Plum Island (69 page)

“Could be.”

“So, if I were him, I’d go get the loot, bring it back here, then get it down to the Whaler. I wouldn’t try to get the Whaler
back to the Chris-Craft in this weather, or try to transfer the treasure in those waves. Right?”

“Right.”

“So, he’s going to wait in the Whaler until the storm blows out, but he’d want to get moving before dawn, before the helicopter
and boat patrols get out and about. Right?”

“Right again. So?”

“So, we have to try to follow his trail and jump him as he’s recovering the loot. Right?”

“Right—no, not right. I don’t follow that line of reasoning.”

“It’s complicated, but logical.”

“It’s actually bullshit, John. Logic says we stay here. Tobin will be back here no matter what, and we’ll be waiting for him.”

“
You
can wait for him. I’m going to track down the son of a bitch.”

“No, you’re not. He’s better armed than you are, and I’m not giving you my piece.”

We looked at each other, and I said, “I’m going to find him. I want you to stay here, and if he shows up while I’m gone—”

“Then he’s probably killed you. Stay here, John. There’s safety in numbers.” She added, “Get rational.”

I ignored this and knelt beside her. I took her hand and said, “Go down to the Whaler. That way, you can see him if he comes
along the beach or if he goes down the rope. Take cover down there among the rocks. When he’s so close to you that you can
see him clearly in the dark, put the first round in his midsection, then move in fast and close and put a bullet in his head.
Okay?”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then she nodded. She smiled and said, “Then I say, ‘Freeze, police!”’

“Right. You’re learning.”

She drew her 9mm Glock and held it out to me. She said, “I only need one shot if he comes back here. Take this. It has four
rounds left. Give me yours.”

I smiled and said, “The metric system confuses me. I’ll stick with my real American .38 caliber six-shooter.”

“Five-shooter.”

“Right. I have to remember that.”

“Can I talk you out of this?”

“No.”

Well, a quick kiss might have been appropriate, but neither of us was in the mood, I guess. I did squeeze her hand and she
squeezed back, and I stood, turned, and walked through the trees, away from the windy bluff and away from Beth.

Within five minutes, I came to the gravel road again. Okay, I am Fredric Tobin now. I might have a compass, but whether or
not I do, I’m smart enough to know I should put a blaze mark of some kind on one of these trees to show me where I am on this
road relative to my landing spot on the beach.

I looked around and sure enough, I found a white length of cord tied between two trees about ten feet apart. I took this to
be Tobin’s compass heading, and though I had no compass, and no Empire State Building to guide me, it appeared that Tobin
had gone almost due south. I struck out through the trees, trying to maintain that heading.

In truth, if I hadn’t gotten lucky and hadn’t found anything to indicate where Tobin had gone, I might have turned back and
rejoined Beth. But I had this feeling—amounting to almost an assurance—that something was pulling and pushing me toward Fredric
Tobin and Captain Kidd’s treasure. I had a clear vision of me, Tobin, and the treasure all together, and in the shadows around
us were the dead—Tom and Judy, the Murphys, Emma, and Kidd himself.

The land rose and I soon found myself at the edge of a clearing. On the other side of the clearing, I could make out two small
buildings silhouetted against the dark horizon. I realized I was at the edge of the abandoned Fort Terry.

I searched around for a marker and found a length of rope hanging from a tree. This was Tobin’s exit point from the woods,
and it would be his entry point when he returned. Apparently, the inertial navigation system in my head was working fairly
well. If I was a migrating bird heading south, I’d be right on track to Florida.

It was no surprise that Tobin was heading to Fort Terry. Virtually all the roads and paths on Plum Island converged there,
and there were hundreds of good hiding places among the abandoned buildings and nearby artillery bunkers.

I knew if I waited right there, I’d be able to ambush him when he returned. But I was in more of a hunter-stalker mood than
a patient ambusher mood.

