"He had insurance checkups just recently. He was healthy."
"Maybe—" Hammond stopped himself. What was the use of speculating? It would only get him into things he couldn't talk about yet.
"He was a sweet man, Nicky. He married me on an impulse. There was no soul-searching, no hesitation....He" simply wanted to marry me."
It could have been you, you bumbling idiot, he told himself. He got up and refilled her drink. She was already starting to slur.
"He'd been married before," she went on. "She divorced him fifteen years ago and then died suddenly....They had a son who's grown up now and lives in Virginia." Jan paused. Her voice trembled. "We don't get along." She took another healthy swallow of the liquor and her head lolled back.
"I was good for him, Nicky. He needed me. There was no competition in our relationship. He worked and I..." She stopped and looked blearily at Hammond, perched on the chair in what she took to be a disapproving pose.
"I didn't marry him for his money," she said sharply.
"You don't have to tell me any of this, Jan."
Her eyes searched his and then looked away. He wondered what she saw. She looked around the room. "You haven't changed things much. You never got that sofa re-covered." Absently, she fondled a small jade elephant on the side table. "Haven't you found anyone, Nicky?"
To take your place? he thought. Sure, baby, hundreds of them. One a night. "I never did find it easy getting involved."
"No," she agreed. She looked at him a long time, took some more liquor, then leaned forward, supporting herself on one arm. "You don't hate me, do you, Nick?"
"No." He laughed hollowly.
"Tell me the truth."
"Water under the bridge, Jan."
She looked at the floor. "Could I stay here—just for tonight?"
He hesitated, then spread his hands. "Stay if you want. But I won't be with you." He got up. "I have to pack."
"You don't have to move out," she said. "I won't get in your way."
"I've got business," he said with a reassuring smile. "Maybe your mother could—"
"We fight. We had a big battle this morning. She decided now was the time to tell me what she thought of Harold."
Hammond whistled. "How about a friend? Call anybody you like. Have them stay here."
Jan shrugged.
"Look, I'll be back as soon as I can. There's enough food in the refrigerator so you won't have to go out."
She stood up suddenly, her eyes searching his again, terrified. "Don't leave,'' she begged.
He surveyed her darkly. This time his arms moved first and they stood quietly together, leaning on each other.
He made her another drink, intent on deadening her anguish. She fell asleep in a chair. He carried her to the bedroom, took off her suit, and tucked her under the covers. He was almost out the door when she woke up and pleaded with him to stay. He dropped into the chair by the bed and, in the dusk, watched her soft form rustle under the bedclothes.
He sat there longer than necessary—long after she was asleep—thinking about her. Three years she had spent with him—in this very apartment. And they had been good together until she'd ruined it all by demanding marriage.
He had told himself that her leaving was all for the good. She didn't know him at all, what made him tick. She had even poked fun at his work, his involvement in "national security." She had found things funny that he didn't and she'd never understood the things he had laughed at. What did she expect of a man who had been raised and suckled by the service? He thought he had more of a sense of humor about it than most.
And her husband? Harold Fletcher, insurance agent. What was so distinguished about that? Sure, he probably made more money, kept her happy and secure, but what did they ever talk about? Did they go for walks, visit the museums she had always loved, go to the same movies three and four times? Or had they spent their evenings lounging around Harold's country club, boozing it up with Beverly Hills doctors and dentists?
What had she lost that was worth crying about? What was there about Fletcher that Hammond had lacked?
He glanced at the clock. It was almost six p.m. He had to get going or it would be too late to visit Yablonski. He went to his closet to fill a flight bag with a change of clothing. On the way out of the bedroom, he paused for another look at Jan. She was sleeping soundly now, her head buried in the pillow, her arms embracing it.
He closed the bedroom door behind him.
The dispatcher at Base Operations confirmed that an F4 Phantom was waiting for him. He could take off in twenty minutes. That didn't even leave him enough time to get sandwiches.
Hunger pangs growing, Hammond put on a G-suit and walked out to board the aircraft.
