Thin Air (15 page)

Yablonski got-up, face flushed with anger. "Who is
they,
Hammond?"
 

"Other than McCarthy, I don't know. But it has to be more than a one-man operation."

"If they're going around killing people, why have they waited twenty years?"

Hammond thought for a moment, then realized the answer was logical: "Fletcher was no longer a safe risk. And now, neither are you."

"But why?" Mrs. Yablonski asked. "Why would they do this?"

"To conceal whatever it was that happened back in 1953."

Yablonski gave him another one of those blank stares, then looked at his wife. She went to the window and folded her arms across her chest. She wouldn't let them see her face. Yablonski seemed to give it some thought, then faced Hammond again.

"No."

"Look," Hammond said, controlling his exasperation. "You were treated by the man for twenty years. You can't even tell me what he looks like! Where do you meet him?"

"At the hospital—"

"Where at the hospital? How? You just walk in and ask for Dr. McCarthy? I tried it. He doesn't exist!"

"The back door," Yablonski mumbled.

"The back door." Hammond repeated it for effect. "You meet with a legitimate psychiatrist by going through the back door? Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

Yablonski sagged. He glanced at his wife again, torn between her feelings and necessity.
 

"What do you want me to do?"
      

"Get in touch with McCarthy. Set up a meeting for today. I'll go with you." Yablonski looked hesitant. "We have to get our hands on him, Mr. Yablonski, and fast."

Mrs. Yablonski whirled. There were tears running down her cheeks and her voice shook as she advanced on Hammond. "If anything happens to make my husband worse—"

She broke off. Yablonski stared at her, surprised.

"I'm going with you!" she added, glaring at them both in defiance. She stalked out of the room.

Hammond stared after her, conscious of an inner excitement at her protective strength. Just the sort of woman he should have had, he thought. But it wasn't going to be easy to convince her to stay in the hotel during the session.

Yablonski turned back to him. "If you're wrong," he said, "if you've been wrong down the line, then I'll be losing the only man who has ever helped me."
 

"Call him," said Hammond. "And let's find out."

8

The atmosphere in the narrow observation room was oppressive. The walls, thickly padded to deaden sound, retained heat as well. The musty smell of old insulation hung heavily, discouraging conversation among the four NIS agents who watched Yablonski through the two-way glass. He paced the consultation room restlessly.

Jack Keyes, the electronics man, finished plugging in wire leads that ran from the junction box on the shelf between two small consoles. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and looked at Hammond. "That's it," he said. "We're in business."

Hammond grunted. Through the glass, he saw that Yablonski had finally stopped pacing. He stood by the table, fingers splayed out, his right hand running along the edge, as if trying to get reassurance from the solidity of the wood.

For a fleeting second, Hammond thought about Mrs. Yablonski. Maybe he should have permitted her to be there, if only to see McCarthy in action. He dismissed the idea immediately. It was bad enough she had insisted on coming to Boston with them. But if she were here now, instead of stuck in a hotel room, would she be able to control herself? And wouldn't their attention be on her?
 

Keyes flipped a switch on the console. Yablonski's heavy breathing whumped through the speaker, picked up by the sensitive button mike under his shirt.

Andrews glanced up at the speaker, then at Hammond. "Your man sure is jumpy, Nick. Who are we expecting—Dracula?"

Hammond smiled and eased past Michaelson, heading for the connecting door.

He stepped into the consultation room, loosened his tie, and tugged at the top button of his shirt. The movement jiggled the headset of the two-way radio attached to his belt.

Yablonski watched him readjust it. "Is he here?" he muttered.

Hammond gave him his most confident smile. "Soon. Why don't you relax? You're not alone, you know."

"I hope he doesn't show," Yablonski said bitterly.

"Has he ever missed an appointment?"

"No..."

McCarthy's instructions over the phone had been very definite, directing Yablonski to Consultation Room 12 at the Boston Naval Hospital. "Just take it easy," he had told Cas, "and we'll have you as good as new."

Keyes' voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Yablonski, would you mind saying something? I need a level."

Yablonski whirled around and stared into the mirror. "A wh-what?" he stammered.

"A voice level. Count to ten and speak normally, if you would, sir."

Yablonski started counting, his eyes darting, trying to penetrate the mirror. Keyes made him do it twice before he was satisfied.

Yablonski's stiffness subsided. He pushed off from the table and shuffled over to one of the two chairs in the otherwise bare room. He sat down and stared at Hammond.

"I'll be all right," he said after a long silence.

Hammond nodded and left the room.

Michaelson helped Keyes into a metal harness that fit over his shoulders. Keyes pulled the chest strap tight and grabbed a small video camera. He screwed it into the mounting plate, adjusted the height, then plugged it into the recording console. "It's not the best light for this," he said, "but I'll get it all."

"Everything else check out?"

Keyes ran a hand over the console. "Channel two is Boston PD, three is for video, four is for us."

Hammond looked at his watch. McCarthy was five minutes late.

Hammond's headset clicked. It was Hernandez, hidden behind the pumping station with a clear view of the unlocked back door. "Got a car," he said. "Navy staff. Making a second pass."

"Occupants?" asked Hammond.

"Driver only. Couldn't get the plates. He's turning the comer. Maybe Oviott can pick him up—"

From the far end of the building, Oviott cut in: "Got 'em first time around."

"Hold everything," said Hernandez. "He must have made a U-turn behind the building. Coming your way, Nick."

Michaelson and Andrews moved to the two doors of the observation room arid watched Hammond for a cue.

"Oviott," said Hammond, "you'll be patched into Boston PD. Have them run the plates. Everyone else stay put until I give the word."

