CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Al buried his face in the freshly-laundered bed sheet, moaning with pleasure as Maxine kneaded out a painfully knotted muscle. It was three in the afternoon, and he should have been down in his office toiling away like the replaceable paper-pusher he was, but Max had come to drag him away at two forty-five. She had reminded him that he had yet again worked through his lunch break, and won him 'round to her point if view with the promise that she wouldn't make him eat. Now, she was straddling his thighs and massaging cocoa butter lotion into his stiff and aching back. Each new application followed the contour of a scar, but Max didn't comment. The closest she came was to periodically bend and nip at his ear.

Al was glad she just wanted to play. She seemed to prefer that to talking, and an uninquisitive lover was all that Al could ask of life. She probably had a thousand questions, no thanks to Les Davies, but she was sensible enough to realize that he didn't want to talk about it, and maybe even smart enough to realize that, really, she didn't want to know. She was so perfect.

Too perfect. What the hell had he ever done to deserve a wife as perfect as Max? The only way she could have possibly been better was if she were Beth instead. The unsettling thought came to Al that either his luck had changed, or Max wasn't as perfect as she seemed…

Her slender hand rippled over a broad, puckered band of scar tissue, and Al shivered. In response, Max leaned forward, lying down on top of him. The silk of her camisole was smooth and warm against his back, her weight soothing. Her fingertips massaged his neck and she rested her chin between his shoulder blades.

"You cold, Al?" she murmured, kissing his jaw.

He groaned softly. He could feel himself losing contact with reality. He was so tired, and the bed was so soft, and the rhythm of Maxine's breathing was lulling him nearer and nearer to the land of slumber. Only the knowledge that it had been forty minutes since his last nip from the hip flask—in the back pocket of the pants he had shed in the other room—kept him from giving in. The last thing he wanted was a nightmare in the middle of the afternoon, when he still had to muster himself and return to work.

Maxine had turned her head, laying it down upon his shoulder. She moved her hands, slipping them between the mattress and his collarbones in a modified embrace. A hot, fragrant column of air bathed his shoulder, neck and jaw. "I think we need a holiday," she said.

"Just had a holiday," Al mumbled.

"No, you haven't!" she argued.

"Have so. Married you, didn't I?" Al closed his eyes. They were itching and sore. He had picked up a bottle of eye drops in Wickenburg last Saturday, hoping to disguise the redness. Next time he would have to ask the pharmacist for help, because these were obviously not the ones for him: his eyes had been dry as the desert outside for days now.

"Seems like so long ago," Maxine said. There was a curious lilt to her voice, but Al could not assign it to wry humor or a frightened epiphany. One or the other, he thought numbly.

Numb. God, it felt good to be numb. No pain. No misery. Neither heat nor cold. Nothing but the vague, tingling feeling that your body was out there, somewhere. The sense that if you just exerted a little effort, you could maybe reach your mind and return to the real world. And the comforting knowledge that you didn't have to. Not yet.

Then he heard the sound of flesh on wood. Halfway between sleep and awake, the noise was misconstrued, and even Maxine's consoling presence couldn't keep his body from falling into old patterns. Al stiffened. They were coming.

Another knock. Max had rolled off of him the moment he had gone rigid, uttering a little gasp of surprise. She took a deep, unsteady breath. Al thought remotely that he had seen her like this before, acting like a frightened rabbit while someone was hammering on the door. Why? Why was Maxine scared of people knocking on the door?

She recovered quickly, stroking his hair and bending to kiss him. "I'll be right back," she promised in her most suggestive voice. Al, struggling against an influx of unwanted memories, nodded. He watched her, his vision a little blurred, as she snatched her dressing gown from the closet and wrapped herself in it, padding off on bare feet into the other room.

He could hear the voices in the next room, and he made himself sit up, rubbing his eyes.

"Mrs. Calavicci! Good afternoon. Is the captain in?"

"He… yeah… he's taking a late lunch today…"

Al crept towards the edge of the bed and leaned swiftly to reach behind the nightstand. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle of bourbon and let a good three ounces run down his throat.

"That's what Ms. Pharris told me. Do you think he could spare me a couple of minutes?"

"Oh… I… we were just… I was trying to help him relax…"

Al took another long draught, sealed the cap tightly, and replaced the liquor in its hiding place.

"Good. I'm glad he has someone to help him relax."

The voice was pleasant, almost amused. Al got to his feet and made his way towards the bedroom door, his brain clearing a little under the influence of the alcohol. He came around the corner. Doctor Thorgard stood in the doorway. Seeing the newcomer, the chemist smiled warmly. "Captain!" he said in greeting. Then an odd look came over his face: surprise and amusement quickly morphing into mild consternation. Al followed his eyes, and flushed deeply."I… I'll be back in a minute," he mumbled, fleeing back into the bedroom. He grabbed his smoking jacket and wrapped it around himself, hiding his boxers and the scars webbing his torso. He shivered. Had Thorgard seen the marks, or had he just been reacting to the nakedness and the obvious implication of what he had interrupted. Al shivered and moved toward the bureau. He rummaged deep in his sock drawer and took out a concealed bottle of vodka. Two quick shots gave him the courage he needed to return to the other room, where Maxine was mumbling some sort of awkward apology while Thorgard stood politely by.

