Last Man Standing (17 page)

When Web looked over at Jerome he jumped up and was gone before Web could even rise. Web heard the front door open and then
slam shut and then came the sound of feet running away.

Web looked back at Granny.

“Jerome don’t know him neither,” said Grandma.

T
he morning came for the official memorial service, and Web rose early, showered, shaved and dressed in his nicest suit. The
time to formally honor and mourn all of his friends had come, and all Web wanted to do was run like hell.

Web had not spoken with Bates about what he’d learned from Romano and Cortez, nor about his visit to Kevin’s home. Web wasn’t
exactly sure why he hadn’t, only that he wasn’t feeling in a real trusting mood, and because Bates would no doubt chew him
out for interfering in the investigation. To Web, Bates had identified the kid as Kevin Westbrook, which meant either the
boy had told him that was his name or Bates had gotten it from Romano and Cortez if the boy had disappeared before Bates had
arrived on the scene. Web would have to confirm which it was. If Bates had seen the other kid, then when he had taken Kevin’s
photo from the grandmother, he’d have known there were two different kids involved.

So Web had given a kid with a bullet wound on his cheek a note to take to his HRT guys. That kid had told Web his name was
Kevin. The note had been delivered, but apparently not by the same kid Web had given the note to. That meant that between
him giving the kid calling himself Kevin the note and the note being delivered, the boy had been switched with another kid.
That could only have taken place in the alley between where Web was and the charging HRT unit. That wasn’t a whole bunch of
space, yet it had been enough to pull the switch, which meant other people had been lurking somewhere in that alley, waiting
for this to happen, maybe waiting for a lot to happen.

Was Kevin’s coming down that alley planned? Was he working for his brother, Big F? Was he supposed to check for survivors,
and had he not expected to find any? And when he did find Web alive, had that thrown a monkey wrench in somebody’s plan? And
what the hell could that plan have been? And why pull one kid out and put another one in? And why did the fake Kevin lie and
say Web was a coward? And who was the suit who had taken the replacement kid? Bates had been pretty tight-lipped about losing
the kid. Was the suit Romano had talked to even an FBI agent? If not, how could one imposter have walked right in with creds
and bravado impressive enough to fool Romano and Cortez and waltz off with
another
imposter? It was bewildering, and Web was so full of doubt that turning to Bates for answers and information sharing was
not real high on his list of action items.

He parked the Mach One as close to the church as he could. There were many cars already there, and the parking spaces relatively
few. The church was a somber-faced stone monolith built in the latter part of the nineteenth century when the architectural
commandment had been, “Thou house of worship shalt have more turrets, balustrades, Ionic columns, broken pediments, arches,
gables, doors, windows and cool masonry curlicues than thy neighbor.”

It was at this holy temple that Presidents, Supreme Court justices, members of Congress, ambassadors and other, lesser dignitaries
of varying degrees did their praying, singing and, very occasionally, confessing. Political leaders were often photographed
or filmed going up or down its broad steps, Bible in hand and God-fearing looks on their features. Despite the separation
of church and state in America, Web had always believed that voters liked to see a little piety in their elected officials.
No HRT members had attended this church, yet the politicos had to have a grand stage to say their words of consolation. And
the little backwoods house of religion near Quantico, where some of the members of Charlie Team had actually done their worshiping,
apparently didn’t cut it.

The sky was clear, the sun warming and the slight breeze refreshing. It was too fine an afternoon for such a depressing thing
as a memorial service, it seemed to Web. Yet he went up the church steps, each click of his polished shoes on the stone simulating
the ding of a wheel gun’s cylinder being turned, one chamber, one bullet, one potentially spent life at a time. Such violent
analogies were Web’s lot in life, he supposed. Where others saw hope, he only witnessed the raw sores of a festering, degenerating
humanity. God, with that attitude, it was no wonder he was never invited to parties.

Secret Service agents were everywhere, with their shoulder holsters, poker expressions and curly ear cords. Web had to go
through a metal detector before entering the church. He showed his gun and his FBI creds, which told the Secret Service the
only way Web and his gun would be parted was if he was dead.

