Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  “Okay, but aren’t those numbers that Kidd wrote to his wife solid evidence of something?”

  “Yes, they mean something. Yet even if they are map coordinates, navigation in those days was too primitive to pinpoint a spot on the ground with any accuracy. Especially longitude. An eight-digit coordinate of minutes and seconds can be hundreds of yards off using the methods available in 1699. Even today, with a satellite navigation device, you can be off by ten or twenty feet. If you’re digging for treasure, and you’re off by even twenty feet, you could be digging a lot of holes. I think the theory of grid coordinates has been put aside in favor of other theories.”

  “Such as?”

  She drew an exasperated breath, glanced around, and said, “Well, here—” She took the pencil and napkin and gave each number its corresponding letter in the alphabet and came up with DDAOFHAH. She said, “I think the last three letters are the key.”

  “H-A-H?”

  “Right. Hah, hah, hah. Get it?”

  “Hah, hah.” I studied the letters, frontwards and backwards, then turned the paper upside down and said, “Was Kidd dyslexic?”

  She laughed. “It’s no use, John. Better brains than mine and yours have been trying to decipher that for three hundred years. For all anyone knows, it’s a meaningless number. A joke. Hah, hah, hah.”

  “But why? … I mean, Kidd was in jail, charged with a hanging offense—”

  “Well, okay, it’s not meaningless, and it’s not a joke. Butit only made sense to Kidd and to his wife. She was able to visit him in jail a few times. They spoke. They were devoted to each other. He may have given her half a clue verbally, or another clue in a letter that’s since been lost.”

  This was interesting. Like the kind of thing I do, except this clue was three hundred years old. I asked her, “Any more theories?”

  “Well, the prevailing theory is that these numbers represent paces, which is the traditional method of pirates recording the location of their buried treasure.”

  “Paces?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paces from where?”

  “That’s what Mrs. William Kidd knew and you don’t.”

  “Oh.” I looked at the numbers. “That’s a lot of paces.”

  “Again, you have to know the personal code. It could mean”—she looked at the napkin—“forty-four paces in a direction of ten degrees, and sixty-eight paces in a direction of eighteen degrees. Or vice versa. Or, read it backwards. Who knows? It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the starting point.”

  “Do you think the treasure is buried under one of those oak trees? Captain Kidd’s Trees?”

  “I don’t know.” She added, “Either the treasure has been found and the person who found it didn’t advertise it to the world, or there was never any treasure, or it’s still buried and will stay buried forever.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I should go open my shop.” She crumpled the napkin and stuffed it in my shirt pocket. I paid the bill and we left. The diner was five minutes from the Peconic Historical Society where Emma had left her van. I pulled into the lot, and she gave me a quick peck on the cheek, like we were more than just lovers.

  She said, “See you at four. Whitestone Florist, Main Road, Mattituck.” She got out, hopped into her van, honked, waved, and pulled away.

  I sat in my Jeep awhile, listening to the local news. I would have gotten on the road, but I didn’t know where to go. In truth, I’d exhausted most of my leads, and I didn’t have an office where I could go and shuffle papers. I wasn’t going to get any calls from witnesses, forensics, and so forth. Very few people even knew where to send me an anonymous tip. In short, I felt like a private detective, though I wasn’t even licensed to do that.

  All things considered, however, I’d made some startling discoveries since meeting Emma Whitestone. If I had any doubts about why the Gordons had been murdered, that number, 44106818, which was in their chart book, should put the doubts to rest.

  On the other hand, even if it were true that Tom and Judy Gordon were treasure hunters—and I had no doubt they were, based on all the evidence—it didn’t necessarily follow that treasure hunting was what got them killed. What was the provable connection between their archaeological digs on Plum Island, and the bullets through their heads on their back deck?

  I called my answering machine. Two messages—one from Max, asking where to mail my one dollar check, and another call from my boss, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, again strongly urging me to call his office and indicating that I was in deep doo-doo and sinking fast.

  I put the car in gear and drove. Sometimes it’s good to just drive.

  On the radio, the news guy said, “An update on the double homicide of two Plum Island scientists in Nassau Point. The Southold Town police and the Suffolk County police have issued a joint statement.” The news guy—it sounded like Don from Tuesday morning—read the statement verbatim. Jeez, if we could get the network hotshots in the city to read our press releases without comment, we’d be in public relations heaven. The joint statement was a hot air balloon with no one in the gondola except two dead bodies. The statement stressed the theft of Ebola vaccine as a motive. A separate statement from the FBI said that they didn’t know if the perpetrators were foreign or domestic, but they were pursuing some good leads. The World Health Organization expressed concern over the theft of this “vital and important vaccine” that was desperately needed in many Third World countries. And so forth.

  The thing that really pissed me off was that the official version of what happened had the effect of branding Tom and Judy as cynical, heartless thieves: first they stole their employer’s time and resources, then when they secretly developed a vaccine, they stole the formula and presumably some samples, and intended to sell it for a huge profit. Meanwhile, people in Africa were dying by the thousands of this horrible disease.

