Murder in the Navy

Twelve

It was early morning at N.O.B., Norfolk, Virginia.

The mist that had clung to the front lawns of the base, spreading down from the barracks to the wide, winding concrete streets, had risen slowly, like a specter being called back to the grave at dawn, leaving the brick and the concrete drenched with a wintry sunlight. The men on the base lined up for chow, or made their sacks, or brushed their teeth. The four-to-eight watch relieved, and on the ships tied up alongside the docks or moored in the bay the men lined up for muster.

In the hospital, a pharmacist’s mate named Greg Barter brought breakfast to the man in 107. He wheeled the food in on a cart, and he put the glass of orange juice, the steaming bowl of cereal, the soft-boiled eggs, the slices of toast, the glass of milk onto a tray methodically and then shifted the tray to his patient’s lap.

“Good morning, sir,” he said cheerily, imitating the manner and friendliness of a hotel bellhop. “Is everything all right this morning, sir?”

“Everything’s fine, thank you.”

“Fever coming along nicely?” Greg asked.

“Very nicely, thank you.”

“Does that mean it’s going down, or steady as she goes?”

He looked at Greg warily. There was something about this bastard, something that needed watching. It was just his luck to have a character like this one rung in on him. Greg’s eyebrows were raised in mild anticipation now, his face smug and wisely apprehensive.

“Steady as she goes, sir?” Greg asked.

“I think it’s going down some,” he answered.

“Ah, good, good. Nothing I like better than to see a man getting well. That’s our job, you know. That’s what all we poor hospital lackeys get paid for, isn’t it? We’re essentially pan handlers, but we like to see our dear little patients get on their feet again. Humanitarians, we are.”

“I’ll bet,” he said.

“Ah, but we are,” Greg answered. “Say, mate, would you like to hear an occupational joke? Sort of brighten up your morning, eh, speed you on the way to recovery?”

“If you like.” He drank the orange juice and looked over at Greg.

“Where’d you go through boots?” Greg asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“You don’t like answering questions, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, no matter,” Greg said. “I went to Great Lakes. You familiar with Section Eight?”

“Yes.”

“The nut-house unit, you know? Where they keep the psychos. Well, this story takes place in Section Eight. You listening?”

“I’m listening.” He put some salt on his eggs and picked up a spoon.

“Want to eat that cereal, mate,” Greg said kindly. “Give you your strength back.”

“My eggs’ll get cold.”

“Sure, but eat your cereal, anyway.”

He shrugged and picked up a tablespoon instead, digging into the cereal.

“Good, ain’t it?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, this story. It’s really a sort of a riddle. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“This pharmacist’s mate,” Greg said, “is making the rounds in Section Eight, carrying the pan around, you see.”

“Yeah?”

“So, what did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”

“I don’t know. What did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”

“Wanna peanut?”

“Huh?”

“Wanna peanut? Don’t you get it? He’s carrying around the pan, you see, and—”

“I get it,” he said.

Greg shrugged. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

“Listen, don’t you have any other stops to make?”

“You’re my last stop, Lover. Ain’t you glad?”

“I’m tickled.”

“You ever get a breakfast like that on your ship?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Nah, not like this one. There’s nothing like hospital duty, is there, mate?”

“My ship’s a good one,” he said.

“Which ship is that?” Greg asked.

He hesitated. “The Sykes,” he said at last.

“The Sykes. What’s that, a DE?”

“A DD.”

“Oh, a D... The Sykes, did you say?” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “You off the Sykes, huh?”

“Yeah. What’s the matter with that?”

“Nothing.” Greg paused, thinking. “You boys had a lot of trouble there recently, didn’t you?”

“No trouble at all,” he answered.

“I’m talking about Miss Cole,” Greg said, his eyes squinched up tightly now.

“Oh, yeah. That.” He shoved his cereal bowl aside and started on his eggs.

“FBI and everything, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What was this guy’s name who did it?”

