She had never considered her body as a weapon before, but she knew now that it was one, a very formidable weapon. He would call this morning, and he would expect a decision, expect to know about Wilmington on Monday. Wilmington, of course, didn’t matter at all. Anywhere would have done just as well. Wilmington was just a town he’d picked, a town he knew, the town Claire had gone to. He’d told her he’d dated a nurse before — but was that nurse Claire? Was he the one who’d killed her?
Perry Daniels and Alfred Jones, or so Chuck had said. Of course, Chuck might have been all wet to begin with, in which case there was nothing to worry about; in which case she certainly didn’t want to go to Wilmington for a day. But supposing Chuck had been right, and supposing that man were the killer — then what? She could go to the Sykes, that’s what she could do. She could speak to the Captain and say, “This man is a killer. I want you to put him in the brig.”
Except that the case was closed, as far as the Captain was concerned. Chuck had made that point very emphatically. The case was closed as far as everyone but Chuck was concerned. Chuck and the real murderer. And now me. Now I’m in it
And I can find out if this is the man or not, she thought. I can find out easily because my body is a weapon. It’s comical how strong a weapon it’s become, but with this man it definitely is a weapon, and I know he would tell me what I want to know — if I use my body as a weapon. But if he is a murderer, and if I find out what I want to know, what then? If he is a murderer, then he’s killed three times already, and what will he do to me when he finds out I’ve tricked him, when he realizes he’s given me his secret? And will he tell me, anyway? Suppose I do go along with him to Wilmington? What happens when we’re alone? Suppose he tells me nothing? Suppose he refuses to talk, suppose he only wants...
Can I scream for help?
Did Claire Cole scream for help?
If he’s a murderer, he’s dangerous, and if I go with him I’m taking a chance, a great risk. And why should I care, really?
He may be a murderer!
Yes, yes, but why does it have to be me? I don’t want to go with him. I don’t want to be alone with him again, not in Wilmington, not anywhere. Even if he isn’t a killer, he frightens me. Oh, why can’t Chuck be here? Chuck darling, why can’t you be here?
“Jean?”
She turned her head toward the door abruptly, surprised by the voice. “Yes?”
“Telephone for you.”
“Oh.” She lay motionless, the dust motes floating around her.
“You going to answer it? I can tell him you’re not around, it you like.”
“No. No, I’ll take the call.” She waited until the other nurse was gone, and then she got out of bed and slipped on a robe and a pair of loafers, belting the robe tightly at her waist. She went to the phone outside in the corridor, biting her lips, wondering what she would say to him. Nervously she picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she said in a small voice.
“Jean? Did I wake you?”
“No. I was... I was up.”
“This is Frank.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I know.”
“Well?”
There was a long silence on the line.
“Are you coming with me?” he asked.
“I...” She hesitated, biting her lip again. Then she said, “All right, Frank. I’m coming with you.”
“Good. Jean, I’ve got a fix in. I can get off the ship in time to catch the eight-fifteen bus on Monday morning. That’s the C and O bus to the Hampton Roads transfer, where we can get a train to Wilmington. Do you know where the terminal is?”
“I’ll find it,” she said.
“Good. If we catch that bus, we can be in Wilmington at three-forty-two. And I don’t have to be back until muster the next morning. O.K.?”
“Yes.”
“Look, we won’t even talk to each other until we’re far away from Norfolk, O.K.? Don’t even look at me when we get on the bus. And wear civvies, don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
“I love you,” he whispered.
She said nothing. She held the phone in a cold hand, waiting for his voice again.
“Jean?”
“Yes?”
“Monday morning, eight-fifteen, the C and O bus. Have you got that?”
“Yes, I’ve got it.”
“You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Fine. I’ve got to hurry back before they miss me.” He paused. “Do you love me?”
She didn’t answer. She hung up gently, hoping he would think she’d hung up during his pause. Then she sat down in the chair beside the phone, her temples throbbing.
She went down to the dock that afternoon, as soon as she was off duty. The weather was turning really cold, and a damp gray sky hung over the water. Her coat was buttoned to the throat, and it whipped about her legs as she strode over the wood plankings. An oil tender was tied up at the dock, but it was the only ship in sight, and her heart lurched into her throat in apprehension. Had the Sykes left?
She stared out over the water, trying to distinguish the ships in the harbor. Maybe the Sykes was out for a short run.
When the voice sounded behind her, she wheeled in panic,
“Can I help you, miss?”
He was a young boy, the collar of his pea coat turned up high, the guard belt slung low on his waist. He carried a billy, and his face was raw and red from the wind that blew in over the water.
“I... I’m looking for a ship. The Sykes. A destroyer,” she said.
The boy smiled. “Oh, yeah. She went into dry dock, miss. You can find her there. You know the ship, miss?”
“Yes, I do.”
He gave her directions, and she nodded, and then he saluted her before she left. She felt awkward returning his salute, the way she always felt whenever a man acknowledged her rank. She tried to tell herself it was the same thing as someone tipping his hat to you, but she knew that wasn’t true, and it always left her feeling a little embarrassed. She walked up the dock, her heels clicking on the plankings, terribly aware of her body today, aware of it as she had never been in all her life before. She knew the boy’s eyes were on her back and her legs, and she consciously stiffened, trying to avoid the unconscious feminine swing of her hips. She was glad when she was off the dock, and she told herself she’d imagined the low whistle she’d heard, that it was simply the wind blowing off the water.
There was a great deal of activity in the dry-dock area; trucks and jeeps scurrying over the ground, cables and torches and welding masks. The rusted hulls of ships rested on their metal beds, and the workmen tore out their guts. She picked her way carefully over the ground, avoiding the large spools of cables, the heavy sheets of metal. She spotted the Sykes, high above her, and she saw the narrow wooden planks leading to the ship’s main deck.
Good heavens, she thought, I’ll never get up there.
She was conscious of the eyes of the workmen, conscious too of the fact that his eyes, unseen, might be watching her from somewhere aboard the ship, and she wished she’d never come here. She looked up at the ship again, saw the OD stepping aside to let a workman with a cylinder of oxygen past. She waved abruptly, knowing it was a very unmilitary thing to do, but doing it anyway.
The OD strolled to the rail and shouted over the clamor of the workmen. “Yes, miss?”
“I wonder if you could tell me—”
The OD cocked his head and shouted, “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t hear you. Just a moment.”