a cup,” she finally said.

“Don’t go to any trouble.”

She turned and unlocked the door. Web followed her inside.

They sat in the small reception room and drank the coffee. Web glanced around the empty space.

“Office closed today?”

“No, most people don’t get in before nine.”

“It always surprised me that you don’t have a receptionist here.”

“Well, we want to make it as comfortable for people as possible. And announcing yourself to a stranger because you’re here to receive treatment can be very intimidating. We know when we have appointments and the doorbell lets us know when someone has arrived, and we come right out. We have this common waiting area because that’s unavoidable, but, as a rule, we don’t like to make patients sit out here with one another. That can be awkward too.”

“Sort of like people sitting around playing ‘Guess My Psychosis’?”

She smiled. “Something like that. Dr. O’Bannon started this practice many years ago and he cares quite deeply about the comfort zone of the people who come here for help. The last thing you want to do is to increase the anxiety level of already anxious people.”

“So you know O’Bannon well?”

“Yes. I actually used to work for him. Then he simplified his life a while back and we’re all on our own now, but we still share this office space. We’ve come to prefer it that way. He’s very good. He’ll be able to help you.”

“You think so?” Web said without a trace of hope.

“I guess like the rest of the country I’ve been following what happened. I’m very sorry about your colleagues.”

Web drank his coffee in silence.

Claire said, “If you were thinking of waiting, Dr. O’Bannon is teaching at George Washington University. He won’t be in at all today.”

“No big deal. My mistake. Thanks for the coffee.” He rose.

“Mr. London, would you like me to tell him you were here?”

“It’s Web. And no, I don’t think I’ll be back on Wednesday.” Claire stood too. “Is there something I can do to help you?”

He held up his cup. “You already made the java.” Web took a breath. It was time to get out of here. “What are you doing for the next hour?” he asked instead, and then was stunned to hear his own words.

“Just paperwork,” she said quickly, her gaze downcast, her face slightly red as though he had just asked her out to the prom and instead of saying no to his advance she was deciding, for some unknown reason, to encourage it.

“How would you like to talk to me instead?”

“Professionally? That’s not possible. You’re Dr. O’Bannon’s patient.”

“How about human to human?” Web had absolutely no idea where any of these words were coming from.

She hesitated for a moment and then told him to wait. She went into an office and then came back out a few minutes later. “I tried reaching Dr. O’Bannon at the university, but they couldn’t track him down. Without talking to him, I really can’t counsel you. You have to understand, it’s a touchy thing ethically, Web. I’m not into poaching patients.”

Web abruptly sat down. “Wouldn’t it ever be justified?”

She mulled this over for a few moments. “I suppose if your regular doctor wasn’t available and you were in crisis, it would be.”

“He’s not available and I’m in an honest-to-God crisis.” Web was being absolutely truthful, for it was like he was back in that courtyard, unable to move, unable to do a damn thing to help, useless. If she still refused him, Web wasn’t sure he could even manage to get up and leave.

Instead she led him down the hallway to her office and closed the door behind them. Web looked around. There could not have been a greater difference between Claire Daniels’s digs and those of O’Bannon. The walls were a muted gray instead of stark white, and cozy with femininely floral curtains instead of industrial shades. There were pictures hung everywhere, mostly of people, presumably family. The degrees on the wall evidenced Claire Daniels’s impressive academic accomplishments: degrees from Brown and Columbia Universities and her medical sheepskin from Stanford. On one table was a glass container that had a label reading, “Therapy in a Jar.” There were unlit candles on tables and cactus lamps in two corners. On shelves and on the floor were dozens of stuffed animals. There was a leather chair against one wall. And by God, Claire Daniels had a couch!

“You want me to sit there?” He pointed to it, trying desperately to keep his nerves in check. He suddenly wished he wasn’t armed, because he was starting to feel a little out of control.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I prefer the couch.”

He collapsed in the chair and then watched as she switched her flats for slippers that were lying next to the couch. The momentary sight of her bare feet had prompted an unexpected reaction from Web. There was nothing sexual about it; it made Web think of the bloodied skin in the courtyard, the remains of Charlie Team. Claire sat down on the couch, pulled a pad and pen off the side table and uncapped the pen. Web took a series of small breaths to arrest his nerves.

“O’Bannon doesn’t take notes during the session,” he commented.

“I know,” she said with a wry smile. “I don’t think my memory is as good as his. Sorry.”

“I didn’t even ask if you’re on the Bureau’s approved list of outside contractors. I know O’Bannon is.”

“I am too. And this session will have to be revealed to your supervisor. Bureau policy.”

