Plum Island (73 page)

“Killing a policeman is—”

“You’re a trespasser, and for all I know, a saboteur, a terrorist, and a murderer. Sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

I tensed my body, ready to make the dash for the hole, knowing it was a useless try, but I had to give it a shot.

Stevens continued, “You knocked out two of my teeth and split my lip. Plus you know too damned much.” He added, “I’m rich,
and you’re dead. Bye-bye, bozo.”

I said to him, “Fuck you, asshole.” I charged toward the hole, looking not at the barbed wire, but at him as I ran. He steadied
the rifle and drew a bead on me. He really couldn’t miss.

A shot rang out, but there was no muzzle flash from his rifle and no searing pain shooting through my body. As I reached the
fence and was about to vault over the barbed wire and plunge headfirst into the hole, I saw Stevens jumping down into the
pit to finish me off. At least that’s what I thought. But in fact, he was falling forward and he landed facedown on the concrete
pavement. I collided with the barbed wire and came to a halt.

I stood there a moment, frozen, watching him. He twitched around awhile, like he’d been hit in the spinal column, so he was
basically a goner. I heard that unmistakable pre-lights-out gurgle. Finally, the twitching and gurgling stopped. I looked
up at the top of the wall. Beth Penrose was staring down at Paul Stevens, her pistol trained on him.

I said, “How’d you get here?”

“Walked.”

“I mean—”

“I came looking for you. I spotted him and followed.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Not so for him,” she replied.

I said, “Say, ‘Freeze, police!”’

She replied, “Fuck that.”

“I’m with you.” I added, “He was about to kill me.”

“I know that.”

“You could have fired a little sooner.”

“I hope you’re not critiquing my performance.”

“No, ma’am. Good shooting.”

She asked me, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. How about you?”

“I’m just fine. Where’s Tobin?”

“He’s … not here.”

She glanced down at Stevens again and asked me, “What’s with him?”

“Just a scavenger.”

“Did you find the treasure?”

“No, but Stevens did.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I was about to ask him.”

“No, John, he was about to put a bullet in you.”

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“You owe me a small favor for that.”

“Right. So, that’s it—case closed,” I said.

“Except for the treasure. And Tobin. Where is he?”

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.”

“Is he armed? Is he dangerous?”

“No,” I replied, “he has no guts.”

We sheltered from the storm in a concrete bunker. We huddled for warmth, but we were so cold, neither of us slept. We talked
into the night, rubbing each other’s arms and legs to ward off hypothermia.

Beth bugged me about Tobin’s whereabouts, and I gave her an edited version of the confrontation in the ammunition storage
room, saying that I’d stabbed him and he was mortally wounded.

She said, “Shouldn’t we get him medical attention?”

I replied, “Of course. First thing in the morning.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, simply, “Good.”

Before dawn, we made our way back to the beach.

The storm had passed and before the helicopter or boat patrols came out, we replaced the shear pin and took the Whaler out
to the Chris-Craft. I pulled the self-bailing plug in the Whaler and let the small craft swamp. Then we took Tobin’s cabin
cruiser to Greenport where we called Max. He met us at the dock and drove us to police headquarters where we showered and
got into sweatsuits and warm socks. A local doc checked us over and suggested antibiotics and bacon and eggs, which sounded
fine.

We had breakfast in Max’s conference room and made a report to the chief. Max was amazed, incredulous, pissedoff, happy, envious,
relieved, worried, and so forth. He kept saying, “Captain Kidd’s treasure? Are you sure?”

During my second breakfast, Max inquired, “So, only Stevens knew the location of this treasure?”

I replied, “I think so.”

He stared at me, then at Beth and said, “You wouldn’t hold back on me, would you?”

I replied, “Of course I would. If we knew where twenty million bucks in gold and jewels were, you’d be the last to know, Max.
But the fact is, the stuff is missing again.” I added, “However, we know it exists and we know Stevens had it for a short
period of time. So, maybe with some luck, the cops or the Feds can find it.”

Beth added, “That treasure has caused so many deaths that I really think it’s cursed.”

Max shrugged and replied, “Cursed or not, I’d like to find it.” He added, “For historical reasons.”

“Absolutely.”

Max seemed unable to take all of this in and process it, and he kept repeating questions to which he’d already gotten answers.

I said to him, “If this debriefing is becoming an interrogation, then I have to either call my lawyer or beat the shit out
of you.”

Max forced a smile and said, “Sorry … this is just mind-blowing….”

Beth said, “Thank us for doing a good job.”

“Thank you for doing a good job.” He said to me, “I’m glad I hired you.”

“You fired me.”

“Did I? Forget that.” He asked me, “Did I understand you to say that Tobin was dead?”

“Well … not the last time I saw him…. I mean, I guess I should have stressed that you need to get him some medical attention.”

Max looked at me a moment, then inquired, “Where exactly is this underground room?”

I gave him directions as best I could, and Max quickly disappeared to make a phone call.

Beth and I looked at each other across the table in Max’s conference room. I said to her, “You’re going to make a fine detective.”

“I
am
a fine detective.”

“Yes, you are. How can I repay you for saving my life?”

“How about a thousand dollars?”

“Is that what my life is worth?”

“Okay, five hundred.”

“How about dinner tonight?”

“John….” She looked at me and smiled sort of wistfully, then said, “John … I’m very fond of you, but … It’s too … complicated
… too … I mean with all these deaths … Emma …”

I nodded. “You’re right.”

