Last Man Standing (11 page)

“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.”