CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A rough, flat tongue rescued him. It lapped away the tears of terror and humiliation that were coursing uncontrollably down his cheeks. It banished Quon and the Bitch, and Dope and Slacker and Mussolini, back into Hell where they belonged. That little tongue made the ropes dissolve and the chains fall away. It brought back the soft, warm bed in the Starbright compound. It offered protection from the empty, suffocating darkness around him. It gave him sanctuary from the bitter and wretched loneliness.

As the paralysis of terror began to dissipate, Al's hands crept up towards his little savior. Chester turned and licked his wrist before once again focusing on his face. Al's hands encircled the dog's warm little body and he rolled onto his back, drawing the terrier onto his chest. Chester lay down on his sternum, forepaws curling over his left shoulder where it joined his neck. He continued his gentle ministrations, lapping at his master's neck and jaw. His soothing weight eased the desperate hammering of the heart beneath it, and as Al's fingers moved through the silky fur he began to calm himself. The frantic, gasping breaths leveled out and his tense muscles began to let go. Finally he was able to reach out and switch on the bedside lamp.

The light drove away most of the terror, but the bed was damp with sweat and his bare skin felt clammy and filthy. Al got out of bed, supporting Chester against his chest. Shaking legs carried him to the bathroom, where he set the dog on the counter next to the sink. The Yorkie sat down and began to sniff at his new surroundings. Al climbed into the shower.

The hot water beat down upon him, igniting nerves left raw and throbbing by the nightmare. The soap lathered itself against his skin as he scrubbed his body violently, and the streaming liquid carried it away, taking with the foam the imagined filth as well as the real film of perspiration. Al's skin was red and tender when he finally reached out to manipulate the faucet. The jet of fluid went from almost scalding to icy cold in seconds. Al let out a startled gasp that went a long way towards clearing his lungs of the lingering jungle humidity. When his teeth were chattering and bracing shivers ran up and down his spine, he turned off the shower and stood there, leaning heavily on the wall. He was wet and cold and trembling, but suddenly the frosted glass door seemed incredibly daunting.

He stared at it, hugging his quivering body. The vague uneasiness he always felt in small spaces was overridden by a paralyzing dread of the unknown. What was out there, beyond that flimsy barrier? Still fragile from the night terror, his psyche was unable to reconcile the rational voice telling him that nothing could hurt him here with the pervasive anxiety and the feeling of danger. You could never tell what would happen. If he left the confines of this controlled space…

It was stupid. It was irrational. He was ashamed of it. Still, he couldn't talk himself out of the terror. His shivering was growing worse, and his jaw was clicking so forcefully that he was almost afraid his teeth would shatter with the force. With a tiny whimper of misery he sank onto the floor of the shower, hugging his knees to his chest.

There was plaintive bark from the other side of the glass door. Al stiffened, raising his head out of its posture of dejection. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Another bark sounded out. This time Al managed to croak out a response. "Chester?" he rasped. Another bark, this one eager and welcoming. "Good boy," Al breathed. The knowledge that he wasn't alone gave him the courage he needed to push open the door and crawl out of the shower. The terrier wagged his tail happily as his owner came into view. He was standing at the very edge of the counter, looking quizzically down at Al.

"Hey, buddy," Al mumbled, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his quivering shoulders. He got to his feet and dried himself, pausing periodically to stroke Chester's back. Removing the cold water warmed him a little, but he was still far from comfortable. Borrowing courage from Chester, Al carried the dog back into the bedroom, and set him on the bed as he looked for something to wear. He needed distraction to shake the last ghosts of the dream.

After donning some colorful street clothes and a pair of tennis shoes, Al went into the kitchenette, this time trusting Chester enough to follow him. His legs were trembling and there was a palsy in his hands. He took out the whiskey and poured himself a glass. It warmed him further, but upon contact with the alcohol his stomach snarled. He paused. Had he eaten supper? He couldn't remember.

The clock caught his eye. Two in the morning. Lovely. He had slept for all of ninety minutes—maybe less: he wasn't certain how long he had been in the shower. He wasn't really likely to get any more tonight. It was going to be a long and difficult vigil.

He opened the refrigerator without much hope of finding anything. He hadn't bought groceries for almost two months. There was, of course, nothing. A couple bottles of condiments and the ceramic dish full of baking soda, and that was it. The cupboards held a few spices and an empty pasta jar. With a weary sigh, Al turned away from the disheartening sight. He spent half his life forcing himself to eat, and when he was actually hungry, there was nothing to be had.

