Plum Island (63 page)

Anyway, I remembered to put both gear selectors in neutral, put the key in the ignition, move it to on … then … what … ? Nothing
was happening. I saw two buttons marked “start” and pushed the right one. The starboard engine turned over and fired. Then
I pressed the second button and the port engine started. I felt them running a little rough, and I pushed both throttles slightly
forward and gave them more gas. I remembered I had to let the engines warm a few minutes. I didn’t want to stall out in that
sea. While they were warming, I found a knife in the open glove compartment in the dashboard and cut the spring line, then
both mooring lines, and the Formula immediately rolled with a wave and smashed into the side of the boathouse about five feet
from the dock.

I shifted into forward gear and gripped the dual throttles. The bow was pointed to the bay, so all I had to do was push forward
on the throttles, and I would be out into the storm.

Just as I was about to do this, I heard something behind me and looked over my shoulder. It was Beth, calling my name over
the noise of the wind, water, and motors.

“JOHN!”

“What?”

“Wait! I’m coming!”

“Then come on!” I shifted the boat into reverse, grabbed the wheel, and managed to back the boat closer to the dock. “Jump!”

She jumped and landed on the rolling deck behind me, then fell.

“Are you okay?”

She stood, then a swell pitched the boat, and she fell again, then stood again. “I’m okay!” She made her way to the left-hand
seat and said, “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go!”

I pushed the throttles forward, and we cleared the boathouse into the driving rain. A second later, I saw a huge wave coming
at us from the right, and it was going to hit us broadside. I cut the wheel right and got the bow into the wave. The boat
rode up, hung on to the crest as if it were in midair, then the wave broke behind me, leaving the boat literally in midair.
The boat came down, bow first, digging into the swelling sea. Then the bow rose and the stern hit the water. The propellers
caught, and we were off, but in the wrong direction. In the trough between waves, I swung the boat around 180 degrees and
headed east. As we passed the boathouse, I heard a sharp crack and the entire structure leaned to the right, then collapsed
onto the boiling sea. “Jeez!”

Beth called out over the noise of the storm, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Sure. I took a course once called Suddenly in Command.”

“About boats?”

“I think so.” I looked at her, and she looked back at me. I said, “Thanks for coming.”

She said, “Drive.”

The Formula was at half throttle, which is how I think you’re supposed to keep control in a storm. I mean, we seemed to be
above the water about half the time, flying over the troughs, then slicing right into the oncoming waves where the propellers
would whine, then bite into the water and shoot us forward like a surfboard into the oncoming sea again. The one thing I knew
I had to do was to keep the bow into the oncoming waves and keep from being broadsided by a big one. The boat would probably
not sink, but it could capsize. I’d seen capsized boats in the bay after lesser storms than this.

Beth called out, “Do you know how to navigate?”

“Sure. Red right return.”

“What does that mean?”

“You keep the red marker on your right when returning to harbor.”

“We’re not returning to the harbor. We’re leaving.”

“Oh … then look for green markers.”

“I don’t see
any
markers,” she informed me.

“Neither do I.” I added, “I’ll just stay to the right of the double white line. Can’t go wrong doing that.”

She didn’t reply.

I tried to get my head into a nautical frame of mine. Boating is not my number one hobby, but I’d been a guest on a lot of
boats over the years, and I figured I’d sucked up some facts since I was a kid. And in June, July, and August, I’d been out
with the Gordons about a dozen times, and Tom was a nonstop chatterer, and he liked to share his nautical enthusiasm and knowledge
with me. I don’t recall paying a lot of attention (being more interested in Judy in her bikini), but I was positive there
was a little pigeonhole in my cerebral cortex labeled “Boats.” I just had to locate it. In fact, I was sure I knew more about
boats than I realized. I hoped so.

