by David Wood
“The real problem,” Crowley said, “is that Plum Island is owned in its entirety by the United States government, specifically the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Check out this guy,” Rose said and turned her phone for Crowley to see.
A grainy black and white photo showed a man with a huge white beard sitting on a grassy slope in front of the old stone building topped with the original lighthouse. He wore a large dark hat, and pants held with suspenders halfway up his chest. “Quite a character,” Crowley said.
“George Bradford Brainerd,” Rose clarified. “Lighthouse Keeper from 1845 to 1887.”
“That’s some career.”
“Originally called ‘Manittuwond’ by the Native American Pequot Nation,” Rose said, slowly scrolling. “Then named ‘Pruym Eyelant’, which is Dutch for Plum Island, because of the beach plums that grow along the shores.”
Crowley smiled. “Which is all very interesting, but doesn’t get past that key point I made before.”
Rose looked up from her phone. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Department of Homeland Security!”
“Hmmm.” Rose looked back at her phone. “There’s no mention of any dungeons, but I guess there wouldn’t be, given the military presence since before the turn of the century. But given that the main installation there is the Animal Disease Center, I suspect that’s quite recent. We’d be better off looking around the remains of Fort Terry. I’m guessing the dungeons would be under the fort, don’t you think? We should try to investigate those remains. It says here that ‘During the Cold War a secret biological weapons program targeting livestock was conducted at the site, although it had slowly declined through the end of the century. This program has, for many years, been the subject of controversy.’ Sounds interesting.”
Crowley raised his palms. “Once again, Homeland Security!”
Rose laughed. “I know, I know. Maybe we should contact Agent Paul from the DHS. He helped us out after the Anubis Key business.”
“Agent Paul had no real incentive to help us now, other than general kindness,” Crowley said. “And he wanted us out of America, don’t forget. I think he’d probably be unhappy if he knew we were still in the States.”
Rose sighed. “So what do we do?”
Crowley smiled. He’d been slowly leading her around to this. “We? Nothing. But it’s something I can do on the sly.”
Chapter 14
Jazz refused to quit. Whenever she caught a whiff of a really good story, she became a dog with a rope, clamping down tight and , refusing to let go. It was the thing that made her a damned good investigative reporter, and it was also the thing that caused her a lot of problems in life. Often at the same time. She was okay with that.
Despite LaGuerta trying to shut her down, despite the city wiping the site clean, she was determined to find out more. Pressure on her editor was one thing, and it was entirely possible the woman had genuinely decided there wasn’t a story and resources were limited. So be it. But the entire crypt cleared out as if nothing had ever been there? That was something else. The kind of organization and resources that would take, in just a few hours, belied a deep concern on the part of whoever had orchestrated the removal. Where had all those bodies gone?
Jazz sat hunched before her computer monitor, slowly clicking through the photos Rose had taken. She’d been through them half a dozen times already, but something had to be there. Some clue she could follow up.
She zoomed in on the freshest two corpses, the redheaded young man and the blonde woman. Their clothes were nice, the kind of things the comfortably off middle classes would wear. Certainly not the rags of vagrants or the well-worn wardrobe of travelers. The man’s sleeve was pushed up to his elbow, and she saw the colors of a tattoo on the back of his forearm. She zoomed in further, starting to push the resolution, but it was still clear enough to see the tattoo was new, the ink raised up in smooth scabs that had yet to drop off. The design was quite distinct, she recognized the three looping swirls of a pagan triquetra behind the solid lines of a pentagram. Between each point of the five-pointed star were softer designs in smooth colors, green leaves, blue waves, white clouds, red and orange flames, and the purples and blues of a night sky. The design took up most of the man’s forearm and was neat, artistic work. She framed it up and printed out a close-up. A new tattoo was something tangible to research, maybe it would give her the lead she needed.
