"Uh-huh."

"I just happened to come across your article in Island World on the nuclear testing in the Marshalls."

"That was a long time ago."

Unsure if he meant the disaster or the magazine piece, I pressed on. "I thought it was very interesting and extremely well done."

"Are you writing about Bikini, too?"

"I'm thinking about it, if I can get a fresh slant."

"I tried to sell that article to some mainland magazines, but no one was interested."

"Really?"

"People don't want to know, and those that do know want to forget."

"Easier on the conscience."

"You bet." His voice had hardened.

"I think some of the most powerful scenes were your descriptions of the compensation process. Those nighttime boat rides."

"Yes, that was tough. Sneaking around."

"Were you and the six other men the entire compensation staff?"

"There were bosses who ordered it from behind a desk, but we did all the actual paying."

"Do you remember the bosses' names?"

"Admiral Haupt, Captain Ravenswood. Above them were people from Washington, I guess."

"Are you still in touch with the other men on the team? If it would be possible for me to talk to them…"

"I'm not in touch but I know where they are. George Avuelas died a few years ago. Cancer, but I can't say for sure if it was related. The others are gone, too, except Bob Taratoa, and he lives in Seattle, has a boy there. But he had a stroke last year, so I'm not sure how much he could tell you."

"So there's no one else still in the Marianas?"

"Nope, just me. Where'd you say you were from?"

"Aruk."

"What is that, one of those small islands up north a bit from here?"

"That's it."

"Anything to do there?"

"Sun and write."

"Well, good luck."

"There's a doctor who lives here named Moreland, says he was in the Navy when the tests went off. Says he treated some of the people who'd been exposed."

"Moreland?"

"Woodrow Wilson Moreland."

"Don't know him, but there were lots of doctors, some of them pretty good. But they couldn't do anything for the people even if they wanted to. Those bombs poisoned the air and the water, radioactivity got into the soil. No matter what they say, I'm convinced they'll never get the stuff out."

As I left the post, I saw Jacqui Laurent and Dennis standing in front of the Chop Suey Palace. The mother was talking and the son was listening.

Scolding him. Being subtle about it- no hand gestures or raised voice- but her eyes flashed and the displeasure on her face was evident.

Dennis stood there and took it, his giant frame slightly bowed. She looked so young a casual observer might have thought it a lovers' spat.

She folded her hands over her chest and waited.

Dennis scuffed the ground. Nodded.

Similar look to the one Pam had worn after Moreland had reprimanded her.

Same issue?

Lord of the manor dropping in on one of his tenants this morning? Letting her know his displeasure about Dennis and Pam?

Dennis looked from side to side, saw me, and said something. Jacqui put a hand around his thick forearm and propelled him quickly inside.

Back at the estate, I sat through a lunch of broiled halibut and fresh vegetables, walked Robin and Spike down to the orchard, and headed for my office.

Moreland had left another folded card on my desk.

Alex:

Cannot locate catwoman file.

Spirits overwrought

Were making night do penance for a day

Spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

Wordsworth

A fitting quote for that case, don't you think?

Bill

I sat at my desk. Night do penance… strenuous idleness.

The philandering husband?

Always riddles.

As if he were playing with me.

Why had he lied to me about the payoff?

Time to talk.

The door to his office was unlocked, but he wasn't in there, and the lab door was closed. I went over to knock and, passing his desk, noticed the reprints of my journal articles fanned like playing cards. Next to some newspaper clippings.

Clippings about me.

My involvement in a mass child-abuse case years ago.

My consultation to a grade school terrorized by a sniper.

Accounts of court testimony in several murder cases.

My name highlighted in yellow.

Milo's, too.

I remembered the message he'd written about Milo's call: Detective Sturgis. Off the job Milo generally didn't identify himself by title.

Researching him, too?

Thick pile of clippings. On the bottom, a homicide trial. My testimony for the prosecution, debunking the phony insanity plea of a man who'd savaged a dozen women.

Moreland's notation in the margin: Perfect!

So I'd been selected for something other than "a fine combination of scholarliness and commonsense thinking."

Moreland, definitely worried about the cannibal killer.

Had he lured me here under false premises in order to pick my brain?

Dr. Detective. What did I have to offer?

Did he have reason to believe the murderer was still on Aruk?

A crash from inside the lab made me jump, and my hand brushed the clippings to the floor. I picked them up quickly and ran to the inner door.

Locked.

I knocked hard.

A groan from inside.

"Bill?"

Another groan.

"It's Alex. Are you all right?"

A few seconds later, the knob turned and Moreland stood there rubbing his forehead with one hand. The other was palm down, dripping blood. He looked stunned.

"Fell asleep," he said. Behind him, on the lab table, were brightly colored boxes, plastic cartons. Test tubes on the floor, reduced to jagged glass.

"Your hand, Bill."

He turned his hand palm up. Blood had pooled and was trickling down his wrist and narrowing to a single red line that wiggled the length of his scrawny forearm.

I led him to the sink and washed the wound. Clean gash, not deep enough to require stitching but still oozing steadily.

"Where's your first-aid kit?"

"Underneath." Pointing drowsily to a cabinet.

I applied antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

"Fell asleep," he repeated, shaking his head. The colored boxes contained dehydrated potatoes and wheat pilaf, precooked peas, lentils, rice mix.

"Nutritional research," said Moreland, as if he owed me an explanation.

His attention shifted to the broken glass and he bent.

I reached out to restrain him. "I'll take care of it."

"Working late," he said, weakly. He glanced at the bandaged hand, rubbed his mouth, licked his lips. "Usually I do some of my best work after dark. Got a late start, making sure those locks got installed correctly. I'm still mortified about what happened."

"Forget it."

"I must have left the lid off and the door unlocked. Inexcusable. Must remember to check every detail."

He began massaging his temples very rapidly.

"Headache?"

"Sleep deprivation," he said. "I should know better, at my age… Are you aware that most so-called civilizations are chronically sleep deprived? Before electricity, people lit a candle or two, then went to bed. The sun was their alarm clock; they were tuned to a natural cadence. Nine, ten hours of sleep a day. It's a rare civilized man who gets eight."

"Do the villagers sleep well?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's not much technology on the island. Lousy TV reception, less to keep them up."

"TV," he said, "is multiple-choice rubbish. However, if you miss it, I can arrange something."