As the F4 roared down the runway, the enormous pressure pushed him back into his seat. With a slight touch on the control stick, he lifted the sleek jet up and into the evening sky.
At Otis Air Force Base, he requisitioned a car and a thermos of soup. It was pitch dark by the time he reached the outskirts of Cotuit, a small summer resort town in Barnstable County on Nantucket Sound, noted for its oyster beds. He stopped at a beachside trailer advertising "Oysters by the Dozen," bought a bagful, and asked for directions to Yablonski's home. He drove through the town, then inland a half-mile or so until he saw a freshwater pond gleaming through the trees. Old New England frame houses ringed the pond at obscenely spacious intervals. He rattled carefully around the shore on a dirt road until he saw a two-story yellow clapboard house with bright red shutters.
Hammond parked across the slope of the embankment and got out, looking around the yard. Grass grew in ragged patches, but there were two fenced-in gardens—one for flowers, another for vegetables. A sagging pier thrust into the water at an odd angle. A rowboat up on the dirt was tied to a stake. The air buzzed with insects. He walked up to the verandah and stared at the old porch swing and the lazy retriever lying on it with one eye on him. Hammond winked at the dog and called, "Hello the house! Anybody home?"
The kitchen light was on; but he didn't see anyone moving behind the screen door. He waited a moment before calling again, reflecting ,on this throwback. He remembered homes like this from his boyhood.
"Yes? Who is it?"
A woman appeared at the door. The light was too dim for a clear view, but she must have recognized his uniform.
"Oh, hello." She pushed open the screen door and came out-wiping her hands on an apron. Mrs. Yablonski was in her early fifties, with a great motherly bosom and a ruddy New England complexion. Her hair was done up in a bun; the blonde in it reflected the porch light.
"Mrs. Yablonski, I'm Hammond." He presented her with the oysters and her eyes lit up.
"You must be a New Englander," she said.
"I was once—and I've never lost the taste for those."
She laughed and led him into the house. They cracked a couple of oysters and ate them, then she gave him coffee and pumpkin pie. They were friends within moments. Hammond listened to her chatter on about the house, the years they had lived here, and the gardens she worked so hard to keep. She had a genuine love for the Cape and it was hard for him to change the subject.
"What made you pick Cotuit?" he asked.
"Oh...Cas wanted to be away from the cities. Doesn't function well in crowds. He's always loved the sea."
"Your husband is a professional fisherman?"
Mrs. Yablonski nodded. "He's quite successful. Runs charters to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Berths at Hyannis Port. He's very well known...and respected," she added.
"How long has he been doing that?"
"Fifteen years." Mrs. Yablonski smiled proudly.
Hammond smiled and glanced at the clock. "Does he always stay out this late?"
"Usually calls as soon as he puts into port. I did radio him a message that you were coming up tonight."
"Maybe I could drive down and meet him."
"I'll go with you." She rose and bustled into the hall to get a heavy sweater
from the closet. "Do you like deep-sea fishing, Commander?" she called back.
"I've only been out once, ma'am."
"Someday you'll have to go out with Cas. You'd have a wonderful time," She led him outside, closing the door behind them. The dog looked up.
"Does he sail alone?" Hammond asked.
"He's got two permanent crewmen. Lovely boys—Greg and Paul McKay."
Hammond heard a wheezy whine behind them and looked back. The retriever was standing on the porch, looking forlorn and deserted. "If you want to bring the dog, ma'am, it's okay."
"Oh, he's not ours. Go home, Georgie, go home!" The dog shuffled off the porch and strolled into the woods. "He sort of belongs to everyone around the pond."
As Hammond opened the door for her, she climbed in and smiled up at him. "It's a very warm, safe community, Commander. We never have the kind of trouble you see on TV these days. Thank God for that."
It was ten miles across the Cape to Hyannis Port. Hammond chose his questions carefully.
"What's Dr. McCarthy like?" Getting no reply, he looked at her in the near darkness. She was gazing intently ahead. "Is he tall and thin, short and fat, what?"
"I don't really know, Commander. I've never met the man."
