"Gladys has been with Dr. Bill since he left the Navy," said Romero. "She used to work for the base commander at Stanton as a cook, came down with scrub typhus and Dr. Bill got her through it. While she recuperated, they fired her. So Dr. Bill hired her. Her husband died a few years ago. Cheryl lives with her. She's a little slow."

He led us upstairs. Our suite was in the center of the second-story landing. Sitting room with a small refrigerator, bedroom, and white-tiled bath. Old brown wool carpeting covered the floors. The walls were teak and plaster. Overstuffed floral-print furniture, more bamboo tables. The bathtub was ancient cast-iron and spotless with a marble shelf holding soaps and lotions and loofah sponges still in plastic wrap. Fly fans churned the air lazily in all three rooms. A faint insecticidal smell hung in the air.

The bed was a turn-of-the-century mahogany four-poster, made up with crisp, white linens and a yellow wilted-silk spread. On one nightstand was a frosted glass vase of cut amaryllis. A folded white card formed a miniature tent on the pillow.

Lots of windows, silk curtains pulled back. Lots of sky.

"Look at that view," said Robin.

"The Japanese military governor wanted to be king of the mountain," said Romero. "The highest point on the island is actually that peak over there." He pointed to the tallest of the black crags. "But it's too close to the windward side. You've got your gales all year round and rotten humidity."

He walked to a window. "The Japanese figured the mountains gave them a natural barrier from an eastern land assault. The German governor built his house here, too, for the same reason. The Japanese tore it down. They were really into making the place Japanese. Brought in geishas, teahouses, baths, even a movie theater down where the Trading Post is now. The slave barracks were in that field we passed on the way up, where the accidental banyans are. When MacArthur attacked, the slaves came out of the barracks and turned against the Japanese. Between that and the bombing, two thousand Japanese died. Sometimes you still find old bones and skulls up along the hillside."

He went into the bathroom and tried out the taps.

"You can drink the water. Dr. Bill installed activated carbon filters on all the cisterns on the island and we take regular germ counts. Before that, cholera and typhus were big problems. You've still got to be careful about eating the local shellfish- marine toxins and rat lungworm disease. But fruits and vegetables are no problem. Anything here at the house is no problem, Dr. Bill grows it all himself. In terms of outside stuff, the bar food at Slim's isn't much but the Chop Suey Palace is better than it sounds. At least my Mandarin wife doesn't mind it. Sometimes Jacqui, the owner, cooks up something interesting, like bird's nest soup, depending on what's available."

"Is that where the shark's fin was headed?" I said.

"Pardon?"

"Those two guys down at the harbor. Was it for the restaurant?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "Oh, them. No, I doubt it."

A gray-haired, gray-bearded man brought up our bags. Romero introduced him as Carl Sleet and thanked him.

When he left, Romero said, "Anything else I can do for you?"

"We seem to have everything."

"Okay, then, here's your key. Dinner's at six. Dress comfortably."

He exited. Spike had fallen asleep in the sitting room. Robin and I went into the bedroom and I closed the door on canine snores.

"Well," she said, taking a deep breath and smiling.

I kissed her. She kissed back hard, then yawned in the middle of it and broke away, laughing.

"Me, too," I said. "Nap time?"

"After I clean up." She rubbed her arms. "I'm crusted with salt."

"Ah, dill-pickle woman!" I grabbed her and licked her skin. She laughed, pushed me away, and began opening a carry-on.

I picked up the folded card on the bed. Inside was a handwritten note:

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

R. L. Stevenson

Please make my home yours.

WWM

"Robert Louis Stevenson," said Robin. "Maybe this will be our Treasure Island."

"Wanna see my peg?"

As she laughed, I went to run a bath. The water was crystalline, the towels brand-new, thick as fur.

When I returned, she was lying on top of the covers, naked, her hands behind her head, auburn hair spread on the pillow, nipples brown and stiff. I watched her belly rise and fall. Her smile. The oversized upper incisors I'd fallen for, years ago.

The windows were still wide open.

"Don't worry," she said, softly. "I checked and no one can see in- we're too high up."

"God, you're beautiful."

"I love you," she said. "This is going to be wonderful."

A rasping noise woke me. Scratching at one of the screens.

I sat up fast, saw it.

A small lizard, rubbing its foreclaws against the mesh.

I got out of bed and had a closer look.

It stayed there. Light brown body speckled with black. Skinny head and unmoving eyes.

It stared at me. I waved. Unimpressed, it scraped some more, finally scampered away.

Five P.M. I'd been out for two hours. Robin was still curled under the sheets.

Slipping into my pants, I tiptoed to the sitting room. Spike greeted me by panting and rolling over. I massaged his gut, refilled his water bowl, poured myself a tonic water on ice, and sat by the largest window. The sun was a big, red cherry, the ocean starting to silver.

I felt lucky to be alive, but disconnected- so far from everything familiar.

Rummaging in my briefcase I found Moreland's letter. Heavy white paper with a regal watermark. At the top in embossed black:

Aruk House, Aruk Island.

Dear Dr. Delaware,

I am a physician who lives on the island of Aruk in the northern region of Micronesia. Nicknamed " Knife Island " because of its oblong shape, Aruk is officially part of the Mariana Commonwealth and a self-governing U.S. territory, but relatively obscure and not listed in any guidebooks. I have lived here since 1961 and have found it a wonderful and fascinating place.

I chanced to come across an article you published in The Journal of Child Development and Clinical Practice on group trauma. Progressing to all your other published works, I found that you display a fine combination of scholarliness and common-sense thinking.

I say all this by way of making an interesting proposition.

Over the last three decades, in addition to conducting research in natural history and nutrition, I have accumulated an enormous amount of clinical data from my practice, some of it unique. Because the bulk of my time has been spent treating patients, I have not taken the time to properly organize this information.

As I grow older and closer to retirement, I realize that unless these data are brought to publication, a wealth of knowledge may be lost. Initially, my thought was to obtain the help of an anthropologist, but I decided that someone with clinical experience, preferably in a mental health field, would be better suited to the task. Your writing skills and orientation make me feel that you might be a compatible collaborator.

I'm sure, Dr. Delaware, that this will seem odd, coming out of the blue, but I have given much thought to my offer. Though the pace of life on Aruk is probably a good deal slower than what you are used to, that in and of itself may have appeal for you. Would you be interested in helping me? By my estimate, the preliminary organization should take two, perhaps three months, at which point we could sit down and figure out if we've got a book, a monograph, or several journal articles. I would concentrate on the biological aspects, and I'd rely upon you for the psychological input. What I envision is a fifty-fifty collaboration with joint authorship.