Plum Island

next eight years and still have money left over for hot dogs and beer. Did not compute.

I mulled a little. Mull, mull. Well, maybe it did compute. They were a romantic couple. But twenty-five Gs? That was almost all they had. And if they were transferred by the government, how would they unload an acre of land that had no use for building or agriculture? Who else would be crazy enough to pay $25,000 for encumbered property?

So. Maybe it had to do with maritime drug running. That would make sense. I'd have to take a look at that land. I wondered if anyone had yet found the deed to the property among the Gordons' papers. I wondered, too, if the Gordons had a safe deposit box and what was in it. It's tough when you have questions at two a.m., and you're flying high on caffeine and no one wants to talk to you.

I poured another cup of coffee. The windows above the sink were open, and I could hear the night things singing their September songs, the last of the locusts and tree frogs, an owl hooting nearby, and some night bird warbling in the foggy mist that rolled in from the Great Peconic Bay.

The autumn here is tempered by the big bodies of water that hold their summer heat until November. Terrific for grapes. Good boating until about Thanksgiving. There was the occasional hurricane in August, September, or October, and the odd nor'easter in the winter. But basically the climate was benign, the coves and inlets numerous, the fogs and mists frequent: an ideal place for smugglers, pirates, rum runners, and more recently, drug runners.

The wall phone rang and for an irrational second, I thought it might be Margaret. Then I remembered that Max was supposed to call about the Plum Island outing. I picked up the receiver and said, 'Pizza Hut.'

After a confused second, Beth Penrose said, 'Hello…'

'Hello.'

'Did I wake you?'

'That's all right, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.'

'Very old joke. Max asked me to call. We're going to be on the eight a.m. ferry.'

'Is there an earlier ferry?'

'Yes, but-'

'Why do we want the cover-up team to get to the island before us?'

She didn't reply to that but said, 'We'll be accompanied by the island's security director, a Mr. Paul Stevens.'

'Who's going on the earlier ferry?'

'I don't know… Look, John, if they're covering up, there's not much we can do about it. They've had some problems in the past, and they do cover-up real well. You're only going to see what they want you to see, hear what they want you to hear, and speak to who they want you to speak to. Don't get overly serious about this trip.'

'Who's going?'

'Me, you, Max, George Foster, and Ted Nash.' She asked, 'Do you know where the ferry is?'

'I'll find it. What are you doing now?'

'I'm talking to you.'

'Come on over. I'm looking at wallpaper samples. I need your opinion.'

'It's late.'

That almost sounded like yes, which surprised me. I pressed on. 'You can sleep here, and we'll drive to the ferry together.'

'That would look cute.'

'Might as well get it over with.'

'I'll think about it. Hey, did you find anything in the computer printouts?'

'Come over and I'll show you my hard drive.'

'Cut it out.'

'I'll pick you up.'

'It's too late. I'm tired. I'm in my-I'm dressed for bed.'

'Good. We can play hide the pickle.'

I heard her take a long, patient breath, then say, 'I would have thought there'd be a clue in their financial records. Maybe you're not looking hard enough. Or maybe you don't know what you're doing.'

'Probably.'

She said, 'I thought we agreed to share information.'

'Yes, with each other. Not the whole world.'

'What…? Oh… I see.'

We both knew that when you're working with the Feds, they'd slap a tap on your phone within five minutes of being introduced to you. They didn't even bother with a court order when they eavesdropped on friendlies. I was sorry I'd made the call to Margaret Wiley.

I asked Beth, 'Where's Ted?'

'How do I know?'

'Keep your door bolted. He fits the description of a rapist-murderer I'm looking for.'

'Give it a break, John.' She hung up.

I yawned. While I was disappointed that Detective Penrose didn't want to come over, I was also a little relieved. I really think those nurses put saltpeter in a guy's Jell-O or something. Maybe I needed more red meat in my diet.

I turned off the coffeepot, flipped the light switch, and left the kitchen. I made my way in the dark through the big, lonely house, through the polished oak vestibule, up the winding, creaky staircase, and down the long hallway to the high-ceilinged room that I'd slept in as a boy.

As I undressed for bed, I reflected on this day, and tried to decide if I really wanted to make that eight a.m. ferry.

On the yes side, I liked Max, and he'd asked a favor of me. Two, I liked the Gordons and I wanted to do them a favor, to sort of pay them back for the good company and the wine and the steaks at a time when I was not feeling my best. Three, I didn't like Ted Nash and I had this childish desire to screw him big time. Four, I did like Beth Penrose and I had this grown-up desire to… whatever. And then there was me, and I was bored… No, that wasn't it. I was trying to prove that I still had the stuff. So far, so good. And last, and certainly not least, the little problem of the plague, the black death, the red death, the multifaceted threat or whatever; the possibility that this would be the last autumn any of us on earth would see.

For all those reasons, I knew I should be on the eight a.m. ferry to Plum Island, not in bed with the covers pulled over me, like when I was a kid and there was something I didn't want to face…

I stood naked at the big window and watched the fog climbing out of the bay, ghost white in the moonlight, creeping and crawling across the dark lawn toward the house. That used to scare the crap out of me. Still does. I felt goose bumps rising on my skin.

My right hand went unconsciously to my chest, and my fingers found the entry hole of bullet one, then I slid my hand down to my abdomen where the second, or maybe the third shot had ripped through my formerly tight muscles, drove through my intestines, chipped my pelvis, and blew out my rear end. The other shot passed through my left calf without much damage. The surgeon said I was lucky. And he was right. I'd flipped my partner, Dom Fanelli, to see who was going to go into the deli to buy coffee and donuts, and he lost. Cost him four bucks. My lucky day.

Somewhere out on the bay, a foghorn sounded, and I wondered who would be out in this weather at this hour.

I turned from the window and checked to see that my alarm clock was set, then made sure there was a round in the chamber of the.45 automatic I kept on the nightstand.

I tumbled into bed, and like Beth Penrose, and Sylvester Maxwell, and Ted Nash, and George Foster, and many others that night, I stared up at the ceiling and thought about murder, death, Plum Island, and plague. I saw in my mind's eye the image of the Jolly Roger flapping in the night sky, the death's head white and grinning.

It occurred to me that the only people resting in peace tonight were Tom and Judy Gordon.