Plum Island (68 page)

Beth dropped down and clung to the base of her chair.

The wave propelled us like a surfboard on its hanging crest with such force that the eight-thousand-pound Formula, filled
with thousands more pounds of water, acted like a reed basket caught in a raging river. I had anticipated an amphibian-type
landing, but this was going to be an airborne drop.

As we hurtled toward the beach, I had the presence of mind to switch off the engines so that if we actually survived the landing,
the Formula wouldn’t explode, assuming there was any fuel left. I was also concerned about the twin props chopping our heads
off. “Hold on!” I yelled.

“No shit!” she replied.

We came down bow first onto the wave-washed beach. The Formula rolled to the side, and we both jumped clear of the boat, just
as another wave came crashing in. I found a rock outcropping and wrapped my arm around it as my free hand found Beth’s wrist.
The wave broke and receded, and we stood and ran like hell for the higher ground, Beth holding her side where she’d been hit.

We came to the face of an eroded bluff and began scrambling up it, the wet sand, clay, and iron oxide falling away in great
chunks. Beth said, “Welcome to Plum Island.”

“Thank you.” Somehow, we got to the top of the bluff and collapsed on the high ground. We lay in the grass for a full minute.
Then I sat up and looked down at the beach. The Formula was capsized, and I could see that its white hull was split open.
The boat rolled again as the backwash took it out to sea, and then it righted itself for a minute, then capsized again and
another wave took it toward the beach. I said to Beth, “I wouldn’t want to be in that boat.”

She replied, “No, and I also don’t want to be on this island.”

“Out of the fire,” I said, “and into the frying pan.”

“You bug me,” she replied.

“There’s an idea for a T-shirt,” I suggested. “I got bugged on Plum Island. Get it?”

“Would you mind shutting up for about five minutes?”

“Not at all.”

In fact, I welcomed the relative silence after hours of wind, rain, and ship’s engines. I could actually hear my heart thumping,
the blood pounding in my ears, and my lung wheezing. I could also hear a little voice in my head saying, “Beware of little
men with big rifles.”

W
e sat in the grass, sort of collecting ourselves and catching our breaths. I was wet, tired, cold, and banged up, plus my
punctured lung ached. I’d lost my boating shoes, and I noticed that Beth, too, was barefoot. On the positive side, we were
alive, and I still had my .38 in my shoulder holster. I drew the revolver and made sure the one remaining round was next in
line to fire. Beth was patting her pockets and she announced, “Okay … got mine.”

We still had on our slickers and life vests, but I noticed that Beth had lost the binoculars around her neck.

We watched the sea and the eerie swirling of the towering clouds around the eye of the storm. It was still raining, but it
wasn’t a hard, driving rain. When you’re drenched to the bones, a little rain is no big deal. My concern was hypothermia if
we sat still too long.

I looked at Beth and asked, “How’s that cut on your forehead?”

“It’s okay.” She added, “I soaked it in saltwater.”

“Good. How about your bullet wound?”

“It’s just terrific, John.”

“And all your other cuts and bruises?”

“Every one of them is feeling great.”

I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in her voice. I stood and felt very wobbly.

Beth asked me, “Are
you
okay?”

“I’m fine.” I reached down, and she took my hand and pulled herself to her feet. “Well,” I said, mixing clichés, “we’re out
of the frying pan, but not out of the woods.”

She said to me in a serious tone, “I think Tom and Judy Gordon would be proud of your seamanship.”

I didn’t reply. There was another unspoken sentence hanging there, and it was something like, “Emma would be pleased and flattered
to see what you’ve done for her.”

Beth said, “I think we should head back in the direction of the Gut and find the main lab.”

I didn’t reply.

She continued, “We can’t miss the lights. We’ll get the Plum Island security force to help us. I’ll put in a telephone call
or radio call to my office.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

She looked at me. “John?”

I said, “I did not come this far to run to Paul Stevens for help.”

“John, we’re not in great shape, and we have about five bullets between us and no shoes. Time to call the cops.”

“You can go to the main building if you want. I’m going to find Tobin.” I turned and began walking east along the bluff, toward
where we’d seen Tobin’s boat anchored about a half mile farther down the beach.

She didn’t call after me, but a minute later, she was walking beside me. We continued on in silence. We kept our life vests
on, partly for warmth, partly, I guess, because you just never know when you’re going to wind up back in the drink.

The trees came right up to the eroded bluff and the underbrush was thick. Without shoes, we stepped gingerly and were not
making good time.

The wind was calm in the eye of the storm, and the air was very still. I could actually hear birds chirping. I knew that the
air pressure was extremely low here in the eye, and though I’m not usually barometer sensitive, I did feel sort of … edgy,
I guess, maybe a bit cranky, too. In fact, maybe pissed off and murderous was what I felt.

Beth spoke to me in a sort of hushed tone and asked, “Do you have a plan?”

“Of course.”

“What’s the plan, John?”

“The plan is to stay loose.”

“Great plan.”

“Right.” There was some moonlight coming through the smoky clouds, and we could see about ten feet in front of us. Despite
that, walking along the edge of the bluff was a little treacherous because of the erosion, so we cut inland and found the
gravel road that Paul Stevens’ tour bus had taken to the east end of the island. The narrow road was clogged with uprooted
trees and fallen limbs, so we didn’t have to worry about a motor patrol surprising us.

We rested on a fallen tree trunk. I could see our breaths fogging in the damp air. I took off my life vest and slicker, then
my shoulder holster and polo shirt. I managed to rip the polo shirt in half, and I wrapped both pieces around Beth’s feet.
I said, “I’m taking off my undershorts. Don’t peek.”

“I won’t peek. Mind if I stare?”

I got my tight, wet jeans off, then my shorts, which I ripped in two.

