Thin Air by George Simpson, Neal Burger

mind. Somehow, Dr. McCarthy had already lost one patient that Hammond knew of.
    How many others?
     
     

 
    6
     
    Hammond's footsteps echoed hollowly down an empty corridor of the Boston Naval Hospital in Chelsea. He passed two deserted nurses' stations, their desks covered, strands of wire hanging from open telephone junction boxes on the walls. Heavy steel fire doors blocked connecting corridors, locks securing them to clasps on the wall.
    He had flown up to Boston from Otis, borrowed another car, and driven out to this ancient facility in Chelsea—all before eight a.m. Curiosity had defeated sleep and hunger. As he walked through the deserted wing to get to the Psychiatric Center, Hammond got the impression that this was a terribly unsavory place to conduct therapy. For Yablonski, in an awful mental state, walking these halls must have increased his fears a hundredfold and made him desperate to see the doctor.
    And how did McCarthy work it? On twenty-four-hour call to Yablonski here in Boston and Fletcher in Los Angeles and to who knows how many others in different parts of the country. The nation's only interstate shrink. Did he keep a private jet in the basement?
    He hoped McCarthy would be here, but he found himself doubting it. Certainly it was too early even for a resident.
    A young officer sat with his back to the door of the admittance office.
    "Where can I find the duty officer?" Hammond asked.
    "That's me, sir. Lieutenant Spaulding. Can I help you?"
    "I'm from NIS headquarters in Washington." Hammond flashed his ID and Spaulding checked it casually. "Can you tell me where I might find Dr. Lester McCarthy?" Spaulding looked blank. "I believe he's a member of your psychiatric staff."       
    "Sorry—never heard of him, sir."
    "Are you sure?"
    Spaulding nodded.
    "Do you know every doctor on staff?"
    "Hope so, sir. I've been here two years."
    "Could he be a consulting associate or something like that?"
    Spaulding shook his head. "I'd know the name, sir. And there aren't that many. I guess you noticed the sealed-off corridors. We're being phased out. Caught in the fiscal meat-grinder. Of six men originally on the psychiatric team, only two are left: Dr. Kaplan and Dr. Brown. The other four have been reassigned. And none of them is named McCarthy."
    "Could he have been handling outpatients?"
    "This is a Navy hospital, sir, not a private clinic. He'd sever get authorization."
    Hammond glanced down one of the empty corridors and frowned. Two men with the same insane dream, the same doctor. Now McCarthy was beginning to sound as unreal as the nightmares.       
    "I'd like to check on a patient, Lieutenant. Would you mind showing me the medical files?"
    Spaulding hesitated, hot sure whether this was in order.
    "Official business." Hammond smiled.
    Spaulding took him to the file room and waited while Hammond searched through the Y's . He found no records on Yablonski. No file, no card, no chart. He slammed the drawer shut. What kind of crazy game was this?
    "Anything else, sir?"
    Hammond rubbed his chin and tried to think. No doctor, no records—he'd gone down a blind alley. But at least Tie could check out McCarthy's purported base of operations.
    "I'd like to see the psychiatric wing," he said.
    Spaulding led him down another corridor. A burly Navy Corpsman unlocked the security door and looked Hammond up and down. They were in a large room opening into a labyrinth of corridors. The lady or the tiger, thought Hammond. He heard low animal moans coming from the hallway on his left, and he checked the sign that read "Permanent Ward." Permanent, indeed. Whoever was making those noises would be there till the building came down. And from the looks of it, that would be soon.
    "You want to see the ward, sir?" Spaulding asked furtively.
    "What else have you got up here?"
    "Just the consultation rooms, sir." The Corpsman pointed down to the end of a sealed-off corridor. "Beyond the fire door. I'll have to open it