Thin Air

by Richard Laymon

  DOUBLE FASTBACK SOS

  RICHARD LAYMON

  Globe Fearon Education Publisher

  Upper Saddle River, New Jersey

  www.globefearon.com

  Double Fastback® SOS Books

  I The Night Creature

  II The Beast

  III The Return

  IV Thin Air

  Cover photographer: Richard Hutchings

  Copyright © 1986 by Globe Fearon, inc., One Lake Street, Upper Saddle River, New Jersey 07458. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 0-8224-6504-3

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-52409

  Printed in the United States of America.

  2. 10 98765432

  PA

  "This is where it happened," Dennis said, stopping at the top of the hill. The picnic basket was still on the ground where he had left it. "Peggy made egg salad sandwiches. We hadn't even started to eat." His voice broke. Tears came to his eyes.

  "That's all right," the policeman said. "Take it easy. We'll find her."

  Dennis shook his head. "You won't. She's gone."

  "Nobody disappears into thin air."

  "Peggy did." Dennis wiped his eyes.

  The policeman, Officer Hank Bishop, stared out across the gentle slope of the hilltop as if he expected to spot Peggy picking a dandelion. The grass and wild flowers were no more than a foot high. There were no trees to hide her. "Did you take a look around?" Hank asked. "Maybe she fell into a hole, or . . ."

  "She didn't fall in a hole," Dennis said. "I was watching her. She went over for a closer look at a butterfly near that rock there." Dennis pointed to a gray rock a few yards from the picnic basket. It wasn't much bigger than a bowling ball. "She vanished. She didn't fall, she just . . . went away. It was like she suddenly turned invisible."

  "I don't see how that's possible."

  "I don't, either," Dennis said.

  "And you didn't look for her?''

  Dennis shook his head. "What was the point? She was gone. I called her name a few times, but she didn't answer. I didn't want to go over there. I was afraid . . ."

  "That you might vanish, too," the policeman said. He sounded as if he didn't think much of Dennis. "If it was my wife, I wouldn't have been so quick to run off."

  "You weren't here," Dennis said. "You don't know how it was."

  "Sure," Hank said. He walked toward the rock, watching the ground. He put his feet down carefully, as if he suspected the earth might fall in. "How close was she to the rock," he asked, "when she . . ."

  Hank Bishop's voice stopped at the same moment he disappeared from the field. Dennis stared at the place where the 3 policeman had been walking. He fell to his knees. He pressed his hands to his mouth.

  He was alone on the hilltop. A warm breeze rolled across the dandelions and grass. And then he heard screaming.

  The screams were coming from himself.

  He couldn't stop.

  He thought he might never stop screaming, but he suddenly became quiet when he saw Hank Bishop stumbling toward him. The policeman's face was dead white. His eyes looked wild with fear. He fell and glanced back over his shoulder. Pushing himself up again, he ran past Dennis.

  "Hey!" Dennis called. "Wait! What . . . ?"

  Hank kept running. Dennis chased him down the hillside. He didn't catch up to the fleeing policeman until they reached the patrol car. "What was it?" he gasped. "What happened? Where did you go?"

  Hank shook his head. "Someplace bad . . . horrible. I don't know."

  "Did you see Peggy?"

  "No."

  "But she's there?" Dennis asked.

  "Must be." Hank took deep breaths.

  "Let's . . . get out of here."

  "Mr. William Fitzgerald, please," Hank said into the telephone. It was half an hour later. They were back at police headquarters. The color of Hank's face was almost normal again, but fear still showed in his eyes. Dennis sat across the desk from him and listened.

  "Mr. Fitzgerald?" Hank asked after a few seconds. "This is Hank Bishop of the Black River Falls Police Department. . . . Right, in Wisconsin. I have a notice here from Washington that says local law enforcement agencies should phone you in case . . ." Pausing, he picked up a printed sheet of paper and read from it. " 'Should there be a threat which seems to be of an alien or supernatural order . . .' Well, that's what I've got. There's something really weird going on. I need help."

