Plum Island (12 page)

Properly fortified, I continued on, still keeping an eye out for my new colleagues.

The next hamlet was East Marion, though there doesn’t seem to be a Marion around—I think it’s in England, as with a lot of
other “East” places on Long Island. Southold was once Southwold, after the place in England where a lot of the early settlers
came from, but they lost the “w” in the Atlantic or someplace, or maybe they traded it for a bunch of “e’s.” Who knows? Aunt
June, who was a member of the Peconic Historical Society, used to fill my little head with all this crap, and I guess some
of it was interesting and some of it stuck, but maybe it stuck sideways.

The land narrowed to the width of a causeway, and there was water on both sides of the road—the Long Island Sound to my left
and Orient Harbor to my right. The sky and water were filled with ducks, Canada geese, snowy white egrets, and gulls, which
is why I never open the sunroof. I mean, these birds eat prunes or something, then come in like dive-bombers, and they
know
when you’ve got your sunroof open.

The land widened again, and I passed through the super-quaint, ye-olde hamlet of Orient, then ten minutes later finally approached
Orient Point.

I passed the entrance to Orient Beach State Park and began to slow down.

Up ahead, on the right, I saw a flagpole from which flew the Stars and Stripes at half-mast. I assumed that the flag’s position
had to do with the Gordons, and therefore the flag-pole was on federal property, no doubt the Plum Island ferry station. You
can see how a great detective’s mind works, even at seven-something
A.M.
with little sleep.

I pulled over to the side of the road in front of a marina and restaurant and stopped the car. I took my binoculars from the
glove compartment and focused on a big, black and white sign near the flagpole, about thirty yards down the road. The sign
said, “Plum Island Animal Disease Center.” It didn’t say “Welcome” and it also didn’t say “Ferry,” but the water was right
there, and so I deduced this was indeed the ferry station. Civilians assume, detectives deduce. Also, to be truthful, I’d
passed this place about a dozen times over the years on my way to the New London ferry, which was just beyond the Plum Island
ferry. Although I’d never given it much thought, I suppose I was always curious about the mysterious Plum Island. I don’t
like mysteries, which is why I want to solve them. It bothers me that there are things I don’t know.

Anyway, to the right of the sign and flagpole was a one-story brick building, apparently an administration and reception center.
Behind and beyond the building was a large, blacktop parking lot that ran down to the water. The parking lot was surrounded
by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

Where the parking lot ended at the bay were several large warehouses and storage sheds attached to big wharfs. A few trucks
were parked near the loading docks. I assumed— oops, deduced—that this was where they loaded the animals that were making
the one-way trip to Plum.

The parking lot stretched along the bay for about a hundred yards and at the farthest end, through a light mist, I could see
about thirty passenger vehicles parked near the ferry slips. There were no people visible.

I put down the binoculars and checked my dashboard digital clock, which read 07:29 and the temperature was now 17 degrees.
I really had to get this car off the metric system. I mean, the friggin’ computer was displaying weird French words, like
“kilomètres” and “litres” and all kinds of French things. I was afraid to turn the seat warmer on.

I was a half hour early for the outbound ferry to Plum Island, but I was on time for the inbound from Plum, which is what
I intended. As Uncle Harry used to say when he rousted me out of bed at dawn, “The early bird gets the worm, Johnny.” And
as I used to wisecrack to him, “The early worm gets
eaten
.” What a character I was.

Out of the mist appeared a white and blue ferry boat that glided toward the ferry slip. I raised my binoculars again. On the
bow of the boat was a government seal of some sort, probably Department of Agriculture, and the name of the boat—
The Plum Runner,
which showed a small sense of humor on someone’s part.

I had to get closer, so I put the 4 [H11503] 4 into gear and drove toward the sign, flagpole, and brick building. To the right
of the building, the chain-link gates were open, and I saw no guard around, so I drove into the parking lot and headed toward
the warehouses. I parked near some delivery trucks and shipping containers, hoping my vehicle would be lost in the clutter.
I was only about fifty yards from the two ferry slips now, and I watched through my binoculars as the ferry turned and backed
into the closest of the slips.
The Plum Runner
looked fairly new and sleek, about sixty feet with a top deck on which I saw chairs. The stern hit the bulkhead, and the
captain shut down the engines as a mate jumped off and secured the lines to the pilings. I noticed there was no one on the
dock.

