Thin Air (8 page)

Then he called Security. Things were moving along: the building was being de-loused with negative results, and a lot of negative uproar from brass who didn't want their offices turned upside down. So far, Hammond's was the only office to turn up bugged.

He decided it wartime to lock his desk and go home. Halfway there, he realized he had heard nothing further from Jan Fletcher. It was too late to call the Tri-State office; he would have to get in touch with her tomorrow. He had just enough time for an early dinner before heading to the airport for the flight to Cape Cod. He was conscious of a growling in his stomach. He had wolfed down the sandwiches and they were churning unpleasantly down there.

As he unlocked the door, he was debating what to do first, eat or shower. He never made the decision.

His hand froze reaching for the light switch. A faint scent filled the room, an all-too-familiar fragrance. He stared into the dark.

"Jan?" he called.

She rose from the couch and turned on a side lamp. She smiled wanly, her pale, tear-streaked face illuminated by the soft glow.

"I couldn't face a hotel room," she said quietly.

"How'd you get in?"

She held up a key. "I still had this."

5

Hammond closed the door and gave in to a surge of anger. How could she intrude on his privacy like that? What if there had been another woman living here? He was tempted to let her have it, tell her how far she had overstepped the bounds. But she took another step forward into the light and he saw the black circles under her eyes. She looked tired, frightened, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out She was shapeless in the beige wool suit Even the expensive pearls around her throat had no luster. She was anything but appealing.

Despite himself, Hammond softened. "Little girl lost," he said. She took that as a cue and stumbled into his arms, nestling her forehead in his shoulder and releasing her weight

There was nothing he could do but hold her as deep sobs wracked her body. The anger fled and he found himself flattered that she still needed him. It was a small triumph.

"Jan," he said softly. Her only response was to pull him closer.

"Sorry..." she finally mumbled. "I can't help it."

He led her to the couch and made her sit down. "Do you want a drink?" She shook her head. He decided to mix one anyway. He made a vodka and tonic, just the way she used to like it "Best cure in the world for grief," he said. "Get blind drunk and stay that way for a week."

She took it, hardly noticing what it was, and drank it down. Then she slumped back on the cushions. "God, Nicky, how could it happen?"

"The coroner says heart attack, pure and simple," he said. Why complicate the situation?
 

"But he never had a history of heart trouble," she protested.

"He never
told
you he had a history," said Hammond.

"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?"