Plum Island (17 page)

Mr. Stevens returned from his phone call and said, “We can get back on the bus now.”

We all walked along the road that skimmed the bluff. In a few minutes, we were back in the area of the ruined artillery fortifications.

I noticed that one of the steep rises on which the fortifications were built had recently eroded, exposing strata of fresh
earth. The topmost stratum was organic compost, which is what you’d expect, and beneath that was white sand, which was also
normal. But the next stratum was a reddish streak of what looked like rust, then more sand, then another line of rust red,
just like on the beach. I said to Stevens, “Hey, nature calls. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t get lost,” said Mr. Stevens, not altogether joking.

I went around the base of the hill, picked up a piece of deadwood, and began jabbing it into the vertical surface of the grassy
slope. The black compost and grass fell away, and I could see the strata of white and red. I took a handful of the reddish
brown soil and saw that it was actually clay mixed with sand and maybe some iron oxide. It looked very much like the stuff
in and on Tom and Judy’s running shoes. Interesting.

I put a handful of the soil in my pocket and turned around, only to see Stevens standing there watching me.

He said, “I think I mentioned the ‘Never Leave’ policy.”

“I think you did.”

“What did you put in your pocket?”

“My dick.”

We stood staring at each other, then he finally said, “On this island, Detective Corey,
I
am the law. Not you, not Detective Penrose, not even Chief Maxwell, and not the two gentlemen with you.” He fixed me with
those icy eyes, then said, “May I see what you put in your pocket?”

“I can show it to you, but then I have to kill you.” I smiled.

He thought a moment, running through his options, then came to the correct decision and said, “The bus is leaving.”

I walked past him and he fell in behind me. I half expected a garrote around my neck, a blow to the head, a shiv in my spine—but
Paul Stevens was smoother than that. He’d probably offer me a cup of coffee later, laced with anthrax.

We boarded the bus and off we went.

We’d all taken our former seats, and Stevens remained standing. The bus headed west, back toward the area of the ferry dock
and the main lab. A pickup truck with two men in blue uniforms carrying rifles passed us going the opposite way.

All in all, I’d learned more than I thought I would, seen more than I’d expected, and heard enough to make me curiouser and
curiouser. I was convinced that the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon had been killed was on this island. And, as I said,
when I knew why, I would ultimately know who.

George Foster, who had been mostly silent up to now, asked Stevens, “You’re quite sure the Gordons left in their own boat
at noon yesterday?”

“Absolutely. According to the logbook, they had worked in the biocontainment section in the morning, signed out, showered,
and gotten on a bus like this which took them to the ferry dock. They were seen by at least two of my men getting into their
boat, the
Spirochete,
and heading out into Plum Gut.”

Foster asked, “Did anyone in the helicopter or the patrol boat see them once they were out in the Gut?”

Stevens shook his head. “No. I asked.”

Beth queried, “Is there anywhere along this shoreline where a boat can be hidden?”

“Absolutely not. There are no deep coves, no inlets, on Plum. It’s a straight beach, except for the one man-made cove where
the ferry comes in.”

I asked, “If your patrol boat had seen the Gordons’ boat anchored anywhere near the island, would your people have chased
them off?”

“No. The Gordons, in fact, did sometimes anchor and fish or swim off the coast of Plum. They were well known to the patrols.”

I didn’t know the Gordons were such avid fishermen. I asked, “Were they ever seen by your people anchored near the beach after
dark—late at night?”

Stevens thought a moment, then replied, “Only once that came to my attention.” He added, “Two of my men in the patrol boat
mentioned that the Gordons’ boat was anchored close to the south beach one night in July, about midnight. My men noticed the
boat was empty, and they shined their spotlights over the beach. The Gordons were on the beach….” He cleared his throat in
a way that suggested what the Gordons were doing on the beach. Mr. Stevens said, “The patrol boat left them in peace.”

I thought about this a moment. Tom and Judy struck me as the sort of couple who’d make love anywhere, so doing it on a deserted
beach at night was not unusual. Doing it on Plum Island beach, however, raised both my eyebrows and a few questions. Oddly,
I’d once had a sort of reverie about making love to Judy on a wave-washed beach. Maybe more than once. Every time I had this
thought, I slapped myself in the face. Naughty, naughty, piggy, piggy.

The bus went past the ferry dock, then swung north, stopping in an oval-shaped driveway in front of the main research facility.

The curved front of the new two-story art deco–style building was made of some sort of pink and brown block. A big sign rising
from the lawn said, “Department of Agriculture,” and there was another flagpole with the flag at half-mast.

We all got out of the bus, and Paul Stevens said, “I hope you enjoyed your tour of Plum Island and that you got a good feel
for our security arrangements.”

I asked, “What security?”

Mr. Stevens looked hard at me and said, “Everyone who works here is well aware of the potential for disaster. We’re all security-conscious,
and we’re all dedicated to the job and to the highest standards of safety that exist in this field. But you know what? Shit
happens.”

This profanity and flippancy from Mr. Ramrod Straight sort of surprised everyone. I said, “Right. But did it happen yesterday?”

“We’ll know soon enough.” He looked at his watch and said, “All right, we can go inside now. Follow me.”

T
he semicircular lobby of the Plum Island research laboratory was two stories high with a mezzanine running around the central
staircase. It was a light and airy space, pleasant and welcoming. The doomed animals probably came in the back.

On the left wall were the standard government chain-of-command photos—the president, the secretary of agriculture, and Dr.
Karl Zollner; a rather short chain for a government agency, I thought, leading me to believe that Dr. Zollner was maybe a
heartbeat or two away from the Oval Office.

