Plum Island (64 page)

I noticed a new phenomenon, or perhaps I should say a new horror—it was something that the Gordons called a following sea,
which I had experienced with them in the Gut that day. What was happening was that the sea behind the boat was overtaking
it, smashing into the Formula’s stern and whipping the boat almost out of control in a violent side-to-side motion, called
yawing. So now, along with rolling and pitching, I had to contend with yawing. About the only two things that were going right
were that we were still heading east and we were still afloat, though I don’t know why.

I tilted my head back so that the rain could wash some of the salt from my face and my eyes. And since I was looking up at
the sky anyway, I said to myself,
I went to church Sunday morning, God. Did you see me there? The Methodist place in Cutchogue. Left side, middle pew. Emma?
Tell Him. Hey, Tom, Judy, Murphys—I’m doing this for you guys. You can thank me in person in about thirty or forty years.

“John?”

“What?”

“What are you looking at up there?”

“Nothing. Getting some freshwater.”

“I’ll get you some water from below.”

“Not yet. Just stay here awhile.” I added, “I’ll give you the wheel later, and I’ll take a break.”

“Good idea.” She stayed silent a minute, then asked me, “Are you … worried?”

“No. I’m scared.”

“Me, too.”

“Panic time?”

“Not yet.”

I scanned the dashboard and noticed the fuel gauge for the first time. It read about an eighth full, which meant about ten
gallons left, which, considering the rate of fuel burn of these huge MerCruisers at half throttle fighting a storm, meant
we didn’t have much time or distance left. I wondered if we could make it to Plum Island. Running out of gas in a car is not
the end of the world. Running out of gas in an airplane
is
the end of the world. Running out of gas in a boat during a storm is
probably
the end of the world. I reminded myself to keep an eye on the gas gauge. I said to Beth, “Is it a hurricane yet?”

“I don’t know, John, and I don’t give a damn.”

“I’m with you.”

She said, “I had the impression you were not fond of the sea.”

“I like the sea just fine. I just don’t like to be
on
it or
in
it.”

“There are a few marinas and coves along here on Shelter Island. Do you want to put in?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, but no.”

“I’m with you,” I said.

Finally, we got into the passage between the North Fork and Shelter Island. The mouth of the strait was about half a mile
wide, and Shelter Island to the south had enough elevation and mass to block at least some of the wind. There was less howling
and splashing, so we could talk easier, and the seas were just a bit calmer.

Beth stood and steadied herself by holding on to the grab handle mounted on the dashboard above the companionway. She asked
me, “What do you think happened that day? The day of the murders?”

I replied, “We know the Gordons left the harbor at Plum Island about noon. They went far enough offshore so that the Plum
Island patrol boat couldn’t identify them. The Gordons waited and watched with binoculars and saw the patrol boat pass. They
then opened the throttles and raced toward the beach. They had forty to sixty minutes before the boat came around again. We
established this fact on Plum Island. Correct?”

“Yes, but I thought we were talking about terrorists, or unauthorized persons. Are you telling me you were thinking about
the Gordons even then?”

“Sort of. I didn’t know why, or what they were up to, but I wanted to see
how
they could pull something off. A theft. Whatever.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

“Okay, they make a high-speed dash and get close to the shore. If a patrol vehicle or a helicopter spots their boat anchored,
it’s not a major problem because by now everyone knows who they are and recognizes their distinctive boat. Yet according to
Stevens, no one did see their boat that day. Correct?”

“So far.”

“Okay, it’s a nice, calm summer day. The Gordons take their rubber raft onto the beach and drag it into the bush. On the raft
the aluminum chest.”

“And shovels.”

“No, they’ve already uncovered this treasure and hidden it where they could get at it easily. But first, they had to do a
lot of groundwork, like archival and archaeological work, buying the Wiley land, and so forth.”

Beth thought a moment, then asked, “Do you think the Gordons were holding out on Tobin?”