  Clint opened the door for Theresa and followed her into the police station. A woman in uniform led them to a small office.

  "William Fitzgerald sent us," Clint said to the policeman behind the desk. "I'm Clint Jackson. This is Theresa Hughes."

  The police officer stood up. He was heavy and not much taller than Theresa. "Hank Bishop," he said, shaking hands with them.

  "And this is Dennis Wayne," he added, nodding toward a man wearing jeans and a plaid shirt.

  Theresa smiled at Dennis. He didn't smile back. He looked tired and worried. "It took you long enough to get here," he said.

  Clint gave him a sharp glance.

  "We had to fly in from California," Theresa said, trying to keep her voice calm. The man might be upset, she thought, but that was no excuse for his rudeness. After all, she and Clint had come here to help. More than likely, they would be putting their lives on the line for him. He could, at least, be polite.

  "What did they send a girl for?" Dennis said.

  Theresa felt her face go hot. "I don't need this," she said.

  Clint fixed the man with a steady glare. "We didn't have to come here, bud. In fact, we didn't much want to come here. We came for just one reason---your wife is in trouble and someone needs to help her out of it."

  "Okay," Dennis said. "I'm sorry, okay?" He looked sorry. Not sorry for being nasty to Theresa, but very sorry for making Clint angry. Theresa almost smiled. Though dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, Clint could never be mistaken for a banker. He looked like what he was---a tall, tough cop. A guy you wanted on your side and were sure you wouldn't want for an enemy.

  "We seem to be getting off on the wrong foot here," Hank Bishop said. "I apologize for Mr. Wayne's behavior. He's been under a lot of stress. . . ."

  "It's all right," Theresa said.

  "Did Mr. Fitzgerald fill you in on what happened?" Hank asked.

  "He didn't say much," Clint answered. "Just that Mrs. Wayne . . ."

  Theresa turned around as the office door squeaked open.

  Malcolm Fitzgerald stepped into the office. Grinning, he raised an open hand. "Greetings!"

  The sight of Malcolm cheered up Theresa. He was wearing his lucky checkered sports coat. Its green, yellow, and orange colors were so bright they made her want to squint. It was open in front. His red T-shirt had a picture of Charlie Brown with a baseball mit. His plaid slacks were belted so high they covered Charlie to the knees. The cuffs were raised enough to show off his glowing yellow socks. He wore his same old shabby blue sneakers.

  He didn't have his black leather doctor's bag with him. Maybe that's a good sign, Theresa thought. The two times he'd shown up carrying the bag---with its hammer and pointed stakes inside---things had gotten very bad.

  "Long time no see," he said to Theresa and opened his arms.

  She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.

  He shook Clint's hand. "How are you doing, my fearless friend?"

  Clint smiled. "Just fine. I'm glad to see you've kept your tailor."

  "But of course," replied Malcolm.

  "What is this," Dennis muttered, "a family reunion?"

  Malcolm grinned at hi
m. "Uncle Herbie?"

  "Who is this bozo?"

  "That's enough out of you," Hank snapped.

  Clint glared at Dennis. "This bozo is William Fitzgerald's son, Malcolm."

  "He's a kid."

  I'll be twenty-one in April," Malcolm said, still smiling. "I'm no kid. Theresa's a kid. Sweet sixteen. . . ."

  "Eighteen," Theresa corrected him. "And you know it."

  Dennis wrinkled his nose.

  Malcolm shrugged. "What a drag, huh? Here you are expecting the cavalry, and instead you get a bozo, a teeny-bopper, and an overdressed black detective."

  Theresa started laughing.

  Clint broke into a smile.

  Even Hank looked amused.

  But not Dennis. "You're right. It is a drag. This Fitzgerald guy was supposed to send help. What kind of a nut is he?"

  Malcolm stopped smiling. "He's not a nut, he's my father."

  "He should've come himself instead of sending his weird kid. . . ."

  "That's it," Clint said. He started toward Dennis.

  Dennis's mouth snapped shut. He backed away until he bumped into a wall.