“But not the content of the session.”

“No, of course not. Just that we met. The same basic rules of confidentiality apply here as they would in a normal psychiatrist and patient relationship.”

“Basic rules?”

“There are modifications, Web, because of the unique job you have.”

“O’Bannon explained that to me when I was seeing him, but I guess I was never really clear on it.”

“Well, I’m under an obligation to inform your supervisor if during a session anything is revealed that poses a threat to yourself or others.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“You think so? Well, from my point of view, it gives me a great deal of discretion, because where one hears something benign, another hears genuine threats. So I’m not so sure that policy is very fair to you. But just so you know, I have never had occasion to use that discretion and I’ve been working with people from the FBI, DEA and other law enforcement agencies for a long time.”

“What else has to be revealed?”

“The other major one is drug use or specific therapies.”

“Right. The Bureau is a stickler for that, I know,” said Web. “Even over-the-counter stuff you have to report that you’re taking. It can actually get to be quite a pain in the ass.” He looked around. “Your place is a lot more comfortable. O’Bannon’s office reminds me of an operating room.”

“Everybody approaches their work differently.” She stopped and stared at his waist.

Web glanced down and saw that his windbreaker had fallen open there, and the grip of his pistol was visible. He zipped up the jacket, as Claire looked down at her pad.

“Sorry, Web, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen an agent with a gun. Though I suppose when you don’t see them every day—”

“They can be scary as hell,” he finished her thought.

He eyed the array of furry toys.

“What’s with all the stuffed animals?”

“I have a lot of children as patients,” she said, adding, “unfortunately. The animals make them feel more at ease. To tell the truth, they make me feel more at ease too.”

“It’s hard to believe kids would need a psychiatrist.”

“Most of them have eating disorders, bulimia, anorexia. Usually centered on issues of control between them and their parents. So you have to treat the child and the parent. It’s not an easy world for children.”

“It’s not all that great for adults either.”

She gave him a look that Web interpreted as a quick appraisal. “You’ve been through a lot in your life.”

“More than some, less than others. You’re not going to make me take an inkblot test, are you?” He said this as a joke, but he was actually serious.

“Psychologists perform Rorschach, MMPI, MMCI and neuro-testing, I’m just a humble psychiatrist.”

“I had to take the MMPI when I joined Hostage Rescue.”

“The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, I’m familiar with it.”

“It’s designed to ferret out the crazies.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Did it?”

“Some of the guys failed it. Me, I figured out what the test was for, and just lied my way through it.”

Claire Daniels’s eyebrows lifted slightly and her gaze once more went to where his gun was. “That’s comforting.”

“I guess I’m not real clear on the difference. Between psychologists and psychiatrists, that is.”

“A psychiatrist has to take the MCATs, then do four years of medical school. After that you have to serve three years of residency in psychiatry at a hospital. I also did a fourth-year residency in forensic psychiatry. I’ve been in private practice ever since. As medical doctors, psychiatrists can also prescribe medication, whereas psychologists generally can’t.”

Web clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.

Claire, who was studying him closely, said, “Why don’t I tell you how I go about my work? Then, if you’re comfortable with that, we can continue. Fair enough?” Web nodded in agreement and she settled back into the cushions. “As a psychiatrist, I rely on understanding patterns of normal human behavior, so that I can recognize when certain behavior falls outside the norm. An obvious example is one you’re no doubt familiar with: serial killers. In the vast majority of cases such people have suffered consistent, terrible abuse as children. They, in turn, exhibit clear patterns of rage when young, like torturing small animals and birds as they single-mindedly transfer the pain and cruelty foisted upon them onto living things less powerful than themselves. They move on to larger animals and other targets as they grow older, stronger and bolder, and eventually progress to human beings when they reach adulthood. It’s actually a fairly predictable evolution of events.

“You also have to listen with a third ear of sorts. I take what someone tells me at face value, but I’m also looking for cues underlying those statements. Humans are always layering their statements with other messages. A psychiatrist wears many hats, often at the same time. The key is to listen, I mean really listen to what you’re being told, in words, body language, that sort of thing.”

“Okay, how would you like to start with me?”

“I usually have a patient fill out a background questionnaire, but I think I’ll skip that with you. Human to human,” she added with a very warm smile.

Web finally felt the heat in his belly start to ease.

“But let’s talk a little about your background, all the typical information. Then we can move on from there.”

