Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.” I turned toward the Sound and lowered myself into a sitting position, my feet dangling over the ledge. “This is nice. Have a seat.”

  “I’m getting cold.”

  “Here, you can have my T-shirt.”

  “No, it smells.”

  “You’re no petunia yourself.”

  “I’m tired, I’m dirty, my pantyhose are ripped, and I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “This is romantic.”

  “It could be. But it’s not now.” She stood, grabbed the rope, and walked up to the crest. I waited until she got to the top, then followed.

  Beth coiled the rope and put it back at the base of the tree as she’d found it. She turned, and we found ourselves face-to-face, about a foot apart. It was one of those awkward moments, and we stood for exactly three seconds, then I put my hand out and brushed her hair, then her cheek. I moved in for the big smooch, confident we were about to lock lips, but she stepped back and uttered the magic word that all modern American men have been Pavloved to respond to. “No.”

  I immediately jumped back six feet, and I clasped my hands behind my back. My little woody dropped like a dead tree, and I exclaimed, “I mistook your friendly banter for a sexual come-on. Forgive me.”

  Actually, that’s not exactly what happened. She did say “no,” but I hesitated, a look of abject disappointment on my face, and she said, “Not now,” which is good, then “maybe later,” which was better, then “I like you,” which was best.

  I said, “Take your time,” which I sincerely meant, as long as she didn’t take more than seventy-two hours, which is sort of my limit. Actually, I’ve waited longer.

  We didn’t say anything else about that, but walked down the landward side of the bluff and got into the black PD.

  She started the car, threw it into gear, then put it back into park, and leaned over and kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek, then into gear again and off we went, raising dust.

  A mile later, we were on Middle Road. She had a good sense of direction and headed back to Nassau Point without my help.

  She saw an open service station, and we both used the respective lavs to freshen up, as they say. I couldn’t remember the last time I looked this dirty. I’m a pretty dapper guy on the job, a Manhattan dandy in tailor-made suits. I felt like a kid again, dirty Johnny rooting around the Indian burial sites.

  In the service station office, I bought some really gross snacks—beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears. Out in the car, I offered some to Beth, who refused. I said, “If you chew this all together, it tastes like a Thai dish called Sandang Phon. I discovered that by accident.”

  “I hope so.”

  We drove a few minutes. The combo of beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears actually tasted awful, but I was starving, and I wanted that dust out of my throat. I asked Beth, “What do you think? I mean, about the bluff?”

  She thought a moment, then replied, “I think I would have liked the Gordons.”

  “You would have.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “Yeah … I mean, we weren’t best buddies … I only knew them a few months, but they were good people, full of fun and life. They were too young to have ended their lives like that.”

  She nodded.

  We drove across the causeway onto Nassau Point. It was getting dark.

  She said, “My brain is telling me this piece of land is what it appears to be. A romantic retreat, a place to call their own. They were Midwesterners, they probably came from land, and they found themselves here as tenants in a place where land means a lot, like where they came from…. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And yet….”

  “Yes. And yet…. And yet, they could have saved themselves about twenty Gs if they’d leased for five years.” I added, “They had to own the land. Think about that.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  We wound up at the house where the Gordons had lived, and Beth pulled up behind my Jeep. She said, “It was a long day.”

  “Come back to my place. Follow me.”

  “No, I’m going home tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no reason to be here twenty-four hours a day any longer, and the county won’t pay for the motel.”

  “Stop at my place first. I have to give you the computer printouts.”

  “They’ll wait until tomorrow.” She said, “I need to go to the office tomorrow morning. Why don’t I meet you tomorrow about five o’clock?”

  “My place.”

  “All right. Your place, five P.M. I’ll have some information by then.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t proceed until you see me,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Get your status straight with Chief Maxwell.”

  “Will do.”

  “Get some rest,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  “Get out of my car.” She smiled. “Go home. Really.”

  “I will. Really.” I got out of her car. She made a U-turn, waved, and drove off.

