Plum Island (11 page)

The wall phone rang, and for an irrational second I thought it might be Margaret. Then I remembered that Max was supposed
to call about the Plum Island outing. I picked up the receiver and said, “Pizza Hut.”

After a confused second, Beth Penrose said, “Hello….”

“Hello.”

“Did I wake you?”

“That’s all right, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

“Very old joke. Max asked me to call. We’re going to be on the eight
A.M.
ferry.”

“Is there an earlier ferry?”

“Yes, but—”

“Why do we want the cover-up team to get to the island before us?”

She didn’t reply to that but said, “We’ll be accompanied by the island’s security director, a Mr. Paul Stevens.”

“Who’s going on the earlier ferry?”

“I don’t know…. Look, John, if they’re covering up, there’s not much we can do about it. They’ve had some problems in the
past, and they do cover-up real well. You’re only going to see what they want you to see, hear what they want you to hear,
and speak to who they want you to speak to. Don’t get overly serious about this trip.”

“Who’s going?”

“Me, you, Max, George Foster, and Ted Nash.” She asked, “Do you know where the ferry is?”

“I’ll find it. What are you doing now?”

“I’m talking to you.”

“Come on over. I’m looking at wallpaper samples. I need your opinion.”

“It’s late.”

That almost sounded like yes, which surprised me. I pressed on. “You can sleep here, and we’ll drive to the ferry together.”

“That would look cute.”

“Might as well get it over with.”

“I’ll think about it. Hey, did you find anything in the computer printouts?”

“Come over and I’ll show you my hard drive.”

“Cut it out.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“It’s too late. I’m tired. I’minmy—I’m dressed for bed.”

“Good. We can play hide the pickle.” I heard her take a long, patient breath, then say, “I would have thought there’d be a
clue in their financial records. Maybe you’re not looking hard enough. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Probably.”

She said, “I thought we agreed to share information.”

“Yes, with each other. Not the whole world.”

“What … ? Oh … I see.”

We both knew that when you’re working with the Feds, they’d slap a tap on your phone within five minutes of being introduced
to you. They didn’t even bother with a court order when they eavesdropped on friendlies. I was sorry I’d made the call to
Margaret Wiley.

I asked Beth, “Where’s Ted?”

“How do I know?”

“Keep your door bolted. He fits the description of a rapist-murderer I’m looking for.”

“Give it a break, John.” She hung up.

I yawned. While I was disappointed that Detective Penrose didn’t want to come over, I was also a little relieved. I really
think those nurses put saltpeter in a guy’s Jell-O or something. Maybe I needed more red meat in my diet.

I turned off the coffeepot, flipped the light switch, and left the kitchen. I made my way in the dark through the big, lonely
house, through the polished oak vestibule, up the winding, creaky staircase, and down the long hallway to the high-ceilinged
room that I’d slept in as a boy.

As I undressed for bed, I reflected on this day, and tried to decide if I really wanted to make that eight
A.M.
ferry.

On the yes side, I liked Max, and he’d asked a favor of me. Two, I liked the Gordons and I wanted to do them a favor, to sort
of pay them back for the good company and the wine and the steaks at a time when I was not feeling my best. Three, I didn’t
like Ted Nash and I had this childish desire to screw him big time. Four, I
did
like Beth Penrose and I had this grown-up desire to … whatever. And then there was me, and I was bored…. No, that wasn’t
it. I was trying to prove that I still had the stuff. So far, so good. And last, and certainly not least, the little problem
of the plague, the black death, the red death, the multifaceted threat or whatever; the possibility that this would be the
last autumn any of us on earth would see.

For all those reasons, I knew I should be on the eight
A.M.
ferry to Plum Island, not in bed with the covers pulled over me, like when I was a kid and there was something I didn’t want
to face….

I stood naked at the big window and watched the fog climbing out of the bay, ghost white in the moonlight, creeping and crawling
across the dark lawn toward the house. That used to scare the crap out of me. Still does. I felt goose bumps rising on my
skin.