Anyway, there was a reception counter, and we had to sign in and exchange our blue clip-on passes for white passes on a plastic
chain that we hung around our necks. A good security procedure, I thought—the island was divided between this building and
everything else. And within this building were the Zones. I should not underestimate Mr. Stevens.

An attractive young lady with a knee-length skirt had come down the staircase before I had a chance to check out her thighs,
and she introduced herself as Donna Alba, Dr. Zollner’s assistant. She smiled and said, “Dr. Zollner will be with you shortly.
Meanwhile, I’ll show you around.”

Paul Stevens said to us, “I’ll take this opportunity to check in with my office and see if there are any further developments.”
He added, “Donna will take good care of you.” He looked at me and said, “Please stay with Ms. Alba at all times.”

“What if I have to go to the men’s room?”

“You already did.” He went up the stairs, stopping, I’m sure, at Dr. Zollner’s to report on the five intruders.

I looked at Donna Alba. Mid-twenties, brunette, good face and body, blue skirt, white blouse, and running shoes. I suppose
if you considered the daily boat commute and the possibility of having to travel somewhere on the island, then high heels
weren’t practical. In fact, I thought, if you liked a predictable commute and an average day at the office, Plum Island wasn’t
your kind of place.

In any case, Donna was attractive enough so that I recalled she’d been on the eight
A.M.
ferry with us this morning, and she was therefore not yet acquainted with Messrs. Nash and Foster and was therefore probably
not on the inside of any cover-up.

Anyway, Donna asked that we all introduce ourselves, which we did, without using any upsetting job titles, such as “homicide
detective,” “FBI,” or “CIA.”

She shook hands all around and gave Nash a special smile. Women are such bad judges of character.

Donna began, “Welcome to the Plum Island Animal Disease Center research facility. I’m sure Paul briefed you and gave you a
nice history of the island and a good tour.”

Her face tried to remain smiley, but I could see it was forced. She said to us, “I’m very … it’s terrible what happened. I
really liked the Gordons. Everyone liked them.” She glanced around, like people do in police states, and said, “I’m not supposed
to discuss or comment on any of that. But I thought I should say how I felt.”

Beth glanced at me, and seeing, I think, a possible weak spot in the Plum Island armor, said to Donna, “John and Max were
good friends of Tom and Judy.”

I looked into Donna Alba’s eyes and said, “We appreciate all the help and cooperation we’ve gotten from the staff here.” Which,
so far, consisted of Mr. Stevens’ giving us the fifty-cent tour of the ruins and wilderness, but it was important for Donna
to believe that she could speak freely; not here and now, of course, but when we visited her home.

She said, “I’ll show you around a bit. Follow me.”

We did a little walk around the lobby, and Donna pointed out various things on the walls, including blown-up news articles
and horror stories from around the world about Mad Cow Disease and something called rinderpest and swine fever, and other
gruesome diseases. There were maps showing outbreaks of this and that, charts, graphs, and photos of cattle with blistered
lips and stringy saliva running from their mouths, and pigs with horrible oozing sores. You wouldn’t mistake this for the
lobby of a steakhouse.

Donna now drew our attention to the doors in the rear of the lobby. The doors were painted that peculiar warning yellow, like
the color of Plum Island on a map, and they stood out against the colors of the lobby, which were mostly shades of gray. On
the left door was a sign that said, “Locker Room—Women,” and on the right, “Locker Room—Men.” Both doors said, “Authorized
Personnel Only.”

Donna said, “These doors lead to the biocontainment areas. This lobby along with the administrative offices is actually a
separate building from the biocontainment building, though this appears to be one structure. But, in fact, what connects this
area with biocontainment are those two locker rooms.”

Max inquired, “Are there any other ways in or out of the biocontainment areas?”

Donna replied, “You can go in through the service entrance where the animals, the feed, supplies, and everything are brought
in. But you can’t leave that way. Everything and everybody that leaves has to go through the decontamination area, which includes
the showers.”

Mr. Foster inquired, “How are the products of dissection—wastes and all that—disposed of?”

“Through the incinerator or designated drains that lead to the water and waste decontamination plant,” Donna replied. She
added, “That’sit—these two doors in, a service door in the rear, drains and incinerators, and on the roof, special air filters
that can trap the smallest virus. This is a very tight building.”

Each of us was thinking our own thoughts about the Gordons, about smuggling stuff out of the labs.

Donna continued, “The locker rooms are still Zone One, like this lobby. But when you move from the locker rooms, you go into
Zone Two, and you have to be dressed in lab whites. Before you move out of Zone Two, Three, or Four, and back into Zone One,
you have to shower. The shower is a Zone Two area.”

“Is the shower co-ed?” I inquired.

She laughed. “Of course not.” She added, “I understand that you all have been cleared to go into Zones Two, Three, and Four
if you want to.”

Ted Nash smiled his stupid smile and asked, “Will you be accompanying us?”

She shook her head. “I don’t get paid for that.”

Neither did I at a dollar a week. I asked Donna, “Why aren’t we cleared for Zone Five?”

She looked at me, sort of surprised. “Five? Why would you want to go there?”

“I don’t know. Because it’s there.”

She shook her head. “There are only ten or so people who are authorized to go into Five. You have to put on this kind of space
suit—”

“Were the Gordons authorized to go into Five?”

She nodded.

“What goes on in Zone Five?”

“You should ask Dr. Zollner that question.” She glanced at her watch and said, “Follow me.”

“Stay together,” I added.

We walked up the staircase, me trailing behind because my bad leg was getting draggy and also because I wanted to check out
Donna’s legs and butt. I know I’m a pig—I could conceivably contract swine fever.