Thin Air

by George Simpson

  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?!"

  Overplaying your hand, chum, Hammond thought. "I think we do," he answered coolly.

  "Then let's hear what the hospital administration has to say about it!"

  "Fine. But first I'd like to see some identification, if you don't mind."

  McCarthy didn't flinch. "So would I."

  Hammond flashed his NIS card. There was a flicker of recognition but McCarthy disguised it well.

  "This is an outrage," he snarled. "Who do you think you are?"

  "I've just shown you," Hammond said quietly. "Now cut the crap and identify yourself."

  McCarthy glared at him, then pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket, slowly—so the agents wouldn't get upset. He passed a laminated card to Hammond. "Will this do?"

  Hammond scrutinized it: an officer's ID card, and it looked authentic. It had McCarthy's picture above his Social Security number.

  "You won't mind if I run a check on this, will you, Doctor?"

  "From here?"

  "We have two direct lines to Was
hington."

  McCarthy stiffened. His bluster vanished. "I don't see any reason for that, Commander. There must be some misunderstanding." He slid a baleful glance at Yablonski. "I don't see why Mr. Yablonski should have lost confidence in me, if indeed he has, but this melodrama is ridiculous!" He laughed, then got friendly. "Let me do this," he offered. "Let me get someone else to take over his case. I can arrange for a replacement almost immediately."

  "I'll bet you can," Hammond said flatly.

  McCarthy shook, his head and sighed. "At least let's stop this foolishness."

  It was a masterful performance. Yablonski went weak with confusion.

  "That's very thoughtful of you, Doctor," said Hammond. "But I can't believe you'd relinquish a patient just like that after twenty-some years. Now suppose you stay put while we get this sorted out."

  Yablonski stood in the observation room with Keyes, watching him patch in the direct line, but deliberately avoiding the view through the two-way mirror.

  "All set, Nick," said Keyes.

  "Give him the extra headset, Jack. I want him to hear this."

  Keyes handed a set to Yablonski, who fitted them to his head.

  Hammond picked up a phone receiver from Keyes' equipment and read into it from the ID card: "McCarthy, Lester J., Lieutenant Commander, USNR, Social Security number one-two-zero, two-four, seven-nine-zero-three."

  BUPERS came back first. "No record of that name, rank, or number on our rolls, sir."

  The Social Security Administration took longer. "We show that number, Commander, but not in the active file."

  "Which means?"

  "That the Lester J. McCarthy with that number is listed as deceased, as of January 3, 1955. Place of death, Brooklyn, New York. The number has never been reassigned."

  Yablonski swore.

  "Are you positive?" asked Hammond.

  "No doubt about it," explained the clerk. "The name and number match."

  Hammond asked for a copy of the file to be sent to his office, then hung up. He turned back to the glass and studied the bogus doctor in the other .room, anticipating denials .'"What have we got on the car?" he asked.

  "Oviott's standing by," said Keyes, flipping a switch.

  "It's hot, Nick," Oviott reported. "Boston didn't show anything, but NCIC did. The car was stolen from Moffett Field near San Francisco. It's been on the list since the tenth of March."

  Moffett Field, Hammond thought to himself. What the hell was a Navy staff car stolen from northern California, doing in Boston?

  Hammond ordered Oviott to stay with the car. He had Keyes call the Boston PD again, to get some lab people around to dust for prints.

  Yablonski lowered the headset, a look of grim comprehension in his eyes.

  "Any more doubts?" asked Hammond.

  Yablonski shook his head.

  McCarthy watched them re-enter. He looked detached, but Hammond felt the danger lurking behind that changeable façade. "We know your name isn't McCarthy," he said. "What shall we put on the arrest report?"

  McCarthy was silent.

  "Have it your way. We'll find out."

  "What are you charging me with?"

  "Impersonating an officer, trespassing on a military reservation, possession of stolen government property, and false identification. Andrews, pat him down."

  Andrews led McCarthy to the wall and frisked him. They stripped off his coat, turned his pockets inside out, and placed everything on the table: wallet, key case, and a cigarette lighter. Andrews also took his watch and the single ring he was wearing, then scooped everything into a plastic bag.

  "When do I speak to a lawyer?"

  "After you're booked—in Washington."

  "You can't take me there."

  "The hell I can't. And after the government gets through with you, Mr. Yablonski can file a whopping civil suit. Practicing medicine without a license is strictly illegal. I don't think room and board will be any problem for you for the next twenty years."

  Yablonski crossed the room, hands held at his sides. "What in God's name made you do this?" he said. "Why? I never harmed you."

  A thin smile curled McCarthy's mouth. "What have I done to you, Cas? Other than help you."

  "And the others?" Yablonski demanded. "Did you help them too? Fletch...Fletcher and—?"

  "Fletcher who?" McCarthy smiled quizzically. .

  "Liar!" Yablonski yelled, lunging for him. Michaelson pulled him away. Andrews covered McCarthy. The two antagonists glared at each other.

