Last Man Standing by David Baldacci Page B

to encourage it.
    “How would you like to talk to me instead?”
    “Professionally? That’s not possible. You’re Dr. O’Bannon’s patient.”
    “How about human to human?” Web had absolutely no idea where any of these words were coming from.
    She hesitated for a moment and then told him to wait. She went into an office and then came back out a few minutes later.
     “I tried reaching Dr. O’Bannon at the university, but they couldn’t track him down. Without talking to him, I really can’t
     counsel you. You have to understand, it’s a touchy thing ethically, Web. I’m not into poaching patients.”
    Web abruptly sat down. “Wouldn’t it ever be justified?”
    She mulled this over for a few moments. “I suppose if your regular doctor wasn’t available and you were in crisis, it would
     be.”
    “He’s not available and I’m in an honest-to-God crisis.” Web was being absolutely truthful, for it was like he was back in
     that courtyard, unable to move, unable to do a damn thing to help, useless. If she still refused him, Web wasn’t sure he could
     even manage to get up and leave.
    Instead she led him down the hallway to her office and closed the door behind them. Web looked around. There could not have
     been a greater difference between Claire Daniels’s digs and those of O’Bannon. The walls were a muted gray instead of stark
     white, and cozy with femininely floral curtains instead of industrial shades. There were pictures hung everywhere, mostly
     of people, presumably family. The degrees on the wall evidenced Claire Daniels’s impressive academic accomplishments: degrees
     from Brown and Columbia Universities and her medical sheepskin from Stanford. On one table was a glass container that had
     a label reading, “Therapy in a Jar.” There were unlit candles on tables and cactus lamps in two corners. On shelves and on
     the floor were dozens of stuffed animals. There was a leather chair against one wall. And by God, Claire Daniels had a couch!
    “You want me to sit there?” He pointed to it, trying desperately to keep his nerves in check. He suddenly wished he wasn’t
     armed, because he was starting to feel a little out of control.
    “Actually, if you don’t mind, I prefer the couch.”
    He collapsed in the chair and then watched as she switched her flats for slippers that were lying next to the couch. The momentary
     sight of her bare feet had prompted an unexpected reaction from Web. There was nothing sexual about it; it made Web think
     of the bloodied skin in the courtyard, the remains of Charlie Team. Claire sat down on the couch, pulled a pad and pen off
     the side table and uncapped the pen. Web took a series of small breaths to arrest his nerves.
    “O’Bannon doesn’t take notes during the session,” he commented.
    “I know,” she said with a wry smile. “I don’t think my memory is as good as his. Sorry.”
    “I didn’t even ask if you’re on the Bureau’s approved list of outside contractors. I know O’Bannon is.”
    “I am too. And this session will have to be revealed to your supervisor. Bureau policy.”
    “But not the content of the session.”
    “No, of course not. Just that we met. The same
basic
rules of confidentiality apply here as they would in a normal psychiatrist and patient relationship.”
    “Basic rules?”
    “There are modifications, Web, because of the unique job you have.”
    “O’Bannon explained that to me when I was seeing him, but I guess I was never really clear on it.”
    “Well, I’m under an obligation to inform your supervisor if during a session anything is revealed that poses a threat to yourself
     or others.”
    “I guess that’s fair.”
    “You think so? Well, from my point of view, it gives me a great deal of discretion, because where one hears something benign,
     another hears genuine threats. So I’m not so sure that policy is very fair to you. But just so you know, I have never had
     occasion to use that discretion