“Schaefer.” he answered, his eyes on the egg.

“Schaefer. Sounds familiar. He ever pull duty here?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeoman, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmmm.”

“What’s wrong with being a yeoman? Listen, ain’t you got anyplace else to go? What’s this? The local hangout?”

“I think I remember Schaefer. Yeah, I think so,” Greg said. “He was here about when you were, wasn’t he?”

“Who said I was here?”

“I said. I checked your records.”

“What for?”

“I like to know my patients.”

“Since when did you become a medic?”

“What are you getting riled about, mate?” Greg asked, his eyes studious and alert now.

“Who’s getting riled? I just like to eat my breakfast without having to listen to a lot of crap.”

“Did you know Miss Cole?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Nice girl. You’da liked her, mate. The hot-pantsed type, but a nice girl.”

“Too bad I didn’t know her,” he said warily.

“Yeah, too bad,” Greg answered. “And you’ll never get to know her now, will you? I mean, Schaefer killing her like that. Too bad.”

“You gonna read a mass, or what?”

“What’s the matter, mate?” Greg asked sweetly. “Don’t you like me?”

“Not particularly,” he answered. “Why the hell don’t you shove off?”

“Sure.” Greg said, and then his voice turned hard. “You’d better start looking sick again, pal. The doc’ll be around any minute.”

He turned his back and walked out of the room.

She came into 107 like a burst of sunlight. He had been waiting for her all afternoon, and now that she was here, he was truly excited. She was a damn good-looking girl, with good legs, better maybe than Claire’s, and a nice innocent face that made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. She looked vulnerable, vulnerable as hell, and she was swallowing his line, he could see that. She didn’t wear much lipstick, and her lips were ripe and perfectly formed, and he wanted to kiss those lips until they were bruised and red.

“Hi,” she said from the doorway. “How’s the sick man today?”

“Better, now that you’re here.”

“You’re a fresh one,” she said.

“Can I help it? A man comes in with plain old cat fever, and you cure that, but you give him a worse disease.”

“Really? And what malicious ailment have you contracted here?”

“Heart disease,” he said, his eyes serious.

“That’s quite normal,” Jean said lightly. “Every man falls in love with his nurse.”

“And his nurse?”

“His nurse is here to take his temperature right now.”

She shook down the thermometer, and he said, “The other side of the bed, Jean.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled.

“I like it better that way. I’m superstitious.”

Jean shrugged. “All right,” she said, sighing. “If you say so.”

She walked around to the other side of the bed, so that the window was behind her, so that the sunlight streamed through the crisply starched uniform and the sheer slip beneath it, outlining her legs. He watched her legs, pleased with the way he had maneuvered her so that she was in silhouette, pleased with her vulnerability and her naive innocence, thinking this one was going to be like falling off Pier Eight.

“Open,” she said.

“You’re pretty, Jean.”

“Now stop that.”

“You’re lovely.”

“Stop, I said.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re too talkative. Here.” She rammed the thermometer into his mouth.

“Y’ve n’right abbe s’pretty,” he said around the thermometer.

“Don’t talk with the thermometer in your mouth,” she warned, looking at her watch.

He took the thermometer out of his mouth for a moment. “You’ve no right to be so pretty,” he repeated.

“Oh, now hush. And put that back in your mouth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting.

Jean giggled and turned away from him, walking to the window. He watched the lithe slender lines of her body. He could see the harsh elastic of her brassiere where it bit into the flesh of her back beneath the whitely transparent top of her uniform. This is better than a match, he thought. This is a damn fine way to raise a temperature. I wonder what she looks like in civvies. I wonder what she looks like in her underwear. Christ, she must look beautiful!

She turned from the window, the smile still on her face. “All right,” she said, “let’s see how you’re doing.” She took the thermometer from his mouth and studied it. “Mmmm,” she said.

“Am I dying?”

“No.”