  "Too bad your friend couldn't leave well enough alone," McCarthy said. "You've started something, but I'll finish it! I've got a long reach."

  The threat was chilling, and for some reason Hammond believed him, probably because of the man's unflappable arrogance. "Get him out of here," Hammond said.

  Andrews manacled the pseudo-doctor's wrists and pushed him toward the door.

  "Put him in a padded cell in the psycho wing," Hammond added. "He might as well get used to it."

  Michaelson released Yablonski and followed the others out.

  "Bastard," muttered Yablonski

  "He just threatened you."

  "So what? If there's enough to hold him for trial, what can he do?"

  "He's not working alone. There may be others who can make good on it. I'd like to place you and your wife under protective custody, put you into what we call a 'safe house' for as long as it takes to wrap up the case."

  "That's ridiculous," said Yablonski. "He's nailed and he's blowing hot air. There's nothing he can do. Christ, he's done his worst." He looked right at Hammond, then laughed bitterly. "You know what's so crazy about all this? That guy did help me. He hurt me and helped me at the same time. I'd like to know why."

  It wasn't until the Boston PD showed up to tow away the car that the ideas buzzing around in Hammond's head struck with full force. The date. The date Social Security had given for the death of the real Lester J. McCarthy- January 3, 1955—was just prior to Fletcher's discharge from the Navy. Fletcher had been separated in February, Yablonski in May. And "Dr. McCarthy" had come into existence around the same time.

  A mental laundry had been founded in the spring of 1955, and had been operating smoothly ever since, apparently with only one "physician" in attendance, able to commute cross-country at a moment's notice. If it was all a sham, then why was it so elaborate? There had to be something enormous they were trying to hide. And who was Dr. McCarthy? Who did he work for?

  Hammond watched them tow the car out of the lot and realized his nervousness had returned. Something else wasn't right. Why was McCarthy using a car stolen three thousand miles away? And how did it get here?

  Hammond had a sudden feeling he shouldn't have let McCarthy out of his sight. The man was just too sure of himself.

  The restraint rooms were off to one side of the mam ward. Heavy steel doors with small barred openings were built into the walls along the corridor. A single bulb glowed weakly from a ceiling fixture, casting elongated shadows. Streaks of cracked green paint hung soddenly where dampness had undermined the many coats.

  Michaelson and Andrews were sitting on broken-down chairs outside a bolted door. They got up when Hammond and Yablonski approached.

  "Ready to go?" asked Andrews.

  "Yeah," said Hammond. "How's our guest?"

  "Quiet. We took off the cuffs before we put him in the rubber room. Said something about a bad shoulder."

  Hammond's eyebrow shot up. "Put them back on."

  Andrews shrugged and pulled out the cuffs. Michaelson moved to the door and tugged on the bolt. It shot back with a loud clang. The heavy door creaked open.

  Andrews passed inside, then stopped, frozen in his tracks.

  "Holy shit," he said, looking around in confusion.

  Hammond moved past him. His eyes circled the cell, taking in the heavy padding, the built-in bunk and toilet attached to one wall. He scanned the ceiling and the corners....

  The room was empty.

  Th
ere wasn't a sign that McCarthy had ever even been there.

  "Wrong cell?" he asked.

  "Not a chance!"

  Andrews jumped to the door and looked down the hall both ways. Michaelson stepped in further, touched a wall, then began to search for seams in the padding.

  Hammond stared around in disbelief. McCarthy had been locked in here and there was no way out but the one door. There were no windows. Not even a vent wide enough to crawl through. No way in the world for McCarthy to get out unless he'd been let out. Michaelson and Andrews would never...

  What if McCarthy had hypnotic abilities they hadn't seen yet? Hammond laughed involuntarily. Was the guy actually Mandrake the Magician, able to cloud men's minds—?

  Hammond's gaze swung around to Yablonski: his incredulity was giving way to stark fear. Then Hammond jumped at a sharp sound.

  Andrews was pounding on the walls, raising clouds of dust. Then he began ripping away the padding, exposing solid wall beneath. The other three stood motionless, watching his frantic efforts. After five minutes he stopped, leaning against the one intact wall, knowing it was useless to go any farther.

  Their gazes met and they all knew the same thing.

  Michaelson said hoarsely, "There's no way he could have done it, Nick."

  "Then where is he?" Hammond asked.

  No one answered. Hammond turned slowly and his gaze again fell on Yablonski, white-faced and grim, standing in the doorway.

  "About that safe house," Yablonski said.

  9

  When they walked into the hotel room in Boston, Mrs. Yablonski jumped off the sofa and went right to her husband. He hugged her and smoothed her hair, whispering in her ear that everything was going to be all right. She looked at Hammond then, trying to read his mind.

  Hammond spoke quickly. "Mrs. Yablonski, this is Michaelson. He's going to drive you back to Cotuit I want you to pack clothes for a vacation. We're going to take you and your husband somewhere where Dr. McCarthy can't find you for a while—"

  "What happened?" she interrupted.

  "Michaelson will explain in the car."

  "No! I want to know now!"