  Clint turned to Hank Bishop. "That guy's a jerk," he said. "But that isn't his wife's fault. We're here to get her back, if that's possible."

  "Well I, for one, am glad you're here," Hank said. "I'm curious, though. Are you people pros at this kind of thing---at taking care of weird stuff?"

  "We've handled a few things," Clint told him.

  That's for sure, Theresa thought.

  "You might say we're on loan to the government when these matters come up. I'm in the homicide unit of the Santa Monica Police Department. Theresa runs her own business. She's a psychic advisor. Malcolm works with his father in Washington, D.C."

  I spend most of my time studying," Malcolm added.

  He knows more than almost anyone," Theresa said, "about goblins and beasties."

  "My father, Fitz, is the real expert," Malcolm explained. "He used to handle these things himself, but last year he was hurt pretty badly while working on a case."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Hank said.

  "Now we do the dirty work for him,"

  Malcolm added. "And we'd better get started. Tell us what's going on."

  "Dennis," Hank said, "why don't you fill everybody in?"

  Dennis pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared at the floor. "Look, I'm sorry about the way I acted, okay? I know you people came here to help, and I was way out of line. I'm just not myself. This whole thing's got me feeling pretty crazy."

  "That's all right," Clint said.

  "Anyway, Peggy and I walked up this hill a few miles out of town. No reason. It was a nice day and we were just out taking a walk. We thought there might be a nice view from the hilltop. We'd brought along a picnic basket. We were about to start eating when Peggy saw this yellow butterfly. She . . . thought it was beautiful." Dennis's voice shook. He sounded as if he might cry. He took a deep breath. "She went over to look at it, and . . . all of a sudden, she just wasn't there anymore. The same thing happened to Hank, only he came back."

  "I lucked out," Hank said.

  Malcolm stared at Hank, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "You disappeared and came back?"

  Hank tried to smile, but it only made his face look crooked and nervous. Some of the color went out of his cheeks. "I went over to take a closer look at the area where Mrs. Wayne vanished, and . . . and something went wrong. I didn't go invisible. I mean, I could still see myself. But it was like I'd suddenly stepped into a different world. Dennis was gone." He looked at his trembling hands, then folded them on top of his desk. "It was awful. It was like something from a nightmare. It was hot and foggy and red. I didn't know what was going on. I just knew I had to get out of there fast. I had this feeling---or maybe just a hope---that I could get out the same way I got in. Like there was a doorway behind me. So I turned around and leaped back toward where I'd been walking. And there I was, back on the hilltop again."

  "Amazing," Malcolm said.

  Theresa didn't think it sounded amazing at all. She thought it sounded horrible. She looked at Clint. She was glad to see that he, too, seemed less than thrilled by Hank's story.

  He hates this stuff as much as I do, Theresa told herself.

  What are we going to do? she wondered.

  Don't worry, she thought. This can't be any worse than the other times. We lived through those. We're still alive, and we're still sane.

  If we were really sane, we would have stayed home.

  But we're it, she told herself. We're the SOS, the Strange Occurrence Squad.

  A feeling of pride burst through her fear.

  We're good at what we do, she thought. And we're the only ones who do it.

  "Does it make sense to you?" Hank asked after a few seconds of silence.

  "Oh yes," Malcolm said. He was smiling. "You and Mrs. Wayne aren't the only people who've vanished into thin air. It happens pretty often, in fact. Thousands of people disappear every year. I'm sure that many are victims of kidnapping or murder. Others make themselves disappear. They start new lives under different names. And a few simply vanish."

  "But how?" Clint asked.

  "Some people blame visitors from outer space. You know, 'Beam them up, Scotty.' But according to one theory, there may be another world---or many---that exists all around us. It might be very different from our own, but we know nothing about it because it exists in another dimension."

  "This is getting weird," Theresa said.

  "Just a bit," Clint replied.

  Hank nodded as if he knew exactly what Malcolm was talking about.

  "Now here's the thing," Malcolm went on. "If there is another world like that, there might be openings to it. Cracks in the curtain, so to speak."

  "Oh brother," Theresa said.