My right hand went unconsciously to my chest, and my fingers found the entry hole of bullet one, then I slid my hand down
to my abdomen where the second, or maybe the third shot had ripped through my formerly tight muscles, drove through my intestines,
chipped my pelvis, and blew out my rear end. The other shot passed through my left calf without much damage. The surgeon said
I was lucky. And he was right. I’d flipped my partner, Dom Fanelli, to see who was going to go into the deli to buy coffee
and donuts, and he lost. Cost him four bucks. My lucky day.

Somewhere out on the bay, a foghorn sounded, and I wondered who would be out in this weather at this hour.

I turned from the window and checked to see that my alarm clock was set, then made sure there was a round in the chamber of
the .45 automatic I kept on the nightstand.

I tumbled into bed, and like Beth Penrose, and Sylvester Maxwell, and Ted Nash, and George Foster, and many others that night,
I stared up at the ceiling and thought about murder, death, Plum Island, and plague. I saw in my mind’s eye the image of the
Jolly Roger flapping in the night sky, the death’s head white and grinning.

It occurred to me that the only people resting in peace tonight were Tom and Judy Gordon.

I
was up at six
A.M.
, showered, and dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and Top-Siders: suitable attire for a quick change into biohazard gear or whatever
they call it.

I did my Hamlet routine regarding my piece—to carry, or not to carry, that is the question. Finally, I decided to carry. You
just never know what the day is going to bring. This might be a nice day to paint Ted Nash red.

By 6:45
A.M.
, I was traveling east on Main Road, through the heart of the wine country.

It occurred to me as I drove that it’s not easy trying to pull a living out of the soil or the sea, as many of the locals
did. But the vineyards had been surprisingly successful. In fact, to my left, as I passed through the hamlet of Peconic, was
the most successful vineyard and winery, Tobin Vineyards, owned by Fredric Tobin, whom I’d met once briefly and who was a
friend of the Gordons. I made a mental note to call on the gentleman and see if he could shed any light on the case at hand.

The sun was above the trees, off to my right front, and my dashboard thermometer said 16 degrees centigrade, which meant nothing
to me. Somehow I’d screwed up the computer, and I was on the metric system. Sixteen degrees sounded cold, but I knew it wasn’t.
Anyway, the sun was burning off the ground mist and sunlight filled my over-priced sports utility vehicle.

The road was gently curved, and the vineyards were more picturesque than the potato fields I remembered from thirty years
ago. Now and then a fruit orchard or cornfield kept the vineyards from becoming monotonous. Big birds sailed and soared on
the morning thermals, and little birds sang and chirped in the fields and trees. All was right with the world, except that
Tom and Judy were in the county morgue this morning; and very possibly there was a sickness in the air, rising and falling
with the thermals, carried on the ocean breeze, sweeping across the farms and vineyards, and carried in the blood of humans
and animals. And yet, everything seemed normal this morning, including me.

I turned on the radio to an all-news channel from New York City and listened to the regular crap for a while, waiting for
someone to say something about a mysterious outbreak of whatever. But it was too early for that. I tuned to the only local
radio station and caught the seven
A.M.
news. The news guy was saying, “We spoke to Chief Maxwell by phone this morning, and here’s what he told us.”

A grumpy-sounding Max came out of my speakers, saying, “Regarding the deaths of Nassau Point residents Tom and Judy Gordon,
we’re calling this a double homicide, robbery, and burglary. This has nothing to do with the victims’ work on Plum Island,
and we want to put these speculations to rest. We urge all residents to be alert and aware of strangers and report anything
suspicious to the town police. No need to be paranoid, but there’s somebody out there with a gun who committed murder, robbery,
and burglary. So you have to take some precautions. We’re working with the county police on this, and we think we have some
leads. That’s all I have to say at this time. I’ll talk to you later today, Don.”