She moved the view to see if the blonde woman bore any similar ink, but her clothing covered her almost completely, just half her face and one hand visible. But there was something on her wrist. Jazz frowned, looking more closely. The woman had what appeared to be a home-made beaded bracelet, with each bead an intricately carved symbol. Again she pushed the image’s resolution to get a better look. She saw an ankh, a pentacle like on the man’s arm, a crescent moon. Each symbol could easily be associated with Wicca or paganism, and that matched up with the young man’s new tattoo. She was definitely finding an angle here. But it was more than that. Her heart sped up as she considered the bracelet, certain she’d seen the exact item, or one identical to it, on the wrist of a coworker not too long ago.
Chapter 15
Crowley had enjoyed the two-hour drive in a rented car, heading out along the North Fork coast of Long Island. He’d listened to the radio turned down low and been alone with his thoughts. It was a long while, he realized, since he’d had any time to himself or any genuine peace and quiet. He hoped the peace remained when he continued this hare-brained journey. It had taken some effort to convince Rose to let him do this alone, but there was no way he would risk it with her along. On the one hand, she didn’t have the training, and on the other, he would never forgive himself if anything went wrong. So he had suggested she catch up with Jazz for dinner and a few drinks or something similar. He had chafed against the suggestion slightly, his jealousy raising its head again, but he knew he also needed to get over himself. Rose would see whatever friends she wanted to and he couldn’t, nor should, chaperone her every time. He had to ignore his insecurities and trust Rose. She had seemed genuinely pleased with the suggestion too, perhaps recognizing that he was trying to be a better person, and he was pleased about that.
He found a good place to park in deep night shadow just off the road not far from the Orient Point ferry station. He had a bit of greenery to trek through for a few minutes, carrying his rented tank and gear, then it was a decent bit of water to traverse to reach Plum Island. But he relished the idea of the exertion, the exercise. He’d swim on the surface most of the way, then SCUBA the last few hundred meters to make sure he arrived unseen. He smiled to himself wryly. Just like the old days.
The island had a wide triangular main body, then a long, thin peninsula heading due east from the furthest point from the mainland shore. Annoyingly, Fort Terry, which he considered his best bet as Rose had mentioned, lay on the far northeast end of the island, at the start of the narrow peninsula. He planned to swim out around the south side, then come in from there. He could leave his gear on the long, thin strip of sandy beach, ready for a quick getaway he hoped he wouldn’t need, and investigate the remains of the fort. The fort had two main buildings, large C-shapes, with right-angled corners rather than curves, and several smaller buildings, seven or eight of them largely still standing.
He had a sweat on by the time he reached the water’s edge and began organizing his tank.
“What the hell are you doing, Jakey-boy?” he asked himself as he zipped up the wetsuit and shrugged on the tank. Then he allowed himself another small smile. Enjoying adventure and indulging the woman he loved was what he was doing. Perhaps he ought to tell her that’s how he felt. He hoped the feeling was mutual. But that could wait. Focus on the task at hand, soldier, he thought to himself, surprised at how easily and casually he had slipped back into these habits.
He slipped into the water, hissing at the frigid temperature even at such a warm time of year. He’d soon equalize t
hat with his wetsuit. Orienting himself in the near pitch dark, the silhouette of the distant island just visible on the horizon, he struck out, swimming strongly, kicking the long fins in deep, regular rhythm.
It took a while, fighting against strong currents, but the exercise was every bit as invigorating as he had hoped. Before long he rounded Pine Point, the southernmost tip of Plum Island, and started north-east following the beach, staying a good couple of hundred yards off-shore. When he saw the beach start to curve due east again, he put the regulator in his mouth, pulled the mask over his eyes, and went underwater. Visibility was nil, but he trusted his sense of direction, and soon enough, the ocean floor rose to meet him. Moving slowly to avoid splashing, not that he expected anyone to be around at this hour, well after midnight, he eventually emerged and walked carefully up the beach, watching all around for any signs of movement.