He took another glass of whiskey to quiet the hunger pangs, and then looked down at the terrier watching him with eager and adoring eyes. Al knelt and scratched him under the chin. "What do you think, buddy?" he asked. "Should we go for a walk?"

Chester yelped happily. He thought that idea was gangbusters.

Al went to the living room and collected the dog's leash. Chester stood still, his tail whipping wildly, as Al attached it to his collar. He couldn't take the terrier wandering around the Project during the day, but at two in the morning they could wander where they pleased. There was some loose change on the counter, and Al tucked it into his pocket. Maybe he could pick up something to eat after all.

He helped himself to one more nip of whiskey before leaving the suite and locking the door carefully behind him.

Al let Chester lead, keeping a good hold on the leash. He trusted the terrier not to get into things he shouldn't, but tonight he couldn't stand the trauma of seeing the dog run off on him, even if it was only around the corner. Loneliness was eating away at him, and terror lingered on the edge of his consciousness.

It had been a bad one tonight. They were all bad ones, he thought sardonically, but when the Bitch was involved, especially so. It wasn't just American women who were more imaginative than the men.

She was a V.C. soldier—quite a high-ranking one, too. Quon's tall, gaunt and grimly beautiful protégé. She could do things with a whip that Al had never imagined a person could do, and she knew more about anatomy than the internists at Balboa. She was aware of the thousands of ways the human body could be bent and twisted without killing it, and she knew the places where pain would be most appreciated. When she directed an "interrogation", the prisoner lost all control over his body. She knew exactly what to do to cause debasing muscle spasms in areas you hadn't even imagine that you had muscles. She had an uncanny ability for finding the places you least wanted to be touched and harming you there. They were unexpected places, too: the pulpy indentation behind your earlobe, the place where your lowest rib met your spine, and one spot on the back of the skull where the tiniest pressure caused blinding anguish.

She had a way, too, of making you see her vision of your future. There wasn't a session you could have with the Bitch that didn't end with you begging for release—not to escape the present pain, but to avoid the horrors her broken English promised. Horrors beyond your most fevered imaginings. The humiliation of capitulating to something that wasn't even real was worst of all…

Kind of like giving in to a nightmare, Al reflected blackly as he summoned the elevator. It had to stop. Somehow he had to make it stop. The nightly glass of hard liquor wasn't working anymore. Maybe he needed more than a glassful.

He flinched at the thought. He couldn't really afford that. As it was, he was chipping away at his deficit at the stellar rate of fifty-one dollars a month. At the rate he was going, they would be celebrating the centenary of the Vietnam War before he was clear. He couldn't say why this bothered him. He had had mortgages before, and other debt, but this particular one was troublesome.

Everything was troublesome, he thought as he pushed a button at random and knelt to pet Chester. Life was just one never-ending problem.

"Good thing I've got you to count on, buddy," Al murmured, fondling the terrier's head. "You don't think I belong in a rubber room, do you?"

Chester indicated through much ferocious tail-wagging that he didn't. Al grinned.

"Good boy."

The door opened, and they stepped out onto Sub-Level Four. "Hey, good choice!" Al told the dog, as if he was the one who had pressed the button. No official work went on in the chem labs after eight. Sub-Level Six and the synchrotron were always on line, always staffed, but the chemistry staff kept more regular hours. The one exception was Thorgard, who would sometimes pull late-night duty in the main lab, absorbed in some experiment. The more time he spent with the aging scientist, the better Al like him. He was the one head of department who didn't have constant complaints, who wouldn't dig in his heels when you needed something from him. He reminded Al of Doctor Urquhart, his first-year chem prof from M.I.T. Seemed like centuries ago.

The lab was empty tonight, the lights turned down and the biotoxin containment hoods humming in their eternal rhythm. Al closed the door and let Chester off his leash. He pranced off across the room, exploring eagerly. Al watched him for a while, but he was tired and his back was starting to ache, so he settled in the lounge alcove, resting his feet on the coffee table and leaning back against the sofa. The dim glow of the vending machines in the corner didn't hurt his tired eyes, and it felt great just to lie back and relax…

He must have dozed off, because when he sat up Chester was perched on top of him, hind paws in his lap and forepaws on his breast pocket. Al smiled at him. Then his stomach snarled noisily. He laughed and glanced at the clock. Four in the morning. So he had dozed off.