Web let out a deep breath. “I’ll be thirty-eight next March. I did the college route and then somehow got into the University of Virginia law school and actually managed to graduate. After that I worked in the commonwealth attorney’s office for about six months in Alexandria until I realized that life wasn’t for me. I decided to apply to the Bureau along with a buddy of mine. It was really on a whim, to see if we could do it. I made the cut, he didn’t. I survived the Academy and I’ve been with the FBI for a lucky thirteen years. I started out as a special agent, cutting my teeth on this and that in a string of field offices across the country. A little over eight years ago, I applied to HRT. That stands for Hostage Rescue Team. It’s part of CIRG, Critical Incident Response Group, now, though that’s a fairly recent development. They kill your ass in the selection process and ninety percent of the applicants don’t make the cut. They sleep-deprive you first, break you physically and then force you to make snap decisions of life and death. They make you work and sacrifice as a team but still compete against one another, because there aren’t many slots available. It was a real walk in the park. I saw former Navy SEALs, Special Forces guys, Deltas even, break down, cry, pass out, hallucinate, threaten suicide, mass murders, anything to make their tormentors stop. By a miracle, I somehow got through and then spent another five months at the New Operators Training School, or NOTS. In case you couldn’t tell, the Bureau is big on acronyms. We’re based at Quantico. I’m an assaulter right now.” Claire looked confused. “HRT has Blue and Gold Units, with four teams in each. They mirror each other, so we can handle two crises in two different places simultaneously. Half the teams are made up of assaulters or the main attack force, the other half are snipers. Snipers train at the Marine Corps Scout Sniper School. We switch off periodically, cross-train. I started out as a sniper. They used to really get the short end of the stick, though after HRT was reorganized in 1995 it’s gotten a lot better. Still, you lie in the mud and rain and snow for weeks, spying on the target, learning the weaknesses of your opponents that will help you kill them later. Or maybe even save their lives, because watching them, you may spot something that will tell you that they won’t shoot back in certain situations. You wait to take your shots of opportunity, never knowing if the shot you take will trigger some damn firestorm.”

“You sound like you’ve experienced something like that.”

“One of my very first assignments was Waco.”

“I see.”

“Right now I’m assigned to Charlie Team in the Blue Unit.” Was, Web mentally corrected himself. There was no more Charlie Team.

“So you’re not an FBI agent per se?”

“No, we all are. You have to have at least three years at the Bureau and a superior performance rating to even apply to HRT. We carry the same shields, the same credentials. But we HRT guys keep to ourselves. Separate facilities, no other duties outside HRT. We train together. Core skills, knots, CQB.”

“What are those things?”

“Knots covers combat and firearm training. CQB stands for close-quarters battle training. Firearms and CQB are the most perishable skills, so you’re constantly working them.”

“Sounds very military.”

“It is. And we are very military. We’re split into active duty and training. If you’re on duty and a mission comes up, you go. Any downtime for active duty operators is spent on special projects and special skills like rope climbing, chopper rappelling, SEAL training, first aid. And also field craft, what we call snooping and pooping in the woods. The days go quickly, believe me.”

“I’m sure,” said Claire.

Web studied his shoes and they sat there quietly for a while. “Fifty alpha males together is sometimes not a good thing.” He smiled. “We’re always trying to one-up each other. You know those Taser guns that shoot out electrified darts and paralyze people?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them.”

“Well, we had a contest one time to see who could recover the fastest after getting hit by one of those.”

“Good God,” exclaimed Claire.

“I know, crazy.” He added, “I didn’t win. I went down like I’d been hit by an NFL lineman. But that’s sort of the mentality. Ultracompetitive.” He became more serious. “But we’re good at our jobs. And our jobs aren’t easy. What nobody else wants to do, we do. Our official motto is, ‘To save lives.’ And we mostly succeed. We try to think of every contingency, but there’s not a lot of room for error. And whether we succeed or not could come down to a chain on a door you weren’t expecting when you’re doing a dynamic entry, or turning left instead of right, or not firing instead of firing your weapon. And these days if the target gets a little nick while he’s trying to blow our heads off, everybody starts screaming and suing and FBI agents start falling like flies. Maybe if I’d checked out after Waco, my life would really be different.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I have a lot of special skills that I can use to protect honest citizens. To protect the interests of this country from people who would do it and them harm.”

“Sounds very patriotic. Some cynics might take you to task over that philosophy, though.”

