“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—m
aybe 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?”
“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.
Plum Island Page 52