Thin Air (12 page)

He picked up the phone on the second ring, rolling off the couch in the darkened living room. It was the night receptionist at NIS headquarters in Alexandria.

"I'm holding a call for you, sir—a Mrs. Yablonski."

"Tell her I'll call right back."

Hammond slammed the phone down and ran into his office. He rummaged for Yablonski's number, glancing at the clock as he dialed. It was just after four a.m.

"Hello?"

"This is Hammond, Mrs. Yablonski. What's the trouble?"

Her voice choked with relief. "Commander, I'm sorry—I know it's late but I just didn't know what to do—"

"It's all right, ma'am. What's happened?"

She sobbed into the phone. "It's Cas...just terrible...since midnight—"

"Why didn't you get in touch with me then?"

"I couldn't," she said. "He wanted to call Dr. McCarthy—I wouldn't let him."

"You handled it fine, Mrs. Yablonski. Where is he now?"

"Taking a walk—around the pond. Sometimes that helps. But I don't know how long it will last. Please! He needs somebody right away!"

"Now listen. I'm coming up to see him. I'll leave as soon as I finish speaking to you. I'll be bringing two Navy doctors with me. We should be there in four hours, maybe less. Don't worry about anything. Just trust me. The most important thing you can do now is keep your husband quiet. And
keep him away from Dr. McCarthy.
Understand?"

"I-I'll try."

"You've got to do better than that, Mrs. Yablonski.
I'll
see you in four hours."

He hung up and called the headquarters receptionist back. "I need several things. Get hold of Larry Cohen and Tom Slater. Tell them to be at the MATS terminal at Washington National in forty minutes. Call operations. Have them fuel and warm up a Lockheed Jet-Star on my authorization. Then call Otis Air Force Base and make sure they have a car standing by for me. Got all that?"

Hammond made her repeat the instructions, then hung up. He moved to the bedroom door, careful not to wake Jan. He went to his closet and pulled out a uniform, planning to dress in the kitchen. Then he noticed her sitting up in bed.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." He grabbed his shoes and headed for the door.
      

"Christ, Hammond. The middle of the night," she said. "You haven't changed."

Hammond froze in the doorway. Their former life together had been filled with moments like this—with him creeping out in the dead of night to accomplish she knew not what. And how she had hated it But how could he possibly explain to her what was going on tonight? He fought down a quick surge of anger and answered her quietly.
      

"One thing's changed. I don't apologize for it anymore," He closed the bedroom door quickly.

7

Slater whistled at his first sight of the storybook cottage set in front of huge willow trees only forty yards from the water. Cohen got out of the car and assessed the surroundings.

"This is a guy who likes to retreat from society," he announced to Hammond.

"I could have told you that," Hammond said.

"Yeah, but I've got the degree, so it means more."

Hammond smiled as Mrs. Yablonski banged through the front screen door and waved anxiously at them. "Hello!" she hollered, and hurried down to meet them. "I'm
so glad you came. Commander, I can't tell you..."

Hammond introduced Cohen and -Slater as doctors and Naval colleagues. She glanced uncertainly at their white t-shirts and slicks. But they put on the charm and in a moment she was convinced.

"How's your husband this morning, ma'am?" asked Cohen.

Her'smile fell away. "Not good," she said, glancing at Hammond. "He had a terrible night. You should have heard the things he's been saying about you. I've been pumping him full of coffee since six this morning. He hasn't called Dr. McCarthy, but if you're unsuccessful, he won't hesitate."

She took them inside and gave them coffee and homemade doughnuts. She urged them to make themselves at home, then went upstairs to get Cas. Slater worked on the doughnuts while Cohen roamed through the house, inspecting paintings, trophies, bric-a-brac—trying to get a clue to the tastes of his subject-to-be. He moved from one thing to another like he was touring a museum. Hammond followed, aware more of the overall impression—smallish rooms with old-fashioned furniture. The living-room sofa sagged with age and had a musty smell he remembered from childhood, sort of a doggy odor. The retriever probably slept here on occasion. The den and living room were filled with deep-sea mementos: a swordfish mounted on a wood plaque in the den and a small shark mounted in the living room.

"He takes a certain pride in defeating dangerous game," Cohen analyzed. "Probably has the killer instinct himself."

Hammond wanted to laugh. Yablonski a killer?

"Look at this," said Cohen, bending down to inspect a collection of fishing trophies shoved haphazardly into a bookcase at floor level in the den. "Obviously, he doesn't care much for medals and awards. A real sport-fisherman would have these up here—" He indicated the mantelpiece.

Slater appeared in the den, downing his second or third doughnut. "Okay, Sherlocks," he said, "I'm going to get my gimmicks from the car." He went out the front door.

"There are only two things in his life," Cohen continued. "Deep-sea fishing and running his excursion boat. Look at this den. There's only one chart on the wall: Cape Cod to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Mr. Yablonski lives in a very small world. I'm willing to bet Mrs. Yablonski manages the business as well as the household. And all her husband knows is fish."

Hammond smiled. "What if this is her den?"

"Then I'll go back to college."

Cohen gave Hammond a smug look and returned to the kitchen to wait for the Yablonskis. Hammond remained in the den for a moment. Through the window, he watched Slater trudge back to the house carrying his recording equipment and a black medical bag.

Hammond sat down at Yablonski's desk and admired it. It was the kind he'd always wanted for himself, with cubbyholes and little drawers and the varnished rolltop. The façade was beautiful: hand-carved antique cedar with triangular notches at the joins. He couldn't help himself; his fingers automatically explored the cubbyholes. He thumbed bits of paper and postcards Yablonski had tucked away. Then his eye caught the open book in the corner, a personal phone directory, open to the letter M.