“I don’t think so. The Gordons would be satisfied with half the treasure, minus half of that to the government. Their needs
weren’t anywhere near what Tobin’s were. And also, the Gordons wanted the publicity and the acclaim of being the finders of
Captain Kidd’s treasure.” I added, “Tobin’s needs, however, were different and his agenda was different. He had no scruples
about killing his partners, taking the whole treasure, fencing most of it, and then discovering a small portion of it on his
own land and holding an auction at Sotheby’s, complete with media and the IRS guy in the back.”

Beth reached under her slicker and retrieved the four gold coins. She held them out toward me, and I took one and examined
it while I steered the boat. The coin was about the size of an American quarter, but it was heavy—the weight of gold always
surprised me. The gold was amazingly bright, and I could see a guy’s profile on it and some writing that looked Spanish. “This
could be what’s called a doubloon.” I handed it back to her.

She said, “Keep it for luck.”

“
Luck?
I don’t need the kind of luck this brought to anyone.”

Beth nodded, looked awhile at the three coins in her hand, then threw them over the side. I did the same.

This was an idiotic gesture, of course, but it made us feel better. I could understand the universal sailors’ superstition
about throwing something valuable—or someone—over the side to appease the sea and make it stop doing whatever the hell it
was doing that was scaring the crap out of everybody.

So we felt better after we threw the gold overboard and sure enough the wind dropped a little as we made our way along the
Shelter Island coast, and the waves had diminished in height and frequency as if the gift to the sea had worked.

The land masses around me looked black, totally devoid of color like piles of coal, while the sea and sky were an eerie gray
luminescence. Normally at this hour, you could see lights along the coast, evidence of human habitation, but apparently the
power was out all over and the coasts had slipped back a century or two.

All in all, the weather was still a horror show, and it would become deadly again once we cleared Shelter Island and got out
into Gardiners Bay.

I knew I was supposed to turn on my running lights, but there was only one other boat out here, and I didn’t want to be seen
by that boat. I was certain he wasn’t running with his lights either.

Beth said, “So the Gordons didn’t have time to go back for a second load before the Plum Island patrol boat came around again.”

“Right,” I answered, “a rubber raft can hold only so much, and they didn’t want to leave the bones and so forth unguarded
on the Formula while they went back for a second trip.”

Beth nodded and said, “So they decided to get rid of what they’d already recovered and come back for the main treasure some
other time.”

“Right. Probably that very night, if the temporary clove hitch was an indication.” I added, “They had to pass Tobin’s house
on Founders Landing on the way back to their house. I have no doubt they pulled into his boathouse, maybe intending to leave
the bones, the rotted sea chest, and the four coins—as a sort of souvenir of the find—at his house. When they saw that the
Whaler was gone, they figured Tobin was gone, so they continued on to their house.”

“Where they surprised Tobin.”

“Right. He’d already ransacked their house to simulate a burglary, as well as to see if the Gordons were holding out on any
treasure.”

“Also, he’d want to see if there was any incriminating evidence in their house linking them to him.”

“Exactly. So the Gordons pull into their dock, and maybe it’s at this point that they raise the flags signaling Dangerous
Cargo, Need Assistance.” I added, “I’m sure they’d raised the Jolly Roger in the morning, signaling to Tobin that this was,
indeed, the day as agreed. Calm seas, no rain, and a lot of confidence and good vibes, or whatever.”

“And when the Gordons pulled into their dock, Tobin’s Whaler was in the wetlands nearby.”

“Yes.” I thought a minute and said, “We’ll probably never know what happened next—what was said, what Tobin thought was in
the chest, what the Gordons thought Tobin was up to. At some point, all three of them knew that their partnership had ended.
Tobin knew he’d never have another opportunity to murder his partners. So … he raised his gun, pressed on the handle of the
air horn, and squeezed on the trigger of his pistol. The first round hits Tom in the forehead at close range, Judy screams
and turns toward her husband and the second round hits her in the side of the head…. Tobin stops squeezing the air horn. He
opens the aluminum chest and sees that there isn’t much gold or jewels in it. He figures the rest of the loot is on board
the
Spiro-chete,
and he goes down to the boat and searches it. Nothing there. He realizes he’s killed the geese that were supposed to deliver
the golden eggs. But all is not lost. He knows or believes that he can complete the job himself. Right?”