As I watched through my binoculars, a group of men came out of the passenger cabin and onto the stern deck, where they disembarked
from the open stern directly onto the parking lot. I counted ten men, all dressed in some sort of blue uniform, and either
they were the Department of Agriculture band, sent out to greet me, or they were the night security guards who’d been relieved
by the guards who’d taken the seven
A.M.
ferry to Plum. The ten guards all wore pistol belts, though I didn’t see any holsters attached.

Next off the ferry was a big guy in a blue blazer and tie, chatting with the ten guards as if he knew them, and I guessed
he could be Paul Stevens, the security chief.

Then came four guys in spiffy suits, and I had to think this was a little unusual. I mean, I doubt if these four dudes had
spent the night on the island, so I had to figure they’d gone over on the seven
A.M.
ferry. But that would give them only a few minutes’ turnaround time on the island. Therefore, they’d gone over earlier, either
on a special ferry run or on another boat, or a helicopter.

And last but not least, waltzing off the boat, wearing casual attire, were Mr. George Foster and Mr. Ted Nash, which did not
completely surprise me. Well, there you are—early to bed, early to rise, makes a man sneaky and full of lies. Those SOBs …
I had expected they’d pull a fast one on me.

As I watched, Nash, Foster, and the four suits were in deep conversation, and the guy with the blue blazer stood respectfully
to the side. I could tell by the body language that Ted Nash was The Man. The other four guys were probably up from D.C.,
and who knew who the hell sent them? This was all hard to figure, what with the FBI, CIA, Department of Agriculture, and no
doubt the Army and Defense Department, and whoever else had their asses hanging out. As far as I was concerned, they were
all the Feds and they, in turn, thought of me—if at all—as an annoying hemorrhoid.

Anyway, I put the binocs down and picked up the weekly newspaper and the empty coffee cup in case I had to play hide-the-face.
So, here were all these bright boys pulling this early-bird crap on me, and they didn’t even bother to look around to see
if they were under surveillance. They had total disdain for lowly coppers, and that pissed me off.

The blue blazer guy spoke to the ten guards, dismissed them, and they went to their respective cars, got in, and drove off
past me. Mr. Blue Blazer then went back onto the stern deck and disappeared into the ferry.

Then the four suits took their leave of Nash and Foster, got into a black Chevy Caprice, and came toward me. The Caprice slowed
down opposite me, almost stopped, then went on, out the chain-link gates I’d entered.

At this point, I saw that Nash and Foster had noticed my vehicle, so I put it into gear and drove toward the ferry as if I’d
just arrived. I parked away from the pier and sipped at the empty coffee cup and read about the return of the blue-fish, ignoring
Messrs. Nash and Foster, who stood near the ferry.

At about ten to eight, an old station wagon pulled up beside me, and Max got out wearing jeans, a windbreaker, and a fishing
cap pulled down low on his forehead. I lowered my window and asked him, “Is that a disguise, or did you get dressed in the
dark?”

He frowned. “Nash and Foster suggested I shouldn’t be seen going to Plum.”

“I heard you on the radio this morning.”

“How’d I sound?”

“Totally unconvincing. Boats, planes, and cars have been leaving Long Island all morning. Total panic along the entire East
Coast.”

“Shove it.”

“Right.” I shut off the ignition and waited for my Jeep to tell me something, but I guess I hadn’t screwed up this time. I
took my keys out of the ignition, and a female voice said, “Votre fenetre est ouverte.” Now why would a nice American car
say that? Well, because when I tried to shut off the stupid voice thing, I somehow got it to speak French—these cars are exported
to Quebec, which explained the metric thing, too. “Votre fenetre est ouverte.”

“Mangez merde,” I replied in my best graduate school French and got out of the car.

Max asked me, “You got somebody in there?”

“No.”

“Somebody’s talking—”

“Ignore it.”

I was going to tell Max that I saw Nash and Foster get off the ferry from Plum, but since Max hadn’t thought to get his butt
here early, or ask me to do it, then he didn’t deserve to know what I knew.

Cars started arriving and the experienced Plum Island commuters hit the pier with split-second timing as the ferry horn blasted.

Ted Nash called out to Max and me, “Hey, all aboard!”

I looked around for Beth Penrose while making little misogynist remarks about women being late.

Max said, “There she is.”

And there she was, walking away from a black Ford, probably her unmarked PD, that had been parked before even I arrived. Could
it be that there were people in the world as bright as I? Not likely. I think I planted the idea in her head of arriving early.

Max and I walked across the misty parking lot toward the pier as the ferry horn sounded again. Detective Penrose joined Mr.
Nash and Mr. Foster, and they were chatting near the ferry as we approached. Nash looked up and made an impatient gesture
for us to hurry. I’ve killed people for less.

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.