“Why don’t people ever tell you your temperature? Doctors and nurses always make such a big mystery out of a thermometer reading.”

“You’re normal,” she said.

“That’s good,” he answered. He paused. “But maybe it isn’t, either.”

“Why not? I should think you’d want to get out of here.”

“I do, but...” He shook his head.

“What’s the matter?”

“Jean, when I leave... I won’t see you again, will I?”

“You’re impossible, do you know that?”

“I’m serious now, Jean. I’d like to stay here forever. I’d like to be here with you forever.”

She tried to laugh it off. “Well, I’m afraid that’s a little impractical.”

“I can think of something that isn’t,” he said rapidly.

“Can you? Well, well.”

“Or... or don’t you want to?”

“I want to take your pulse now, if that’s what you’re talking about,” she said professionally. She took his wrist and looked at her watch.

“My heart’s going like sixty,” he said.

“It’s not too bad.”

“Jean, could you — do you think it’s possible?”

“Do I think what’s possible?”

“Seeing me? After I’m released from the hospital?”

She didn’t answer him.

“Jean?”

“Shhh. I’m counting!”

“The hell with that,” he said, pulling his wrist away and then catching her hand with his. “Answer me, Jean!”

He was holding her hand very tightly, and there was something electric about his grip. She thought of Chuck fleetingly, and the old debate rose in her mind again. Was she flinging herself at Chuck’s head? Surely he was in New Jersey by now! Why hadn’t he called? Or written?

“I... I think you’d better let me go,” she said softly.

“No! Will you see me when I’m released, Jean?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“When will you know?”

“Please, someone may walk in.”

“The hell with everybody, Jean! The hell with everybody but us! Just the two of us, honey, that’s all, that’s all that counts.”

“Please let me go.”

“Not until you answer.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you’ll go out with me.”

“I have to think. Please...”

“Or is it the bar?” he asked.

There was no bitterness in his voice. There was, instead, an overwhelming sadness that instantly aroused her sympathy and her rage at the same time.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped.

“It’s against Navy Regs, you know.”

“I know that. That has nothing to do with it.”

“No?”

“No, nothing whatever.”

He was close to home now. He sensed it instinctively, the way a fighter will sense the moment for the kill.

“You could get into trouble.” He paused. “If we’re not careful. Aren’t you afraid of trouble?”

“Nursing—” She paused. “Nursing means a great deal to me.”

He saw that she meant it, and he was frightened for a moment, afraid he had taken the wrong tack, afraid the whole thing would blow up in his face now.

“Of course,” he said slowly, carefully, “no one would ever have to know, would they?”

“I... I suppose not.”

He put her hand to his mouth suddenly, kissing the palm, kissing her wrist. His lips were moist and feverish. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it tightly, pressing it to his cheek now.

“Say you’ll come with me, Jean. Please, please. Can’t you see how I feel about you? Doesn’t it show? Jesus, can’t you see I’d go nuts if I didn’t see you again?”

“No, no, don’t say that. Please, you mustn’t. You don’t know. We... we’ve hardly met. We just...”

“Jean?”

“What? Oh, please let my hand go, won’t you?”

“You’ll go out with me?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Please, I have to think it out.”

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and then he dropped her hand suddenly, and the hand felt curiously cold now that he’d released it. She brought the hand to her throat, avoiding his eyes. She could not deny that he had aroused something within her. She was confused and embarrassed by her own thoughts, and so she avoided his eyes and started for the door.

“Come back,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

She hesitated and then looked back into the room. He was sitting up in bed, a sad smile on his face, looking pathetically weak. She wanted to hold him in her arms for a moment, wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know, she didn’t know. She bit her lip.

“I will,” she said. “I will be back.”

“Understand you’re about ready to get out of bed,” Greg said.

“So they tell me,” he answered.

“Well, good. I guess you’re pretty damned anxious to get back to the Sykes. Must be an exciting ship, a destroyer.”

