“Let’s see what they come up with,” he whispered. Then he winked.
Honest to goodness, I giggled.
“There, see? Knew you had it in ya,” he whispered.
We moved through the line, shopping for lunch. At the end of it, I found the
gumption to assemble a sentence. Two, even. “Where will we sit? All the tables
are full.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Doc. You oughta know by now that I can clear
a table.”
“Well, just pick someone who’s almost finished eating.”
He seemed disappointed with the stipulation. “Just this once,” he muttered.
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He strode to a table and addressed the biggest man sitting there. “Is this seat
taken?” he roared.
The man snatched up his tray and stood, yelling, “Yes, sir! It’s taken by you,
sir!”
“Oh, well, you didn’t have to do that,” Lt. Horan told him, already seating
himself.
“My pleasure, sir! Enjoy your lunch, sir!” He hustled to the trash to drop off
his tray.
Horan beckoned me to him. He didn’t have to request another seat. The
other five occupants finished their meals in choking-size bites and abandoned
the table. I sat next to Horan and brushed away crumbs left behind during a
hasty retreat.
He eyed my plate of chocolate. “For a doctor, you don’t really eat very
healthy.”
I shrugged. “I’m good for it.”
“No doubt.”
He glanced around us, dispatching a silent ultimatum to anyone brave
enough for eye contact—his whole expression seemed to say or else. Though the mess hall had picked up in noise since we first devastated its activity, it hadn’t by far and wide reached its normal decibels.
“What’s the worst story you’ve heard so far? About yesterday, I mean,” I
said with morose curiosity.
He took a big bite of mashed potatoes and thought for a moment. “Let’s
see… The worst one is the truth. Not very imaginative at all, really. Not that I’ll ever live it down.” He chuckled. “It at least makes me feel better that you’re an officer instead of a cadet. Hmmm… The best rendition I’ve heard so far is that
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you’re a mole, here to assassinate Captain Marek, and my challenge brought you
and your skills out of hiding.”
I laughed. “Interesting. Any others?”
“Yep.” He scooped a wad of potatoes onto his dinner roll, then pointed his
fork at me. “There’s the one about a group of cadets who graduated with hard
feelings and paid you to enlist, in order to teach me a lesson.”
“That’s plausible.”
“Then there’s the one that you’re a ninja spy, collecting information for
terrorist groups.”
I snorted. “I wish I was a ninja.”
He smiled.
“Are there any more?”
“Nope.” But I saw the hesitation in his eyes.
“Yes, there are. Tell me.”
“There’s nothing else,” he said, shrugging and chewing.
I leaned close. “Listen, Pretty Princess, I have a right to know—”
“Will you keep it down? You want me to start calling you Big Lips?” he
whispered amid a mouthful of roll.
“What else?”
“You really don’t need to hear this.”
I continued to stare at him, unrelenting. He chucked his roll onto the plate.
“Aw, hell. But I warned you, didn’t I? Acknowledge that I warned you.” He
pointed an index finger at me.
“Acknowledged.”
“There was one where you and the captain were supposedly having an
affair…and you became pregnant…and he ordered me to take care of it.”
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The skin on my forehead was taut with the height my eyebrows had
achieved. At least I didn’t gasp. Considered vomiting, though.
“Aww, see? I told you. You don’t want to know.”
“Who—?” I paused to clear my throat, collect a little calm, swallow a little
bile. “Do you know who started this one?”
Again with the hesitation. “Nope.”
“Who?” I asked, voice iced over. Somewhere deep inside, I already knew
who. I just needed confirmation, to hear her name.
“I dunno.”
“You’ve got to tell me. You just have to.”
“What are you gonna do if I tell ya?”
“You think I know?” I asked, incredulous.
“Then I can’t really be responsible for that, now can I?”
I grunted my frustration. “Look. I think I already know who it was. If I
guess, can you tell me yes or no? It’s not your responsibility if I guess,” I
reasoned.
“Yes, please do tell,” a familiar voice called from behind.
We both turned to see Nicoli standing there with a tray. Lt. Horan began to
rise to salute, but Nicoli waved him off. He took the chair next to me.
I didn’t notice before, but the mess hall resembled a library again. The silence
of eavesdropping. I glanced around. Everyone stared as if we had stripped down
to our unmentionables. Which, for an irrational second, made me imagine Nicoli
in his unmentionables. Shaking my head and clearing my throat earned me a raised eyebrow from him.
Did the man notice everything?
“Captain,” Lt. Horan began nervously. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t
think we should discuss this in such a public setting—”
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“Really?” Nicoli’s jaw flexed, his eyes hard. “Because it seems to me,
Lieutenant, that you were about to do exactly that.” He crossed those chiseled
arms of his. I’d never seen him like this. When he wasn’t stupefying me with his
grins, he was blocking me out with his favorite impassive expression—his
captain face—but genuine anger had never surfaced. I grew afraid for the
bewildered lieutenant now—and wondered if I was in trouble too.
