Last Man Standing (52 page)

“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 big, 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?”

Web’s face contorted and he lurched forward. Claire looked alarmed and she sat forward too. “Relax, Mr. Cameraman. It’s just
a picture you’re looking at, that’s all. Just a picture. What do you see?”

“I see men. Men have come in the house.”

“What men? What do they look like?”

“They’re in brown, dressed in brown with cowboy hats. They have guns.”

Now Claire’s heart skipped a beat. Should she pull the plug on this? She studied Web closely. He appeared to be calming down.
“What are the men doing, Mr. Cameraman? What do they want?”

“They’re taking him, they’re taking the man away. He’s yelling. He’s screaming, they’re all screaming. The cowboys are putting
shiny things on the man’s hands. The mommy is screaming, she’s grabbed the little boy.”

Web covered his ears with his hands and was rocking back and forth so violently he was close to tipping the recliner over.
“They’re yelling, they’re yelling. The little boy’s yelling, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’” Web was now screaming himself.

Oh, shit,
Claire thought.
Shiny things on his hands?
The police had come to arrest Harry Sullivan right in the middle of Web’s sixth birthday party. Good God!

Claire looked back at Web. “Okay, Mr. Cameraman,” she said in her smoothest, most comforting voice, “just relax, we’re going
somewhere else. Take your camera and turn it off for right now until we decide where to go. Okay, your camera is going dark
now, relaxed Mr. Cameraman. You see nothing. You’re relaxed and seeing nothing at all. Everyone is gone. There’s no one left
yelling. All gone. All dark.”

Web slowly calmed and put his hands down and leaned back.

Claire sat back and tried to relax as well. She had been through some intense hypnosis sessions before and discovered some
surprising things about patients’ pasts, but each time was still new, still emotional. For a minute or more Claire wavered.
Should she move forward? There was the very real possibility she would never get Web in a hypnotic state again.

“Okay, Mr. Cameraman, we’re moving forward.” She glanced at the notes she had pulled from the file she had placed under a
couch pillow. She had waited until Web was under hypnosis before taking them out. She had noted from their previous sessions
that the use of files bothered him. That wasn’t unusual, for who would want their life set forth on paper for all to see and
scrutinize? And she remembered how she had felt when Buck Winters had pulled the same tactic on her. The pages had dates scribbled
on them. She had gotten them from Web’s file and discussions with him. “We’re moving on to . . .” She hesitated. Could he
handle this? Could
she
handle this? She made up her mind and told Web the new date to move on to. It was the date his stepfather had died. “What
do you see, Mr. Cameraman?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Claire remembered. “Turn your camera back on. Now what do you see?”

“Still nothing. It’s dark, totally black.”

That was odd, thought Claire. “Is it nighttime? Turn on the light on your video recorder, Mr. Cameraman.”

“No, there are no lights. I don’t want a light.”

Claire leaned forward, as Web was now referring to himself. This was tricky. This now placed the patient right in the bull’s-eye
of his very own unconscious. Still, she decided to press forward.

“Why doesn’t the Cameraman want a light?”

“Because I’m scared.”

“Why is the
little boy
scared?” She had to keep the objectivity here even as Web continued to wander to the cliff of subjectivity. It could be a
long way down, Claire well knew.

“Because he’s out there.”

“Who, Raymond Stockton?”

“Raymond Stockton,” Web repeated.

“Where is the little boy’s mother?”

Web’s chest started to heave again. He was gripping the sides of the recliner so tightly his fingers were shaking.

“Where is your mother?”

Web’s voice was high, like a boy still a ways from puberty.“Gone. No, she’s back. Fighting. Always fighting.”

“Your mother and father are fighting?”

“Always. Shhh!” Web hissed. “He’s coming. He’s coming.”

“How do you know, what do you see?”

“The door’s coming down. It always squeaks. Always. Just like that. He’s coming up the steps. He keeps it up here. His drugs.
I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him.”

“Relax, Web, it’s all right. It’s all right.” Claire didn’t want to touch him, for fear she would startle him, but she was
so close to Web there was practically no discernible space between them. She watched over Web as she would have over her mother
if it were the woman’s last minute on earth. Claire prepared herself to end this before it got out of control, yet if they
could just get a little further. Just a little further.

“He’s up at the top of the stairs. I hear him. I hear my mother. She’s down there. Waiting.”

“But you can’t see. You’re still in darkness.”

“I can see.” The tone of voice took Claire by surprise, for it was deep and menacing, no longer the cry of a terribly frightened
boy.

“How can you see, Mr. Cameraman? What do you see?”

Web screamed the next words out so suddenly that Claire nearly fell to the floor.

“Damn it, you already know this.”

For a split second she was sure he was talking directly to her. That had never happened before in a hypnotic session. What
did he mean? That she already knew this information? But then he calmed and continued.

“I lifted up the pile of clothes a little. I’m under the pile of clothes. Hiding.”

“From the little boy’s stepfather?”

“I don’t want him to see me.”

“Because the little boy is scared?”

“No, I’m not scared. I don’t want him to see me. He can’t see me, not yet.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“He’s right in front of me, but his back is to me. His stash is right over there. He’s bending down to get it.”

Web’s voice was growing deeper, as though he were growing from a boy to a man right in front of her.

