Ebola vaccine as a motive. A separate statement from the FBI said that they didn't know if the perpetrators were foreign or domestic, but they were pursuing some good leads. The World Health Organization expressed concern over the theft of this 'vital and important vaccine' that was desperately needed in many Third World countries. And so forth.
The thing that really pissed me off was that the official version of what happened had the effect of branding Tom and Judy as cynical, heartless thieves: first they stole their employer's time and resources, then when they secretly developed a vaccine, they stole the formula and presumably some samples, and intended to sell it for a huge profit. Meanwhile, people in Africa were dying by the thousands of this horrible disease.
I could picture Nash, Foster, the four suit guys I'd seen coming off the ferry, and a bunch of White House and Pentagon spin-control types burning up the phone lines between Plum Island and D.C. As soon as everyone learned that the Gordons were involved with genetically altered vaccines, then the perfect cover story presented itself to these geniuses. To be fair, they wanted to avoid panic about plague, but I'd bet my potential three-quarter lifetime disability pension that not one person in Washington considered the Gordons' reputations or their families when they concocted the story branding them as thieves.
The irony, if there was an irony here, was that Foster, Nash, and the government were undoubtedly still convinced that the Gordons stole one or more biological warfare diseases. The Washington insiders, from the president on down through the chain of command, were still sleeping with biocontamment suits over their jammies. Good. Screw them.
I stopped at a deli in Cutchogue and bought a container of coffee and a bunch of newspapers-the
And while Foster, Nash, and Company were looking for foreign agents and terrorists, I'd followed my hunch and gone with my feelings about Tom and Judy Gordon. I was happy and not too surprised to discover that what I'd thought all along was true-this was not about biological warfare, or about narcotics, or anything illegal. Well, not too illegal.
Anyway, I still didn't know who murdered them. Equally important, I knew they were not criminals, and I intended to give them their reputations back.
I finished the coffee, threw the newspapers in the back seat, and got on the road. I drove up to the Soundview, a 1950s waterfront motel. I went into the office and inquired after Messrs. Foster and Nash. The young man behind the desk said the gentlemen I was describing had both checked out already.
I drove around-I hesitate to say aimlessly, but if you don't know where you're going or why, you're either a government employee or you're aimless.
Anyway, I decided to drive to Orient Point. It was another nice day, a bit cooler and breezier, but pleasant.
I drove to the Plum Island ferry station. I wanted to check out the cars in the lot, see if there was any unusual activity, and maybe see if I ran into anyone interesting. When I pulled into the facility and approached the gate, a Plum Island security guard stepped into my path and held up his hand. Softie that I am, I didn't run him over. He came around to my window and asked me, 'Can I help you, sir?'
I held up my shield case and said, 'I'm working with the FBI on the Gordon case.'
He studied the shield and ID closely, and I watched his face. Clearly, I was on this man's short list of saboteurs, spies, and perverts, and he wasn't very cool about it. He stared at me a moment, cleared his throat, and said, 'Sir, if you'll pull over here, I'll get you a pass.'
'Okay.' I pulled to the side. I hadn't expected a security guy at the gate, though I should have. The guy went into the brick building, and I continued on into the parking lot. I have a problem with authority.
The first thing I noticed was that there were two military humvees parked at the ferry slip. I could see two uniformed men in each humvee, and as I got closer, I was able to identify them and the humvees as Marine Corps. I hadn't seen a single military vehicle on Plum Island Tuesday morning, but the world had changed since then.
I also spotted a big black Caprice that could have been the one I'd seen Tuesday with the four suit guys in it. I noted the license plate number.
Then, riding around through the hundred or so parked cars, I saw a white Ford Taurus with rental plates, and I was pretty certain this could be the car that Nash and Foster drove. Big doings at Plum Island today.
Neither ferry was in the slip or on the horizon, and except for the Marines waiting to drive their humvees onto an arriving ferry, there was no one around.
Except, when I looked in my sideview mirror, I saw four-count 'em, four-blue uniformed security guards running toward me, waving and hollering. Obviously I'd misunderstood the gate guard. Oh, dear.
I drove my vehicle toward the four guards. I could hear them now yelling, 'Stop! Stop!' Fortunately, they weren't going for their guns.
I wanted the report to Messrs. Foster and Nash to be entertaining, so I drove in circles around the four guards, waving back at them, and yelling to them, 'Stop! Stop!' I did a couple of figure eights, then, before anyone closed the steel gate or got crazy with the guns, I drove toward the exit. I cut hard left onto Main Road and hit the gas, heading back west. No one fired. That's why I love this country.
Within two minutes, I was on the narrow strip of land that connects Orient to East Marion. The Sound was to my right, the bay to my left, and lots of birds were in between. Atlantic Coastal Flyway. You learn something new every day.
Suddenly, this big white gull came in at me from twelve o'clock high. It was a beautifully timed and executed flight, a long steep dive, followed by a slight flare-out which resulted in a more shallow dive, then a pull-out and climb; then with perfect timing, he let loose his payload, which splattered purple and green across my windshield. It was that kind of day.
I hit the windshield wipers, but the washer reservoir was empty, and I had this stuff smeared across my field of vision. Yuck, yuck. I pulled over. 'Damn.' Ever resourceful, I got my expensive bottle of Tobin Merlot out of the back seat, and got my trusty Swiss Army knife with the corkscrew from the glove compartment. I opened the wine and poured some of the Merlot over the windshield as the wipers swept back and forth. I drank a little of the wine. Not bad. I.poured more on the windshield, then drank some more. A guy in a passing car honked and gave me a wave. Fortunately, the bombload was made up of pretty much what the wine was made of and the windshield was reasonably clean, except for a purple film. I finished the bottle and threw it in the back seat.
On my way again. I thought about Emma Whitestone. I'm the kind of guy who
Back on Main Road, I stopped at a service station and got gas. I also filled my windshield washer reservoir, washed my windshield, and invested in a local map.
I took the opportunity to scope out the road to see if anyone was parked nearby, watching me. It didn't appear that I was being followed, and I'm good at spotting a tail, the incident on West 102nd Street notwithstanding.
I didn't think I was in any danger, yet I considered going home for my piece, then decided against it.
Armed now with nothing more than a map and my superior intellect, I headed north, up to the bluffs. With some difficulty, I finally found the right dirt road that led to the right bluff. I parked, got out, and climbed to the top of the bluff.
This time, I poked around through the underbrush and the sawgrass. I found the rock I'd sat on and noted that it was big enough to be used as a point of reference if you were going to bury something.
I went to the edge of the bluff. It was obvious that a good deal of erosion must have taken place over the last three hundred years so that something buried on the north side-the Sound side-of the bluff might well have been exposed by wind and water, and maybe tumbled down onto the beach. I was putting this together now.
