Last Man Standing

by David Baldacci

  past. An Ed O’Bannon.” Again Claire said nothing. “So one thing I want to know is why the switch to you?”

  “And again, I can’t answer those—”

  She watched as Winters pulled a slip of paper out of the file next to him. He handed it to her. She looked down at it. It was a release form signed by Web London and notarized. It stated, among other things, that anyone providing psychiatric care to Web London could discuss the parameters of the diagnosis and treatment with one John Winters, director of WFO. Claire had never seen a form like this before, but it was an original document on official Bureau stationery.

  “Now we can dispense with the reluctance.”

  “Where did this document come from and why haven’t I seen it before?”

  “It’s a new policy. In fact, Web’s case is the first time we’ve used it. My idea.”

  “It’s an invasion of doctor-and-patient confidentiality.”

  “Not if the patient has waived it.”

  Claire read the document very carefully—so carefully, in fact, and she took such a long time doing it, that Winters finally started to fume. She handed it back to him.

  “Okay, let me see some ID,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It says I can reveal certain information to John Winters, head of WFO. All I know about you is you drive around in a limo and say you’re John Winters.”

  “I thought my aide identified himself.”

  “He did. But you haven’t.”

  Winters smiled, pulled out his creds and showed them to Claire. She spent longer than necessary going over them, just to put the man on notice that she didn’t like this one bit and that she was not going to make this easy.

  He sat back.“Now, about Web London.”

  “He selected me because Dr. O’Bannon wasn’t available. We had a good session and he decided to stay with me.”

  “What’s his diagnosis?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve made one yet.”

  “Have you suggested any treatment to him?”

  “That would be a little premature,” she said dryly, “since I haven’t made a diagnosis yet. That would sort of be like operating on someone before you’ve even done a physical.”

  “Sorry, but most shrinks—excuse me—psychiatrists I know just prescribe some pills.”

  “Well, I guess I’m not like any psychiatrists you know, then.”

  “Can you tell me what happened to him in that courtyard?”

  “No, I cannot.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” He held up the release form. “We can make this smooth for you or extremely difficult.”

  “That form also states that I may withhold any information told to me in confidence by a patient and also any conclusions of mine based on such information, if, using my professional discretion, such disclosure would do harm to the patient.”

  Winters moved across and sat next to Claire. “Dr. Daniels, are you aware of what happened in that courtyard?”

  “Yes. I’ve read the papers, and I’ve talked to Web about it.”

  “You see, it goes beyond the murder of six agents, horrific as that is. It strikes right at the fundamental integrity of the Bureau. And without that, you have nothing.”

  “I’m not sure how someone ambushing a team of FBI agents diminishes the integrity of the FBI. If anything, it should evoke sympathy.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not the world we work in. Let me tell you what this ambush has done. First, by taking out our elite strike force, criminal elements now believe we are vulnerable at all levels. Second, the press has blown this unfortunate incident to such extraordinary heights, using such incendiary language, that the public confidence in us has been badly shaken and even the lawmakers on Capitol Hill who should know better are doubting us. And lastly, the morale of the Bureau as a whole is at an all-time low over this. It really is a triple whammy.”

  “I guess I can see that,” Claire said cautiously.

  “So the sooner the matter is resolved, the sooner we understand how it happened in the first place, the sooner we can make matters right again. I’m sure you don’t want the criminals in this country thinking they can run roughshod over honest citizens.”

  “I’m certain that won’t happen.”

  “Are you?” He stared hard at her. “Well, I’m right in the middle of it, and I’m not nearly so certain as you seem to be.”

  Claire felt a chill go up her back at the man’s words.

  He patted her on the shoulder. “Now, what can you tell me about Web without, in your discretion, violating any professional standards?”

  Claire began slowly, the whole process loathsome to her. “He has some issues. I believe they go back to his childhood, as such issues often do. He froze in that alley. I’m sure he’s told the investigators at the FBI that.” She looked at him for affirmation of this, but Winters didn’t take the bait.

  “Go on,” he said simply.

  Claire went through the details of what Web had seen and heard in the alley, including the words spoken to him by Kevin Westbrook, how they affected him, his subsequent feelings of paralysis and how he had fought against them and ultimately won.

  “Yes, he won,” said Winters. “He dropped right before the guns fired and he managed to walk away alive.”

  “I can tell you that he feels enormous guilt for having been the sole survivor.”

  “And so he should.”

  “He didn’t suddenly turn coward, if that’s what you were wondering. He’s one of the bravest men I’ve ever met. In fact, he might be too brave, too much of a risk-taker.”

  “I wasn’t thinking he had become a coward; not even his own worst enemy could say that Web London was a coward.”

  She looked at him curiously. “What, then?”

  “There are worse things than being a coward.” He paused. “Like being a traitor.”

  “My professional opinion is that that is not the case. His freezing in that alley represents deep-rooted problems stemming from a very challenging childhood that Web is trying to cope with.”

  “I see. So perhaps he shouldn’t be with HRT, then. Perhaps not in the Bureau at all.”

