Thin Air

by George Simpson

  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.

  "From 1951 through 1955, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you like the Navy?"

  "...Yes."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you like about it?"

  "My job."

  "And what was that?"

  "Pilot. Harbor pilot."

  "That sounds like a good job. What exactly did you do?"

  Yablonski's reply came out like rote: "I was a harbor pilot in the Boston Navy Yard. It was my job to guide heavy cruisers out of the harbor into the bay."

  Cohen stared at him, then got up, motioned to Hammond and drew him across the room to the window. "He's been told how to answer that question."

  "Autosuggestion?" asked Hammond.

  "Yes."

  Cohen returned to Yablonski. Hammond looked out the window and saw Mrs. Yablonski standing down by the shore, looking up at him. He turned away quickly.

  "How long were you a harbor pilot?"

  "My whole tour. I was a pilot for tour years."

  "Without a break? You served no other duty?"

  "I served no other duty."

  "What about training? Where did you train?"

  "...Boston."

  Cohen was quiet for a moment, then he blurted out: "Philadelphia Navy Yard."

  Yablonski's hands fluttered, but that was all. He said nothing. "1953," Cohen said, again prompting. Yablonski's eyes rolled back as if he were trying to force himself out of this.

  "Harold Fletcher?" asked Cohen, reading from Hammond's sheet Yablonski seemed to freeze. Cohen said it louder: "Harold Fletcher?"

  Suddenly, Yablonski let out an animal groan—his hand snaked out and clutched Cohen's shoulder.

  "Fletch!" yelled Yablonski. "Fletch!"

  Cohen stared at the big fingers splayed across his back. He had to pry them off.

  Yablonski looked around in surprise, then his head dropped on the pillow.

  "Slater, give him ten more cc's," Cohen said.

  Slater went to the bathroom and returned with his hone needle. He gave Yablonski another dose of the drug. Hammond took Cohen aside and advised him that it was time to press into the dre
am. "Make him relive it," he said. "I want him to face it and remember it."

  "We'll see," said Cohen. "I don't want to hurt the man. There is the chance that McCarthy has been right all these years in suppressing this thing."

  "It's also possible he planted it," Hammond replied.

  Cohen grunted. In a few moments, the drug took effect and he was able to resume.

  "Cas, do you know a man named Dr. McCarthy?"

  "...Yes."

  "Who is her?"

  "My psychiatrist."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "I..." Yablonski hesitated, struggling with that. Finally, he exhaled and lapsed into silence. Cohen exchanged a look with Hammond. Hammond motioned for him to continue.

  "When you see Dr. McCarthy, what does he do with you?"

  "Talk."

  "He talks or you talk?"

  "He does."

  "Don't you do any of the talking?"

  Yablonski squirmed. He was having trouble with probing questions; he seemed unable to linger on a subject. "...Not much," he finally said.

  "Don't you tell him your dream?"

  "...No."

  Cohen looked at Hammond again. "Cas...What does Dr. McCarthy say to you?"

  "...Don't know."

  "You don't know or don't remember? Think."

  Yablonski screwed up his eyes with the effort. He sagged after a moment, his mouth opening and closing involuntarily.

  "Does McCarthy use any devices in his treatment?" Yablonski looked puzzled. "Any gadgets, electronics, pieces of jewelry, any objects...?"

  "...Tape recorder."

  "He uses a tape recorder?"

  Yablonski nodded.

  Hammond came around the bed and whispered to Cohen, "What the hell would he record if he's doing all the talking?"

  Cohen ignored him. "Cas, what makes you sure that the doctor actually treats you?"

  "I feel better."

  "You mean he makes the dream go away and your anxiety with it? He gets rid of your fear?"

  "...Yes."

  "But he doesn't do anything to you that you can remember other than talk and record himself?"

  "...Right."

  Cohen sat back a moment, then leaned closer and spoke softly into Yablonski's ear. "I want you to relax now, Cas, just-loosen up. You're at home, in your own bed, and no harm can come to you here. You're feeling sleepy, just as you feel every night, and you want to drop off; you want to relax and forget everything...."

  He watched Yablonski's chin drop to his chest and his mouth close, then he said in a clear voice, "Is anything stopping you?"

  For a moment there was nothing, then Yablonski's hand fluttered. His lip curled in what might have been distress.

  "Is anything wrong, Cas?" asked Cohen.

  Yablonski shook his head slowly.

  "Anything bothering you?"

  "...Don't want to..."

  "Don't want to what?"

  "...Sleep...afraid..."

  "Of what?"

  "...Dreaming."

  "Dreaming what?"

  "...No!"

  "Gas, you are asleep. You are relaxed. You're lying in your own bed and you're sleeping."

  Yablonski relaxed again.

  "Now...you're beginning to dream."

  Cohen checked the list of questions. "You're dreaming about the sea....You can smell the sea...damp air....You're on a ship..."

  He paused. Nothing was happening. Yablonski wasn't responding. Cohen rose and huddled with Hammond. "It's not working," he said.

  "Is he fighting it?"

  "I think so. He doesn't want to remember. We've got to do something to make him feel he's at sea."

  "What you want is sort of a psychodrama?" asked Hammond.

  "Exactly."

  Hammond' looked around the room, but there wasn't anything that could help simulate the sea, except...

  "The bed!"

  Cohen stared at him. Hammond moved to Yablonski and motioned for Cohen to help him. Together they raised Yablonski to a sitting position.

  "You're standing, Cas," said Cohen. "Standing on a ship's deck..." Cohen prompted him until he rose of his own volition and stood upright on the bed.

