Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  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.

  Another thought passed through my mind, but it wasn’t a nice thought—what if Beth, recognizing the warning siren for what it was, took the Whaler to the Chris-Craft and left? I mulled that over a moment, then decided that a woman who would jump aboard a small boat in a storm with me wouldn’t abandon me now. Yet … there was something about plague that was more terrifying than a storm-tossed sea.

  As I hurried down the sloping road toward the ambulance, I came to some realizations and conclusions: one, I’d come too far to run away now; two, I didn’t want to discover what Beth had decided; three, I had to find and kill Fredric Tobin; four, I was a dead man anyway. Suddenly ashamed at my loss of nerve, I turned back toward the fortifications to meet my fate. The siren continued to wail.

  As I approached the crest of the road, my eye caught a flash of light—a beam, actually, that brushed past the horizon to my right for a second, then disappeared.

  I explored the area around the side of the road and found a narrow brick lane that led through the vegetation. I could see that someone had been through there recently. I made my way through the tangle of brush and fallen branches, and finally came out into a sort of sunken courtyard, surrounded by concrete walls in which were iron doors that led to the underground ammunition storage areas. At the top of the circling hills, I could see the concrete artillery emplacements. I realized that I’d stood atop these emplacements on my last visit here and had looked down into this courtyard.

  Still crouched in the bushes, I peered across the open expanse of cracked concrete, but couldn’t see any movement and neither did I see the light again.

  Drawing my revolver and moving cautiously into the courtyard, I began working my way in a counterclockwise direction around the perimeter, keeping the lichen-covered concrete wall to my back.

  I came to the first of the big steel double doors in the concrete. They were closed, and I could tell by the hinges that they were outward-swinging doors. I could also see by the rubble and debris in front of them that they hadn’t been opened recently.

  I continued on around the perimeter of the courtyard, realizing I was a sitting duck, a dead duck, and a cooked duck if anyone was on the parapets overlooking this open space. I came to the second door and found the same thing as the first—old, rusted steel doors that apparently hadn’t been opened in decades.

  On the third wall of the courtyard, the south wall, one of the double doors was slightly ajar. The debris on the ground had been swept aside when the door had been opened. I peered into the four-inch crack, but couldn’t see or hear anything.

  I pulled the door toward me a few more inches and the hinges squeaked loudly. Damn it. I stood frozen and listened, but all I could hear was the wind and the rain, and the faraway cry of the siren telling everyone that the unimaginable had happened.

  I took a deep breath and slipped through the opening.

  I stood very still for a full minute, trying to sense what kind of place this was. Again, as in the firehouse, coming in out of the rain was a treat. I was pretty sure that was the end of the treats here.

  The place felt damp and smelled damp, like a place where there was no sunlight, ever.

  I moved quietly to my left for two long paces and came into contact with a wall. I felt the wall and determined that it was concrete and that it was curved. I took four paces in the opposite direction and again came to a curved concrete wall. I assumed I was in a tunnel such as the one we’d seen on our first trip here—the tunnel that led to the Roswell aliens or the Nazi laboratory.

  But I had no time for Nazis and no interest in aliens. I had to decide if this was where Tobin had gone. And if so, was he heading for the treasure? Or had he spotted me and led me into this trap? I didn’t really care what he was up to as long as he was here.

  I saw no flashlight ahead, just total blackness of the sort you get only underground. No human eyes could adjust to this darkness, so if Tobin were here, he’d have to turn on his flashlight to get me in his gun sights. And if he did that, my shot would go d
irectly along his beam of light. There would be no second shot in this situation.

  The rain slicker and rubber boots were making squeaky noises so I removed both along with my life vest. Clad now in a fashionable leather shoulder holster, jeans, sans underwear, and a fleshing knife stuck in my belt, and a dead man’s wool socks, I began walking in the pitch darkness, stepping high to avoid rubble or debris, or whatever. I thought about rats, bats, bugs, and snakes, but I pushed those thoughts right out of my head; rats and stuff weren’t my problem. The problem was anthrax in the air behind me, and a psycho with a gun in the dark somewhere in front of me.