McCarthy, L.
And after it, a WATS number: 800-676- 0999.

Hammond picked up a pad from the desk and wrote the number down. He wondered anxiously if Yablonski had called the doctor after all.
And what if McCarthy decided to respond with a house call? Hammond, fully intended
a
confrontation, but he didn't want to make Yablonski the battlefield.

"Commander?" He heard Mrs. Yablonski calling and hurriedly shut the directory, put the paper in his pocket, and went to join the others in the kitchen.

She was introducing her husband. Hammond was shocked at the way Cas looked. What an incredible change! Dressed in an old bathrobe and pajamas, he looked deathly ill. There was a line of perspiration on his upper lip; his hair was askew; his eyes seemed sunken into their sockets and frightened; his face was pale and haggard.

Yablonski gazed balefully at the three men. He had caught Slater with another doughnut half-eaten. Cohen was coldly assessing him just as he had the man's home.

Yablonski's eyes narrowed as he stared at Cohen. "You're not a doctor," he said suspiciously, and took a step backwards.

Slater had the presence of mind to display the black bag. Yablonski eyed them all warily once more, then relaxed and sank into a kitchen chair.

"Some more coffee, Momma," he said, and held up a cup.

"Sorry," said Cohen, taking the cup away, "but we can't allow any more of that."

Yablonski looked surprised. "McCarthy even pours it for me!"

"Uh-huh," said Cohen, "and what do you suppose he puts in it first?"

Yablonski blinked. "He wouldn't!"

"We'll find out, Mr. Yablonski. Now, I'd like to brief you on what we'll be doing. We're going to give you Zethacide-B. Do you know what that is?"

"No."

"It's like Sodium Pentothal—truth serum. It's going to have something of an opposite effect to what your Dr. McCarthy has been doing. Instead of closing the mental wound, so to speak, we'll be opening it up, exposing it and probing it, and we hope the end result will be
elimination
He paused and gave Hammond a here-goes glance. "If you have any doubts or questions, feel free to express them now."

Yablonski met his gaze. "Is this really going to help me?" he asked.

"Positively," Cohen hoped.

Yablonski granted and got up. "Where do we do it?"

"Your bedroom, I think, since that seems to be the scene of the recurring crime."

Slater went first with his equipment and Yablonski followed him. Cohen paused for a whisper with Hammond: "Give us fifteen minutes to get him under, then come on up. And get Momma out of the house."

Hammond watched the parade file up the stain, then moved to take charge of Mrs. Yablonski. He went straight for the coffee and gave her a reassuring smile. She smiled back shakily, then asked, "Is he going to be all right?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's in better hands now than he's ever been."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am." Hammond went to the kitchen door, sipping his coffee. "Mrs. Yablonski, why don't you take a walk around the pond. A long, slow walk. There's nothing you can do here right now."

"You're probably right," she sighed after a moment. She hesitated, looking upstairs, then she turned and went out the door.

Hammond waited until he could see her starting around the pond, hands thrust into the pockets of her sweater, eyes glued to the ground ahead, then he relaxed and finished his coffee.

Fifteen minutes later, he went upstairs.

The curtains were drawn and Yablonski was stretched out on the bed, his right pajama sleeve rolled up. They had removed the bathrobe. Cohen sat-beside him on a chair, taking his pulse and watching his eyes, now and then rolling back the lids to check his submission to the drug. Slater was in another chair where he had set up his portable recording studio: a collapsing table and a Uher CR-134 cassette deck. He had positioned an omni-directional microphone on a stand over the bed. He was wearing headphones and he nodded as Hammond came over.

After a moment, Cohen whispered, "He's under."

Hammond removed his uniform coat and pulled three sheets of paper from the inside pocket. He gave them to Cohen. "You handle the first page," he said, and tossed his coat on a rocking chair.

Cohen studied the questions. "Have to wing it a bit," he said softly. He bent over Yablonski and quietly said, "Cas...can you hear me?"

Yablonski's head rolled barely an inch and his mouth opened.

...Yes..."

"I'm your friend, Cas. I'm Cohen."

"...Friend..."

"That's right. And there are other friends here. Everyone in this room is a friend. Am I your friend?"

"...Yes...friend..."

"And you can tell a friend anything, can't you, Cas?"

"...Yes..."

"Are you comfortable, Cas? Just nod."

Yablonski nodded.

"Do you feel sleepy?" Yablonski nodded again. "Do you like being asleep?"

Yablonski hesitated. His nod was not convincing.

"You're not sure about that, are you, Cas?"

"...No."

"Do you have trouble sleeping?"

"...Yes."

Yablonski shifted his lower body, as if he were trying to get comfortable.

"You don't like going to sleep, do you?" Yablonski nodded. "You go to bed late?"

"...Yes."
      

"How late? Later than your wife?" Yablonski nodded. He was tossing and turning. "You like to put it off as long as possible?"

"Yes."

"There's something about sleep that bothers you, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"What bothers you, Cas?"

There was no reply. Yablonski lay there, his eyes barely parted, milky and lost. He had stopped tossing.

"Dreams bother you?"

"...Yes."

"The same dream?" Cohen was consulting Hammond's prepared questions now, planning ahead.
 

"...Same dream."

Yablonski's huge hands fluttered as he answered. Cohen watched them for reactions.

"It's not a very nice dream, is it?"

"No."

"In fact, it's damned unpleasant, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Yablonski was getting excited,

Cohen paused, then took another tack. "You were in the Navy, weren't you, Cas?"

Yablonski nodded again.