“Stop snowing me, Greg. There isn’t an exciting ship in the whole damn fleet.”

“No?” Greg said, eying him carefully. He didn’t like the way this was going. He could always get a rise out of 107, and today he wasn’t doing so hot. The bastard looked too complacent today. That annoyed Greg. He liked needling this sonofabitch, he enjoyed it immensely. “Why, the Sykes seems to be a real exciting vessel, from where I sit. It ain’t every ship in the fleet that gets a dead nurse.” Greg watched. The bastard’s eyes had flicked just a little bit. He didn’t like talking about the ship or the nurse, especially the nurse. Well, if he didn’t like it, that was just what Greg wanted.

Deftly, expertly, outraged by the idea of this malingering sonofabitch in 107, Greg applied the needle.

“They found her in the radar shack, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You see her there?”

“No. How the hell would I get to see her?”

“I thought maybe you did.”

“Say, what the hell’s the matter? Were you in love with that broad or something?”

“Me?” Greg asked. “Hell, no. I’m just inquisitive.”

“Well, go ask questions someplace else, will you? I’m gonna report you to the doc, you don’t watch out.”

“Oh, can it, pal!” Greg snapped. “You ain’t reporting nobody to nobody.”

“No, huh?”

“No! Don’t you like talking about that dead nurse?”

“No, I don’t I don’t like talking about anybody who’s dead.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a sickly type yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m a sickly type. And I’m sick of your crap, too, if you want to know something!”

“Now, what the hell are you getting excited about? Just because I happen to mention Miss Cole, and just because you had a sweet tooth for her last time you were—”

“Shut up! I didn’t have a sweet tooth for nobody!”

That one had really got a rise, all right. He had damn near jumped out of the bed at that one. Greg’s eyes narrowed. Carefully he pressed his advantage.

“You got to admit she was a nice-looking doll,” he said sweetly.

“I never even saw her.”

“But you were on her ward, pal. Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t remember anything about Claire Cole.”

“Oh, you know her first name?”

“Of course I know her first name! What the hell’s so unusual about that? Everybody on the Sykes knows her name. Damnit, she was killed on our ship!”

“Sure, I know that.”

“O.K. O.K., if you know it, knock off. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Aw, now ain’t that too bad? I didn’t think talking about Miss Cole would give you a headache. Aw, now I’m real sorry, mate.”

“It’s not talking about her that’s giving me a headache. It’s just talking.”

“She was a nice girl. Shame that Schaefer bastard killed her, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You think he was getting some of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“It ain’t impossible, you know. She was a hot number, Miss Cole. The way I get it, she was spreading it around everywhere. She was—”

“What do I care what Claire was—” He stopped short.

The room was suddenly silent. Greg watched and waited.

“—what Claire Cole was doing in her spare time? It’s none of my business.”

“No,” Greg said, “of course not.”

“So lay off.”

“Sure. I just hate to see anybody knocking off the goose that laid, you follow? Hell, she might have enlarged her sphere of operations. Might have let some of us poor slobs in on it, hey chum? Wouldn’t you have liked a little of that, chum?”

“I don’t even know what she looked like!”

“A nice-looking piece like Miss Cole? How could you have missed her?”

“I don’t know what she looked like,” he insisted.

“Mmm,” Greg said, “then you sure missed something. She was a looker, mate, something to write home to Mother about.”

“So why the hell don’t you write home?”

Greg watched. Something was happening. The bastard was beginning to clam up. Something had clammed him up, and Greg was sure he wouldn’t get another rise out of him, not today he wouldn’t He tried anyway.

“Schaefer ever tell you what she was like?”

“No.”

“No kiss-and-tell stuff, huh?”

“I never asked.”

“I’d think you’d be interested.”

“Schaefer’s business was Schaefer’s business.”

“Sure. Even though you were sweet on her, huh?”

“You said it pal, not me.”

“Yeah, but we both know it’s the truth, don’t we?”