"What do you think?" Al asked Chester. "Bedtime? Going to keep the Bogeyman away again?"

Chester snuffled at his chin fondly. He'd keep the Bogeyman away if he could. If not, at least he'd help chase it off again.

"Thanks," Al said. He ruffled the fur between Chester's ears. "This is pretty crazy, huh?" he asked. "Sitting here at four in the morning, talking to a dog."

Chester licked his hand. He didn't think it was crazy.

"All right. Let's go and try to catch some shut-eye." Al got to his feet with a weary grunt. Chester stood obediently while he put on the leash again. Then his eyes fell on the vending machines, and he dug in his pocket, sifting through the change. He had just enough for a candy bar. His much-belated supper in hand, he left the lab and made his way back towards the elevator.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

It was "lunch" hour for the night shift at Human Resources. Dan Penvenen removed his headset. It had been a slow night. In fact, the whole month had been dull. Calavicci had apparently reformed. Since his divorce he had been keeping regular hours once again. He had even taken up residence at the Project, which made keeping track of his nocturnal activities much easier! Colonel Smythe, Chief of Project Security and a Marine with little use for washed-up Naval pilots, was a Grade-A cooperator. Calavicci always left the premises on Saturday morning and was usually back on Sunday afternoon, implying that he was still indulging in his lecherous tendencies—probably with his luscious Mexican mistress. So far, though, Penvenen had not seen any evidence of drinking on-site. It wasn't strictly prohibited, of course—not outside working hours. Still, it would make things easier.

He opened his bottom drawer. Resting on top of his black book, which was almost full and would soon spill into another volume, was the biography that Congressman Davies had sent him in the spring. It was a very… illuminating text. Dan wasn't one to believe everything he saw in print, but he had a close friend who had spent time with Margaret Dawson ten years ago, when the war was at its height and she was trying (unsuccessfully) to carve out a name for herself in her first career. She was a promiscuous woman with a strong instinct for a story, but she wasn't a sensationalist. This particular volume was probably as accurate a portrayal of Calavicci's background as he was likely to get.

He had read it four times already, and this time was marking passages of import. If Davies was correct in his suspicion about Calavicci's mental state, these passages might come in handy…

Tonight, though, Dan couldn't seem to focus. The words seemed to swim before his eyes, and some of the more graphic passages were uncommonly nauseating. Dan liked to think of himself as a man with a strong stomach, and knowing who had been subjected to these atrocities made it easier to stand, but for some reason it was difficult to maintain perspective this evening.

With a small sigh of frustration he set aside The Men Left Behind, and left the office, informing his coworker where he was going.

The residential wing was very quiet. Even the night owls who could sit up poring over theorems until all hours were abed. Dan made his way to his quarters—one hundred and seven square feet of painstakingly organized space, each inch utilized in the most efficient manner possible. In the corner housing the sink, stove and refrigerator, he fixed himself a nice sensible turkey sandwich, which he washed down with a pint of apple juice. After eating several carrot sticks and a stalk of celery, Dan then indulged in a small pleasure: seven semisweet chocolate chips and a marshmallow. Having taken sufficient sustenance to suffice until morning, he went into the closet-sized bathroom and shaved off the five hours' growth on his jaw. He placed a quick call on the outside line that no one on the Project was aware that he had. Then he was ready to head back upstairs and give the book another try.

As he approached the elevator, it opened. Dan had to fight back a grin of glee. Calavicci! Wearing a hideous green outfit and leading, on a leash, a dog. Dan had to look twice to make absolutely certain that he was seeing what he seemed to be. Yes, it was definitely a dog. A small, furry mammal… and one with sharper eyes than its owner. It saw him and yipped in greeting.

Calavicci looked around in confusion, his bloodshot and shadowed eyes stupid with liquor and lack of sleep. Even at this distance he reeked of whiskey, Ivory soap and peanuts. His eyes fell on Dan, who fabricated a pleasant smile.

"Good morning, Captain!" he said sunnily.

Calavicci frowned. "Morning?" he asked. "What time is it?"

"Twenty-two minutes after four," Dan offered, not even looking at his watch. "What are you doing out so early?"

"Taking a walk… you?"

"This is my dinner break."

