Last Man Standing (12 page)

“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.

A
t Arlington National Cemetery, Percy Bates walked from the visitors’ center up the paved road that led to the Custis-Lee House.
After Robert E. Lee had chosen his native state of Virginia and leadership of the Confederate forces over a similar offer
from the Stars and Stripes at the outset of the Civil War, the federal government had responded to this rebuff by confiscating
Lee’s home. Anecdotal history stated that the Lincoln Administration had offered the property back to the Confederate general
during the war. All he had to do was come and pay the back taxes. In person. Lee, of course, had not taken Lincoln up on the
offer and his estate had been turned into what was now the country’s most prestigious national cemetery. That bit of history
had always made the Michigan-born Bates smile, although the mansion was now a memorial of sorts to Lee and was popularly known
as Arlington House.

Bates reached the front of Arlington House and looked out over what many considered the finest view in all of Washington and
perhaps the country. From here, the entire capital city lay at your feet. Bates wondered if old Bobby Lee ever thought this
as he got up each morning and looked out.

The cemetery covered over six hundred acres of grounds and was dominated by simple, uniform white headstones. There were also
some very elaborate memorials to the dead, erected by survivors or other grateful parties; however, the sea of white headstones,
which at the right angle created the illusion of snow-covered ground even in summer, was what most people remembered from
their visit here. Arlington National was the final resting place for American soldiers killed while fighting for their country,
five-star generals, an assassinated President, seven Supreme Court justices, explorers, famed minorities and many others who
qualified to be interred at this national shrine. There were well over 200,000 dead buried here and that number increased
at the rate of eighteen bodies every weekday.

Bates had come here numerous times. On several occasions he had attended funerals of friends and colleagues. Other times he
had come as a tour guide of sorts when his family had company in town. A favorite thing to do was watch the changing of the
guard by members of the U.S. Third Infantry, who maintained around-the-clock vigil over the Tombs of the Unknowns. Bates checked
his watch. He would be just in time if he hurried.