“Thanks, Chief,” said Don.

That’s what I like about this place—real down-to-earth and homey. I turned off the radio. What Chief Maxwell forgot to mention
was that he was on his way to Plum Island, the place that had nothing to do with the double murders. He also forgot to mention
the FBI and the CIA. I admire a man who knows how and when to gaslight the public. What if Max had said, “There’s a fifty-fifty
chance the Gordons sold plague viruses to terrorists who may be plotting the destruction of all life in North America”? That
would cause a little dip in the Dow at the opening bell, not to mention a stampede for the airports and a sudden urge for
a South American vacation.

Anyway, it was a nice morning, so far. I spotted a big pumpkin field to my right, and I recalled the autumn weekends out here
as a kid, going nuts running through the pumpkin patches to find the absolutely biggest, roundest, orangest, and most perfect
pumpkin. I remember having some disagreements with my kid brother, Jimmy, on the choice every year, but we settled it fairly
with a fistfight that I always won since I was much bigger than he was. At least the kid had heart.

The hamlet after Peconic is Southold, which is also the name of the whole township. It’s about here where the vineyards end
and the land narrows between the Sound and the bay, and everything looks a little more windswept and wild. The Long Island
Rail Road tracks, which begin at Penn Station in Manhattan, paralleled the highway to my left for a while, then the road and
the tracks crossed and diverged again.

There wasn’t much traffic at this hour except for a few farm vehicles. It occurred to me that if any of my fellow travelers
to Plum Island were on the road, I might see them at some point.

I drove into the village of Greenport, the main metropolis on the North Fork with a population, according to the sign, of
2,100. By comparison, Manhattan Island, where I worked, lived, and almost died, is smaller than the North Fork and has two
million people piled on. The police force I work for has thirty thousand men and women, making it bigger than the entire population
of Southold Township. Max, as I said, has about forty officers, if you include me and him. Greenport Village actually had
its own police force once, about a half dozen guys, but they pissed off the populace somehow and were voted out of existence.
I don’t think that can happen in New York City, but it’s not a bad idea.

Sometimes I think I should get Max to hire me—you know, big-time, big-city gunslinger rides into town, and the local sheriff
pins a badge on him and says, “We need a man with your experience, training, and proven track record,” or something like that.
I mean, would I be a big fish in a small pond, or what? Would I have ladies stealing glances at me and dropping their handkerchiefs
on the sidewalk, or what?

Back to reality. I was hungry. There are virtually no fast-food chains out here, which is part of the charm of the place,
but also a pain in the ass. There are, however, a few convenience stores, and I stopped at one at the edge of Greenport and
bought a coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich of mystery meat and cheese product. I swear you can eat the shrink wrap and
Styrofoam, too, and not notice the difference. I grabbed a free weekly newspaper and had breakfast in the driver’s seat. The
newspaper, coincidentally, had an article on Plum Island. This is not uncommon as the locals seem very interested in this
mist-shrouded island of mystery and all that. Over the years, I’d picked up most of my information about Plum from local sources.
Now and then the island made the national news, but it was safe to guess that nine out of ten Americans never heard of the
place. That might change real soon.

This article I was now reading had to do with Lyme disease, another obsession of the residents of eastern Long Island and
nearby Connecticut. This disease, carried by deer ticks, had assumed plague-like proportions. I knew people who had Lyme;
though rarely fatal, it could screw up a year or two of your life. Anyway, the locals were convinced that the disease came
from Plum Island and was a bio-warfare experiment that had gotten loose by mistake or something. I would not be overstating
if I said the locals would like Plum Island to sink into the sea. In fact, I had this image— like the scene in
Frankenstein
—of local farmers and fishermen, pitchforks and gaffing hooks in their hands, the women carrying torches, descending on the
island and shouting, “To hell with your unnatural scientific experiments! God save us! Congressional investigation!” Or something
like that. Anyway, I put the paper down and started the engine.