As soon as he opened the door, Web almost bumped into the rear of the mass of people that had somehow squeezed itself into
the space. He took the rather uncouth tactic of flashing his FBI shield, and the seas parted and he was allowed to move through.
Over in one corner a camera crew had set up and was broadcasting the entire spectacle. What idiot had authorized that? Web
wondered. And exactly whose idea was it to invite the whole frigging world to what should have been a private ceremony? This
was how the survivors were to remember their dead, at a circus?

With the help of some fellow agents Web managed to wedge himself into one of the pews and then looked around. The families
were in the front two rows, which had been roped off. Web bowed his head in prayer, saying one for each of the men, lingering
the longest on Teddy Riner, who had been a mentor to Web, a cracker-jack agent, a wonderful father, a good man all around.
Web dropped a couple of tears as he realized how much he had really lost in those few seconds of hell. Yet when he looked
up front to where the families sat, he knew he had not lost as much as those folks had.

The truth was beginning to set in with the younger kids, for Web could hear their wails at Daddy being gone forever. And the
sobbing and screaming continued through all the tired speeches, from the get-tough-on-crime bullcrap from the politicians
to the preachers who had never met any of the men they were eulogizing.

They fought the good fight
, Web wanted to stand up and quietly say.
They died protecting all of us. Never forget them, for they were all unforgettable in their own way. End of eulogy. Amen.
Let’s hit the bars
.

The memorial service finally was over, and the congregation heaved a collective sigh of relief. On his way out, Web spoke
with Debbie Riner and offered some words of comfort to Cynde Plummer and Carol Garcia and exchanged hugs and snatches of more
words with some of the others. He squatted down and talked to the little kids, held small trembling bodies in his arms and
Web just didn’t want to let go. This simple physical giving threatened to make Web start bawling. Tears had never come easily
to him, and yet he had shed more of them in the last week or so than he had in his entire life. But the kids were just killing
him.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. As he rose and turned, Web thought he would be comforting one more bereaved person. However,
the woman staring back at him did not appear to need or want his sympathy.

Julie Patterson was the widow of Lou Patterson. She had four kids and had been expecting a fifth but had miscarried it three
hours after learning she had become a widow and single mother. A look at her glassy eyes told Web that the woman was heavily
drugged with what he hoped were doctor-ordered prescriptions. And Web could smell the liquor. Pills and booze was not a good
combo to serve oneself on a day like today. Of all the wives, Julie had been least close to Web, because Lou Patterson loved
Web like a brother and Web had easily sensed that Julie was jealous of that relationship.

“You really think you should be here, Web?” said Julie. She tottered in her black heels, her eyes not entirely able to focus
on him. Her words were slurry, her tongue moving on to form others before they had completed the last. She was puffy, her
skin pale yet blotched red in spots. She had not carried the baby long enough for her belly to swell, and this lost opportunity
seemed to have deepened the woman’s hurt. She should be home in bed and Web wondered why she wasn’t. “Julie, let’s go outside
and you can get some air. Come on, let me help you.”

“Get the hell away from me!” Julie shouted in a voice loud enough to make those within twenty feet of them stop and stare.
The TV crew saw this exchange too, and both the cameraman and reporter apparently simultaneously saw potential gold. The camera
swung in Web’s direction and the reporter headed over.

“Julie, let’s go outside,” Web said again quietly. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, you bastard!” She ripped Web’s hand off and he grunted in pain, cupping his wounded hand
near his body. Her fingernails had bitten right into the hole there, ripping out the stitches; it started to bleed.

“Wasamatter, your little hand hurting, you gutless sonovabitch? You with the Frankenstein face! How’d your mother stand looking
at you? You freak, you!”

Cynde and Debbie tried to talk to her, console her, but Julie pushed them away and got close to Web again. “You froze up before
the shooting started, only you don’t know why? And then you fell down? You ’spect us to buy that bullshit!” Her liquor breath
was so intense Web had to close his eyes for a moment, and that only magnified his sense of faltering balance.

“You coward. You let them die! How much did you get? How much did Lou’s blood get you, you asshole?”

“Ms. Patterson.” This came from Percy Bates, who had swept up next to them. “Julie,” he said very calmly, “let’s get you to
your car before the traffic gets really bad. I’ve got your kids right over here.”