"Oh. Right. Night core… everything quiet?"

"It was," Dan said, daring a glace of distaste at the dog. "Who is this?"

"Who?" The drunken man looked around in confusion. Penvenen pointed condescendingly. "Oh! That's Chester."

"How delightful. Is it a specimen from the labs?"

Fury flashed through the captain's eyes. "No! He's my dog!"

"Oh. My mistake." Dan forced himself to bend and pet the animal's head. "Pleased to meet you, Chester." He straightened before the hideous creature could attack him with that overfriendly tongue it was brandishing.

Calavicci smiled as proudly as a new father showing off his offspring. "He's a good boy," he announced.

"Indeed." Dan took a step towards the lifts, then paused. "I wasn't aware that pets were allowed on the premises," he commented innocuously.

"Yeah, well, they probably aren't," Calavicci said, shrugging as if he didn't give a damn about the regulations. "Why?"

"No reason at all," Dan said pleasantly. Then he stepped into the elevator and left the inebriated Administrator behind. He wouldn't be reading tonight. At least, he wouldn't be reading The Men Left Behind. He had some quality time to spend with the Project rules and regulations.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWM

Whenever the sound of the outside line rang out from the Administrator's office, Eulalie did her best to listen. It was not a very common event, and there was always the chance that it was Washington, passing on some earth-shattering decision.

Today, she didn't need to strain to hear the captain's half of the conversation.

"She WHAT?" he roared. "She can't do that! He's mine!"

There was a pause.

"No! No, he was mine before we were even married—God damn it, before I met the woman! She can't—I don't CARE about Arizona civil law, you pencil-pushing nozzle, she can't take him! I'm not going to let her take him!" A stunned silence was followed by an enraged roar. "Of course I'm fighting it! How stupid are you?"

Then there was a loud, hollow bang, and another silence. After a moment, she could swear she heard something that sounded like crying or hyperventilating.

Eulalie got cautiously to her feet. She worried about Captain Calavicci. He always seemed tired and strained. He only ate about half his meals in the downstairs mess, which made it impossible to keep track of how much he was eating, but he seemed so sallow and thin recently. And of course, everyone knew about the divorce. It was sad that such a great guy was having such a rotten time.

There was silence behind his door now. Wanting to make sure he was okay, Eulalie opened his door.

"Captain, is everything—" She stopped mid-sentence. He was in the midst of taking a long quaff from a silver hip flask. She flushed. "I'm… I'm sorry…" she said softly.

He hid the flask hastily under his desk and looked at her, smiling his lovable smile. "It's okay, Eulie," he said cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"N-nothing…" she stammered. "I just wondered… is everything all right?"

"Perfect, gorgeous," he said with a radiant grin. "Couldn't be better!"

"I… I'm glad…" she faltered.

"Sure, me too! Who wouldn't be glad with such a beautiful secretary?" Captain Calavicci said.

Eulalie flushed a little. No matter what, he could always make you feel like a movie star. "I'll let you get back to work," she said, pulling the door closed. As she did so, she swore she could see a flicker of something silver.

She turned back to her desk, more worried than ever. If only there was somebody she could confide in…

Then she remembered. That nice young man from Human Resources. He had been concerned about the captain, hadn't he? Knowing he was on night duty, she dialed his quarters directly. It only took two rings for him to pick up.

"Penvenen here," he said crisply.

"Hello. It's Eulalie Pharris, Captain Calavicci's secretary. I wondered, have you noticed anything odd going on with the captain lately?"

"What do you mean?" the man asked kindly.

Eulalie told him. "I'm sorry to bother you. It seems silly now," she said. "I just… needed to talk. I'm worried about him."

"You did exactly the right thing," Penvenen told her firmly. "I'm worried about him, too."

Eulalie smiled in relief. Captain Calavicci had more than one person looking out for him, then. "Thank you," she said earnestly.

There was a strangely satisfied note to Penvenen's voice as he said, "You're most welcome, ma'am."

Just as she hung up, the door to the office opened, and the Project Administrator came out, stumbling a little on the stripping joining the two different carpets. Eulalie looked at him. He had aged five years in as many minutes.

"Eulie, I've had a call from my lawyer," he said flatly. "There are some things I need to work out. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my quarters."

She watched him go, and then went back to work as if nothing had happened. After all, worrying about him was one thing, but life had to go on regardless.