  I got into my Jeep, determined not to do anything that would make it speak French. Seat belt on, doors locked, emergency brake off. I started the engine and the car didn’t utter a peep.

  As I drove back to my bay farm estate, or farm bay estate, or whatever, I realized I hadn’t remembered to use the remote to start the vehicle. Well, what difference did it make? The new car bombs all exploded after about five minutes anyway. Besides, no one was trying to kill me. Well, someone had tried to kill me, but that had to do with something else. Quite possibly, that was random, or if it were planned, the shooters considered that I was out of action, and whatever I’d done to piss them off was avenged without me having to be actually dead. That’s the way the Mafia operated—if you survived, you were usually left alone. But these gentlemen who were blasting away at me looked decidedly Hispanic. And those hombres didn’t always consider the job done until you were planted.

  But that wasn’t my concern at the moment. I was more concerned about what was going on around here, whatever it was. I mean, here I am in a very peaceful part of the planet, trying to get my mind and body to heal, and right beneath the surface we have all sorts of weird crap going down. I kept thinking about that pig bleeding from its ears and nose and mouth…. I realized that people on that little island had discovered stuff that could exterminate almost every living thing on the planet.

  The convenient thing about biological warfare has always been easy deniability, and its untraceable origins. The entire culture of biological research and weapons development has always been permeated with lies, deception, and denial.

  I pulled into the driveway of Uncle Harry’s house. My tires crunched over the seashells. The house was dark, and when I shut off my headlights, the entire world fell into darkness. How do rural people live in the dark?

  I tucked my T-shirt in so as to free the butt of my .38. I didn’t even know if my piece had been tampered with— anyone who would tamper with a guy’s shorts would certainly tamper with his revolver. I should have checked before.

  Anyway, keys in my left hand, I opened the front door, my right hand ready to go for the gun. The gun should have been in my right hand, but men, even when completely alone, have to show balls. I mean, who’s looking? I guess I’m looking. You have balls, Corey. You’re a real man. The real man had a sudden urge to go tinkle, which I did in the bathroom off the kitchen.

  Without turning on any lights, I checked the answering machine in the den and saw I had ten messages; quite a lot for a fellow who had none the whole preceding week.

  Assuming that none of these messages would be particularly pleasant or rewarding, I poured a big, fat brandy from Uncle’s crystal decanter into Uncle’s crystal glass.

  I sat in Uncle’s recliner and sipped, vacillating between the message button, my bed, or another brandy. Another brandy
won a few more times, and I postponed coming to grips with the electronic horror of the telephone answering machine until I had a little buzz on.

  Finally, I hit the message button.

  “You have ten messages,” said the voice, agreeing with the message counter.

  The first message came at seven A.M. and was from Uncle Harry, who’d seen me on TV the night before but didn’t want to call so late, though he had no problem calling so early. Thankfully, I was already on my way to Plum Island at seven A.M.

  There were four similar messages: one from my parents in Florida, who hadn’t seen me on TV but had heard I was on TV; one from a lady named Cobi who I see now and then, and who may have wanted to be Cobi Corey for some reason; and then a call each from my siblings, Jim and Lynne, who are good about staying in touch. There would probably have been more calls about my brief TV appearance, but very few people had my number, and not everyone would recognize me since I had lost so much weight and looked terrible.

  There was no call from my ex-wife, who despite no longer loving me, wants me to know that she likes me as a person, which is odd because I’m not that likable. Lovable, yes; likable, no.

  Then there was my partner, Dom Fanelli, who called at nine A.M. and said, “Hey, you hump, I saw your mug on the morning news. What the hell are you doing out there? You got two Pedros looking for your ass, and you show up on TV, and now everyone knows you’re out east. Why don’t you put your poster in the Colombian post office? Jesus, John, I’m trying to find these guys before they find you again. Anyway, more good news—the boss is wondering what the hell you’re doing at a crime scene. What’s going on out there? Who iced those two? Hey, she was a looker. You need help? Give a call. Keep your pee-pee in the teepee. Ciao.”

