Plum Island (42 page)

“But why? … I mean, Kidd was in jail, charged with a hanging offense—”

“Well, okay, it’s not meaningless, and it’s not a joke.
But
it only made sense to Kidd and to his wife. She was able to visit him in jail a few times. They spoke. They were devoted to
each other. He may have given her half a clue verbally, or another clue in a letter that’s since been lost.”

This was interesting. Like the kind of thing I do, except this clue was three hundred years old. I asked her, “Any more theories?”

“Well, the prevailing theory is that these numbers represent paces, which is the traditional method of pirates recording the
location of their buried treasure.”

“Paces?”

“Yes.”

“Paces from where?”

“That’s what Mrs. William Kidd knew and you don’t.”

“Oh.” I looked at the numbers. “That’s a lot of paces.”

“Again, you have to know the personal code. It could mean”—she looked at the napkin—“forty-four paces in a direction of ten
degrees, and sixty-eight paces in a direction of eighteen degrees. Or vice versa. Or, read it backwards. Who knows? It doesn’t
matter if you don’t know the starting point.”

“Do you think the treasure is buried under one of those oak trees? Captain Kidd’s Trees?”

“I don’t know.” She added, “Either the treasure has been found and the person who found it didn’t advertise it to the world,
or there was never any treasure, or it’s still buried and will stay buried forever.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I should go open my shop.” She crumpled the napkin and stuffed it in my shirt pocket. I paid the bill and we left.
The diner was five minutes from the Peconic Historical Society where Emma had left her van. I pulled into the lot, and she
gave me a quick peck on the cheek, like we were more than just lovers.

She said, “See you at four. Whitestone Florist, Main Road, Mattituck.” She got out, hopped into her van, honked, waved, and
pulled away.

I sat in my Jeep awhile, listening to the local news. I would have gotten on the road, but I didn’t know where to go. In truth,
I’d exhausted most of my leads, and I didn’t have an office where I could go and shuffle papers. I wasn’t going to get any
calls from witnesses, forensics, and so forth. Very few people even knew where to send me an anonymous tip. In short, I felt
like a private detective, though I wasn’t even licensed to do that.

All things considered, however, I’d made some startling discoveries since meeting Emma Whitestone. If I had any doubts about
why the Gordons had been murdered, that number, 44106818, which was in their chart book, should put the doubts to rest.

On the other hand, even if it were true that Tom and Judy Gordon were treasure hunters—and I had no doubt they were, based
on all the evidence—it didn’t necessarily follow that treasure hunting was what got them killed. What was the provable connection
between their archaeological digs on Plum Island, and the bullets through their heads on their back deck?

I called my answering machine. Two messages—one from Max, asking where to mail my one dollar check, and another call from
my boss, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, again strongly urging me to call his office and indicating that I was in deep doo-doo
and sinking fast.

I put the car in gear and drove. Sometimes it’s good to just drive.

On the radio, the news guy said, “An update on the double homicide of two Plum Island scientists in Nassau Point. The Southold
Town police and the Suffolk County police have issued a joint statement.” The news guy—it sounded like Don from Tuesday morning—read
the statement verbatim. Jeez, if we could get the network hotshots in the city to read our press releases without comment,
we’d be in public relations heaven. The joint statement was a hot air balloon with no one in the gondola except two dead bodies.
The statement stressed the theft of 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 bio-containment 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
New York Times,
the
Post,
the
Daily News,
and Long Island’s
Newsday
. In all four papers, the Gordon story had been relegated to a few inches on the inside pages. Even
Newsday
didn’t give the local murder much attention. I’m sure a lot of people in Washington were happy that the story was fading.
And so was I. It gave me as much of a free hand as it gave them.

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
always
sends flowers the next day. However, sending flowers to a florist might be redundant. For all I knew, my FTD order would
go through her. She’d make up the bouquet and hand it to herself. Enough silliness, as Emma would say. I needed a gift for
her. A bottle of Tobin wine was also not appropriate. I mean, what with them being ex-lovers and all. And, she had access
to all the local handicrafts and gift shop junk she’d ever need. Jeez, this one had me stumped. I hate to buy jewelry or clothes
for women, but maybe that’s what I had to do.

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.

I came down from the bluff and got in my Jeep. Using my new map, I made my way to the west side of Mattituck Inlet. And there
it was—no, not Captain Kidd’s Trees, but a sign that said “Captain Kidd Estates.” Apparently some subdivider had a marketing
dream. I drove into Captain Kidd Estates, a small collection of 1960s ranches and Cape Cods. A kid—no pun intended—was riding
by on his bicycle, and I stopped and asked him, “Do you know where Captain Kidd’s Trees are?”

The boy, about twelve, didn’t reply.

I said, “There’s supposed to be a place near the inlet where there are a bunch of trees called Captain Kidd’s Trees.”

He looked at me, looked at my four-wheel drive, and I guess I struck him as an Indiana Jones type, because he asked me, “You
gonna look for the treasure?”

“Oh … no, I just want to take a picture of the trees.”

“He buried his treasure chest under one of those trees.”

It seemed like everyone but me was hip to this. That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention. I said to the lad, “Where
are the trees?”

“My friends and me dug a big hole once, before the cops chased us away. The trees are in a park, so you can’t dig there.”