Last Man Standing

  “And with him died your dreams of teaching?”

  “I never could bring myself to go out for NYPD. I could’ve made it, easy. I hooked on to the military, made Delta, jumped to FBI and then on to HRT. None of it was too much for me. The harder they tried to hurt me, the more I thrived.”

  “So you eventually did become a policeman of sorts.”

  He stared at her. “But I did it my way.” He paused. “I loved my old man, don’t get me wrong. But I never shamed him. And every day I think about that being his dying thought. And it either makes me want to start bawling or killing somebody.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Can you? I sure as hell never could.”

  “You’re not my patient, obviously, but just a friendly piece of advice: At some point you have to live your life the way you want to. Otherwise the building up of resentment and other negative factors can do great damage psychologically. You’ll find that not only will you hurt yourself, but those you love.”

  He looked at her with a level of sadness that touched her deeply.

  “I think it might be a little too late for that.” Then he added, “But you’re right about the ring.”

  So, talk to me about this hypnosis,” said Web.

  Romano had dropped Claire off at the carriage house and gone on to watch over the Canfields. Claire and Web were sitting in the living room staring at each other.

  “I know that you didn’t agree to do it with him, but didn’t O’Bannon explain it to you when he offered to hypnotize you?”

  “I guess I forgot.”

  “Just relax and go with the flow, Web. You know, seat-of-the-pants kind of guy. You’re one of those types.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  She smiled at him over the rim of the cup of tea he had made for her. “I don’t have to be a psychiatrist, Web, to see that.” She looked out the window. “This is some place.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I suppose you can’t tell me what you’re doing out here?”

  “I’m probably breaking every rule in the book just by having you out here, but I figured Romano would know if anyone was following him.” And it’s not like whoever was behind the killings didn’t know where the Canfields lived, thought Web, because they had gotten the phone bomb in here.

  “Romano would make an interesting case study. I identified about five major psychoses, classic passive-aggressive posturing and an unhealthy appetite for pain and violence just in the car ride here.”

  “Really? I would have guessed more.”

  “And he’s also intelligent, sensitive, deeply emotional, incredibly independent but amazingly loyal. Quite a smorgasbord.”

  “If you need somebody to cover your back, there’s nobody better than Paulie. He’s got this rough outside, but the guy has a big heart. But man, if he doesn’t like you, watch out. His wife Angie is even more of a piece of work, though. I found out recently that she’s seeing O’Bannon. So are some of the other wives. I even saw Deb Riner there. She’s the widow of Teddy Riner—he was our team leader.”

  “We have a large number of FBI and other law enforcement clientele. Years ago Dr. O’Bannon worked in-house at the Bureau.When he went into private practice, he brought quite a few patients with him. It is a specialty practice because law enforcement people have unique jobs and the stress and personal issues associated with that occupation can be devastating if left untreated. I personally find it all fascinating. And I admire what all of you do very much. I hope you know that.”

  Web looked over at her, his expression searching and pained.

  “Is there something else bothering you?” she asked quietly.

  “My Bureau file you were given. Did it by chance have the background interview with Harry Sullivan in it?”

  She took a moment to answer. “Yes. I thought about telling you, but I thought it better for you to find out for yourself. I take it you did.”

  “Yeah,” he said in a tight voice. “About fourteen years too late.”

  “Your father had no reason to say anything good about you. He was going to be in prison for the next twenty years. He hadn’t seen you in forever. And yet—”

  “And yet he said I’d make the best damn FBI agent there ever was or ever would be and you could quote him on that.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Maybe some day he and I should meet,” said Web.

  Claire met his gaze. “I think, Web, that that might be traumatic, but I also think it might be a good idea.”

  “A voice out of the past?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Speaking of voices, I was thinking about what Kevin Westbrook said to me in that alley.”

  Claire sat up straighter. “‘Damn to hell’?”

  “What do you know about voodoo?”

  “Not much. You think Kevin put a curse on you?”

  “No, the people behind him. I don’t know, I’m just thinking out loud.”

  Claire looked doubtful. “I guess it’s possible, Web, though I wouldn’t count on that being the answer.”

  Web cracked his knuckles. “You’re probably right. Okay, Doc, pull out your watch and start swinging.”

  “I use a blue pen, if you don’t mind. However, first I want you to sit in the recliner over there and lean back. You don’t undergo hyp- nosis while standing at attention, Web. You need to relax and I’m going to help you do that.”

  Web sat in the recliner and Claire positioned herself across from him on an ottoman.