To the right of him, fifty yards or so north-east of Fort Terry, the island was heavily wooded. He made his way into the shadows of the first trees and slipped out of his SCUBA gear. He kept the wetsuit on, the dark charcoal grey of it a good color to conceal him in the night, and slipped on thick rubber reef shoes to protect his feet. His tank, fins, and mask he placed in the shadow of an oak tree and then crept out towards Fort Terry. He emerged from the trees onto a narrow asphalt road but stayed to one side in the shade. Finding a dungeon among the ruins of Fort Terry seemed like a fool’s errand, but given the stuff he and Rose had discovered in various other places recently, he wasn’t about to write off the possibility.
To his right was a cement foundation of a building long gone, then a little further on to his left a building still stood. Broken and run down, it had a grey roof and nothing but shadows inside. He quickly jumped in through a window that had long since lost its glass and paused while he eyes adjusted. After a moment he scouted around and came to the swift conclusion there was nothing under the ground here. More solid concrete, no trapdoors. He made his way to the other side, planning to go over to the biggest building, the largest square C-shaped structure on the southern side of Fort Terry.
As he stepped up to a window, bright beams of light swept through the broken opening. Crowley froze, even held his breath, then quickly flattened himself against the wall inside. A moment later he heard to purr of an engine. Sealed roads crisscrossed between the buildings of Fort Terry and in places tire tracks had worn other roads across the grassy areas around the whole installation. As Crowley allowed himself to peak out of the window, he saw a pick-up slowly cruise towards him, right between the building he was in and the square-C structure he had been planning to move on to. The pick-up slowed, and he heard two men talking to each other, but couldn’t make out the words. He pressed himself back into the shadows. Was this a coincidence or had he been spotted? Was there CCTV he hadn’t noticed? He had a trained eye and had been watching out for any kind of security measures but had seen none. Perhaps it was something new that he didn’t know to recognize.
“Are you slipping, soldier?” he whispered to himself.
The pick-up engine revved gently, then Crowley heard the tires crunch over dried grass and dirt. The car went past the south side of the building, then turned north again to rejoin the sealed road. Flashlight beams swept left and right from the car windows, but they seemed lazy and cursory, simply scanning rather than searching. Perhaps it was only a routine patrol. Crowley hurried back across the building to watch the pick-up turn left and pass back westwards toward the other end of the island. He watched its red tail lights disappear down the road and then waited another couple of minutes. Nothing happened. Convincing himself it was indeed nothing more than a routine patrol, he resumed his plan and ran over to the other, biggest building.
It took another thirty minutes or so, thankfully without any further interruptions, for Crowley to decide he was a dog barking up the wrong tree. There were no dungeons here, not even any basements. Despite their best guesses, this idea was a bust.
He stood in the night-darkened street, hands on his hips, frustrated. Then he turned to look to the west. Was it possible there might be something worth investigating at the Animal Disease Center? His conspiracy-minded thoughts made him consider that it was an ideal cover for something Homeland Security would want to keep secret. It was about a mile to walk along the asphalt road to reach the center. Having come all this way, it was surely worth a look. Again using the cover of the trees for shadows to stay concealed, he set off.
When he reached the high fencing some twenty minutes later, he realized immediately there was no chance of looking inside. Security was far too tight, and besides that, Rose had been right when she suggested it was too new an installation. Unless it had been built over extant dungeons, which seemed incredibly unlikely, this entire venture had been a waste of time and energy.
“There!” a voice yelled, and lights swept across him.
Crowley dived for cover as an engine revved hard and the pick-up he’d seen before roared up the asphalt toward him. Idiot! So busy staring at how secure the place was, he’d left himself out in the open for the security patrols to spot.
He bolted into the cover of trees as the pick-up hammered towards him, its engine revving hard, and then he quickly jack-knifed back on himself, hoping to come out behind the vehicle. The plan worked, but now he was running in the wrong direction, away from his gear and toward more fencing. He sprinted hard as the pick-up screeched to a halt, then white lights lit up on the back of it and it reversed hard. Crowley heard someone yelling directions, so they were clearly calling for backup. The pick-up did a neat bootlegger reverse and then drove straight for him as he ducked around behind a large building, maybe a garage or guard house. Thankfully it was dark and closed up, but surely the place would be crawling with people soon.