Beth nodded, thought a moment, then said, “Or, Tobin has another accomplice on the island.”

I said, “Indeed.” I added, “Then killing the Gordons is no big deal.”

We continued east through the passage, which is about four miles long and half a mile wide at its narrowest. It was definitely
dark now—no lights, no moon, and no stars, only an ink-black sea and a smoke-black sky. I could barely see the channel markers,
and if it weren’t for them, I’d have been totally lost and disoriented, and would have wound up on the rocks or shoals.

To our left, I saw a few lights onshore, and realized we were passing Greenport where there was obviously some emergency generator
lighting. I said to Beth, “Greenport.”

She nodded.

We both had the same thought, which was to make for this safe harbor. I pictured us in some bar at a traditional hurricane
party—candlelight and warm beer.

Somewhere to our right, though I couldn’t see it, was Dering Harbor on Shelter Island, and I knew there was a yacht club there
where I could put in. Greenport and Dering Harbor were the last of the big easily navigable ports before the open sea. I looked
at Beth and reminded her, “As soon as we clear Shelter Island, it’s going to get rough.”

She replied, “It’s rough
now.”
She shrugged, then said, “Let’s give it a shot. We can always turn back.”

I thought it was time to tell her about the fuel, and I said, “We’re low on gas and at some point out in Gardiners Bay, we
will reach that legendary point of no return.”

She glanced at the gas gauges and said, “Don’t worry about that. We’ll capsize long before then.”

“That sounds like some idiotic thing I’d say.”

She smiled at me, which was unexpected. Then she went below and came back with a lifesaver, meaning a bottle of beer. I said,
“Bless you.” The boat was banging around so badly, I couldn’t put the neck of the bottle to my lips without knocking my teeth
out, so I poured the beer into my upturned and open mouth, getting about half of it on my face.

Beth had a plastic-coated chart, which she spread out on the dashboard and said, “Coming up on our left over there is Cleeves
Point, and to the right over there is Hays Beach Point on Shelter Island. When we pass those points, we’re in this sort of
funnel between Montauk Point and Orient Point where the Atlantic weather blows right in.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“This is not funny.”

I took another swig of the beer, an expensive imported brand, which is what I’d expect from Fredric Tobin. I said, “I sort
of like the idea of stealing his boat and drinking his beer.”

Beth replied, “Which has been the most fun—wrecking his apartment or sinking his boat?”

“The boat is not sinking.”

“You ought to go look below.”

“I don’t have to—I can feel it in the helm.” I added, “Good ballast.”

“You’re a real sailor all of a sudden.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“Right. Go take a break, John. I’ll take the helm.”

“Okay.” I took the chart, gave the wheel to Beth, and went below.

The small cabin was awash in about three inches of water, which meant we were taking in more water than the bilge pumps could
handle. As I indicated, I didn’t mind a little water to add weight and ballast to make up for the lighter fuel tanks. It was
too bad the engine wouldn’t burn water.

I went into the head and retched about a pint of saltwater into the toilet. I washed the salt off my face and hands, and came
back into the cabin. I sat on one of the bench beds, studied the chart, and sipped my beer. My arms and shoulders ached, my
legs and hips ached, and my chest was heaving, though my stomach felt better. I stared at the chart for a minute or two, went
to the bar refrigerator and found another beer, which I carried topside along with the chart.

Beth was doing fine in the storm, which, as I said, wasn’t too bad here on the leeward side of Shelter Island. The seas were
high, but they were predictable, and the wind at sea level wasn’t so bad as long as the island sheltered us.

I looked out at the horizon and was able to see the black outline of the two points of land that marked the end of the safe
passage. I said to Beth, “I’ll take the wheel. You take the chart.”

“Okay.” She tapped the chart and said, “There’s some tricky navigating coming up. You have to stay to the right of Long Beach
Bar Lighthouse.”

“All right,” I replied. We exchanged places. As she sidestepped past me, she glanced toward the stern and let out a scream.