  “Now, the first thing we need to address are the myths surrounding hypnosis. As I told you, it’s not a state of unconsciousness, it’s an altered state of consciousness. Your brain, in fact, will experience the same brain wave activity it would in a relaxed state, which is alpha rhythm. While in the trance you’ll be incredibly relaxed, but it’s also a heightened state of awareness and of suggestibility and you are in complete control of what goes on. All hypnosis, in fact, is self-hypnosis, and I’m merely here to help guide you to the point where you are relaxed enough to reach that state. No one can hypnotize anyone who doesn’t really want to be hypnotized, and you can’t be forced to do something you really don’t want to do. So you are completely safe. No barking dogs need apply.” She smiled reassuringly. “Are you with me?”

  Web nodded.

  She held up the pen. “Would you believe this is a pen that Freud himself used?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  She smiled again. “Good, because he didn’t. We use an object like this when hypnotizing patients. Now I want you to become totally focused with your eyes on the tip of this pen.” She held it about six inches from Web’s face and above his natural line of sight. Web raised his head to look at it. “No, Web, you can only use your eyes.” She placed a hand on top of his head to keep it level. Now Web had to direct his gaze nearly straight up to see the tip.

  “That’s very good, Web, very good. Most people get tired very quickly, but I’m sure you won’t. I know you’re very strong and very determined, just keep staring, staring at the tip of the pen.” Without seeming to, Claire’s voice had dropped to an even level without being a monotone, her words coming steadily and always in the same soothing manner as she offered him encouragement.

  A minute passed. Then, as Web continued to stare at the tip of the pen, Claire said, “And blink.” And Web blinked. Claire could see that his eyes were becoming strained staring from that very uncomfortable angle, and then they started to water. And he had actually blinked first and then she had instantly said, “And blink.” But he wouldn’t be sure of the sequence of events. He was too busy concentrating on the pen’s tip, on keeping his eyes open. But it made him believe something had happened, that she was slowly assuming control over him. Even if he’d been through it before he would still be wondering whether this hypnosis thing actually worked. First came eye fatigue, and next came mind confusion. All to get him relaxed enough to open up.

  “You are d
oing so well, Web,” she said, “better than just about anyone. You’re getting more and more relaxed. Just keep staring at that tip.” And she could tell he was so determined to keep staring, to keep getting that encouragement. He was a classic overachiever, she easily deduced; he was eager to please and receive praise. He needed attention and love because he obviously had not gotten much of either as a child.

  “And blink.” And he did so again and she knew it felt so good to him, relieved the strain. She knew the tip of the pen was starting to grow larger and larger for him, and that he was beginning not to want to look at it anymore.

  “And it seems you really want to close your eyes,” Claire said. “And your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. It’s hard to keep them open and it seems you really want to close them. Close your eyes.” And Web did, but he immediately reopened them. That almost always happened, Claire knew. “Keep staring at the pen, Web, just keep staring at the tip, you’re doing really well. Outstanding. Just let your eyes close naturally when they’re ready to close.”

  Web’s eyes slowly drifted closed and stayed that way.

  “I want you to say out loud the word ‘ten’ ten times fast. Go ahead and do that.”

  Web did so and then Claire asked. “What are aluminum cans made from?”

  “Tin,” Web said in a proud voice, and smiled.

  “Aluminum.”

  His smile faded.

  Claire continued in her soothing voice, “You know what a strop is? It’s a rough leather strap that men used to use in the Old West to sharpen their razors. I want you to say the word ‘strop’ ten times very fast. Go ahead and do it.”

  Obviously very wary now, Web said the word ten times.

  “What do you do at a green light?”

  “STOP!” he said loudly.

  “Actually, at a green light, you go.” Web’s shoulders collapsed in obvious frustration, but Claire was quick to praise him.

  “You’re doing really well. Almost nobody gets those answers right. But you look so relaxed. Now I want you to count out loud backward from three hundred by threes.”

  Web started to do so. He had counted back to 279 when she told him to start counting backward by fives. He did so until she had him do it by sevens and then by nines.

  Claire interrupted and told him, “Stop counting and just relax. Now you’re at the top of the escalator, and that point represents more relaxation. And the bottom of the escalator is the deepest relaxation there is. You’re going to take the escalator down, okay? You’re going to be more relaxed than you’ve ever been. Okay?” Web nodded. Claire’s voice was as welcome and as gentle as a wispy summer breeze.

  “You’re going slowly down the escalator. You’re gliding down, as if on air. Deeper into relaxation.” Claire started counting backward from ten and offered soothing words as she did so. At the count of one she said, “You appear to be very relaxed.”

  Claire studied Web’s features and his skin color. His body had gone from tense to loose. His face was red, evidencing enhanced blood flow there. His eyelids were closed yet fluttering. She told him that she was going to pick up one of his hands—before she did so, to avoid startling him. She gently took it. The hand was limp. She let it go.

  “You’re near the bottom of the escalator. You’re just about to get off. Deepest relaxation, like nothing you’ve ever felt. It’s perfect.”

  She once more picked up his hand after warning him first that she was going to do so. “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Green,” Web said softly.