  I smiled. Good old Dom. A guy I could count on. I still remember him standing over me as I lay bleeding in the street. He had a half-eaten donut in one hand and his piece in the other. He took another bite of the donut and said to me, “I’ll get them, John. I swear to God, I’ll get the bastards who killed you.”

  I remember informing him I wasn’t dead, and he said he knew that, but I probably would be. He had tears in his eyes, which made me feel terrible, and he was trying to talk to me while chewing the donut, and I couldn’t understand him, then the pounding started in my ears and I blacked out.

  Anyway, the next call came at nine-thirty A.M. and was from the New York Times, and I wondered how they knew who I was and where I was staying. Then the voice said, “You can have the paper delivered to your door daily and Sunday as a new subscriber for only $3.60 weekly for thirteen weeks. Please call us at 1-800-631-2500, and we’ll begin service immediately.”

  “I get it at the office. Next.”

  Max’s voice came over the speaker and said, “John, for the record, you’re no longer employed by the Southold Township PD. Thanks for your help. I owe you a buck, but I’d like to buy you a drink instead. Call me.”

  “Screw you, Max.”

  The next call was from Mr. Ted Nash, CIA super-spook. He said, “I just want to remind you that a murderer or murderers are on the loose, and you may be a target. I thoroughly enjoyed working with you, and I know we’ll meet again. Take care of yourself.”

  “Fuck you, Ted.” I mean, if you’re going to threaten me, at least have the balls to come out and say it, even if it is being recorded.

  There was one more message on the machine, but I hit the stop button before it played, then I dialed the Soundview and asked for Ted Nash. The clerk, a young man, said there was no one there registered by that name. I asked, “How about George Foster?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Beth Penrose?”

  “She just checked out.” I described Nash and Foster to the clerk, and he said, “Yes, there are two gentlemen here that fit that description.”

  “They still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell the bigger guy, the one with the curly black hair, that Mr. Corey got his message and that he should heed his own warning. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Also, tell him I said he should go fuck himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hung up and yawned. I felt like crap. I probably had gotten three hours sleep in the last forty-eight. I yawned again.

  I hit the play button, and the final message came on. Beth’s voice said, “Hi, I’m calling from the car…. I just wanted to say thanks for your help today. I don’t know if I said that…. Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you, and if somehow we don’t get together tomorrow—I may not get out that way—lots of office stuff and reports—well, I’ll call either way. Thanks again.”

  The machine said, “End of messages.”

  I played the last one again. The call had come not ten minutes after I’d left her, and her voice sounded distinctly formal and distant. In fact, it was a brush-off. I had this totally paranoid thought that Beth and Nash had become lovers and were at that moment in his room having wild, passionate sex. Get a grip, Corey. Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make horny.

  I mean, what else could go wrong? I spend the day in biocontainment, and I’m probably infected with bubonic plague, I’m probably in trouble back on the job, Pedro and Juan know where I am, Max, my bud, fires me, then a CIA guy threatens my life for no reason … well, he may have had an imagined reason—and then my true love takes a powder, and I’m picturing her with her legs wrapped around bozo boy. Plus, Tom and Judy, who liked me, are dead. And it was only nine P.M.

  The idea of a monastery suddenly popped into my head. Or better yet, a month in the Caribbean, following my big friend Peter Johnson from island to island.

  Or, I could stay here and tough it. Revenge, vindication, victory, and glory. That’s what John Corey was about. Furthermore, I had something no one else had—I had a half-assed idea of what this was about.

  I sat in the dark, quiet den and for the first time all day, I was able to think without interruption. My mind had a whole bunch of things on hold, and now I started to put them together.

  As I stared out the dark window, those little pings in my head were making white dots on the black screen, and the image was starting to take shape. I was far from seeing the complete picture let alone any of the details, but I could make a good guess about this thing’s size, shape, and direction. I needed a few more points of light, a half dozen little pings, and then I would have the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon were murdered.