  Hail Mary … I’ve always been very religious, actually, very devout. It’s just that I don’t talk or think about it much while things are okay. I mean, when I was lying in the gutter bleeding to death, it wasn’t that I called on God just because I was in trouble. It was more like it just seemed a convenient time and place to pray, what with nothing else going on at the moment…. Mother of God …

  My right foot stepped on something slippery, and I almost lost my balance. I went down into a crouch and felt around near my feet. I touched a cold metal object. I tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. I passed my hand over it and finally figured out that it was a rail embedded in the concrete floor. I remembered that Stevens had said there had once been a narrow-gauge railroad on the island that delivered munitions from the ships in the cove to the artillery batteries. Obviously, this was a rail tunnel that led to an ammunition storage room.

  I continued on, keeping my foot in contact with the rail. After a few minutes, I sensed the rail bending to the right, then felt something rough. I knelt and felt around. There was a switch here, and the rail split and veered right and left. Just when I thought Tobin and I were nearing the end of the line together, there’s a damned fork in the road. I remained kneeling and peered into the darkness in both directions, but I couldn’t see or hear anything. It occurred to me that if Tobin thought he was alone, he’d have his light on, or at least he’d be treading heavily and noisily. Since I couldn’t see or hear him, I made one of my famous deductions, and deduced that he knew he wasn’t alone. Or maybe he was just too far ahead of me. Or maybe he wasn’t even here…. pray for us sinners …

  I heard something to my right, like maybe a piece of concrete or a stone hitting the floor. I listened harder and heard what seemed like water. It occurred to me that this tunnel might have cave-ins with this rain … now, and at the hour …

  I stood and walked to the right, guided by the rail. The noise of falling water got louder, and the air got better.

  A few minutes later, I had the sense that the tunnel had ended and that I was in a bigger space—the ammunition magazine. In fact, my eyes were drawn upward and I could see a small piece of dark sky overhead. Rain fell through the hole and onto the floor. I could also make out a sort of scaffolding rising up to the hole, and I realized that this was the ammunition elevator where the shells were hoisted to the gun emplacements overhead. This, then, was the end of the line, and I knew that Tobin was here, and that he was waiting for me…. of our death. Amen.

  CHAPTER 36

  Fredric Tobin didn’t seem in a hurry to announce his presence, and I waited, listening to the dripping rain. After a while, I almost thought I was alone, but I could feel another presence in the room. An evil presence. Really.

  Very slowly, I moved my left hand to my waist and pulled out the fleshing knife.

  He knew, of course, that it was me; and I knew it was him and that he’d led me into this place that he intended to be my tomb.

  He also knew that as soon as he made a move, or a sound, or flipped on his flashlight, I’d fire. He understood that his first shot in the dark had better be his best shot because it was going to be his only shot. So we both stood frozen, cat and mouse, if you will, each trying to figure out who was the cat.

  The little prick had nerves of steel, I’ll give him that. I was prepared to stand there for a week if I had to, and so was he. I listened to the rain and wind outside, but avoided looking up at the opening in the ceiling because that would ruin whatever night sight I’d developed.

  I stood there in the damp, cavernous room, the cold working its way through my socks and soaking into my bare arms, chest, and back. I felt a cough coming on, but fought it down.

  About five minutes passed, maybe less, but not more. Tobin must now be wondering if I’d backed out quietly. I was positioned between wherever he was and the entrance to the tunnel behind me. I doubted he could get past me if he lost his nerve and wanted out.

  Finally, Tobin blinked, figuratively speaking; he tossed something like a piece of concrete against a far wall. It echoed in the huge ammunition room. It startled me, but not enough to draw my fire. Stupid trick, Freddie.

  And so we both stood in the dark, and I tried to see through the blackness, tried to hear his breathing, smell his fear. I thought I saw the glint of his eyes, or of steel, reflected in the dim light of the opening in the roof. The glint came from my left, but I had no way of judging distance in the dark.