“I only know what I read in the base newspaper.”

“Did you read about how they found her? The bruises on her throat, skirt hiked all the way up? Did you read that mate?”

“Yes, I read it.”

“Must have been interesting.”

“Very.”

Greg rose. “I’ll be seeing you, mate.” He paused at the door. “A damn shame Schaefer knocked off your sweetie, ain’t it?”

“Blow it out your ass,” he replied, and then he rolled over and pulled the blanket to his neck.

She had avoided his room because she was unsure of her own feelings, and she wanted time to think. There was something very charming about him, something very young and appealing, even though she knew he was undoubtedly older than she was. But there was this — this almost pristine frankness of youth about him, and she enjoyed his frankness, and she also enjoyed his... well, yes, his adoration.

He was very different from Chuck, different in a sure, brash way, but at the same time the brashness wasn’t annoying. Somehow, it wasn’t annoying because she felt he wasn’t being fresh just for the sake of being a wise guy; he was being fresh because he spoke his mind, and you could hardly classify that as freshness at all.

He was, too, a little frightening. Oh, not really frightening, but very masculine, she supposed that’s what it was, yes, masculine. You could almost smell maleness on him, you could see it in his eyes, see it in the almost cruel — and yet boyish — curve of his mouth. And this maleness frightened her, but it also aroused her until she had difficulty remembering that Chuck was also a male, and that Chuck had also aroused her. Why the devil didn’t he call or write or something?

This is all happening to me too late, that’s the trouble, she thought. I’m a novice at the game, and all because I began playing it when most other girls were already expert at it

And there was, of course, the bar to think of. Not that the title of ensign itself meant anything. No, that didn’t really matter a damn, did it? It was what the bar stood for, the idea of nursing, the ideal of nursing, and she didn’t want all that to get washed out to sea simply because an enlisted man was giving her a rush. And yet... they could wear civvies, and who would know? And what harm was there, actually, in seeing a movie together, or having dinner together, both in civvies? How could anyone possibly know, and what harm was there? No harm, really, unless you were caught.

But how could you get caught?

Oh, lots of ways. They could run into an officer she knew, perhaps, an officer who knew her escort, too, and who knew he was an enlisted man. But the chances of that were remote, especially if they went to a movie, say, outside of Norfolk. They could even get up to Richmond and back, for a movie, or dinner, or whatever, and really there’d be no trouble at all, not if they were careful, and they’d certainly have to be careful.

You simply had to figure whether or not it was worth it. If Chuck would only write or let me know he’s still alive... Well, he probably doesn’t care one way or the other. The good Lieutenant’s simply having himself a gay old time, and yet he seemed sincere, and oh, Chuck, why don’t you hurry up back, can’t you see I’m trying to decide something, and how can I really decide when you’re somewhere in New Jersey, and he’s here, right here, with those eyes of his and that cruel mouth, and those strong hands? Chuck, Chuck, can’t you call? Don’t you want to call me?

She stayed away from Room 107 because she didn’t want the decision forced upon her. And so she was surprised, and so she felt trapped, when she ran into him in the hospital corridor one night, wearing the faded robe and slippers of the ambulatory patient. She ran into him rounding a corner and he caught her in his arms, and then backed her around the corner again, into a little dead-end passageway at the end of which was a gear locker and nothing else.

“Where’ve you been?” he whispered.

“Around the hospital. My... my hours have changed.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jean. If you don’t want to have anything to do with me, say so. But please don’t lie to me.”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to make up my mind. That’s why I–I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Have you made it up yet?”

“No.”

“When, Jean? I’ll be out of here in a few days. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Honey...”

“Please, don’t rush me. Let me think. Can’t you see that I...”

His hands were on her shoulders now, biting into the fabric of her uniform.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Jean, Jean...”