"Not once in all these years?" She shook her head. "Didn't you want to? Weren't you curious?"
"Yes," she said with hesitation. She added nothing.
"How often do they have their sessions?"
"They don't .meet regularly. Only when Cas needs help."
"How often is that?"
Mrs. Yablonski fell silent.
"I'm sure it sounds as if I'm prying, ma'am, but you must believe me—I'm very concerned about your husband's welfare."
She looked at him with surprise. "Why?"
He found himself reluctant at first to tell her the truth. He wanted to make up some story about re-evaluating the psychiatric program for veterans, but somehow he didn't think she would fall for it.
"I have some doubts about Dr. McCarthy's abilities," he said finally, then glanced at her expression. She considered his statement carefully.
"McCarthy's been a godsend," she said, and he sensed she was trying to convince herself. "He'll see Cas any day of the week on twenty-four hours' notice. We couldn't ask for better treatment than that."
"Are you sure?"
She glanced at him uncertainly.
"What about the nightmares?" he asked. "What are they like?"
"Awful."
"Is it one nightmare, Mrs. Yablonski? Always the same?"
She watched the road ahead for a long moment, then said, "It has something to do with a disappearing ship."
Hammond held hack a reckless urge to describe Fletcher's dream: it would only succeed in shocking her.
"He's never been more specific than that about it," Mrs. Yablonski continued.
"How does he go about getting treated?"
"He calls McCarthy on a WATS line, then drives up to the Naval Hospital in Boston. They meet for several hours."
"Several?"
"As long as it takes." Her voice shook.
"What about symptoms?" Hammond asked. "Anything physical—?"
"Oh, God—I've seen him wake up in a cold sweat, shaking, even babbling. Sometimes, just for the first few seconds, I could swear he's trying to get it out, to tell me, but he just can't! Then he lapses into this terrible state. He's...so helpless..." She covered her eyes for a moment.
She regained control as they drew abreast of the Hyannis Port docks. She directed Hammond to her husband's pier, then waited while he shut off the engine.
"There is something else," she said. "Several times I woke up and found him out of bed, across the room at the window, or on the floor, or holding onto a chair....Once I woke up before he started screaming....I saw him at the wall..." She stopped, shivering at the memory. "I saw him at the wall. He...he was stepping through it." She looked up at Hammond, frightened. "From the next room."
Hammond was very still. "Through it?" he repeated. "You saw him do this?"
She nodded. "I screamed and I don't know what happened next because I shut ray eyes tight. When I opened them, Cas was shaking me and he'd put the light on. He was frightened and demanded to know what I'd seen. When I told him, he flung himself away from me. He insisted I was the one who was dreaming...." She stopped and rubbed her eyes. "I've always hoped so."
"Did he make an appointment with McCarthy?"
"Oh, yes. He was gone for three days. He came home and it was like it never happened. Even now, I don't dare mention it."
She looked at him anxiously and her voice quavered. "It's getting so I'm almost afraid to sleep with him."
Hammond shuddered.
Cas Yablonski and Harold Fletcher were as inexorably linked as Siamese twins.
A thirty-five-foot Bertram Sportfisherman chugged toward the dock, the harbor lights showing off her glassy white hull, varnished woodwork, and the handsome flying bridge.
Mrs. Yablonski pointed out the tall sea dog at the helm. "That's Cas," she said. He was wearing a white shirt open at the collar, a blue pea-coat, and a yachting cap. His face was darkly tanned, tough and lined, his hair iron-gray.
As soon as the boat was tied, Mrs. Yablonski waved to her husband and came down the pier followed by Hammond.
"Had a great day, Momma!" Cas called, in a voice that boomed across the dockside. His client, a cigar-smoking yachtsman of diminishing years, hoisted himself out of his deck chair and stumbled uncertainly to the side.
"Look what Mr. Carey bagged!" Yablonski yelled, and as Mr. Carey proudly displayed a huge fish, Yablonski held up a plastic bag containing empty beer cans, pointed at Carey, and made a drunk-out-of-his-mind face.