  Now Claire could feel herself freeze. What had she just done? “That’s not what I said.”

  “No, Doctor, that’s what I said.”

  As promised, they dropped her back off at the garage. As she was getting out, Buck Winters leaned forward and gripped her arm. Claire felt herself instinctively drawing back.

  “I certainly can’t stop you from telling Web about our meeting,

  Doctor, but I’m asking you not to. This is an ongoing FBI investigation and the results, whatever they happen to be, will rock the Bureau more than it’s ever been. So I’m asking you, as a good citizen, to keep all this on the QT for now.”

  “I can’t guarantee you that. And I trust Web.”

  “I’m sure you do. There’s a lot about him to trust. Do you know how many men he’s killed in his career?”

  “No, is that important to know?”

  “I’m sure the relatives of those people would think it important.” “You’re making it sound like he’s the criminal. I’m assuming that if he’s killed people, it was part of his job, the job you expect him to do.”

  “Well, I guess that’s always open to interpretation, isn’t it?” He let go of her arm and added a parting shot. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

  When Romano and Web left for dinner at the mansion, Romano was walking a little funny. He told Web that Billy had gotten him on a horse and Romano had immediately fallen off.

  “I don’t know why the hell I can’t follow the guy in a truck. Horses just ain’t my thing.”

  “Well, I rode over most of the property today and a lot of it you can’t get to even by truck.”

  “Did you fall off too?”

  “Yeah, twice,” Web said. Why tell the truth and get Romano’s hair up again? he figured.

  “So who’d you rid

e with?” asked Romano.

  “Gwen. Had a nice time. How about you? Have any fun?” “Yeah, I never knew how much fun mucking a stall could be. You should try it sometime.”

  Billy met Web and Romano at the front door of the stone house. He was wearing an old corduroy jacket with patched elbows, a pair of khaki pants, a wrinkled white button-down shirt and loafers without socks. And he already had a drink in hand. He led them through the front hall and down a curving staircase of walnut that looked old enough to have arrived in the Colonies as a gift from a long-dead king or queen. Though he’d been through the place ear- lier, Web still caught himself occasionally ogling the large rooms, elaborate millwork, heavy draperies and enormous artwork that looked museum-quality and probably was, and then they arrived at the lower level. Romano looked around and kept muttering, “Holy shit,” under his breath.

  Web again noted Billy’s limp. “You have an accident?” he asked, pointing to the man’s leg.

  “Yeah, a one-ton draft horse decided to take a roll while I was on the sumbitch.”

  The floor in the lower level was flagstone, the exposed walls stone and twelve-by-twelve beams had the task of holding up the ceiling. There were large leather couches and chairs placed precisely, probably to encourage several conversation groups, or perhaps even conspiratorial factions, for this definitely looked like that sort of place to Web, though the Canfields didn’t seem the type. If they didn’t like you, they probably weren’t bashful about showing it, especially Billy. The walls were festooned with the racks of yet more English stags along with numerous mounted heads of deer, a cheetah, a lion, a rhino, a moose and mounted full bodies of a large variety of birds and fish. Mounted on another wall was a very large walleyed pike. There was also a full-sized grizzly in a charging pose and an enormous swordfish in perpetual soar. On one display table was a coiled diamondback rattler and a king cobra, with eyes seemingly ablaze and fangs showing and ready to do some serious damage. Web gave both stuffed reptiles a wide berth. He had never cared much for snakes after almost being bitten by an enraged water moccasin on a mission in Alabama.

  There was a well-stocked gun cabinet against one wall. Web and Romano enviously checked out the array of Churchill, Rizzini and Piotti firearms, weapons that would easily set you back five figures. You really couldn’t be a member of HRT and not be an aficionado of showpieces like these, though most FBI agents lacked the financial wherewithal to do more than press their noses to the glass. Web wondered if the weapons were for show only or whether anybody here ever actually used them. Billy looked like he would be comfortable around guns, maybe even Gwen too. If the man had killed all these animals, he would damn well have to be handy with firearms.

  A full bar of dark cherry sat against another wall. It looked like it had been yanked straight from a London pub. Web’s strong impression when he had first seen this room was that it had the feel of an English club spiked with a bit of the Wild West.

  Gwen was sitting on a couch that looked substantial enough to sail in across the Atlantic. She rose when they entered the room. She was wearing a beige sundress that went down to her ankles and that had a scooped neckline showing a good portion of cleavage. A bit of her white bra strap showed from under the sundress’s thin shoulder straps. Her bare arms were browned by the sun and were tight and firm. Probably from horse-reining, Web assumed, since his arms were aching a little from doing just that for three hours. Black leather flats were on her feet. Still, she was only a couple inches shorter than Romano. As she sat back down and crossed her legs, the sundress slipped back an inch or so and Web was a little surprised to see that she wore a gold ankle chain, because it seemed a bit out of sync with her refined bearing. Her face was nicely tanned too and the contrast of the blond hair was striking. Billy Canfield was indeed a fortunate man, thought Web, though he wondered how much of the life in their marriage had died with their son.