  It was a very soft old mattress and Hammond was grateful for that. It made what he was about to do much easier. He put both hands on it and shoved downward. The bed undulated, causing a slight rocking motion.

  Yablonski grunted.

  "You're standing on the deck, Cas. Can you feel it?" said Cohen. "Feel the rocking motion? It's the sea, Cas. You're at sea."

  Hammond continued pushing against the mattress while Yablonski waved his arms a bit to steady himself. "At sea..." he finally said.

  Cohen said nothing for a long moment, allowing Yablonski to convince himself.

  "Now, Cas...you're on a ship...in your dream....What do you see?"

  "...Fog."

  "You see fog." Cohen smiled triumphantly at Hammond. "What else?"

  "...Cranes."

  "What cranes? Where are they?"

  "...Shore."

  "You're on the shore?"

  "No...see them...from the ship...moving away....They...they're gone...in the fog..." He seemed actually to see something fade from View, then he looked down.

  "You're moving away from the dock," said Cohen. "What do you see on board?"

  Yablonski's eyes searched the imaginary deck, his lids barely open. "The deck..." he said, "...the men." . "Other men? The crew?"

  "...Yes."

  "Who are they, Cas?" asked Cohen. "Names."

  "...Terkel...Olively...He looked around, as if peering through the fog, trying to make out figures. "...Martin," he added, squinting in Cohen's direction.

  Then he reacted to something; he seemed to be listening. Suddenly, he shouted: "Fletch! Get your hands up! Didn't you hear the horn?"

  He raised both hands from his sides and motioned for imaginary crewmen to join him. "Come on!" he said.

  Cohen looked at him questioningly. Hammond climbed up on the bed and hissed at Cohen to do likewise. Hammond raised a hand and Yablonski grabbed it.

  "That's it!" he said, then looked right at Cohen. "Martin! Come on!"

  Cohen climbed up and linked hands with Yablonski. Their movements rocked the bed and made him tighten his grip. He began to glance around furtively, waiting for something, listening.

  Hammond kept up the rocking motion by flexing his knees every few seconds.

  "Those bastards..." Yablonski was looking over his shoulder at something behind Hammond. Instinctively, Hammond followed his gaze and immediately felt foolish. "You wouldn't catch them standing here..." he continued, and smiled as the imaginary man to his left laughed.

  "Fog's lifting," he said a moment later, then cast an apprehensive look backwards. From then on, he kept looking back, waiting for something to happen, except for a moment when something to his right irritated him.

  "Martin, will ya can the whistling?!"

  Cohen flinched, then said, "Anything you say...Cas."

  Hammond had the feeling this wasn't going anywhere. Whatever Yablonski was waiting for had to be prompted. He wondered what it would take. Then suddenly, he hit on it.

  "Holy shit, Cas, here we go!" he called out.

  Yablonski stiffened. His grip on their hands tightened. His face contorted in fear and apprehension. "Hang on!" he yelled.

  Hammond glanced at Slater—he was staring up at them in total disbelief. What a picture they must have made.

  "Oh, God..." moaned Yablonski. "Here it comes."

  Then Hammond had the strangest feeling, a sensation crawling up his body from below and behind. It was a moment before he realized it was Yablonski quivering next to him—no, vibrating like a tuning fork—and his vibrations were spreading through his outstretched hands and into Hammond and Cohen. Hammond's mouth opened m disbelief—

  "The deck! Lookrat the deck!" Yablonski yelled. He was staring down at the bed. Hammond and Cohen looked.

  "It's going!" Yablonsk
i shrieked.

  "What is it, Cas? I can't see!" Cohen said.

  "The deck! It's not there! It's gone!" He stared, his leathery skin shaking. "I can see the river!"

  The vibrations coursing through him began to shake Yablonski around, and he pulled the other two men with him, contracting and advancing. His head snapped up and he looked at Cohen with terror. "It's okay, Martin, it's okay—!"

  Cohen felt the grip tighten into a viselike crush as Yablonski clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. Hammond heard something clicking and realized it was his own teeth. The vibrations from Yablonski were tearing through him. The bed rocked and squealed from their movements.

  Yablonski abruptly threw his body into an upward strain and tightened every muscle into a knot. Then he came down in a powerful bounce that set the bed to rocking violently. Hammond almost lost his balance.

  When he looked up again, Yablonski was staring around, then squinting up at something to his right. It took a moment for Hammond to realize he was looking into the sun....

  "The sun?" said Hammond.

  "It's bright," Yablonski replied. 'Where the hell did it come— Jesus, look out!" He ducked and pulled Hammond and Cohen with bum. The bed rocked again and Yablonski followed something with his eyes.

  "What was it?" asked Cohen.

  "That little boat just missed us!"

  Hammond studied Yablonski's face: he was looking around with real Interest, putting a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and staring off into the distance.

  "What's happened?" asked Hammond. "Where are we, Cas?"

  "I don't know. Terkel—?" Yablonski dropped their hands and motioned to one of the other men. He seemed to follow where "Terkel" was pointing. After a moment, he glanced sharply away, then blinked in surprise.

  "Norfolk!" he said.

  He turned back to Hammond. "Fletch! We're in Norfolk!"

  Hammond gaped at him, but didn't have time for another question. Yablonski glanced sharply up at the wall behind them, reacting to something, then leaped back into place. The bed shook as he grabbed Hammond's hand and fished for Cohen's, but it was as if he didn't even see Cohen—he kept missing the outstretched fingers.

  "Martin," he snapped. "Martin, come back!"

  Hammond nodded to Cohen to get to the edge of the bed, to follow Yablonski's lead. Cohen stepped as close to the edge as possible. Yablonski looked right through him.