"What did you need?" Al asked, forcing himself to speak.

Thorgard smiled. "I wanted to talk about yesterday."

Al's stomach wrenched. Yesterday. He had lost his temper on Smythe, and he'd been wondering if that would come back to haunt him. From the grim look in the chemist's eyes, the answer was yes.

He turned to his wife. "Max, isn't there some work you have to get done? Basketball rosters or something?"

"Not really," Maxine said brightly. Then she caught his expression. "Oh—I mean—" she faltered. Glancing down, she added softly, "I'll just put on some clothes."

She disappeared into the bedroom. Al stepped back to admit Thorgard. "Take your coat off, stay a while," he said, making a pitiful attempt at humor.

"Thank you," Thorgard said courteously, stepping through into the kitchenette. Al suffered a moment of embarrassed anxiety: he hadn't been near that area of the suite for days. Then he realized that it was perfectly neat and tidy, and remembered that Max wasn't a slob like Sharon.

Al closed the door, just in case someone happened by. Eh didn't know why Thorgard was here: he had expected Smythe to come and chew him out in person, or maybe Eleese. She had been shooting him some very disapproving glances yesterday.

Maxine came out of the bedroom, wearing a pink cotton sundress and sensible white tennis shoes. She had even taken the time to changer her earrings. She paused to peck Al on the cheek.

"Sorry to run like this," she said to Thorgard. "I'm sure Al will take care of you."

"I'm sure," the chemist agreed.

Max left and Al bolted the door behind her. It was an old habit. There was something very empowering about being able to lock yourself in, voluntarily. Not to mention the obvious advantage of locking others out. There was a lull before Thorgard spoke again.

"I could wait until you dressed, too," he said mildly.

"Oh, yeah," Al grunted, scratching the back of his head. He retreated again and gathered up the garments strewn across the floor. He couldn't quite bring himself to don used clothing, so he dumped them in the cloth-lined Starbright-issue hamper and went to rummage in the closet. The silence was oppressive, and even though he dreaded the conversation ahead, it was less fearsome than the stillness.

"What can I do for you, Doc?" Al called, raising his voice so that it would carry into the other room.

"I just wanted to talk," Thorgard replied. "One friend to another."

Al swallowed tightly, suddenly even more uncomfortable than before. He didn't really think of Thorgard as a friend, and in his experience conversations that started with that line wound up morphing into interrogations: well-meaning idiots sounding out their old acquaintance for the telltale signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

"Really?" Al said, stepping into his pants and trying to keep his voice casual despite his discomfort. "What about?"

"You're under a lot of stress," Thorgard told him. Big news. "I thought you could use a sympathetic ear."

"Oh, yeah?" Al snapped. "Well, you thought wrong!"

Thorgard was a nice guy, and Al wanted to believe that he meant well, but sympathy was beyond the pale. It was too much akin to pity. He had to cling to what dignity he had left, the little that hadn't been stripped away over the long, brutal years of torture and misery, to say nothing of the joys of repatriation and everything that had followed. Dignity was precious. Priceless. And so scarce. He wasn't going to fritter it away for the illusion of a friend. That wasn't a sound investment.

Al started to button up a fresh shirt, hiding the scars and giving himself a little false confidence. He scrubbed his face with one hand. He drew in a deep, bracing breath and forced himself to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom.

Thorgard had moved towards the sofas, waiting for him. "Al, yesterday—"

"Yeah, I jumped down Ken's throat. I know." The words came out harshly. "So why isn't he here to slap the cuffs on me?"

"Why did you do it?" Thorgard asked.

"I was angry," replied Al, curtly.

"You were drunk."

Al stared. Thorgard's mild, amicable gaze didn't waver. He couldn't have said what Al had just heard. "I beg your pardon?" he croaked.

"You were drunk," Thorgard repeated, levelly. Then he added, with a hint of unease, "At eleven in the morning."

Throes of shame ripped through Al's abdomen. "I think that puts it very hard," he said numbly.

"I think it puts it very well." Thorgard gestured at the furniture. "Shall we sit and talk about it?"

AL obeyed. That was what it was: an act of obedience. He knew that he was cornered, and until he could see a way out of the present predicament he would have to play along. Thorgard was a seventy-something chemist with a well-groomed beard and gentle eyes, but for all Al could see by way of escape, he might as well have been a VC with a whip. The captain sat, perching on the very edge of the cushion with his back as straight as he could make it. He was posed for defiance or flight.

Thorgard sat down on the other sofa. "Al, I want to help," he said.

"I don't need help," Al countered leadenly.

"Are you going to try to deny what happened yesterday?" asked Thorgard. His voice was still level and mild, but his volume had dropped, imparting true gravity to his words.

"What's to deny?" Al asked. "I had a hangover. Max and I had a little fun the night before. At least I came in to work instead of begging off sick."

"You didn't have a hangover," Thorgard contradicted. "You were drunk."

"Probably still a little tipsy," Al said, a steely, stubborn note creeping into his voice. "Like I said, Max and I had a lot of fun."