  Web was surprised to see Nemo Strait sitting in one of the chairs. The farm manager had cleaned up and was wearing a Polo shirt that showed off his muscular physique, with chino pants and loafers. He was a striking man, Web had to admit.

  Strait raised his glass to Web and Romano.

  “Welcome to Casa Canfield,” he said with a big grin.

  Web looked at the numerous animal trophies. “They come with the house?” he asked Billy.

  “Hell, no,” said the man. “About four years ago I had me a calling, I guess you’d say, to go off and shoot things. Became a big-game hunter and a deep-sea fisherman. Was even on TV a few times on some sporting shows. Went round the world bagging stuff like that.” He pointed to the tusked head of a wild boar on one wall and then over at the grizzly, which stood at least nine feet tall on a specially built display unit, its fangs bared and its long claws looking ready to shred somebody.

  He went over and rubbed the thick neck of the enormous bear. “Now, this thing did its best to kill me, twice. Second time it almost did, but I got it.” He pointed over at the rhino. “Those damn things look slow and heavy-footed. That is, they do until they’re coming at you about thirty miles an hour with nothing between you and your Maker but your nerves, good aim and a steady trigger finger. You aim for the brain. Now, if you miss and hit the rhino’s horn, you’re a dead man.”

  “Poor animals,” said Gwen.

  “Hell, the damn things cost me a fortune,” replied her husband dryly. He looked at one of the stags and then nodded at Web. “You know, the stag is the old symbol of virility, wisdom and life. And there it is hanging on my wall, dead as a doornail. I kind of like the irony in that. Now, I do all my own stuffing. Got to be a pretty damn good taxidermist, if I do say so myself.”

  Web was wondering about the timing of Billy’s desire to kill. It must have occurred soon after the trial had ended in Ernest Free’s plea bargain that had most certainly let him live.

  Billy continued, “Here, let me show you. You want to come, Nemo?”

  “No way. I’ve already seen your little operation and I ain’t had my dinner yet.”

  Billy led them down a hallway and unlocked a door there. Gwen did not accompany them either. They went inside and Web looked around. The place was large and crammed with worktables and shelves and on these surfaces were cans of liquids and pastes and sharp knives and scalpels, dozens of other tools, large vises, ropes and complicated pulley systems hanging from the ceiling. In one corner was the skin of an elk partially stretched over a form, and in another corner stood a wild turkey in all its dead glory. In other corners were stuffed birds and fish and some large and small animals Web couldn’t even recognize. Web had smelled rotted corpses and it wasn’t that bad in here, but, all the same, Web wouldn’t want to breathe it every day.

  “You killed all these?” asked Romano.

  “Every one,” said Billy with delight. “I only stuff what I kill. I don’t do nobody any favors on that score.” He picked up a rag and squirted some liquid on it and started rubbing on one of the tools. “Other folks golf for relaxation, I kill and stuff.”

  “I guess it’s all relative,” opined Web.

  “It’s therapeutic, I’ve found. But Gwen don’t see it that way. She’s never come in here and I suspect she never will. Now, taxidermy has come a long way. You don’t have to build your forms anymore, you can buy real good ones made out of compressed cork, laminated paper and such, and then fit it to what you’re mounting. It’s still quite a process, a lot of planning and measuring and you got to have a bit of both the butcher and the artist in you. The basic steps are you gut the body and then prep the skin. A lot of folks use borax, but the purists like myself still poison the skin with arsenic. You get your best longevity there. And I even do some of my own tanning.”

  “You keep arsenic around here?” asked Romano.

  “Tons of it.” Billy eyed the man. “Don’t worry, I always wash my hands after working down here, and I don’t do none of the cooking.” He laughed and Romano joined him, albeit a little nervously.

  “Then you prep the skull, assemble your wires and such and then do your filling and final assembling.”

  Web eyed the room’s equipment. It seemed one bare step removed from a slaughterhouse. “Lots of stuff in here.”

  “Well, you need a lot of stuff to do the job right.” He pointed out various pieces. “Like I said, you got your anatomically correct urethane forms for the animals, but I still make some of my own using plaster of paris, modeling clay, cord-wrapped excelsior and the like. Ain’t got to have everything handed to you, right?”

  “Right,” said Romano.

  “Then you got your chemicals, poisons and salt, lots of salt to preserve the skin. Then you need your measurite and calipers for linear measurements and achieving symmetry. Scalpels for the obvious reason; I use what’s called a perfect knife, German-made, those damn Germans know how to make the knives. It’s for skinning and caping—you know, severing the neck from the body hide, for example—the detail work around the eyes and mouth and the like. You got your skinning knives, paring knives, bone saw, shavers, skifes for leather, even a fleshing machine. Now, that is a damn fine invention.”

  Under his breath Web said, “Lucky, lucky world.”

  “Got me Kevlar fleshing gloves so I don’t chop off one of my fingers. Scissors, hide pullers, lip tuckers, nippers, forceps, probes and surgical needles. Sounds like a cross between a mortician and a plastic surgeon, don’t it?” He pointed to mixing -->