Last Man Standing by David Baldacci

again.
    They had sat in O’Bannon’s office. There was no couch but rather a small love seat not nearly long enough to lie down upon.
     O’Bannon had explained it as, “The greatest of all misperceptions in our field. Not every psychiatrist has a couch.”
    O’Bannon’s office was sterile, with white walls, industrial furnishings and very few items of a personal nature. It all made
     Web feel about as comfortable as sitting on death row waiting to do a last dance with Mr. Sparky. They made small talk, presumably
     to ease Web into opening up. There was a pad and pen next to O’Bannon, but he never picked them up.
    “I’ll do that later,” O’Bannon had said when Web asked him about his lack of note-taking. “For now, let’s just talk.” He had
     a darting gaze that had been unsettling to Web, though the psychiatrist’s voice was soft and relatively soothing. After an
     hour the session was up, and Web could see nothing much that had been accomplished. He knew more about O’Bannon than the man
     knew about Web. He had not gotten around to any of the issues disturbing him.
    “These things take time, Web,” O’Bannon had said as he led Web out. “It’ll come, don’t you worry. It just takes time. Rome
     wasn’t built in a day.”
    Web wanted to ask him exactly how long it would take to build Rome in this case, but he said nothing except good-bye. At first
     Web had believed that he would never go back to see the short, pudgy man with the blank office. And yet he had. And O’Bannon
     had worked through the issues with him session after session, getting him to deal with things. But Web had never forgotten
     the little boy who had been gunned down in cold blood with Web mere feet away and unable to save him. That would have been
     unhealthy, to ever forget something like that.
    O’Bannon had told Web that he and others at his psychiatric practice had catered to the needs of Bureau personnel for many
     years and had helped agents and administrative staff through lots of crises. Web had been surprised at that because he assumed
     he was one of the few who had ever sought professional counseling. O’Bannon had looked at him in a very knowing way and said,
     “Just because people don’t talk about it doesn’t mean they don’t want to address their issues or don’t want to get better.
     I can, of course, reveal no names, but trust me, you are definitely not alone in coming to me from the FBI. Agents who hide
     their heads in the sand are just ticking bombs waiting to explode.”
    Now Web wondered if he was a ticking bomb. He went inside and over to the elevators, each step heavier than the previous one.
    With his mind clearly elsewhere, Web nearly collided with a woman coming from the other direction. He apologized and pushed
     the elevator button. The car came and they both got on. Web punched the button for his floor and stepped back. As they headed
     up, Web glanced over at the woman. She was average height, slender and very attractive. He put her age at late thirties. She
     wore a gray pantsuit, the collar of a white blouse topping it. Her hair was a wavy black and cut short, and she had on small
     clip earrings. She carried a briefcase. Her long fingers curled around the handle, pressing tightly, noted Web, whose whole
     professional life was spent obsessing over the small details, because the little things almost always determined his future,
     or lack of one.
    The car stopped at Web’s floor and he was a little surprised when the woman got off too. But then he recalled she had not
     pushed another floor button. Well, so much for always observing the little details. He followed her to the office he was going
     to. She glanced back at him.
    “Can I help you?”
    Her voice was low, precise and somehow inviting, comforting to him. The unusually deep blue of her eyes caught Web’s attention.
     The eyes were also big, sad and peering. They held you, those eyes did.
    “I’m here to see Dr.