CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sooner rather than later.

Phillip Prysock waited impatiently, tapping his foot as he waited for the elevator to stop. He should have known the other shoe was going to fall, and that it was going to fall soon. Calavicci's track record should have clued him in. Three wives in as many years. Two divorces, one so bad that he'd left Jersey for Arizona just to get away, and the other sufficiently nasty to tie him up in court for eight months. It should have seemed inevitable that he would fight with Maxine, and after the incident with Smythe, Prysock would have been a fool to be surprised that he would get smashed afterwards.

The lift halted. The second he could force his body between the two halves of the door, Phillip was out and running towards the Administration offices. One thing was certain. In the private sector you didn't have to worry about Naval vets with drinking problems.

Eulalie was standing by her desk, hands clasped over her mouth and eyes wide with fright. "I didn't know what to do," she whispered breathlessly. "I didn't know who to call."

Prysock rubbed her arm briefly as he bolted for the Project Administrator's office. He opened the door cautiously, afraid of what he would see.

It was bad, but not half as bad as he had feared from the frantic nature of Eulalie's telephone call. Captain Calavicci was slumped over his desk, arms akimbo, a thin stream of saliva soaking his blotter. His necktie was in a crumpled heap next to the telephones, and his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. The faint white marks and twin bracelets of pale scar tissue were uncommonly visible on the denuded forearms, but Phillip spared them only a brief glance. He focused instead on the empty bottle of whiskey that lay on its side near the captain's head. The room reeked of booze.

Phillip was momentarily stricken with horrified paralysis. Then a loud, inebriated snore rent the air, and the Deputy Administrator shut the office door with a bang.

The result was instantaneous and unexpected. Calavicci awoke with a gasp of alarm. His eyes flitted across the room once, wide and wary, and then he threw himself out of his chair, vanishing beneath the desk. It took Phillip another shocked second to process this. He walked purposefully around the bulky piece of furniture, frantically reminding himself that he was a professional and groping through the mental detritus of every conflict resolution course he had ever taken. Unfortunately, though he had a wealth of knowledge when it came to resolving squabbles with subordinates, he had no idea how to deal with a superior whose behavior was growing more and more unacceptable.

The captain was cowering under his desk, pressed against the side of the bank of drawers, his head curled beneath his arms. Philip could swear he was shaking.

"Captain?" Prysock ventured.

Calavicci uncurled a little, scrubbing at his eyes and grunting softly. "Phil?" he mumbled. "What the hell…"

"Good morning," Phillip said, offering the captain his hand. The older man stared at it, almost warily.

Prysock jumped and Calavicci shrank backwards into his shelter as the door opened again. Phillip frowned questioningly at the impeccably groomed, expensively dressed intruder.

"Dan Penvenen, Human Resources," the newcomer said. "I was looking for Captain Calavicci."

"I'm Deputy Administrator and I can take care of any concerns you have," said Prysock, doing his best to act as if his very hung-over boss was not huddled less than a yard from his toe. "I'm busy right at the moment, though. Leave your extension number with Ms. Pharris, and I'll call as soon as I can."

"I understand Captain Calavicci was in here," Penvenen said. His eyes came to rest upon the empty liquor bottle, and for a moment his face tightened into a look of fastidious disgust. Prysock's abdomen tightened instinctively in dislike, relaxing more sanely as Penvenen quickly and discretely schooled his features.

"Ms. Pharris called to let me know," the HR man said. "She wasn't sure what to do. I told her you were in the best position to take care of this."

"You… I mean…" Prysock shook his head helplessly.

Captain Calavicci got stiffly and painfully to his feet, stumbling a little as he navigated around the chair. He squinted at Penvenen. "Dan?"

"Captain," Penvenen said.

Calavicci raised a hand to his forehead as if trying to push back the headache he was undoubtedly sporting. There was a long, awkward pause.

"I'm glad you're here," Calavicci said flatly, not meeting anyone's eyes. "I'm taking three day's bereavement leave. My father-in-law is dead."

Prysock's jaw dropped. His mouth worked faster than his mind. "Your father-in-law is dead, and you didn't spend the night with your wife?" he blurted out, unable to stop himself.

The captain stiffened as if he had been struck, and Phillip felt a wrench of guilt. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean—"

"Not that father-in-law," Calavicci said, his voice thick and slurred. He moved unsteadily towards the door. He stumbled again, and Penvenen caught him.

"Easy," the young man said. "You want someone to walk you back to your rooms?"

"No!" Calavicci snapped, then flinched as the sound of his own voice resonated unpleasantly through his head. "No," he whispered. "I'm fine."

He made it to the door and made his way out.

There was another uncomfortable pause. Penvenen was the first one to regain his composure.

"I'll draw up the paperwork and inform the Navy," he said.

"Thank you," Phillip murmured, shaking his head. The death of one of his ex-wives fathers had driven him to spend the night in his office, drinking? It was ridiculous. Pathetic. Unacceptable. What the hell was he supposed to do about it?

"A lot of people wouldn't put up with this kind of behavior," Penvenen said, his voice low and pleasant. "A lot of people in your position would put their own careers first. They wouldn't risk everything they've worked for trying to cover up for a superior obviously on the fast track to destruction. They wouldn't be willing to risk being dragged down with him. I'm glad to see you're not that kind of person."

He smiled pleasantly and left Prysock alone. Phillip picked up the empty whiskey bottle and deposited it carefully in the trash can. He straightened the papers on the captain's desk, and sighed wearily.

