Last Man Standing (10 page)

“They will. They didn’t take Kevin ’cause they want to shoot hoops with him. They want me. Well, I’m right here, they just
got to come to the party. I’m ready to party, bring it the fuck on.” Westbrook spoke more calmly. “Word is one of them dudes
didn’t eat it in that courtyard. That right?”

Peebles nodded. “Web London.”

“They say machine guns, fifty-caliber shit. How’s a dude slip that?” Peebles shrugged his shoulders and Westbrook looked at
Macy. “What you hear on that, Mace?”

“Nobody’s saying for sure right now, but what I hear is the man didn’t go in that courtyard. He got scared, freaked or something.”

“Freaked or something,” said Westbrook. “Okay, you get some shit on this man and you let me see it. Man walk away from something
like that, man got something to tell me. Like maybe where Kevin is.” He looked at his men. “Whoever shot them Feds up got
Kevin. You can count on that.”

“Well, like I said, we could’ve had him on round-the-clock,” commented Peebles.

“What the hell kind of life is that?” said Westbrook. “He ain’t got to live that way, not because of me. But the Feds come
after my ass, then I’ll just point them boys in another direction. But we got to know which way that is. With six damn Feds
dead, they ain’t gonna be looking to cut no deals. They’ll want some serious ass to fry and it ain’t gonna be mine.”

“Whoever took Kevin, there’s no guarantee they’ll let him go,” said Peebles. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but we have
no way of knowing if Kevin’s even alive.”

Westbrook lay back against the seat. “Oh, he’s alive, all right. Ain’t nothing wrong with Kevin. Not right now anyway.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just know and that’s all you need to know. You just get me something on this Fed mother.”

“Web London.”

“Web London. And if he ain’t got what I need, then he’ll wish he died with his crew. Hit it, Toona. We got bizness.”

The car sped on into the night.

I
t 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.