Beth said, “Boxers? I took you for a Jockey guy.”

Ms. Penrose seemed in a playful mood for some reason. Post-trauma survivor euphoria, I guess. I tied the pieces of cloth around
my feet.

Beth said, “I’d donate my panties, but they were so wet when I changed on the boat, I didn’t bother to put them back on. Do
you want my shirt?”

“No, thanks. This is okay.” I pulled my jeans back on, then the shoulder holster against my bare skin, then the slicker, then
the life vest. I was so cold now, I was starting to shiver.

We checked Beth’s bullet wound, which was seeping some blood but otherwise seemed all right.

We continued on along the dirt road. The sky was darkening again, and I knew the eye was traveling north and we’d soon be
in the back end of the storm, which would be as violent as the leading edge had been. I whispered to Beth, “This is about
where Tobin anchored. Careful and quiet from here on.”

She nodded, and we both moved north, off the trail and through the woods back down to the edge of the bluff. And sure enough,
about fifty yards off-shore was the Chris-Craft, and I could see it straining in the swells against two anchor lines that
Tobin had set fore and aft. In the dim light, we could see the Whaler on the beach below, so we knew Tobin had come ashore.
In fact, there was a line from the Whaler that ran up the bluff and was tied to a tree right near where we were crouched.

We remained motionless, listening and peering into the darkness. I was fairly certain Tobin had struck off for the interior
of the island, and I whispered to Beth, “He’s off to find the treasure.”

She nodded and said, “We can’t track him. So we’ll wait here for him to return.” She added, “Then I’ll arrest him.”

“Miss Goody-Two-Shoes.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, Ms. Penrose, that one does not
arrest
a person who has tried to kill you three times.”

“You are not going to kill him in cold blood.”

“Wanna bet?”

“John, I risked my life to help you on that boat. Now you owe me one.” She added, “I’m still assigned to this case, I’m a
cop, and we’ll do it my way.”

I didn’t see any reason to argue what was already decided in my mind.

Beth suggested we untie the line and let the waves take the Whaler out, thereby cutting off Tobin’s line of retreat. I pointed
out that if Tobin approached from the beach below, he’d see that the Whaler was gone and he’d be spooked. I said to Beth,
“Wait here and cover me.”

I grabbed the line and lowered myself the fifteen feet down to the Whaler onto the rocky beach. In the stern, I found the
plastic crate that I’d seen when the Whaler was in Tobin’s boathouse. There was an assortment of odds and ends in the crate,
though I noticed the air horn was gone. Fredric Tobin had probably figured out that I’d figured him out and he was ditching
little pieces of the puzzle. No matter—he wasn’t going to face a twelve-person jury.

Anyway, I found a pair of pliers, and I pulled out the shear pin that held the propeller to the drive shaft. I found some
spare pins in the crate and pocketed them. I also found a small fish scaling and fleshing knife in the crate, which I took.
I looked for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one on board the small boat.

I pulled myself up the bluff using the line, my underwear-wrapped feet digging into the sandy bluff. At the top, Beth reached
out and helped me up.

I said, “I took the shear pin out of the prop.”

She nodded. “Good. Did you save it in case we need it later?”

“Yes. I swallowed it. How stupid do I look?”

“You don’t
look
stupid. You do stupid things.”

“That’s part of my strategy.” I gave her the pins, and kept the knife.

Beth, to my surprise, said, “Look, I’m sorry for some of my nasty remarks. I’m a little tired and tense.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m cold. Can we … huddle?”

“Cuddle?”

“
Huddle
. You’re supposed to huddle to conserve body heat.”

“Right. I read that someplace. Okay….”

So, a little awkwardly, we huddled, or cuddled, with me sitting at the base of a big toppled tree trunk, and Beth sitting
across my lap, her arms wrapped around me, and her face buried in my chest. It
was
a little warmer that way, though in truth it wasn’t sensual or anything, given the circumstances. It was just human contact,
as well as teamwork and survival. We’d been through a lot together, and we were close to the end now, and we both sensed,
I think, that something had changed between us since Emma’s death.

Anyway, this was also very Robinson Crusoe, or Treasure Island, or whatever, and I guess I was sort of enjoying it as boys
of all ages enjoy matching themselves against man and nature. I had the distinct impression, though, that Beth Penrose was
not sharing my boyish enthusiasm. Women tend to be a little more practical and less likely to have fun splashing in the mud.
Also, I think, the hunt and the kill don’t appeal much to females. And that’s what this was really all about—hunt and kill.

So, we huddled there awhile, listening to the wind and the rain, and I watched the Chris-Craft roll and pitch in the waves,
straining at the anchor lines, and I kept an eye on the beach below, and we listened for footsteps in the woods.

Finally, after about ten minutes, we unhuddled and I stood and worked the stiffness out of my joints, noticing another, unexpected
stiffness in the old crankshaft.

I said to Beth, “I feel warmer.”

She sat at the base of the fallen tree, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees. She didn’t reply.

I said, “I’m trying to put myself in Tobin’s shoes.”

“At least he
has
shoes.”

“Right. Let’s say he’s making his way inland toward where the treasure is hidden. Right?”

“Why inland? Why not along the beach?”

“The treasure may have been originally found near the beach, maybe on one of these bluffs—maybe these are Captain Kidd’s Ledges—but
the Gordons would most likely move the loot out of the shaft or hole where they’d uncovered it, because the hole could easily
collapse and they’d have to dig again. Right?”

“Probably.”

“I think the Gordons hid the treasure somewhere in or around Fort Terry or maybe that maze of artillery fortifications that
we saw when we were here.”

“Possible.”

“So, assuming Tobin knows where it is, he now has to pack it out, through the woods and back here. It may take two or three
trips depending on how heavy the loot is. Right?”