I waited a few minutes, trying to determine if anyone with a rifle was waiting for me on the far side of the clearing. From
a hundred war movies, I knew I wasn’t supposed to cross a clearing—I was supposed to go around. If I did that, though, I’d
either miss Tobin, or get myself lost. I had to go the route he’d gone. The rain was getting heavier and the wind was picking
up. I was miserable. I put my head back, opened my mouth, and got some fresh water on my face and down my throat. I felt better.

I entered the clearing and continued in a southerly direction across the open land. The cloth around my feet was in tatters
and my feet were sore and bleeding. I kept reminding myself that I was tougher than twinkle-toes Tobin, and that all I needed
was one bullet and a knife.

I approached the end of the field and saw that a thin tree-line separated the field from the large expanse of Fort Terry.
I had no way of knowing where he’d headed, and there’d be no further markings because the buildings were now his landmarks.
All I could do was press on.

I zigzagged from one building to another, looking for some sign of Tobin. After about ten minutes, I found myself near the
old headquarters building. I realized that I’d lost him, that he could have gone anywhere from here—south to the seal beach,
or west toward the main building, or east out onto the pork chop bone. Or, he could be waiting somewhere for me to get closer.
Or, I could have somehow missed him, as I’d done on the water, and he was behind me. Not good.

I decided to check out the rest of the buildings in the fort, and I began moving in a running crouch toward the chapel. All
of a sudden, I heard a gunshot ring out, and I dived to the ground. I stayed motionless as another shot rang out. They were
oddly muffled shots, not followed by a sharp crack, or by anything whistling over my head. I realized the shots weren’t meant
for me.

I sprinted to the side of the clapboard chapel and looked toward the direction where I thought the shots had come from. I
could see the fire station about fifty yards away, and it occurred to me that the shots were fired inside, which was why they
were muffled.

I started to move toward the firehouse, but hit the ground again as one of the big overhead doors began to open. It seemed
as if it was going up in short lurches, as if someone were opening it with a pulley rope, and I figured the electric power
was out here. In fact, in the upstairs windows, I saw a flickering light—candle or kerosene.

Anyway, before I had to decide what to do next, a big ambulance without any lights showing came out of the garage bay and
turned onto the road, heading east toward the narrow bone of land where the ruined artillery batteries were.

The ambulance had a high chassis and ran easily over the deadfall on the road. Soon, it disappeared in the dark.

I ran as quickly as I could barefoot toward the firehouse, drew my revolver, and dashed in through the open garage door. I
could make out three fire trucks in the garage.

I had been in the rain so long that the lack of rain felt sort of strange for about ten seconds, but I got used to it real
fast.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a fire pole toward the rear of the garage, and the flickering light from the bunkroom
upstairs filtered down through the hole in the ceiling. To the left of the pole, I saw a wide staircase. I went to the staircase
and climbed the creaky steps, my pistol out front. I knew there was no danger to me, and I knew what I was going to find.

At the top of the stairs was the bunkroom, lit by kerosene lamps. By the light of the lamps, I saw two men in their bunks,
and I didn’t have to get closer to see they were dead. That brought the known number of people murdered by Tobin to seven.
We definitely didn’t need a silly old trial to settle these scores.

Boots and socks sat at the side of each bed. I sat on a bench and pulled on a pair of heavy socks and a pair of vulcanized
rubber boots that fit well enough. There were lockers against the wall, and on another wall there were raincoats and sweatshirts
hanging on hooks. But I had on about as much of a dead man’s clothing as I wanted. Not that I’m superstitious.

There was a small, galley-type kitchen at the rear of the firehouse bunkroom and on the counter was a box of chocolate donuts.
I took one and ate it.

I went down the stairs and out to the road that ran east-west in front of the firehouse. I headed east, up the rising paved
road in the trail of the ambulance. Broken limbs and branches lay in the road where the ambulance had run over them.

I walked for about a half mile, and even in the dark, I recalled this road from Stevens’ tour. The rain was driving hard now,
and the wind was starting to rip branches from the trees again. Every now and then, I’d hear a crack that sounded like a rifle
shot and it made my heart skip a beat, but the sound came from limbs snapping off and falling through the trees.