He pulled her close, and she tilted her face involuntarily, and his lips came down on hers, strangely tender for such a cruel mouth. He was gentle and she was swallowed up in the tenderness of his kiss. She moved closer to him, and his arms tightened around her, and she returned the kiss, enjoying the tight circle of his arms, enjoying the strange gentleness of his mouth. She broke the kiss then, and his lips trailed over her jaw. She buried her head in his shoulder, still clinging to him, feeling a little weak now, a little dizzy from his kiss, and the tightness of his arms, the closeness of his body.

“You will, Jean?”

“Yes,” she said. “I will.”

“You want to?”

“I want to.” She was still weak. She clung to him desperately, urging her senses to return.

“Friday,” he said. “I’ll be out by then. Well go to a movie in Newport News. All right?”

“Yes.” She pulled away from him. “You must let me go now. Someone might come.”

“Eight o’clock, Jean,” he said. “In civvies. You know the movie house there, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Eight o’clock Friday night. Jean, I—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”

“All right. Later.”

“Yes, later. Now please go.”

He kissed her again, briefly, and then he whirled and went off down the corridor. She watched him until he was out of sight, and then she leaned against the wall limply and thought, Friday night, Friday night.

On Thursday afternoon they sat together in the sixth-floor solarium. The glass was in place now, against the onslaught of winter, glass that stretched from floor to ceiling, substituting for the screens that were up in summer. They sat together, the three men, and they looked through the glass and out over the base.

Guibert was the first to rise.

“I’m going down to take a nap. O.K., Greg?”

Greg nodded, saying nothing.

“One thing about a rare disease,” Guibert said, “everybody treats you like a walking test tube. Hell, the whole future of mankind may depend on what they find out about me.”

“You’re priceless,” Greg said. “Go on downstairs and ask one of the nurses to lock you up in the vault. We wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“Greg’s a card, all right,” Guibert said. “Well, I’m going down.” He paused. “Tennis, anyone?”

No one answered. Guibert shrugged and walked away.

He watched Guibert walk past Greg and then out into the corridor. In a little while, he heard the whine of the elevator, and then the doors rasping open and slamming shut, and then the whine again. He turned to Greg.

“You must be happy,” he said.

“Yeah? Why?” Greg answered.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“We’re gonna miss you, pal. It ain’t often we get a professional goof-off like you around here.”

He smiled. He could afford the luxury of a smile now. Now even Greg couldn’t get under his skin. Everything was all set with Jean now. Tomorrow night, after that — hell, it would be simple.

“What’re you grinning about?” Greg asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“I didn’t think you’d be so happy about leaving. I notice you been real palsy-walsy with Miss Dvorak,” Greg paused. “You ain’t stepped out of line with her, have you?”

“Me?” he asked, feigning incredulity. “Hell, Greg, I know my place. Miss Dvorak’s an officer.”

“So was Claire Cole,” Greg snapped.

“Well, I didn’t know Claire Cole. But even if I did, I’d have respected those j.g. stripes.”

“You knew her well enough to figure that, huh?”

“What?”

“That she was a j.g.?”

“Everybody on the Sykes knew that.”

“Sure. Including Schaefer.”

“Including Schaefer.”

“He seemed like a nice kid, Schaefer. Not the kind you figure to be messing around with a broad. Not the kind who kills.”

“No?”

“No.” Greg paused. “You look more like the kind who kills to me.”

“What do you mean by that?” He was sitting upright in his chair now, staring across at Greg. Greg’s eyes had narrowed, and he looked into those eyes and realized he had responded too nervously. He would have to be careful.

“Yeah,” Greg said slowly, as if an idea were forming in his mind. “Yeah, you look just like the kind who would kill.”

“What the hell do you know about killers?” he asked calmly, watching Greg very carefully now, not liking the crafty look on the pharmacist’s mate’s face.

“Nothing. Only what I can smell. You smell like a killer to me. Yeah, you know that? You smell like a killer. You must be a real bastard in a fist fight.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Yeah, and better with women, I suppose.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Must be easy to slam a dame around, huh?”