Thinking better of it, he bent to retrieve the bottle. He'd dispose of it elsewhere. No point lending more fuel to the rumors.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Al leaned against the wall outside of his suite, trying to make the corridor stop spinning. It was one hell of a hangover, and the abyss of irrational grief that was corroding his arteries didn't make it any easier to bear. He hadn't even seen Sharon's father in months: why should he be so stricken by the news that he was dead? It was a good way to go, too, from what Sharon had managed to choke out between sobs: a stroke in his sleep. Painless, peaceful, as dignified as any death could be.

Patrick Quinn, aging, feeble, his mind ravaged by the slow, inexorable progress of Alzheimer's, but despite his failing grip on reality, still fiercely intelligent and observant. Sharon's father, with whom Al had played cards and read Shakespeare, was dead.

Al's head was thrumming mercilessly. He wasn't sure if he was still drunk, or hung over, or what, but he was just about ready to give up

He stumbled through the door, dragging it closed behind him. Al leaned heavily against it. Maxine came around the corner, her eyes wide and anxious.

"Where have you been?" she gasped.

All looked at her, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision. "Max," he croaked.

"What's wrong?" Gentle hands took his arms, offering the support his quaking limbs needed. "Al, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

He noted dimly that she looked like someone who had been up all night. "Max," he breathed, letting his heavy head droop against her shoulder. "Max."

"Come on," she said, guiding him towards the bedroom. "You lie down. You lie down, and when you think you can we'll go and see Doctor Cartwright."

"I'm not sick," Al grunted, sitting leadenly down on the edge of the mattress. He rested his forearms on his knees and lowered his head into his hands. "I'm not sick. I just need a cup of coffee."

"C-coffee," Maxine echoed. "Coffee. I'll go make some…"

"Hot, black coffee," Al told her, trying in vain to organize his errant thoughts. "Strong as you can make it."

"Okay," Max breathed, stroking his hair anxiously before backing out of the room. "Okay…"

Al moaned softly. God, his head hurt. Sharon's dad…

His ex-wife had been in a state, all right. Three sheets to the wind, drinking to ease the pain. At times she had been almost unintelligible, but the message was plain. Her father was dead. She thought Al would want to know.

That was true. Part of Al did want to know, was glad she called. He genuinely liked—had liked—Pat Quinn, and he knew he should attend the funeral. The logical part of his mind, too, told him that it was a thousand times better to find out about these things when they happened, when there was still a chance for some healing… some closure. The alternative was unbearable: that one day, a year from now, he would find himself in Phoenix some sunny afternoon and visit the care home on a whim—and find out then.

But there was a part of him, too—drunk, selfish and hedonistic—that thought there was no reason for her to have told him. She could have kept it to herself and borne her burden alone. Sharon hadn't had to foist this onto his shoulders. He didn't need to know that Pat was dead. He didn't need to take a share of the guilt.

He did feel guilty. His whole being agreed on that point. Never mind that it was a death without suffering, clean and cared-for in a warm bed, in the middle of the night without warning. Painless. Peaceful. Without fear. Everything death usually wasn't. It spared Pat another decade of slow deterioration, too, his mind crumbling a little more every day until at last it abandoned him altogether. That would comfort Sharon and her brother, but to Al it seemed strangely irrelevant. Beside the point. The stark truth of the matter as he saw it was that someone he cared about had died alone and unthought-of in an institution.

Again.

Again.

Suddenly someone was petting his face, and the strong, refreshing fragrance of costly coffee caressed his nostrils. Al reached for the mug, almost instinctively drawing it to his mouth. He drank deeply, not caring that he was scalding his mouth with the hot fluid. He inhaled deeply of the vapors, and felt his head clearing a little. Maxine was next to him, her hand on his shoulder and her long fingers toying in his disheveled hair.

"Tell me the truth," she said softly, wrapping her other arm around his waist. "Are you sick?"

Al tried to shrug his leaden shoulders. "A little," he lied. He was unwilling or unable to admit that he had been drinking. She didn't know, he reminded himself. She thought he had stopped.

She didn't need to know.

There was a silence while he took another mouthful of coffee, his burned tongue now almost unable to taste it. When Maxine spoke again, her voice was unsteady and hesitant, and the muscles of her young body were rigid.

"Your—the—Sharon. Sharon called here last night," she said.

"Yeah, she told me," Al grunted.

"She got ahold of you?" asked Max. Al noted dully that there was a strange note to her voice. Hurt. She sounded hurt, that was it. A nagging voice told him that he should pursue this. He should find out why she was upset and try to comfort her, attempt to smooth it over. God only knew what Sharon had said to Max, but Al didn't have the strength to solve problems right now. He had no energy to pour into this marriage now. He was tired, and morning, and caught in a horrible place between inebriated and hung-over, and he just couldn't stand to rip open a marital rift right now. Even if it was a wound that had to be debrided in order to heal, and soon, before it festered, he wasn't up to the task. If Maxine wasn't going to start the fight that she needed, it wasn't going to happen today.

"Yeah, she has my office number," he mumbled. "We were married, you know."

"Yes, I caught that," Max said softly. She sounded as if she was about to cry, and her hands had moved to her lap.

"Her father's dead," Al said harshly, focusing on the mug. "Died at three o'clock yesterday morning. The funeral's tomorrow."

"Oh, no!" Max gasped, and a flat tear rolled down her wan cheek. "She didn't say that…"

"I'm taking three days leave," Al went on. "If you want to come."

"How did he…"

"Stroke," he answered woodenly. "Painless," he reminded himself again. "Peaceful. Do you want to come?"

"Of course," Maxine whispered, and she embraced him again. "I'm so sorry." She rocked a little, and Al allowed himself to roll with her. "Did you know him real well?"

Al closed his eyes and nodded wearily. "He was my friend," he breathed.

The admission cost him more than he dared to admit, even to himself.