“I’m coming out of hiding, I don’t have to hide anymore. The clothes are rising up with me. They’re my mother’s clothes. She
put this pile up here for me.”

“She did? Why?”

“To hide under, for when he came. I’m up. I’m standing up. I’m taller than he is. I’m bigger than he is.”

There was a tone to Web’s voice now that made Claire very nervous. She realized that her own breath was coming in gasps even
as Web had calmed. She had a cold dread of where this was going. She should pull him out. Every professional instinct she
had told her to stop this, and yet she just couldn’t.

“The carpet rolls. Hard as iron,” Web said in his deep-man voice. “I’ve got one, had it under the clothes. I’m up now, bigger
than he is. He’s a little man. So little.”

“Web,” began Claire. She dropped all pretense of the cameraman. This was getting out of hand.

“I’ve got it in my hand. Like a bat. I’m a great baseball player. Can hit it a mile. Swing harder than anyone. I’m big and
strong. Like my dad. My
real
dad.”

“Web, please.”

“He’s not even looking. Doesn’t know I’m there. Batter up.” She changed tactics again. “Mr. Cameraman, I want you to turn
off your camera.”

“Pitch is coming. Fastball. I see it. Easy. I’m getting ready.”

“Mr. Cameraman, I want you—”

“It’s almost here. He’s turning. I want him to. I want him to see this. See me.”

“Web! Turn it off.”

“He sees me. He sees me. I’m swinging for the fences.”

“Turn off the camera. Stop, you don’t see this. Stop!”

“I’m swinging. He sees me, he knows how hard I can hit. He’s scared now. He’s scared! He’s scared, I’m not! No more! No more!”

Claire watched helplessly as he gripped an imaginary bat and swung for the fences.

“It’s a hit. It’s a hit. Slash of red, slash of red. The ball’s going down. It’s going down. It’s a home run, a country mile.
It’s outta here. Outta here. Good-bye, good-bye, mister asshole.” He grew quiet for a long moment while Claire studied him
carefully.

“He’s getting up. He’s getting back up.” He paused. “Yes, Mom,” he said. “Here’s the bat, Mom.” He reached out his hand as
though handing off something. Claire almost reached out her hand to take it before she caught herself.

“Mom’s hitting him. In the head. Lots of blood. He’s not moving anymore. He’s not. It’s over.”

He became silent and slumped back in the recliner. Claire slumped down too, her heart beating so hard she put a hand over
her chest as though to prevent it from bursting through. All she could envision was Raymond Stockton plunging down the attic
stairs after being hit by a hard roll of carpet and hitting his head on the way down and then being finished off by his wife
with the same roll of carpet.

“I want you to completely relax, Web. I want you to sleep, to sleep, that’s all.”

She watched as his body dissolved even farther into the chair. As Claire looked up, she received another shock. Romano was
standing there, staring at her, his hand near his gun.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

“He’s under hypnosis, Mr. Romano. He’s all right.”

“How do I know that?”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me.” She was still too stricken to argue with the man. “How much did you hear?”

“I was coming back here to check on him when I heard Web screaming.”

“He’s reliving some very delicate memories of the past. I’m not sure what it all means yet, but it was a big step to get to
this point.”

Claire’s experiences in forensics had prompted several theories to consider. It had obviously been planned that the blows
had been struck with the rolled-up carpet. Stockton presumably would have had carpet fibers in his head wound when he hit
the floor. And if the carpet on the floor were the same carpet as the remnant in the attic, then the police would just assume
that the fibers became embedded in his head wound when he hit the floor. They would not suspect that someone had slugged him
with a rolled-up remnant in the attic. After all the complaints of abuse against the man, everyone, including the police,
had probably been grateful he was finally dead. Finished with the stepfather, Claire moved on to the mother.

Web had said Charlotte London had placed the pile of clothes there. Had she also supplied the rolled-up carpet? Had she coached
her tall, strong teenage son on how to do away with the abusive husband? Was that how the woman had decided to handle it?
And then stepped in to finish the job, leaving Web to later pick up the pieces, allowing him to repress guilt so deep he couldn’t
even remember the event except under hypnosis? But such an extraordinary repressed memory would taint every aspect of his
being and of his future. It would manifest itself in many ways, none of them positive. Claire could now clearly understand
why Web was like he was. He had become a lawman not to make up for Harry Sullivan’s felonious ways but because of his own
guilt. A boy helping to kill his stepfather at the instruction of his natural mother; from a mental health perspective it
didn’t get more screwed up than that.

Claire looked over at Web, who just sat there so peacefully, with his eyes closed, awaiting her next instruction. She also
now understood his somnambulism. Children from homes of terrible abuse often withdrew into fantasy worlds as protection from
the horrors of reality. Such children created imaginary friends to combat loneliness and also invented wonderful lives and
adventures to ward off feelings of insecurity and depression. Claire had treated somnambules who could control their higher
brain functions to such an extent that they could either embellish or completely wipe out whole sections of their memories,
just as Web had done. Though a dynamic, independent, self-reliant sort on the outside, Web London, she concluded, was obedient
and relied upon others on the inside; hence, his dependence on his HRT team and his exceptional ability to carry out orders.
He was eager to please, to be accepted.