Free Thin Air by George Simpson, Neal Burger Page B

fight better sitting down."
     
    Hammond drove back alone. The Yablonskis took the McKay brothers and went in Cas's jeep. It was nearly midnight when the party tramped back into the house by the pond. The McKays excused themselves and went to the spare room to bunk down.
    "We can put you up on our living room couch," offered Mrs. Yablonski. Hammond cast a quick look at Cas and saw abject disapproval.
    "Thanks very much. I just have a few more questions," he said.
    She made tea and they sat down at the breakfast table. Yablonski leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, regarding Hammond darkly. Physically, he was telegraphing "The hell with you." Hammond didn't need a course in body language to read that message.
    "What's McCarthy's first name?" he asked.
    "Lester," Yablonski snapped back.
    "Could you describe him?"
    Yablonski opened his mouth, then froze. His expression switched to astonishment as he searched his mind, then came up with blank fear. Why should such a request frighten him? Hammond wondered.
    Unless he couldn't describe the man.
    "What the hell is this?" barked Yablonski. "Goddamned third degree?"
    "No, sir..." Hammond decided to go easy on him. Stick to facts. "Do you know a man named Harold Fletcher?"
    Yablonski shook his head. "No."
    Hammond quietly gauged the answer. It was the first question he had thrown that hadn't unnerved the man. He seemed sure. Yet...       
    "You and Harold Fletcher have the same doctor," he said. "And I think the same dream."
    Yablonski didn't move. "What are you talking about?" he said hoarsely.
    "Two men who have much the same service record, the same Navy psychiatrist, the same neurosis....The only difference is that you're still alive."
    There was a long silence, then Mrs. Yablonski leaned forward, her lower jaw quivering. "Would you please explain?" she asked.
    Briefly, Hammond told them about Fletcher and Jan and Fletcher's problem. "I don't want to tell you any details of his nightmare because it's more important for me to hear yours, uninfluenced. When you're ready, of course."
    "What happened to this Fletcher?" Yablonski asked. All the antagonism had fled, replaced by pure need-to-know.
    "Found dead in his Washington apartment. Apparent heart attack." Hammond refrained from expressing any, suspicions about Flfetcher's death. He left the intimation that somehow Fletcher's problem and his demise were related.
    Yablonski got up and walked to the sink, ran himself a tall glass of water, and drank it down. When he turned back, he seemed fraught with anxiety. "I trust McCarthy. Don't you see...?" He choked off. His wife rose and reached for him. He pulled her close and looked at Hammond in silent appeal.
    "Do you trust him, Mrs. Yablonski?" Hammond asked.
    Cas looked down at her. After a long moment, she shook her head. "No...not now...oh, I'm not sure."
    Yablonski pulled away, staring at her, then around the room in confusion. He moved to the hallway, then glanced back. "I'm going up to bed."
    "Mr. Yablonski." Hammond stopped him. "The next time you get these dreams, don't call McCarthy. Call me." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He left a card on the table.
    Yablonski stared at it from the doorway, then his eyes met Hammond's and seemed to reflect a great sadness, as if he knew the worst was only beginning.
    He left the room and Hammond heard Mrs. Yablonski stifle a sob. He turned to her—she was rubbing her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said.
    "Mrs. Yablonski, I'll have to depend on you. It's imperative he doesn't see McCarthy next time it happens."
    Mrs. Yablonski looked at him with alarm and stood clutching the sweater about her shoulders. Finally, she nodded. "He's difficult," she said. "He's always been."
    "With reason, I think," Hammond said and smiled in reassurance.
     
    He left quickly, driving back to Otis over unlighted roads, intending to bed down at the Transient Officers' Quarters. A problem took root in his overworked