  I could picture Nash, Foster, the four suit guys I’d seen coming off the ferry, and a bunch of White House and Pentagon spin-control types burning up the phone lines between Plum Island and D.C. As soon as everyone learned that the Gordons were involved with genetically altered vaccines, then the perfect cover story presented itself to these geniuses. To be fair, they wanted to avoid panic about plague, but I’d bet my potential three-quarter lifetime disability pension that not one person in Washington considered the Gordons’ reputations or their families when they concocted the story branding them as thieves.

  The irony, if there was an irony here, was that Foster, Nash, and the government were undoubtedly still convinced that the Gordons stole one or more biological warfare diseases. The Washington insiders, from the president on down through the chain of command, were still sleeping with bio-containment suits over their jammies. Good. Screw them.

  I stopped at a deli in Cutchogue and bought a container of coffee and a bunch of newspapers—the New York Times,the Post, the Daily News, and Long Island’s Newsday. In all four papers, the Gordon story had been relegated to a few inches on the inside pages. Even Newsday didn’t give the local murder much attention. I’m sure a lot of people in Washington were happy that the story was fading. And so was I. It gave me as much of a free hand as it gave them.

  And while Foster, Nash, and Company were looking for foreign agents and terrorists, I’d followed my hunch and gone with my feelings about Tom and Judy Gordon. I was happy and not too surprised to discover that what I’d thought all along was true—this was not about biological warfare, or about narcotics, or anything illegal. Well, not too illegal.

  Anyway, I still didn’t know who murdered them. Equally important, I knew they were not criminals, and I intended to give them their reputations back.

  I finished the coffee, threw the newspapers in the back seat, and got on the road. I drove up to the Soundview, a 1950s waterfront motel. I went into the office and inquired after Messrs. Foster and Nash. The young man behind the desk said the gentlemen I was describing had both checked out already.

>   I drove around—I hesitate to say aimlessly, but if you don’t know where you’re going or why, you’re either a government employee or you’re aimless.

  Anyway, I decided to drive to Orient Point. It was another nice day, a bit cooler and breezier, but pleasant.

  I drove to the Plum Island ferry station. I wanted to check out the cars in the lot, see if there was any unusual activity, and maybe see if I ran into anyone interesting. When I pulled into the facility and approached the gate, a Plum Island security guard stepped into my path and held up his hand. Softie that I am, I didn’t run him over. He came around to my window and asked me, “Can I help you, sir?”

  I held up my shield case and said, “I’m working with the FBI on the Gordon case.”

  He studied the shield and ID closely, and I watched his face. Clearly, I was on this man’s short list of saboteurs, spies, and perverts, and he wasn’t very cool about it. He stared at me a moment, cleared his throat, and said, “Sir, if you’ll pull over here, I’ll get you a pass.”

  “Okay.” I pulled to the side. I hadn’t expected a security guy at the gate, though I should have. The guy went into the brick building, and I continued on into the parking lot. I have a problem with authority.

  The first thing I noticed was that there were two military humvees parked at the ferry slip. I could see two uniformed men in each humvee, and as I got closer, I was able to identify them and the humvees as Marine Corps. I hadn’t seen a single military vehicle on Plum Island Tuesday morning, but the world had changed since then.

  I also spotted a big black Caprice that could have been the one I’d seen Tuesday with the four suit guys in it. I noted the license plate number.

  Then, riding around through the hundred or so parked cars, I saw a white Ford Taurus with rental plates, and I was pretty certain this could be the car that Nash and Foster drove. Big doings at Plum Island today.

  Neither ferry was in the slip or on the horizon, and except for the Marines waiting to drive their humvees onto an arriving ferry, there was no one around.

  Except, when I looked in my sideview mirror, I saw four—count ’em, four—blue uniformed security guards running toward me, waving and hollering. Obviously I’d misunderstood the gate guard. Oh, dear.

  I drove my vehicle toward the four guards. I could hear them now yelling, “Stop! Stop!” Fortunately, they weren’t going for their guns.

  I wanted the report to Messrs. Foster and Nash to be entertaining, so I drove in circles around the four guards, waving back at them, and yelling to them, “Stop! Stop!” I did a couple of figure eights, then, before anyone closed the steel gate or got crazy with the guns, I drove toward the exit. I cut hard left onto Main Road and hit the gas, heading back west. No one fired. That’s why I love this country.

  Within two minutes, I was on the narrow strip of land that connects Orient to East Marion. The Sound was to my right, the bay to my left, and lots of birds were in between. Atlantic Coastal Flyway. You learn something new every day.

  Suddenly, this big white gull came in at me from twelve o’clock high. It was a beautifully timed and executed flight, a long steep dive, followed by a slight flare-out which resulted in a more shallow dive, then a pull-out and climb; then with perfect timing, he let loose his payload, which splattered purple and green across my windshield. It was that kind of day.