  CHAPTER 16

  Morning sunlight streamed into my second-floor bedroom windows, and I was happy to be alive; happy to discover that the bloody dead pig on the pillow beside me had been a bad dream. I listened for the sounds of birds just to be sure I wasn’t the only living creature on earth. A gull squawked somewhere over the bay. Canada geese were honking on my lawn. A dog barked in the distance. So far, so good.

  I arose, showered, shaved, and so forth, and made a cup of freeze-dried microwave coffee in the kitchen.

  I had spent the night thinking, or, as we say in the biz, engaged in deductive reasoning. I had also made callbacks to Uncle Harry, parents, siblings, and Dom Fanelli, but not to the New York Times or to Max. I told everyone that the person on TV was not me, and that I had not seen the news show or shows in question; I said that I had spent the night watching Monday Night Football in the Olde Towne Taverne—which is what I should have done—and I had witnesses. Everyone bought it. I hoped my commanding officer, the aforementioned Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, would also buy it.

  Also, I told Uncle H that Margaret Wiley had the hots for him, but he seemed uninterested. He informed me, “Dickie Johnson and I were born together, grew up together, had lots of women together, and got old together, but he died before me.”

  How depressing. Anyway, I called Dom Fanelli, but he was out, and I left a message with his wife, Mary, whom I used to get along with until I got married, but Mary and Ex didn’t like each other at all. Neither my divorce nor my getting shot had made Mary and me buddies again. It
’s weird. I mean, with partners’ wives. It’s a bizarre relationship at best. Anyway, I said to Mary, “Tell Dom that wasn’t me on TV. A lot of people made the same mistake.”

  “Okay.”

  “If I die, it’s the CIA who did it. Tell him.”

  “Okay.”

  “There may be people on Plum Island who are also trying to kill me. Tell him that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell him to talk to Sylvester Maxwell, chief of police out here, if I die.”

  “Okay.”

  “How’re the kids?”

  “Okay.”

  “Gotta run. My lung is collapsing.” I hung up.

  Well, at least I was on record, and if my phone was tapped by the Feds, it’s good for them to hear me tell people that I think the CIA is trying to kill me.

  Of course, I didn’t really think that. Ted Nash, personally, would like to kill me, but I doubted if the Agency would approve capping a guy just because he was a sarcastic prick. Point was, though, if this thing had to do with Plum Island in some significant way, then it wouldn’t surprise me if a few more bodies did turn up.

  Last night, while I made my phone calls, I checked out my piece and ammo with a flashlight and magnifying glass. Everything looked okay. Paranoia’s kind of fun if it doesn’t eat up too much time and doesn’t get you off the track. I mean, if you’re having a routine day, you can make believe someone’s trying to kill you, or otherwise fuck you up, then you can play little games, like using the remote car ignition, imagining someone’s tapped your phone, or tampered with your weapon. Some crazy people make up imaginary friends who tell them to kill people. Other crazy people make up imaginary enemies who are trying to kill them. The latter, I think, is a little less crazy and a lot more useful.

  Anyway, I had spent the rest of the night going through the Gordons’ financial records again. It was that or Jay Leno.

  I had looked closely at May and June of the previous year to see how the Gordons had financed their one-week vacation in England after their business trip. I noticed now that the Visa card in June was slightly higher than usual and so was their Amex. A small bump in a usually smooth road. Also, their phone bill last June was about a hundred dollars higher than usual, indicating perhaps long-distance activity in May. Also, I had to assume they’d taken cash or traveler’s checks with them, yet there were no unusual cash withdrawals. This was the first and only indication that there was outside cash available to the Gordons. People with illegal income often buy thousands of dollars in traveler’s checks, go out of the country, and blow it out big time. Or maybe the Gordons knew how to do England on twenty dollars a day.