Web stared at her for several seconds before answering. “How many TV pundits have ever had a sawed-off shotgun stuffed up their noses while some deranged lowlife freaked on meth has his finger on the trigger deciding whether to end their lives? Or waited out in the middle of nowhere USA, while some pseudo-Jesus psycho, who finds it in his holy book somewhere that it’s all right to screw his disciples’ kids, messes with the psyche of the whole country and then ends his fifteen minutes of fame in a fireball that takes every abused child with him? If the cynics have a problem with my motivation or methods, then they can get out there and do it. They’d last all of two seconds. They expect perfection from the good guys in a world where that just is never going to happen. And the bad guys could’ve ripped the heads off a thousand babies, and you’re still going to get their lawyers screaming holy hell if you give them a hangnail while you’re trying to arrest them. Now, the higher-ups at the Bureau do make mistakes when issuing orders and some of them shouldn’t be holding the jobs they have because they’re incompetent. I wasn’t at Ruby Ridge, but that was a disaster from minute one and the Feds were more to blame than anybody else for innocent people dying. But it’s ultimately guys like me, following those orders, who get their nuts cut off because they had the audacity to risk their lives to do what they believe is the right thing and get paid jack-shit for the privilege. That’s my world, Dr. Daniels. Welcome the hell to it.”

Web took a deep breath, started trembling and looked over at Claire, who looked as stunned as he felt. “Sorry,” he finally said, “I’m kind of a patriotic jerk when it comes to all of that.”

When Claire spoke, she sounded contrite. “I think I should apologize. I’m sure you find your job thankless at times.”

“I’m kind of finding it that way right now.”

“Tell me about your family,” she said after a few more moments of awkward silence.

Web sat back and put his hands behind his head, as he once more took several small breaths. Sixty-four beats a minute, Web, that’s all you need, man. Sixty-four smacks a minute. How hard can it be? He leaned forward. “Sure. No problem. I’m an only child. I was born in Georgia. We moved to Virginia when I was around six.”

“So who is the we here? Your mother and father?”

Web shook his head. “No, just me and my mother.”

“And your father?”

“He didn’t come. The state wanted to keep him awhile longer.”

“Was he employed with the government?”

“You could say that. He was in prison.”

“What happened to him?”

“Don’t know.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

“If I had been, I would have satisfied that curiosity.”

“All right. And so you came to Virginia. What then?”

“My mother remarried.”

“And your relationship with your stepfather?”

“Fine.”

Claire said nothing, apparently waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “Tell me about your relationship with your mother.”

“She’s been dead nine months now, so we don’t have a relationship.”

“What was her cause of death?” She added, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“The Big B.”

Claire looked confused. “You mean the Big C? Cancer?”

“No, I mean the Big B, booze.”

“You said you joined the FBI on a whim. Do you think it could have been more than that?”

Web shot her a quick glance. “You mean, did I become a cop because my real father was a crook?”

Claire smiled. “You’re good at this.”

“I don’t know why I’m still alive, Claire,” Web said quietly. “By all rights I should be dead along with my team. It’s driving me crazy. I didn’t want to be the sole survivor.”

Claire’s smile quickly faded. “That sounds important. Let’s talk about that.”

Web’s hands ground against each other. Then he stood and looked out the window. “This is all confidential, right?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “Absolutely.”

He sat back down. “I went into the alley. I’m hauling butt with my team, we’re almost at the breach point and then . . . and then—” He stopped.

“And then I, shit, I froze. I couldn’t move. I don’t know what the hell happened. My team went out into that courtyard and I couldn’t. Then I finally get going and it feels like I weigh a thousand pounds, like my feet were in concrete blocks. And I dropped, because I couldn’t keep myself up. I just went down. And then—” He stopped, a hand went to his face, not the damaged side, and he pushed hard there, as though keeping things that wanted to come out from doing so. “And then the guns started. And I lived. I lived, and none of my team did.”

The pen sat idle in Claire’s hand as she looked at him.

“It’s okay, Web, you need to get this out.”

“That’s it! What in the hell can I add to that? I freaked out. I’m a damn coward!”

She spoke very calmly and precisely. “Web, I understand that this is extremely difficult to discuss, but I’d like you to go over the exact events leading up to you ‘freezing,’ as you referred to it. As accurately as you can remember. That might be very important.”

Web went through the details with her, starting from the moment the Chevy doors popped open to the point where he couldn’t do his job, where he had watched his friends die. When he had finished he felt totally numb, as though he had given away his soul as well as his pitiful story.

“It must have felt paralyzing,” she said. “I’m wondering whether you felt any earlier symptoms before it hit you so completely. Something like a drastic pulse change, rapid breathing, a feeling of dread, cold sweats, dry mouth?”

Web thought about this for a bit as he again went over in his mind every step he had taken. He started to shake his head in answering no, but then he said, “There was a kid in the alley.” He wasn’t about to reveal to Claire Daniels the importance that Kevin Westbrook was taking in the investigation; however, there was something that he could tell her. “When we passed him he said something. Something really odd. I remembered his voice sounded like an old man’s in some ways. You could tell from his appearance that life had not been exactly kind to him.”