“Uh, Captain Marek,” I said. “This is my fault. I was pressing him—”
Nicoli turned on me, shooting me a look indicating I should be quiet. Then
he raised his brow, further signaling You and I will discuss this later. I clamped my mouth shut and tried not to gulp noticeably.
“Lt. Horan, I’m very interested to know why you’d even consider telling Dr.
Morgan such garbage. In fact, try as I might, I can’t find a single benefit she can derive from knowing about it. I’m also very interested in its source. I’m sure you can find the time later this afternoon to discuss this with me?” He radiated
authority, calm, control—and still, anger. His ability to dominate the situation
impressed me against my will.
“Yes, sir.” Horan manfully sat straighter. “Of course.”
I stared at the untouched pie on my plate. Nicoli strikes again. He obliterated my chance to confirm it was Lt. Sheldon contaminating the ship with her spite.
Horan would never tell me anything ever again, and Nicoli certainly wouldn’t be
the one to have blood on his hands. With a violent thrust, I spiked the fork into the pie and pushed the plate from me.
Neither of them missed it. At the same time Nicoli said, “Are you well, Dr
.
Morgan?” Lt. Horan stuttered, “Sorry to ruin your appetite there, Doc.”
“No, I am not well. You didn’t ruin my appetite. I’m leaving.” That summed
it up pretty well. Both Nicoli and Horan stood when I did, drawing further
attention to us.
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“Must we continue creating spectacles?” I hissed.
Horan fidgeted uncomfortably before taking his seat again, but Nicoli
lingered, looking as if he might try to comfort me. I tried my skill at face
indicators. Don’t even think about it, I frowned at him. He returned the frown. I didn’t yet have the ability to say, I might have a coronary if you put your arms around me again, with just facial expressions alone.
Instead, I picked up my tray and headed for the door—chin up, shoulders
squared. I left the mess hall amid a whispered grapevine fertile enough to grow
into a beanstalk.
“Ugh,” I groaned. I rubbed my neck and stretched my arms high, arching my
back. I had been at this for hours—without reviewing a single lab test. Dr.
Folsom smirked at me from her desk. Her last patient just left, and she was
entering his diagnosis in her chart device.
“Be careful what you ask for,” she said.
“This is overwhelming,” I admitted. “They gave me failed lab tests, hospital
records, census records, predictability charts. They even gave me diary entries
from family physicians.”
“Family physicians keep diaries? Should I keep a diary?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I waved my hand at her. “Listen to this, for instance.” I
scrolled down the page to one of the doctor’s journal entries. “Monday,
September 15th. Dear Diary.”
“It doesn’t say that!” Dr. Folsom accused.
I laughed. “No, it doesn’t. At least I don’t think it does. It’s written in French.
I don’t speak French. You’d think they could have translated it for me. I’m never
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going to get through this stuff. It would take an entire staff of people years to pick through this adequately enough.”
Dr. Folsom thought for a moment. “Nicoli speaks French. He could translate
it for you.”
“Of course he does,” I muttered. Still, I was curious about the entry. “I guess I could print it out and ask him about it the next time I see him.”
“Why don’t you take it to him now? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Can you please stop that?”
“What?”
“You know what. You’re trying to make me like him.”
“Am I?”
I entered his door for the second time today, French diary in tow. I started
for his desk but found it empty. I whirled around in place. No Nicoli. I shrugged, relieved and disappointed at the same time. As I turned to leave, a soft rumble
sounded from the far wall, like a distant thunder. I held still, waiting for the
sound. The thunder kept a rhythm. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded a lot
like…like… snoring.
I crept closer to the couch and peered over the edge. Nicoli. Sleeping—
snoring—on this too-small, uncomfortable couch. His big, booted feet dangled
over the edge, his massive shoulders wider than the cushion by almost half. He
rested his arm behind his head, the other hand marking the place of a book he’d
been reading, which now splayed open on his chest. I angled my gaze and
leaned closer, trying to discern the title—I’d take any opportunity to get into this man’s head.
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I froze in place when it became clear—the pirate book I had just finished and
returned to the admiral. My gasp startled the bear from hibernation.
His eyes flung open. “What were you about to do?”
The accusation in his tone made me laugh. He rolled his eyes and sat up.
“Guilty conscience, Captain? Do I have reason to do anything to you?”
“How long have you been here? Why didn’t you wake me up?” He reached
upward, stretching.