"Come ashore," called Mrs. Yablonski. "There's someone here to meet you."
Yablonski smiled and waved again but took a good look at Hammond's uniform. He left the boat to be secured by the McKay brothers, then paused to shake Mr. Carey's hand.
"Send me a bill!" slurred Mr. Carey. Yablonski helped him ashore, handed him his fish wrapped in plastic, and wished him goodbye. "An' I wanna go again next week!" Mr. Carey insisted as he stumbled off into the night.
Yablonski came up to Hammond and stuck out a hand, regarding him warily. "Casimir Yablonski," he said.
"Nick Hammond, sir. Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. Care for a beer?"
"Sure."
"Hey, Paul!" he yelled. "Get that other six-pack up here."
"Righto, C.L."
Hammond studied Yablonski. Weatherbeaten skin, wide shoulders, powerful muscles, enormous hands—Yablonski didn't seem the sort to suffer from nightmares. He had none of Harold Fletcher's jackrabbit furtiveness.
Yablonski put his arm around his wife and hugged her. He smoothed her hair and pulled her sweater tight. "Cold tonight, Momma."
"Why don't you invite the boys home for the weekend, Cas?" she asked,
"They're planning on it?" Yablonski took the six-pack from Paul McKay and motioned for Hammond to pull himself a can. They cracked beers and stood on the pier, drinking.
"So what does Naval Intelligence want with me, Hammond?"
"Well, I..." Hammond was reluctant to discuss this in front of the McKay brothers.
Yablonski persisted. "I'm just an old sailor, Commander. You know, catch-a da fish?" He glanced at Paul McKay and saw him smiling. "I take my boat out, I mind my own business, and I appreciate other people who feel the same way."
"Cas..." Mrs. Yablonski was looking at him oddly.
"It's okay, ma'am," said Hammond. "Mr. Yablonski, would you have any reason to fear an investigation?"
Yablonski expelled his breath. "No...of course not."
"Then let's be friends. I'm here to help you."
"How?"
"On the seventeenth of September you went to BUPERS in Washington to examine your 601 file. Did you find what you were looking for?"
Yablonski stared at him a moment, then smiled for Pau
l McKay's benefit. Casually, he sauntered along the dock, nodding for; Hammond to follow. As soon as they were out of earshot, he asked, "What's it to you?"
"I think you found some discrepancy that you can't account for."
Yablonski stiffened slightly but continued walking. He drained his beer and crushed the can. "You tell me," he said.
"You thought you were discharged from service in 1955. You found out you're still carried on the Inactive Reserve list."
"Very good. Why?"
"I don't know."
Yablonski stopped and turned, his face flushed with anger. "Does anybody know? Does the Navy know?" he asked with an edge of sarcasm.
Hammond retorted, "Does McCarthy know?"
Yablonski eyed him darkly. "He says it's a mistake."
"When did you ask him?"
"When I came back from Washington."
"You saw him after that?"
"Of course I saw him! He's my doctor!"
"Well, I think he's wrong. It's not a mistake. There's a reason why those records are different." Hammond paused. "And yours are not the only ones."
Yablonski glanced at him sharply, then looked away.
"Why did you go to Washington, Mr. Yablonski? What prompted you?"
"The same reason you're here. Curiosity."
"Was it the dream? The disappearing ship?"
Hammond was watching his back and caught a slight twitch of the jaw. "How did you know that?" Yablonski asked.
"Your wife." Yablonski flashed his wife an angry look. "But eventually I could have guessed. I told you, sir, you're not the only one."
Yablonski turned back, his face flooded with terror. He stared at Hammond, searching his eyes, then looked off into space and seemed to be deciding something for himself. "McCarthy said I should forget my preoccupation with the dream...I was being self-destructive..." He looked at Hammond for understanding. Clearly, he didn't understand it himself.
Hammond grunted. "Then he's the first psychiatrist I've ever heard of who's not interested in dreams."
Yablonski got defensive. "Look, he does his job. I get these horrible nightmares, Igo chasing off to him, and he makes me forget about them. He's helping me!"
Thin Air Page 6
