Joanne pushed open the door to John Marston Moore's room and walked to the side of his bed, using her flashlight.
"Pill time," she said. "Shield your eyes, I'm going to turn the light on."
"I'm not asleep. Turn it on." She turned the bedside table lamp on. He pushed himself up against the headboard.
"Trouble sleeping?" she asked.
She dumped two Atabrine pills from the bottle, handed them to him, and then handed him a glass of water.
"Yeah," he said after he swallowed the Atabrine.
She sat down on the bed, stuck a thermometer in his mouth, and started to take his pulse.
He smelled of soap. She remembered hearing the sound of running water half an hour after Barbara finished her shower and climbed in bed. She almost got up then to make sure he didn't fall down and hurt himself. But it occurred to her that he had been managing showers by himself with no trouble before Joanne Miller, RN, started taking a professional interest in his physical welfare. She realized he didn't need her help now.
That kept her from making a fool of herself. She did not get out of bed. She lay there, with a clear image of him in the shower. The scars on his leg. His legs. His chest. His rear end.
What he had to tuck in his pants just before she slapped him for looking down her robe at her breasts. As a nurse, that word-for what he stuck inside his pants-meant nothing much to her. As a nurse, she used it easily, professionally. But now was something else...
`What's the matter?" she asked. "Why can't you sleep?"
"You are," he mumbled around the thermometer.
"Ssssh," she said. She wondered if her face was really flushed, or whether it just felt that way.
There was nothing wrong with his heartbeat. And when she took the thermometer from his mouth, she saw that his temperature was only slightly elevated.
"Your temperature has dropped," she said.
"That's surprising," he said.
She gave him a professional smile and then looked at his eyes to see if the pupils were dilated.
That was a mistake. I didn't assess the diameter of his pupils. I fell in.
"I'd like to apologize for... before. I shouldn't have slapped you."
His hand is on my cheek. Why don't I push it away? Or get up?
"Jesus, you're beautiful!"
"You shouldn't be doing that," Joanne said. "I shouldn't let you do that."
"Look at me again," he said.
"No!"
"Look at me again!"
I knew if I did that, this would happen! Joanne thought as she felt his hands on her back, pulling her to him.
She felt her heart jump when their lips touched. And she felt a weakness in her middle. And she barely had the strength to push away from him.
"This is absolutely insane!"
"Yeah, isn't it?"
His lips were now on her neck.
"We have to stop!"
"Why?"
He's pushing my robe open!
"Barbara! She'll hear us."
He touched her nipple with his tongue, and then looked up at her and smiled.
"She's probably asleep," John said.
Oh, God, I hope she is, Joanne thought as she reached down and pushed John's head back where it had been.
[Four]
FERDINAND SIX
BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS
1 OCTOBER 1942
It's either hotter than usual, Sergeant Steve Koffler thought, or Ian Bruce is getting sick or something, because he's really wheezing as he pumps the pedals of the generator.
FRD6. KCY. FRD6. KCY AK. KCY CLR.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is the United States Pacific Fleet Radio. Receipt of your transmission is acknowledged. Our exchange of messages is concluded.
Steve did not follow the prescribed procedure, which was to tap out FRD6 CLR before shutting down. It was a waste of goddamned time, and Ian Bruce looked worn out.
He reached for the ON/OFF switch and then stopped.
FRD6, FRD1. FRD6,FRD1. SB CODE.
Detachment A of Special Marine Corps Detachment 14, this is Coastwatcher Radio. Stand by to receive an encoded message.
What the fuck do they want?