Julie’s lips trembled at the mention of her children. “How many are there?” Bates looked confused. “How many kids?” Julie
asked again. One hand slid to her empty belly and stayed there, and wet spots from tears marked the front of her black dress.
Julie focused once more on Web, her lips curling back in a snarl. “I was supposed to have five of them. I had five kids and
a husband. Now I got four kids and no Lou. My Lou’s gone. And my baby’s gone, damn you! Damn you!” Her voice edged upward
again, her hand was making crazy circles on her belly, as though she were rubbing a magic lamp, perhaps making a wish for
the baby and husband to come back. The camera was eating up all of this. The reporter was scribbling furiously.

“I’m sorry, Julie. I did all I could,” said Web.

Julie stopped rubbing her belly and spit in his face. “That’s for Lou.” She spit again. “That’s for my baby. Go to hell. You
go to hell, Web London.” She slapped his face, hitting him right on his ruined cheek, and she almost fell over with the effort.
“And that’s for me, you bastard! You . . . you freak!”

Julie’s energy was spent and Bates had to grab the woman before she collapsed to the floor. They got her outside and the nervous
crowd started to drift away into small pockets of discussion; many of them cast angry backward glances at Web.

Web did not move. He had not even wiped away Julie’s spit. His face was red from where she had hit him. He had just been proclaimed
a freakish monster and a coward and a traitor. Julie Patterson might as well have cut off his head and took that with her
too. Web would’ve beaten to death any man who had said those things to him. But coming from a bereaved widow and mother, her
insults had to be accepted; he felt like taking his own life instead. None of what she said was true, yet how could Web deny
her any of it?

“Sir, it’s Web, right? Web London?” said the reporter at his shoulder. “Look, I know this is probably a really awkward time,
but the news sometimes can’t wait. Would you be willing to talk to us?” Web didn’t answer. “Come on,” said the reporter. “It’ll
only take a minute. Just a few questions.”

“No,” said Web, and started to leave. He wasn’t sure until right then that he actually could even walk.

“Look, we’re going to talk to the lady too. And you don’t want the public to have only her side of things. I’m giving you
a shot to tell your story here. Fair is fair.”

Web turned back and grabbed the man by the arm. “There are no ‘sides.’ And you let that woman alone. She’s had enough for
the rest of her life. You let her alone. Stay away from her! You understand me?”

“Just doing my job.” The man carefully edged Web’s hand off his arm. He looked at the cameraman.
Excellent,
was the unspoken thought that seemed to travel between the two men.

Web walked out the door and quickly left behind the church of the famous and well heeled. He climbed in the Mach, fired it
up and headed off. He stripped off his tie, checked his wallet to make sure he had some cash, stopped at a liquor store in
the District and bought two bottles of cheap Chianti and a six-pack of Negra Modelo.

He drove home, locked all the doors and pulled the shades on all the windows. He went into the bathroom, turned on the light
and looked at himself in the mirror. The skin on the right side of his face was slightly tanned, relatively smooth, a few
odd whiskers in spots he had missed with his razor. A nice side of skin, not bad at all. “Side of skin.” That was how he had
to analyze it now. The days were long gone when anyone could remark on his handsome face. Julie Patterson had had no trouble
commenting on his mug, though.
But Frankenstein? That was a new one, Julie.
Given time to think about it, he wasn’t feeling quite so understanding towards the woman right now.
You would’ve lost Lou a long time ago if Frankenstein hadn’t done what he’d done that cost him half his damn face. Did you
forget that? I haven’t, Julie. I see it every day.

He turned slightly to fully reveal the left side of his face. No whiskers sprouted there. And the skin never really did tan.
The doctors had said that this might happen. And there didn’t seem to be enough of it, the skin was stretched so tight. Sometimes,
when he wanted to laugh or smile really wide, he couldn’t because that side of his face just wouldn’t cooperate, as though
it were telling him to kiss off, buddy, look what you did to me! And the damage had reached to the edge of his eye such that
the socket was pulled more to the temple than normal. Before the operations, it had given him quite an unbalanced appearance.
Now the look was better, but the two sides of his face would forever be misaligned.