"I saw Mrs. Calavicci at eight that morning," Thorgard said softly. "She was in the weight room. She looked the very picture of health."

"So she holds her liquor better than I do," Al said. "Thanks for rubbing it in."

The silence was unsettling. Al looked up at Thorgard, trying to assess the situation. He had expected to see anger or perhaps amusement in the scientist's eyes. Instead, he saw something worse. Thorgard was looking at him with regret and a profound, sorrowful disappointment, as if he had expected much more of a wretch who had just let him down in uncounted ways. Al felt a churning remorse in the pit of his stomach. He hung his head, cheeks burning with shame.

"Alright," he breathed, confessing so much more than he wanted to. "I had a couple of drinks yesterday morning." And then a couple more. And a couple more after that, too.

Thorgard nodded solemnly. "I know."

"It won't happen again." Al clasped his hands tightly, trying to keep them from shaking.

Thorgard reached out and placed one bony hand on Al's knee. Deep, hunted brown eyes looked up in shock. The aging scientist shook his head. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Al," he said softly. "Be honest with me. Be honest with yourself. Was yesterday really an isolated incident? Or was it part of a pattern?"

Al tried to pull away, but Thorgard wouldn't let him. With speed belying his age, he grabbed the younger man's wrists.

"Al!" Thorgard said sharply. Involuntarily, the Naval officer flinched. It was an instinctive reaction: harsh noises, angry voices. Danger. Impending anguish. Al hated himself for it. Thorgard didn't notice the wince, or he didn't care, because he wasn't backing down. "Al, I want you to tell me why you're doing this to yourself."

Obscenities drew perilously close to Al's lips, but he caught himself just in time. "Make like the trees and leave," he muttered.

Thorgard blinked slowly and drew a deep breath, but he did not release his hold. "Al," he said softly, "why are you drinking so much?"

Al tried to grin. "Whiskey tastes good," he said as sunnily as he could. His voice cracked and betrayed him. He wanted to hide his humiliation, to raise his hands to cover his face, but he couldn't even do that: Thorgard held fast.

"Al, is there something wrong between you and your wife?" the older man pressed, trying a closed-ended question.

"No!" Al snapped.

"Family troubles?"

The laugh was harsh and bitter. "What family?"

"I know your work is stressful—"

"You got that right!"

"—but somehow I don't think that's the problem."

Al stiffened. "Are you saying I can't do my job?"

"No, quite the opposite. Something is driving you to drink, but I don't think it's Starbright," Thorgard mused. "If it were, you would have been drinking yourself insensible after the crisis, not before. What ever it is that's doing this to you, Al, you have to deal with it before it drives you to destroy yourself!"

Finally, Al wrenched free of the chemist's grip and launched to his feet, pacing in agitation. "Maybe I'm just a rummy!" he choked out. "That's obviously what you think: come out and say it!"

Thorgard's expression was one of profound sadness. "You're not a rummy. You're struggling with a problem—obviously a substantial one—and you're doing it badly. All I want to do is help you find another way. There are other ways, Al. Better ways."

"Aw, what the hell do you know about it?" Al snapped.

"Nothing," Thorgard said. "I don't know anything about it, because you won't tell me."

"Why should I tell you? Why should I tell you anything? How is it any of your damned business?" demanded Al.

Thorgard rose. "Al, everyone saw you yesterday," he said. "You were drunk, you were angry, and you were yelling at the colonel. I've just come from a conversation with half of the department heads, all of them concerned about your behavior. Thanks to your indiscretion, it's now the 'business' of the entire staff. If it doesn't stop, it's going to be the Committee's business! Someone had to talk to you, to let you know how you're coming across, and to try to talk some sense into you—"

Al cackled nastily. "And you drew the short straw," he jeered. "Come and talk sense into the rummy! Ooh, you need a doctorate for that job!"

Thorgard sighed. "Al, I want to help you, but I can't do it if you refuse to tell me what—"

"I don't need help!" Al shouted. "I just need a little peace! Go away. Leave me alone. I've told you it won't happen again: isn't that enough?"

Thorgard tried once more to get through to him. "Al," he said softly, "I think we both know it's not as simple as that."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Al demanded.

"No," Thorgard breathed. "No, of course I'm not. I hope you're right. I hope it doesn't happen again, but if it does—"

"It won't!" Al reiterated.

"If it does," Thorgard said, "and you find you need help, I hope you know that you can always come to me."

He moved towards the door. Al's mouth had always worked quicker than his common sense, and today was no exception.

"Hey, Doc, why the hell do you care, anyway?" he demanded.

Thorgard paused with his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn, keeping his back to Al as he spoke.

"I care because you deserve to have someone care about you."

He was gone before the cynical laugh could break through the sudden, constricting pain that closed on Al's throat and chest.

As soon as he could move again, Al hastened towards the bookshelf. He moved two volumes and took out a bottle of Jack Daniels. It was the good stuff: eighty-six proof and decadent as hell. He sealed his lips around the neck and took a long swallow. He closed his eyes. He had gone too far yesterday, and he knew it. He had to make sure that from now on stuff like this didn't happen.

He had to make sure that from now on, he didn't get caught.