  I realized that my knife might also reflect a glint of light so I moved it to my left side, away from the dim light source overhead.

  I tried to see the glint again, but it was gone. If I saw it one more time, I decided, I’d rush toward it and do a knife number—lunge, slash, parry, stab, and so forth until I came into contact with flesh and bone. I waited.

  The more I stared at what I thought had been the glint, the more my eyes began to play tricks on me. I saw these sort of phosphorescent blotches dancing in front of my eyes, then they took form and turned into gaping skulls. Wow.Talk about the power of suggestion.

  It was hard to breathe quietly, and if it weren’t for the sound of the wind and water overhead, Tobin would have heard me, and I’d have heard him. I felt another cough coming on, but again fought it down.

  We waited. I assumed he knew I was alone. I also assumed he knew I had at least one pistol. I was sure he had a pistol, but not the .45 with which he’d killed Tom and Judy. If he was carrying a rifle, he’d have tried to kill me out in the open from a safe distance when he realized John Corey was on his tail. In any case, a rifle was no better in here than a pistol. What I didn’t count on was a shotgun.

  The roar of the shotgun blast was deafening in the enclosed room, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. But as soon as I realized I wasn’t hit, and as soon as my brain registered the direction of the blast—about ten feet to my right—and before Tobin could dive for another firing position, I fired my single round right where I’d seen the muzzle flash.

  I dropped my pistol and charged, lunging and slashing blindly to my front, but I didn’t come into contact with anything and didn’t trip over a body on the floor. Within a few seconds, my knife scraped the wall. I stopped and stood frozen.

  A voice, some distance behind me, said, “I guess you had only one shot left.”

  I surely didn’t reply.

  The voice said, “Speak to me.”

  I turned slowly toward the voice of Fredric Tobin.

  He said, “I think I heard your pistol hit the floor.”

  I realized that each time he spoke, he had moved. Clever man.

  He said, “I can see you in the light from the overhead opening.”

  I noticed now that my charge toward the shotgun blast had put me closer to the dim light.

  Again, the voice moved, then said, “If you so much as flinch, I’ll kill you.”

  I didn’t understand why he hadn’t fired again, but I figured he had an agenda of some sort. Taking advantage of this, I moved away from the wall and said, “Fuck you, Freddie.”

  Suddenly, a light came on behind me, and I realized he’d moved around me, and I was caught in the beam of his flashlight. Tobin said, “Freeze or I’ll shoot. Freeze!”

  So, I stood there, my back to him, his flashlight on me, and an unseen gun of some caliber pointing at my ass. I kept the knife close to my body so he wouldn’t see it, but
then he said, “Hands on your head.”

  I slipped the knife into my waistband and put my hands on my head, my back still to him.

  He said, “I want you to answer some questions.”

  “Then you’ll let me live. Right?”

  He laughed. “No, Mr. Corey. You’re going to die. But you’ll answer my questions anyway.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You don’t like losing, do you?”

  “Not when it’s my life.”

  He laughed again.

  I said, “You don’t like losing, either. You got wiped out at Foxwoods. You’re a really stupid gambler.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m going to turn around. I want to see your capped teeth and your hairpiece.”

  As I turned with my hands on my head, I sucked in my gut and did a little jiggle so that the knife’s hilt and handle slid down into my tight jeans. That’s not where I wanted it, but it was out of sight.

  We were facing each other now about ten feet apart. He was holding the flashlight on my midsection, not my face, and I could make out an automatic pistol in his right hand aimed along the beam of light. I didn’t see the shotgun.

  The flashlight was one of those halogen types with a narrow-focused beam that are used to signal over long distances. The light wasn’t diffused at all, and the room was as dark as before, except for the beam hitting me.

  Tobin played the flashlight over me from head to toe and commented, “Lost some of your clothes, I see.”

  “Fuck you.”

  His beam paused on my shoulder holster and he said, “Where’s your gun?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s look for it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Then don’t ask me questions.”