The paved road was running with a torrent of water that was coming from the higher ground on both sides of the road. The drainage
ditches along the road were full and overflowing as I tried to fight my way uphill against the current and through the mudslides
and fallen limbs. This was definitely worse than slush in front of my condo. Nature is awesome. Sometimes, nature sucks.

Anyway, I wasn’t paying enough attention to my front because when I looked up, the ambulance sat right in front of me, no
more than fifteen feet away. I stopped dead, drew my pistol, and dropped to one knee. Through the rain, I could see that a
huge tree had toppled over and blocked the road in front of the ambulance.

The ambulance took up most of the narrow road and I edged around it to the left, knee-deep in the torrent of water from the
drainage ditch. I got to the driver’s side door and peeked inside, but there was no one in the cab.

I wanted to disable the vehicle, but the cab doors were locked, and the engine hood was latched from the inside.
Damn.
I crawled under the high chassis and drew my knife. I don’t know much about auto mechanics, and Jack the Ripper didn’t know
much about anatomy. I slashed a few hoses that turned out to be water and hydraulic, then for good measure, I cut a few electrical
wires. Reasonably certain I’d committed enginecide, I crawled out from under, and continued on, up the road.

I was in the midst of the artillery fortifications now, massive concrete, stone, and brick ruins, covered with vines and brush,
looking very much like the Mayan ruins I’d once seen in the rain forest outside of Cancún. In fact, that had been on my honeymoon.
This was no honeymoon. Neither was my honeymoon.

I stuck to the main road though I could see smaller lanes and concrete ramps and steps to my right and left. Obviously Tobin
could have taken any one of these passages into the artillery fortifications. I realized that I’d probably lost him. I stopped
walking and crouched beside a concrete wall that abutted the road. I was about to turn back, when I thought I heard something
in the distance. I kept listening, trying to still my heavy breathing, and I heard it again. It was a sharp, whiny noise,
and I finally recognized it as a siren. It was very far away and barely audible over the wind and rain. It came from the west,
a long, shrill sound, followed by a short blast, then a long sound again. It was obviously a warning siren, an electric horn,
and it was probably coming from the main building.

When I was a kid, I’d come to recognize an air raid siren, and this wasn’t it. Neither was it a fire signal or an ambulance
or police car siren, or a radiation leak signal, which I’d heard once in a police training film. So, partly by process of
elimination and partly because I’m not really stupid, I knew—though I’d never heard this signal before—that I was listening
to a warning siren for a biohazard leak. “Jesus …”

The electricity from the mainland was down and the backup generator near the main building must have died; the negative air
flow pumps had stopped and the electronic air filters were breached. “Mary …”

Somewhere, a big, battery-powered siren was putting out the bad news, and everyone who was pulling hurricane duty on the island
now had to suit up in biohazard gear and wait it out. I didn’t have any biohazard gear. Hell, I didn’t even have underwear.
“… and Joseph. Amen.”

I didn’t panic because I knew exactly what to do. This was just like in school when we went into the basement as the air raid
sirens wailed and the Russian missiles were supposed to be streaking toward Fiorello H. La Guardia High.

Well, maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that. The wind was blowing hard from the south to the north … or was it? Actually, the
storm was
tracking
north, but the
wind
was blowing in a counterclockwise direction, so that conceivably whatever the wind picked up at the main laboratory on the
west end of the island could wind up here on the eastern edge of the island. “Damn it.”

I crouched there in the rain and thought about all this—all these murders, all this chasing around through the storm and narrowly
escaping death and all that—and after all this mortal foolishness and silly vanity, greed and deceit, then the Grim Reaper
steps in and clears the board.
Poof
. Just like that.

I knew in my heart that if the generators conked out, then the entire lab was leaking everything it had inside into the outside
air. “I knew it! I knew this would happen!” But why today? Why did this happen on the second day of my whole life that I was
on this idiotic island?

Anyway, what I decided to do was run as fast as I could back to the beach, get Beth, get in the Whaler, get on the Chris-Craft,
and haul ass away from Plum Island, hoping for the best. At least we’d have a chance, and the Grim Reaper could take care
of Tobin for me.