While Keyes made the connection, Hammond bolted for the connecting door. He stepped into the consultation room, fighting back a surge of excitement. "Cas," he said quietly, "looks like he's on his way in."

Yablonski half-rose out of his chair with a stricken look. Hammond waved him down. "Just trust me," he said. He closed the door and stepped back into the observation room before Yablonski could reply. He pressed the headset to his ear.

Hernandez came back on the line. "He's parking it...coming out of the car...Jesus—he's a big one, Nick. Light Commander, carrying a briefcase....Oh-oh, isn't that cute? He's squatting down by the rear lire, like he's checking it...taking a good look around....Now he's heading toward you...."

Damnit, thought Hammond, getting nervous. Does McCarthy know he's walking into a trap? Impossible. Yablonski hadn't tipped him off....He decided the man must be taking normal precautions.

"He's inside," said Hernandez.

Hammond took short breaths, straining to listen. He heard the muffled sound of a door closing in the corridor outside. Andrews checked the cylinder of his .38 snub-nose.

"I want this to go down smoothly," Hammond warned. "No guns unless we have to."

Andrews shrugged and stuffed the pistol back into his hip holster. Keyes raised his video camera and aimed it through the glass at the door of the consultation room. As it opened, Hammond whispered into the mike, "Got him."

Then he took a good look at the uniformed man who stepped briskly into the room and greeted Yablonski

McCarthy
was
big. Hammond pegged him at six-four, 230 pounds. A shock of red hair, graying at the temples, a large meaty face with a prominent "drinker's nose." Tiny red veins tracked out from the nostrils and colored his cheeks. Hammond watched and listened with fascination as McCarthy put Yablonski at ease.

He had a surprisingly soft voice. As he chatted, he removed a portable tape recorder from his briefcase and unraveled a microphone. All the while he was studying Yablonski.

"You sounded pretty bad over the phone, Cas. How do you feel now?"

Yablonski mumbled, "Glad to see you."

McCarthy pulled a looseleaf notebook from the briefcase and flipped pages, a reassuring smile creasing his red face. He studied the notebook, grunted to himself, then placed it on the table. He plugged the mike into the recorder.

"All set, Cas. Now just relax. You'll be feeling better in no time."

Hammond caught the slight movement as McCarthy switched on the tape recorder. He heard a low hum coming through the speaker in the observation room but couldn't identify it. McCarthy began waving the microphone in front of Yablonski's face.

The effect was amazing. Yablonski went glassy-eyed. He slumped in his chair; his head lolled to one side; his jaw went slack—

"Now, Cas, you're feeling better, aren't you? You always feel better when you see Dr. McCarthy. Dr. McCarthy cares about you. He knows how to make you feel better, doesn't he—?" McCarthy kept up a singsong commentary as he waved the mike and examined Yablonski's face. "You won't be having any more dreams for a while, will you, Cas? Will you? Come on now, nod your head and repeat after me: no more dreams for a while—"

"No more...dreams...for a while..." Cas nodded, almost in rhythm with the moving microphone.

"That's right, Cas. No more for a while. But you'll have them again, won't you?"

Hammond's mouth opened, appalled.

Yablonski was nodding.
      

"Sure you'll have them again," said McCarthy, "but things have been getting a little out of hand, haven't they? Maybe we shouldn't let so much time go by before we see each other again. You've been worried, haven't you, Cas? Worried about your dreams. You've been doing some checking up on your own, haven't you?"

Yablonski nodded. "Checking up..." he repeated.

"That's not good, Cas. You're supposed to come right to me when you have problems. Don't go to the Navy. Don't go to BUPERS, Cas. They can't help you.
Can't help you, Cas."

"Can't...help..."

"Never go there again"

Hammond swore to himself. Yablonski was nodding. This was just like pressing buttons. The man was a monkey in an electronic cage.

"You know what'll happen, Cas? If you go there again? Your nightmares will just get worse. Worse, you hear me? And we don't want that, do we? We want to keep them under control. That's our job. We've tried forgetting them, haven't we? But that just doesn't work. They keep coming back, so we fight them, you and I together. You can't fight them without me, Cas—"

Hammond had heard enough. He nodded to the agents. Michaelson slipped out to the corridor, leaving the observation room door open so he could hear Hammond's signal. Andrews stood by the connecting door.

"Now!" Hammond barked.

Both doors flew open at once. McCarthy spun around, his face instantly flushed with surprise. For a moment, it was a frozen tableau, then he recovered and bellowed, "What the hell do you think you're doing? Can't you see I'm treating a patient?!"

Hammond raised the speaker mike. "Please stand perfectly still, Doctor, and turn off that machine. Then put your hands at your sides."

McCarthy was slow responding, but did as he was told. Michaelson and Andrews blocked the doors, their hands inside their coats. McCarthy looked around furtively. His gaze settled on the two-way glass with sudden comprehension.

Hammond entered from the corridor. McCarthy studied his uniform. "You better have a damned good reason for this, Commander," he snarled. "You've got no right barging in on me like this!"

Hammond ignored him. He was staring at Yablonski in the chair, his head at an awkward angle, slumped over the table, as if waiting for the ax.

"Andrews," said Hammond, "see if you can bring him around."

"Don't touch him!" yelled McCarthy. "That man is under
my
care!"

"And I'm sure he's grateful," said Hammond.

Andrews broke an ammonia ampule under Yablonski's nose. A pungent aroma filled the room. Yablonski moaned, jerked his head back, then staggered to his feet. His eyes focused on McCarthy and instinctively he backed away.

McCarthy exploded. "Idiots! Do you know what you're doing?!"