“Stop or we shoot!” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker, presumably a handheld megaphone, then a bullet whined into the asphalt right behind where he had been a moment before.
“What was the point of the warning if you were going to shoot anyway!” Crowley said to no one in particular as he ran. But he saved his breath and didn’t shout it. It was painfully obvious that these guys were already beyond the conversation stage of proceedings. Gun-happy Americans on an island with little recourse to the mainland and law enforcement suddenly made Crowley feel distinctly vulnerable.
A small jeep-like vehicle stood around the back of the building, open-topped, no doors, more like a beach buggy or a mini-moke than anything else. Crowley threw himself into the front of it, curling up on the floor between the front seats and the dash, hoping the deep shadow would hide him. The pick-up came around the corner and roared past, lights bright, the passenger shining a flashlight left and right from the window. They sailed by and Crowley knew he had a couple of minutes at best, but to do what?
He pictured the layout of Plum Island in his mind, memorized from studying it extensively before he left. A number of thin roads looped around the trees and grassy areas, and there was more than a mile between him and his gear. He couldn’t remember the exact layout of all the small roads, but he supposed he didn’t need to. Perhaps it was time for a little cat and mouse.
He dug at his belt and pulled out a universal tool, quickly using it to crack open the casing below the steering wheel. He heard the pick-up slow and then the engine grew louder as it came back around. From his left he heard another engine approaching. Or as that two more? Either way, the back-up had arrived.
He swiftly selected wires, tracing with rapid eyes the connections to the ignition. More old skills coming back to him without a problem. In moments he had what he needed and stripped the wires free, and then touched them together. He hissed in pain as an electric bolt shocked through his fingers, where he’d been careless with the wire’s insulation, but the little car revved into life. Leaving the lights off, he sat up into the driver’s seat.
The first pick-up came rapidly towards him, and another car, a black four-wheel-drive, sat waiting as the main gate to the
complex slid open. No time to waste. He revved the small car and shot forward, catching the first pick-up entirely by surprise as he suddenly flew past. Their tires screeched as they braked and made a quick U-turn. Though the small vehicle he had hotwired had little in the way of power, it was light and maneuverable. Trusting his senses and luck, leaving the lights off, Crowley shot down a small road between trees. As soon as he reached the first junction, he turned hard right, almost heading back on himself. As the pick-up came up behind him, he made another right, knowing this thin road simply looped around some scrubby ground where a building had once stood. That much he remembered from the maps and Google Earth. He turned again, sharper than the pick-up could manage, and just in time as more gunshots rang out. He had no idea where the bullets went, but not into him or his vehicle and that’s all that mattered in the short term.
The pick-up shot past as Crowley careened along a gravelly road in the other direction, almost skidding into unforgiving trees as he made a left onto the bigger road leading back towards Fort Terry. More bright headlights lit up the night behind him. No way was that the pick-up again already, so the other security car had obviously made a good guess and was right on his tail.
“Dammit!” Crowley gritted his teeth and prayed for luck as he hauled hard left on the wheel, broad-sliding into another narrow track. His bones rang as the tiny car clipped a tree trunk and slewed the other way, nearly throwing him clean out of the seat, but he refused to relinquish his grip on the wheel and wrestled back control. The big shiny black SUV shot past, smoke from its tires as it tried to brake in time.
Crowley hoped he was remembering correctly that another dirt track led eastward in a couple of hundred meters, just two tire ruts in the dirt. Thankfully he was correct and turned onto it, bouncing on the seat like a dried pea on a drum as he thrashed the weak suspension of the small vehicle. He only needed it to hold together for another half a mile. If he ended up in a drag out straight race with either of his pursuers, he wouldn’t stand a chance of getting away, but if he could stay ahead of them for another thirty seconds or so, he’d come out again on the main road back to Fort Terry with not much space left between him and the relative safety of his gear.