  "That's what I went through," Hank told Malcolm. "One of those cracks."

  "Right," Malcolm said. "You were lucky enough to find your way out again."

  "And Peggy wasn't," Dennis added while staring at the floor.

  "That's it."

  Dennis looked up. "So you're saying she might be trapped in this other world, this dimension we can't see?"

  "Yep." Malcolm grinned. He rubbed his hands together. "This will be really neat."

  "What?" Theresa asked.

  "Well," said Malcolm, "we know where the opening is. So we go in, find Peggy, and bring her out."

  Hank looked pale. "Not me," he said.

  "We'll go in," Malcolm said. "Clint, Theresa, and me. That's why we're here."

  Clint and Theresa glanced at each other. He looked the way she felt---as if his stomach was full of ice cubes.

  "Let's get to it," Malcolm said. "I can't wait!"

  "We should have brought along camping gear," Malcolm said from the back seat as they followed the police car out of town.

  "I don't plan on being 'inside' long enough to need it," Clint told him in a grim voice.

  "It would be a shame," Malcolm said, "not to stay for a few days and really explore the place. As far as I know, no one but Hank has ever visited a different dimension and come out again. And Hank didn't stick around long enough to find out much about it."

  "From what he told us," Clint said, "it doesn't sound like Waikiki."

  "Where's your spirit of adventure?" Malcolm asked.

  Clint didn't answer.

  "I just hope we can find Peggy and get out fast," Theresa said.

  Clint nodded. "She's probably not far from the opening."

  "She must be pretty scared," Theresa added.

  "I know I am," Clint said, "and we're not even there yet."

  Ahead of them, the patrol car swung off the road and stopped. Clint drove the rental car up behind it. They got out.

  On one side of the road, a wheat field stretched out across the flat land. Theresa saw a farm house in the distance. Behind it was an old red barn and a silo like a giant bullet aimed at the sky. The silver dome of the s
ilo was shiny in the afternoon light.

  On the other side of the road stood a low hill. Its green grass was spotted with yellow dandelions.

  "Up there," Hank said, pointing toward the hilltop. He had a coil of thick rope hanging from one shoulder. Dennis stood beside him, mouth shut tightly, hands pushed into the pockets of his jeans.

  Theresa turned around as the trunk of the rental car swung open. Clint, who had changed into jeans, a rough wool shirt, and boots back at the station, leaned into the trunk and pulled out his rifle case. Malcolm picked up a small suitcase. Clint slammed the trunk shut.

  They climbed to the top of the hill.

  "It's about a yard in front of that rock," Hank said. "Just walk straight toward the rock, and first thing you know you'll be in nightmare land."

  "If the gap is still there," Malcolm said.

  Theresa and Clint both turned their heads quickly to look at Malcolm. "What do you mean," Clint asked, "if it's still there?"

  "Well, it might not be. I mean, it probably is. Well find out soon enough, won't we?" As if that answered the question, he opened his suitcase and took out the western-style gunbelt he had worn at Camp Condor that summer. He buckled it around the outside of his checkered jacket.

  "Now just hang on," Clint said. "Are you telling us that these gaps don't last?"

  "Nobody knows," Malcolm said. He was busy tying the holster to his leg with a thong. "Maybe they move. Maybe they heal up like cuts. Or maybe they stay put."

  "But nobody knows?" said Theresa.

  "That's right." Malcolm practiced a quick draw, twirled his .45, and slipped it back into the holster.

  "So the opening could close up while we're on the other side," she said.

  "It could," he admitted.

  Theresa almost asked, What then? But she didn't want to hear Malcolm's answer. She knew what would happen. They'd never get back to their own world. She would never see her parents again, never again hold Bob in her arms. No more surfing, no more drive-in movies, no more television or pizza or chili fries. She could live without the surfing and the movies and the other things, but she couldn't stand the thought of losing the people she loved.

  "This changes everything," Clint said. "If that gap closes up on us . . ." He shook his head. Theresa thought of Clint's wife and his three small children. "We're not going in," he said.