We were now well into the Peconic Bay, and the boat was slamming very hard into the water—jarring, teeth-rattling thumps,
one after the other, like a car driving over railroad ties, and I could feel my stomach getting out of sync with the vertical
movement of the boat; when the boat was down, my stomach was still up, and when the boat was tossed into the air, my stomach
dropped down. Or so it seemed. I couldn’t see a thing through the windshield, so I stood and looked over the windshield, my
butt braced against the seat behind me, my right hand on the steering wheel, my left on a handgrip on the dashboard. I’d swallowed
enough saltwater to raise my blood pressure fifty points. Also, the salt was starting to burn my eyes. I glanced at Beth and
saw she was wiping her eyes, too.

To my right, I saw a huge sailboat lying on its side in the water, its keel barely visible and its mast and sail swamped.
“Good God….”

Beth said, “Do they need help?”

“I don’t see anyone.”

I got closer to the sailboat, but there was no sign of anyone clinging to the masts or rigging. I found the horn button on
the dashboard and gave a few blasts, but I still didn’t see any signs of life. I said to Beth, “They may have taken a life
raft to shore.”

Beth didn’t reply.

We pressed on. I remembered that I was the guy who didn’t even like the gentle rolling of the ferryboat, and here I was in
a thirty-foot open speedboat plowing through a near hurricane.

I could feel the impacts in my feet, like someone was slapping the soles of my shoes with a club, and the shock traveled up
my legs to my knees and hips, which were starting to ache now. In other words, it sucked.

I was getting nauseous from the salt, the motion, the constant slamming into the waves, and also from my inability to see
or separate the horizon from the water. Add to this my precarious post-trauma physical condition…. I recalled Max assuring
me this wouldn’t be strenuous. If he were here now, I’d tie him to the bow.

Through the rain, I could see the shoreline to my left about two hundred yards, and up ahead to my right I could see the dim
outline of Shelter Island. I knew we would be a little safer once I got into the protected passage on the leeward side of
the island, which I guess is why it’s called Shelter Island. I said to Beth, “I can put you ashore on Shelter Island.”

“You can steer the damned boat and stop worrying about frail little Beth.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She added, in a nicer tone of voice, “I’ve been on rough water before, John. I know when to panic.”

“Good. Tell me when.”

“Close,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’m going below to get some life vests and see if I can find something more comfortable to
wear.”

“Good idea.” I added, “Wash the salt out of your eyes and also look for a chart.”

She disappeared down the companionway between the two seats. The Formula 303 has a good-sized cabin for a speedboat and also
has a head, which might come in handy real soon. Basically, it’s a comfortable, seaworthy craft, and I always felt safe when
Tom or Judy was at the helm. Also, Tom and Judy, like John Corey, didn’t like rough weather, and at the first sign of a whitecap,
we’d be heading back. Yet here I was, confronting one of my A-List fears, looking it right in the eye, so to speak, and it
was spitting at me. And crazy as it sounds, I almost enjoyed the ride—the feel of the throttles as I adjusted power, the vibrations
of the engines, the helm in my hand. Suddenly in command. I’d been sitting on the back porch too long.

I stood, one hand on the wheel, one on the top of the windshield to keep my balance. I peered into the driving rain, scanning
the heaving sea for a boat, a Chris-Craft to be exact, but I could barely make out the horizon or the shore, let alone another
boat.

Beth came up the stairs and handed me a life vest. “Put this on.” She shouted, “I’ll hold the wheel.” Still standing, she
took the wheel as I put on the life vest. I saw that she had a pair of binoculars hung around her neck. She also had a pair
of jeans under her yellow slicker and was wearing a pair of boating shoes as well as an orange life vest. I asked, “Are you
wearing Fredric’s clothes?”

“I hope not. I think these belong to Sondra Wells. A little tight.” She added, “I laid a chart out on the table if you want
to take a look.”

I asked her, “Can you read a chart?”

“A little. How about you?”

“No problem. Blue is water, brown is land. I’ll look at it later.”

Beth said, “I looked for a radio down there, but I didn’t see one.”

“I can sing. Do you like ‘Oklahoma’?”

“John … please don’t be an idiot. I mean, the ship-to-shore radio. To send distress calls.”

“Oh … that. Well, there’s no radio here either.”

She said, “There’s a mobile phone recharger down below, but no phone.”

“Right. People tend to use mobile phones in small boats. Me, I prefer a two-way radio. In any case, what you’re saying is
that we’re out of touch.”