“I never hit a woman in my life.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Who hit Claire Cole?”

“Schaefer did.”

“Yeah? Is that what it said in the base newspaper?”

“Yes, that’s what it said.”

“But we know different, huh?”

He was alert now, every sense alert. He stared at Greg and wondered if the pharmacist’s mate were bluffing, how could he know, how could he possibly...

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Claire and me used to talk together a lot,” Greg said, the crafty look gleaming brightly in his eyes now.

“Yeah? Wh... what about?”

“Lots of things. Life. Liberty.” Greg paused. “Men.”

“What would she want to talk to you for, you crud?”

“I’m sympathetic. She told me all about Schaefer.”

“Yeah?” He felt relieved. Greg knew nothing.

“And you!” Greg said suddenly.

“Me?” He snorted. “Hah, that’s a laugh.”

“How you were crazy about her,” Greg said, his eyes narrowed, standing now, moving closer to the chair, his back to the huge glass area around the solarium.

“You’re nuts.”

“Real crazy about her. How you and her had a real ball here at the hospital, right under Schaefer’s nose.”

“Get out of here, will you? You’re dreaming. You never talked to her.”

“I did. Oh, yes, mate, I did.”

Was Greg telling the truth? He couldn’t be sure. Jesus, had Claire talked to him? But what was all this garbage about Schaefer? No, no, he was bluffing.

“You’re bluffing me,” he said.

“Bluffing about what?” Greg snapped.

“About... about talking to Claire. You never talked to her.”

“Why should I bluff you? What’s there to bluff you about? Why should I want to bluff you into anything?”

“You want me to say I knew Claire. You’re needling me again, that’s all.” He glanced hastily around the solarium. They were alone, and he was thankful for that. No one else was listening to this conversation, no one but the two of them, alone up here.

“You got something to hide?” Greg shouted. “You think I don’t know you knew Claire?”

“I didn’t know her!”

“You’re lying! You knew her here, and you knew her ashore, too!”

“What the hell! You’re — you’re — I didn’t know her!”

“She said you did! She told me so. She said you were real chummy.”

“She was lying, then. I didn’t know her.”

“She said you went to bed together!”

The accusation hung on the silence of the solarium. He sat watching Greg, aware of a thin sheen of sweat on his brow now, wanting to know how much else Greg knew, wanting to know if this were true, uncertain now, thinking maybe, maybe...

“When did she tell you this?”

“Just before she died,” Greg snapped, his eyes blazing. “Just before she went to the Sykes.”

“She... about me? She mentioned me?”

Greg moved forward swiftly, his lips skinned back over his teeth, his eyes bright. “She said she was going to the Sykes to meet you! That’s what she said!”

He leaped out of his chair. “You tell this to anyone?”

Greg backed off a pace, his face suddenly pale. “You... you...” He was fighting for ideas now, and fighting for breath. “Why, you... This is all true, ain’t it?” Greg’s eyes were wide in astonishment now, and something else. Fear. He was backing away quickly, as if he expected an attack. “I–I was just making it up, trying to get a ri... But it’s true! Holy Jesus, you killed her, didn’t you? Holy Jesus, you killed Claire Cole!”

He shoved out at Greg, and Greg stumbled backward a pace, and then he shoved again, harder this time, and Greg floundered for balance, losing his footing, going back, back. He closed in on Greg, and this time he shoved with all the weight of his shoulder and arms behind the push. He saw Greg lunge backward, and then he heard the crash as Greg’s body hit the glass. The body clung there for a moment, and then the glass shattered and the body rushed out to meet the cold winter air, eyes wide, hands clawing at nothing.

He rushed out of the solarium, hearing footsteps down the corridor, ducking around a corner where he was unseen.

When Greg hit the pavement, six stories below, his eyes were still wide in astonishment, and disbelief, and his skull cracked open with an angry splash that blotted everything out of his mind and his body.