Plum Island

As Max and I got to the pier, Nash, without so much as a 'good morning,' looked at my shorts and said, 'Aren't you a little cold, John?'

I mean, fuck you, Ted. He had that patronizing tone of voice that superiors adopt with inferiors, and this guy had to be set straight. I replied, apropos of his stupid rose-colored golf slacks, 'Do those come with panty shields?'

George Foster laughed, and Ted Nash turned the color of his pants. Max pretended he didn't hear the exchange, and Beth rolled her eyes.

Mr. Foster said, belatedly, 'Good morning. Ready to board?'

The five of us turned toward the ferry, and coming across the stern deck toward us was the gentleman with the blue blazer. He said, 'Good morning. I'm Paul Stevens, security chief of Plum Island.' He sounded like he had a computer-generated voice.

Mr. Red Pants said, 'I'm Ted Nash with the Department of Agriculture.'

What a load of crap. Not only had these three clowns just come from Plum Island together, but Nash was still putting out the agriculture manure.

Stevens had a clipboard in his hand-he looked like one of those whistle and clipboard types: short blond hair, icy blue eyes, Mr. Can-Do, ex-jock, fit and trim, ready to organize a sporting event or assign people to boxcars, whatever needed doing.

Beth, by the way, was wearing what she'd had on the day before, and I deduced she'd had no idea she'd be staying overnight out here when she caught the squeal, as we say, which may be appropriate in this case… You know, animal disease center, swine fever, pork-chop-shaped island…

Mr. Stevens, glancing at his clipboard, said to Max, 'And you're George Foster?'

'No, I'm Chief Maxwell.'

'Right,' said Mr. Stevens. 'Welcome.'

I said to Stevens, 'I'm Beth Penrose.'

He said to me, 'No, you're John Corey.'

'Right. Can I get aboard now?'

'No, sir. Not until we're all checked in.' He looked at Beth and said, 'Good morning, Detective Penrose,' then at George Foster and said, 'Good morning-Mr. Foster of the FBI. Correct?'

'Correct.'

'Welcome aboard. Please follow me.'

We boarded The Plum Runner, and within a minute, we'd cast off and were on our way to Plum Island, or as the tabloids sometimes called it, Mystery Island, or somewhat less responsibly, Plague Island.

We followed Mr. Stevens into the big, comfortable, wood-paneled cabin where about thirty men and women sat on upholstered airplane-type seats, talking, reading, or nodding off. There seemed to be seating for maybe a hundred people, and I guessed that the next trip transported the majority of the people who worked on Plum.

We didn't sit with the passengers but followed Mr. Stevens down a set of stairs into a small room which seemed to serve as a chartroom or wardroom or whatever. In the center of the room was a round table and a carafe of coffee. Mr. Stevens offered seats and coffee, but no one wanted either. It was stuffy below deck, and the sound of the engine filled the room.

Stevens produced some papers from his clipboard, and he gave each of us a single printed sheet with a carbon copy attached. He said, This is a waiver that you are required to sign before disembarking on Plum Island. I know you're all law officers, but rules are rules.' He added, 'Please read and sign.'

I looked at the form, which was labeled 'Visitor Affidavit.' This was one of those rare government forms that were written in plain English. Basically, I was agreeing to stay with the group and hold hands, and to be accompanied at all times by a Plum Island employee. I also agreed to abide by all safety regulations, and I further agreed that I'd avoid hanging around with animals after I left the island, for at least seven days, and I promised I wouldn't associate with cattle, sheep, goats, swine, horses, and so on, and I wouldn't visit a farm, zoological garden, circus, or even a park, plus I had to stay away from sale barns, stockyards, animal laboratories, packing houses, zoos, menageries, and animal exhibits such as at fairs. Wow. That really limited my social life for the next seven days. The last paragraph was interesting and read:

In the event of an emergency, the Center Director or Safety Officer may detain the visitor on Plum Island pending accomplishment of necessary biological safety precautionary measures. Personal clothing and other items may be temporarily held on Plum Island for decontamination and substitute clothing provided in order that the visitor may leave the Island after completion of a decontamination shower. The retained clothing items will be returned as soon as possible.

And to add to the enjoyment of my visit, I consented to any quarantine and detention necessary. I said to Stevens, 'I guess this isn't the Connecticut ferry.'

'No, sir, it isnt.'

The efficient Mr. Stevens handed out a few government pens, and we laid the forms on the table and still standing, we scratched, skipped, and clotted our names on them. Stevens collected the forms, then he gave us the carbon copies as souvenirs.

Stevens then handed out blue clip-on passes, which we dutifully affixed to our clothing. He asked us, 'Are any of you armed?'

I replied, 'I believe we all are, but you'd be well advised not to ask for our guns.'

Stevens looked at me and replied, 'That's exactly what I'm going to ask for. Firearms are absolutely prohibited on the island.' He added, 'I have a lock box here where your pistols will be safe.'

I said, 'My pistol is safe where it is now.'

Max added, ' Plum Island is within the jurisdiction of Southold Township. I am the law on Plum Island.'

Stevens considered a long moment, then said, 'I suppose the prohibition doesn't apply to law officers.'

Beth said, 'You can be sure it doesn't.'

Stevens, his little power play foiled, accepted defeat with good grace and smiled. It was, however, the kind of smile that, in the movies, the creepy villain gives before saying, 'You have won this battle, sir, but I assure you, we will meet again.' Click heels, turn, stomp off.

But Mr. Stevens was stuck with us for the time being, and he said, 'Why don't we go on the top deck?'

We followed our host up the stairs, through the cabin, and outside to a staircase that led to a nice deck above the cabin. No one else was on the deck.

Mr. Stevens indicated a grouping of seats. The boat was making about fifteen miles an hour, which I think is about two hundred knots. Maybe a little less. It was a bit breezy up top, but quieter away from the engines. The mist was burning off and sunlight suddenly broke through.

I could see into the glass-enclosed bridge where the captain stood at the steering wheel, aka helm, talking to the mate. From the stern below flew an American flag, snapping in the wind.

I sat facing the bow, with Beth to my right, Max to my left, Stevens across from me, and Nash and Foster on either side of him. Stevens remarked, 'The scientists who work in biocontainment always ride up here unless the weather is really foul. You know, they don't see the sun for eight to ten hours.' He added, 'I asked that we have some privacy this morning.'

To my left, I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse, which is not one of the old-fashioned stone towers built on a headland, but a modern steel structure built on rocks. Its nickname is 'The Coffeepot' because it's supposed to look like one, but I don't get it. You know, sailors mistake sea cows for mermaids, porpoises for sea serpents, clouds for ghost ships, and on and on. If you spend enough time at sea, you get a little batty, I think.

I looked at Stevens and our eyes met. The man really had one of those rare, never forgotten wax faces. I mean, nothing moved but the mouth, and the eyes bored right into you.

Paul Stevens addressed his guests and said, 'Well, let me begin by saying that I knew Tom and Judy Gordon. They were well regarded by everyone on Plum -staff, scientists, animal handlers, lab people, maintenance people, security people-everyone. They treated all their fellow workers with courtesy and respect.' His mouth made a sort of weird smile. 'We'll sure miss them.'

I had the sudden notion that this guy could be a government assassin. Yeah. What if it was the government who whacked Tom and Judy? Jeez, it just hit me that maybe the Gordons knew something