“That’s right. We can’t even send an SOS.”

“Well, neither could the people on the
Mayflower.
Don’t worry about it.”

She ignored me and said, “I found a signal pistol.” She tapped the big pocket of her slicker.

I didn’t think anyone could see a signal flare tonight, but I said, “Good. We may need it later.”

I took the helm again, and Beth sat on the stairs in the companionway beside me. We took a break from shouting above the storm
and sat in silence awhile. We were both soaked, our stomachs were churning, and we were scared. Yet some of the terror of
riding through the storm had passed, I think, as we realized that every wave was not going to sink us.

After about ten minutes, Beth stood and moved close to me so she could be heard. She asked, “Do you really think he’s going
to Plum Island?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“To recover the treasure.”

She said, “There won’t be any of Stevens’ patrol boats or any Coast Guard helicopters around in this storm.”

“Not a one. And the roads will be impassable, so the truck patrols can’t get around.”

“True….” She asked, “Why didn’t Tobin wait until he had all the treasure before he killed the Gordons?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe the Gordons surprised him while he was searching their house. I’m sure that all the treasure was supposed
to be recovered, but something went wrong.”

“So he has to recover the treasure himself. Does he know where it is?”

I replied, “He must, or he wouldn’t be heading there. I found out from Emma that Tobin was on the island once with the survey
group from the Peconic Historical Society. At that time, he would have made sure that Tom or Judy showed him the actual site
of the treasure, which, of course, was supposed to be one of Tom’s archaeological holes.” I added, “Tobin was not a trusting
man, and I have no doubt that the Gordons didn’t particularly like him or trust him either. They were using one another.”

She said, “There’s always a falling out among thieves.” I wanted to say that Tom and Judy were not thieves, yet they were.
And when they crossed that line from honest citizens to conspirators, their fate was basically sealed. I’m no moralist, but
in my job, I see this every day.

Our throats were raw from shouting and from the salt, and we lapsed back into silence.

I was approaching the passage between the south coastline of the North Fork and Shelter Island, but the sea seemed to be worse
at the mouth of the strait. A huge wave came up out of nowhere and hung for a second over the right side of the boat. Beth
saw it and screamed. The wave broke right over the boat, and it felt as if we’d run into a waterfall.

I found myself on the deck, then a torrent of water washed me down the stairs, and I landed on the lower deck on top of Beth.
We both scrambled to our feet and I clawed my way up the stairs. The boat was out of control, and the wheel was spinning all
over the place. I grabbed the wheel and held it steady as I got myself into the seat, just in time to turn the bow into another
monster wave. This one took us up on its rising slope, and I had the weird experience of being about ten feet in the air with
both shorelines appearing lower than I was.

The wave crested and left us in midair for a second before we dropped into the next trough. I fought the wheel and got us
headed east again trying to make it into the strait, which had to be better than this.

I looked to my left for Beth, but didn’t see her on the companionway stairs. I called out, “Beth!”

She shouted from the cabin, “I’m here! Coming!”

She came up the stairs on her hands and knees, and I saw that her forehead was bleeding. I asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes … just got knocked around a little. My butt is sore.” She tried to laugh, but it almost sounded like a sob. She said,
“This is crazy.”

“Go below. Make yourself a martini—stirred, not shaken.”

She said, “Your idiotic sense of humor seems to fit the situation.” She added, “The cabin is starting to take on water, and
I hear the bilge pumps going. Can you come up with a joke for that?”

“Well … let’s see … that’s not the bilge pump you hear, it’s Sondra Wells’ electric vibrator underwater. How’s that?”

“I may jump.” She asked me, “Can the pumps keep up with the water we’re taking on?”

“I guess. Depends on how many waves break on board.” In fact, I’d noticed the response to the helm was sluggish, the result
of the weight of the water now in the bilge and cabin.

Neither of us spoke for the next ten minutes. Between gusts of wind-driven rain, I could see about fifty yards ahead for a
few seconds, but I didn’t see Tobin’s cabin cruiser, or any boat for that matter, except two small craft, capsized and tossed
like driftwood by the storm.