“You’re grouchy when you wake up.” I handed him my journal, ignoring his
questions. “Dr. Folsom is under the impression that you speak French. I was
hoping you could translate these entries for me.”
He took the papers and patted the seat beside him. I walked around the
couch, anxious about the proximity of my seat to his—and about the intimacy of
the couch, altogether.
He appeared oblivious to both. He glanced at the papers and back to me. “I’d
be happy to, of course. Though I’m a little surprised she didn’t offer. She’s fluent in French.”
“Is she?” I said through clenched teeth. “Well, she must have been ready to retire for the evening. Maybe she thought I needed it immediately, when in fact, I could have waited until tomorrow.” I snatched the papers from his hand. “I’ll
just ask her to do it in the morning. Thanks anyway.”
As I stood, a huge hand caught my wrist, pulled me back to the couch and
yanked the papers from my grasp. “That’s not necessary. I can do it now,” he
said.
“Are—are you sure? I interrupted your nap…” I was still unsure if I had
actually seen him move. But he must have, because he hauled me down almost on top of his lap. Our legs touched on the seat and all the way to the floor.
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“Yes.” He grinned. “I needed a nap. I was up late last night. Will be again
tonight, I’d wager.”
“Oh!” I said, infuriated anew. I tried to grab the papers from his hand, but he stood and held them over his head. Even jumping, I couldn’t reach them.
“This behavior is not very becoming, Dr. Morgan.” He laughed as I punched
him in the gut. My fist met with a sculpted wall of muscle which barely budged
with the force behind the blow.
“I agree with you there, Captain.” I spat the title like an expletive and cradled my throbbing hand.
He laughed again. I decided to change tactics. “I’m very sure Lt. Sheldon would be interested to know of your recent workout schedule,” I informed him
cheerfully.
It had the desired effect. His eyes narrowed, all traces of his previous glee
eradicated. “You wouldn’t.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
“Because then, Dr. Morgan, I couldn’t guarantee there would be any more
chocolate orders approved.”
“I have friends higher up on the food chain than you, Nicoli Marek,” I
snapped. “You may recall him from this afternoon, when he told me I could have
whatever I needed?”
He remembered. His expression grew pensive. “Yes, that’s true, Dr. Morgan.
Why don’t you go ahead and give him a call right now?”
I crossed my arms, glowering.
“What’s the matter? Oh, that’s right. You don’t know how to get in contact with him. And did you really just stomp your foot?”
I stomped it again and turned my back on him with a “Hmph.”
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I felt the warmth of his body behind me, his hand on my shoulder turning
me around. My face came entirely too close to his as he said softly, “Elyse. Why
don’t you come back t
o the couch and we can read the entries you brought me?”
His eyes pleaded with mine as he took my hand and gently placed the
papers in it. He took the other and led me to the couch. I nodded, speechless. We sat down.
“May I?” he asked quietly, indicating the papers I now held. I handed them
back. He cleared his throat, and began to read.
“‘Monday, September 15th. We had a suspected case today of the HTN4. As
soon as they entered the hospital doors, the lobby cleared out. The child was
already exhibiting swollen lymph nodes with the development of buboes in the
groin and neck. Despite having been told repeatedly to stay away from public
areas, we continue to see these kinds of cases throughout the district. Turning
him and his mother away was the single most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,
but in order to protect the lives of my staff and treatable patients, it was a
necessary evil. I went home to my family today, much more appreciative of their
company.
“‘Tuesday, September 16th. I may have been infected with the virus. I’m
feeling disoriented. My fever is 103 degrees, and although my lymph nodes
aren’t swollen, I seem to be displaying the pneumonic symptoms of the disease. I
have an uncontrollable cough, and my sputum is tinged with blood. I’ve
quarantined myself from my family, but my worst fear is that I already exposed
them to it.
“‘Wednesday, September 17th. My case has been confirmed. I will be dead
within twelve hours, I am sure. I do not care so much for my own life as I do my
darling little Belle’s. She has grown quite ill, and has now developed the telling purple skin patches, in all likelihood due to D-I-C.’”
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Here Nicoli interrupted. “What’s D-I-C?” he asked.
“It’s disseminated intravascular coagulation.”
“Blood clots?” he asked, surprising me yet again.
“Yes. She’s apparently displaying signs of septicemia. He’s probably right
that she’s infected. It’s a common sign.”
“Why do they call it the Black Death? It’s not the same one that wiped out
Europe centuries ago?”
“No, though it does display a lot of the same characteristics. That one, the
Black Plague, was bacterial, believed to have wiped out up to sixty percent of
Europe’s population at the time. What’s really horrible is that it could have been cured with a simple course of antibiotics. This one, the Black Death, is viral. And so far, everything we’ve done has been ineffective in preventing death.”