  “Green, a nice soothing color. Like grass. I’m putting a balloon, a green balloon, in your hand. I’m doing that right now. Do you feel that?” Web nodded. “Now I’m going to pump it up with helium. As you know, helium is lighter than air. I’m pumping up the green balloon. It’s getting more full. It’s beginning to rise. It’s getting fuller.”

  Claire watched as Web’s hand rose from the arm of the recliner as if buoyed by the imaginary balloon.

  “Now, on the count of three, your hand will drop back to the chair.” She counted to three and Web’s hand returned to the chair. She waited about thirty seconds and then said, “Your hand is now getting cold, very cold, I think I see frostbite.”

  She watched as Web’s hand curled and shook. “All right, it’s gone now, all normal, all warm.” The hand relaxed.

  Typically, Claire would not have been as elaborate in putting Web through these paces, the deepening of relaxation techniques. Normally she would have stopped with the balloon. However, she had been curious about something, and that curiosity had been answered because Claire concluded that Web was probably a somnambule. Most people in the field would agree that between five and ten percent of the general population was highly susceptible to hypnosis, with the same percentage highly resistant to it. Somnambules went a step further. They were so susceptible to hypnosis that they could be compelled to experience physical sensations hypnotically, as Web had just done. They could also be expected to reliably execute posthypnotic suggestions. And, surprisingly, very intelligent people often were the easiest to hypnotize.

  “Web, can you hear me?” He nodded. “Web, listen very carefully to my voice. Focus on my voice. The balloon is now gone. Just keep on relaxing. Now you’re holding a video camera in your hand. You’re the cameraman. What you see through your lens is all that you and I can see, do you understand, Mr. Cameraman?” Another nod. “Okay, my only role is to point you around in time, but you control everything else. Through the camera you’ll be looking in on other people, to see what they’re up to. The camera has a microphone, so we’ll be able to hear too. All right?” He nodded. “You’re doing so well, Mr. Cameraman. I’m so proud of you.”

  Claire sat back and thought for a moment. As a therapist who had studied Web’s background, she knew exactly the area she should be focusing on in his past to help him. His most severe psychological problems did not stem from the death of his HRT col- leagues. They came directly from the triangular relationship between his mother, stepfather and himself. And yet her first stop in Web London’s past would be earlier.

  “I want you to go back to March eighth, 1969, Mr. Cameraman. Can you get me back there?”

  Web didn’t respond for a bit. Then he said, “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you see, Mr. Cameraman.” She knew that his birthday was March 8. In 1969, Web would be turning six years old. That was probably the last year he would have been with Harry Sullivan. She wanted to establish a baseline for Web with the man, a pleasant memory, and a birthday party for a little boy would set that tone perfectly. “The relaxed Mr. Cameraman will focus and swing his camera around. Whom do you see?” she prompted again.

  “I see a house. I see a room, a room with no one in it.” “Concentrate and focus, swing your camera around. Don’t you see anyone? March eighth, 1969.” She suddenly feared that there had been no party for Web.

  “Wait a minute,” said Web. “Wait a minute, I see something.”

  “What do you see?”

  “A man—no, a woman. She’s pretty, very pretty. She has a hat on, a funny hat, and she’s carrying a cake with candles.”

  “Sounds like somebody must be having a party. Is it a boy or a girl, Mr. Cameraman?”

  “A boy’s. Yes, and now there are other people coming out, like they were hiding. They’re yelling something, they’re yelling, ‘Happy birthday.’”

  “That’s great, Web, a little boy’s having a birthday party. What does he look like?”

  “He has dark hair, sort of tall. He’s blowing out the candles on the cake. Everybody’s singing happy birthday.”

  “Does this boy hear a daddy singing? How about daddy, Mr. Cameraman?”

  “I see him. I see him.” Web’s face was turning red and his breathing had accelerated. Claire watched his physical signs closely. She would not put Web at risk physically or emotionally. She would not go that far.

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s bi
g, really big, bigger than anybody else there. A giant.”

  “And what is happening between the boy and his giant daddy, Mr. Cameraman?”

  “The boy is running to him. And the man’s lifting him up on his shoulders, like he doesn’t weigh anything.”

  “Oh, a strong daddy.”

  “He’s kissing the boy, they’re dancing around the room and they’re singing some song.”

  “Listen carefully, Mr. Cameraman, turn up the sound control on the microphone. Can you hear any of the words?”

  Web first shook his head and then nodded. “Eyes, shining eyes.” Claire searched her memory and then it hit her: Harry Sullivan, the Irishman. “Irish eyes. Irish eyes are smiling?”

  “That’s it! But no, he’s made up his own words to the song, and they’re funny, everyone’s laughing. And now the man’s giving the boy something.”

  “A present? Is it a birthday present?”