“You don’t remember what he said?”

Web shook his head. “I’m drawing a blank on that, but it was something weird.”

“But what he said made you feel something, something beyond the usual pity or sympathy?”

“Look, Dr. Daniels—”

“Please, call me Claire.”

“Okay, Claire, I’m not looking to make myself out to be a saint. With my job I go into some real hellholes. I try not to think about all the other things, like the kids.”

“It sounds as though if you thought that way you wouldn’t be able to do your work.”

Web shot a glance at her. “Is that what you think might have happened to me? I see the kid and it snapped something in my brain?”

“It’s possible, Web. Shell shock, post-traumatic stress syndrome that induces physical paralysis along with a whole host of other physical debilitations. It happens more often than people think. The stress of combat is unique.”

“But nothing had happened yet. Not one shot fired.”

“You’ve been doing this for many years, Web; it can all accumulate inside you and the effect of that accumulation can manifest itself at the most inopportune moments and in the most unfortunate ways. You aren’t the first person to go into battle of sorts and have that kind of reaction.”

“Well, it’s the first time it’s happened to me,” Web said with an edge to his voice. “And my team had been through just as much as me, and none of them locked up.”

“Even though this was the first time it’s happened to you, Web, you have to understand that we’re all different. You can’t compare yourself to anyone else. It’s not fair to you.”

He pointed a finger at her. “Let me tell you what’s fair. What’s fair is me maybe making a difference that night. Maybe I could have done something, seen something that would have warned my guys, and maybe they’d still be living and I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you about why they’re not.”

“I understand that you’re angry and that life is often not fair. You’ve doubtless seen hundreds of examples of that. The point is how best for you to deal with what happened.”

“How exactly do you deal with something like this? It doesn’t get any worse than this.”

“I know it may seem hopeless, but it would be worse if you can’t work through your issues and move on with your life.”

“Life? Oh, yeah, that’s right, I guess I have something of a life left. You want to switch with me? I’ll give you a real deal.”

“Do you want to go back to HRT?” she asked flatly.

“Yes,” he said immediately.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

“Then that’s a goal that we both can work toward.”

Web ran a hand up his thigh and stopped at the bulge of his pistol. “Do you really think that’s possible? I mean, at HRT if you can’t cut it mentally or physically, well, then you’re gone.” Gone, he thought, from really the only place he had ever fit in.

“We can try, Web, that’s all we can do. But I’m pretty good at my job too. And I promise that I’ll do all I can to help you. I just need your cooperation.”

He looked squarely at her. “Okay, you’ve got it.”

“Is there anything particularly troubling in your life right now? Any especially stressful issues out of the usual?”

“Not really.”

“You mentioned that your mother had died recently.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your relationship with her.”

“I would’ve done anything for her.”

“So I take that as you were very close to her?” Web hesitated for so long that Claire finally said, “Web, right now the absolute truth is important.”

“She had her problems. Her drinking, for one. And she hated what I do for a living.”

Claire’s gaze drifted again to where Web’s gun rested under his jacket. “Not so unusual for a mother. What you do is very dangerous.” She glanced at his face and then quickly looked down. Web, though, had noted it.

“It can be,” he said evenly, and turned the damaged side away from her; it was a movement he had grown so adept at he usually didn’t notice he was even doing it.

“I’m curious about something. What did you inherit from her? Did she leave you anything that means something to you?”

“She left me the house. I mean, she didn’t leave it to me, she didn’t have a will. Under the law it went to me.”

“Do you plan to live there?”

“Never!”

Claire jumped at his tone.

He said quickly but in a calmer tone, “I mean, I’ve got my own house. I don’t need hers.”

“I see.” Claire made a note and then seemed to consciously shift gears. “By the way, have you ever been married?”

Web shook his head. “Well, at least not in the conventional way.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other guys on my team all had families. I felt like I had a bunch of wives and kids through them.”

“So you were very close to your colleagues?”

“In our line of work, you tended to hang together. The better you knew each other, the better you worked together, and down the road that could save your life. Plus, they were just great guys. I liked being with them.” As soon as he finished saying this, the fire in his belly returned. Web jumped up and headed to the door.

“Where are you going?” an astonished Claire called after him. “We’ve just started. We have a lot more to talk about.”

Web paused at the door. “I’ve talked enough for now.”

He closed the door behind him, and Claire made no move to follow. She put her pad and pen down and stared after him.