  I hit the windshield wipers, but the washer reservoir was empty, and I had this stuff smeared across my field of vision. Yuck, yuck. I pulled over. “Damn.” Ever resourceful, I got my expensive bottle of Tobin Merlot out of the back seat, and got my trusty Swiss Army knife with the corkscrew from the glove compartment. I opened the wine and poured some of the Merlot over the windshield as the wipers swept back and forth. I drank a little of the wine. Not bad. I poured more on the windshield, then drank some more. A guy in a passing car honked and gave me a wave. Fortunately, the bombload was made up of pretty much what the wine was made of and the windshield was reasonably clean, except for a purple film. I finished the bottle and threw it in the back seat.

  On my way again. I thought about Emma Whitestone. I’m the kind of guy who always sends flowers the next day. However, sending flowers to a florist might be redundant. For all I knew, my FTD order would go through her. She’d make up the bouquet and hand it to herself. Enough silliness, as Emma would say. I needed a gift for her. A bottle of Tobin wine was also not appropriate. I mean, what with them being ex-lovers and all. And, she had access to all the local handicrafts and gift shop junk she’d ever need. Jeez, this one had me stumped. I hate to buy jewelry or clothes for women, but maybe that’s what I had to do.

  Back on Main Road, I stopped at a service station and got gas. I also filled my windshield washer reservoir, washed my windshield, and invested in a local map.

  I took the opportunity to scope out the road to see if anyone was parked nearby, watching me. It didn’t appear that I was being followed, and I’m good at spotting a tail, the incident on West 102nd Street notwithstanding.

  I didn’t think I was in any danger, yet I considered going home for my piece, then decided against it.

  Armed now with nothing more than a map and my superior intellect, I headed north, up to the bluffs. With some difficulty, I finally found the right dirt road that led to the right bluff. I parked, got out, and climbed to the top of the bluff.

  This time, I poked around through the underbrush and the sawgrass. I found the rock I’d sat on and noted that it was big enough to be used as a point of reference if you were going to bury something.

  I went to the edge of the bluff. It was obvious that a good deal of erosion must have taken place over the last three hundred years so that something buried on the north side— the Sound side—of the bluff might well have been exposed by wind and water, and maybe tumbled down onto the beach. I was putting this together now.

  I came down from the bluff and got in my Jeep. Using my new map, I made my way to the west side of Mattituck Inlet. And there it was—no, not Captain Kidd’s Trees, but a sign that said “Captain Kidd Estates.” Apparently some subdivider had a marketing dream. I drove into Captain Kidd Estates, a small collection of 1960s ranches and Cape Cods. A kid—no pun intended—was riding by on his bicycle, and I stopped and asked him, “Do you know where Captain Kidd’s Trees are?”

  The boy, about twelve, didn’t reply.

  I said, “There’s supposed to be a place near the inlet where there are a bunch of trees called Captain Kidd’s Trees.”

  He looked at me, looked at my four-wheel drive, and I guess I struck him as an Indiana Jones type, because he asked me, “You gonna look for the treasure?”

  “Oh … no, I just want to take a picture of the trees.”

  “He buried his treasure chest under one of those trees.”

  It seemed like everyone but me was hip to this. That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention. I said to the lad, “Where are the trees?”

  “My friends and me dug a big hole once, before the cops chased us away. The trees are in a park, so you can’t dig there.”

  “I just want to take a few pictures.”

  “If you wanna dig, I’ll watch for the cops.”

  “Okay. Lead on.”

  I followed the boy on his bike to a winding lane that led downhill to the Sound and ended at a beach park where a few young mothers sat with toddlers in strollers. To the right was the Mattituck Inlet and a marina farther up the inlet. I pulled off to the side and got out. I didn’t see any large oaks, only a field of brush and scrub trees across the lane. The field was bordered by the beach on the north and by the inlet on the east. Across the field, to the west, I could see a bluff descending to the water. On the south from where I’d come was a rise of land which were the Captain Kidd Estates.

  The boy asked me, “Where’s your shovel?”

  “I’m just taking pictures.”

  “Where’s your camera?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billy. What’s yours
?”

  “Johnny. Is this the right place?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are Captain Kidd’s Trees?”

  “There. In the park.”

  He pointed to the big field. It was apparently an undeveloped piece of parkland, part of the beach park, more a nature preserve than what my Manhattan mind thought of as a park. Still, I saw no towering oaks. I said to him, “I don’t see the trees.”

  “There.” He pointed out to me all the scrub oak, wild cherry, and other assorted trees, none taller than twenty feet high. He said, “See that big one there? That’s where me and Jerry dug. We’re gonna go back some night.”

  “Good idea. Let’s take a look.”

  Billy dropped his bike in the grass, and my new partner and I walked onto the field. The grass was high, but the bushes were widely spaced and the walking was easy. Obviously, Billy hadn’t paid attention in earth science class or he’d have known that these few trees weren’t three and four hundred years old. In fact, I really hadn’t expected to see hundred-foot-high oaks with skulls and crossbones carved in them.

  Billy said, “Do you have a shovel in your car?”

  “No, I’m just scoping it out for now. Tomorrow we’re coming back with bulldozers.”

  “Yeah? If you find the treasure, you have to share.”

  In my best pirate accent, I said, “If I find the treasure, me lad, I’ll cut the throats of all who ask for their share.”