The phone on the table rang, and I picked it up. I listened and said, “Okay … I’ll tell her.” I put the receiver down and
said to Beth, “Your county limousine is here for you, madam.”

She stood and went to the door, then turned back to me and said, “Call me in a month. Okay? Will you do that?”

“Yes, I will.” But I knew I wouldn’t.

Our eyes met, I winked, she winked back, I blew a kiss, she blew it back. Beth Penrose turned and left.

After a few minutes, Max returned and said to me, “I called Plum. Spoke to Kenneth Gibbs. Remember him? Stevens’ assistant.
The security guys already found their boss. Dead. Mr. Gibbs didn’t seem all that upset or even too curious.”

“Never look too hard at an unexpected promotion.”

“Yeah. Also, I told him to look for Tobin in the underground ammo rooms. Right?”

“Right. Can’t remember which one. It was dark.”

“Yeah.” He thought a moment, then said, “What a mess. What a ton of paperwork this is going to—” He looked around the room
and asked, “Where’s Beth?”

“County PD came and took her away.”

“Oh … okay….” He informed me, “I just got an official-looking fax from the NYPD asking me to locate and watch you until they
arrive about noon.”

“Well, here I am.”

“You gonna give me the slip?”

“No.”

“Promise. Or I have to give you a room with bars.”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Get me a ride to my house. I need stuff.”

“Okay.”

He left and a uniformed officer, my old bud, Bob Johnson, stuck his head in the room and said, “Need a lift?”

“Yup.”

I went with him and he drove me back to Uncle Harry’s house. I got into nice duds that didn’t say “Property of Southold Town
PD” on them, and I got a beer and sat on the back porch, watching the sky clearing and the bay calming down.

The sky was that almost incandescent blue you get after a storm has blown out the pollutants and washed the air clean. This
is what the sky must have looked like a hundred years ago, before diesel trains and trucks, cars and boats and oil furnaces
and lawn mowers and chemicals and pesticides and who knew what the hell else was floating around.

The lawn was a mess because of the storm, but the house was okay, though the electricity was still out and the beer was warm,
which was bad, but the good news was that I couldn’t play my answering machine.

I suppose I should have waited for the NYPD as I promised Max I would, but instead I called a taxi and went to the train station
in Riverhead and took the train to Manhattan.

* * *

Back in my apartment on East Seventy-second Street after all these months, I noticed thirty-six messages on my answering machine,
which was the maximum it would hold.

My cleaning lady had stacked the mail on the kitchen table and there was about ten pounds of the crap.

Amongst the bills and junk was my final divorce decree, which I stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.

I was about to give up on the piles of unwanted mail when a plain white envelope caught my eye. It was hand-addressed, and
the return address was that of the Gordons, though the postmark said Indiana.

I opened the envelope and took out three sheets of lined paper, each side of which was filled with neat script, written in
blue ink. I read:

Dear John, If you’re reading this, it means we’re dead— so, greetings from the grave.

I put down the letter, went to the fridge, and got a beer. I said, “Greetings from the land of the living dead.”

I continued reading:

Did you know that Captain Kidd’s treasure was buried close by? Well, by now, maybe you do know. You’re a smart man, and we’ll
bet you figured out some of this. If not, here’s the story.

I took a sip of beer and read the next three pages, which were a detailed chronicle of the events that had to do with Kidd’s
treasure, Plum Island, and the Gordons’ involvement with Fredric Tobin. There were no surprises in the letter, just a few
details that I’d missed. Regarding things about which I’d speculated, such as how the Plum Island location of the treasure
was discovered, the Gordons wrote:

Not long after we arrived on Long Island, we received an invitation from Fredric Tobin to attend a wine tasting. We went to
Tobin Vineyards for the event and met Fredric Tobin for the first time. Other invitations followed.

So began Fredric Tobin’s seduction of the Gordons. At some point, according to the letter, Tobin showed them a rough map drawn
on parchment but did not tell them how he’d come by it. The map was of “Pruym Eyland,” complete with compass headings, paces,
landmarks, and a big X. The remainder of that story was predictable, and before long, Tom, Judy, and Fredric had struck a
devil’s deal.

The Gordons made it clear they didn’t trust Tobin and that he was probably the cause of their deaths, even if it was made
to look like an accident or foreign agents or whatever. Tom and Judy had finally come to understand Fredric Tobin, but it
took them too long and it was too late. There was no mention in their letter about Paul Stevens, about whom they were totally
clueless.

It occurred to me that Tom and Judy were like the animals they worked with—innocent, dumb, and doomed from the first minute
they stepped onto Plum Island.

The letter ended with:

We both like you and trust you very much, John, and we know you’ll do everything you can to see that justice is done. Love,
Tom and Judy.

I put down the letter and stared at nothing for a long time.

If this letter had reached me sooner, the last week of my life would have been far different. Certainly Emma would still be
alive, though I’d probably never have met her.

A century ago, people occasionally came to a crossroads in their lives and had to choose a direction. Today, we live inside
of microchips with a million paths opening and closing every nanosecond. What’s worse, someone else is pushing the buttons.

After about half an hour of contemplating the meaning of life, the doorbell rang and I answered it. It was the cops, specifically
some clowns from Internal Affairs who seemed annoyed with me for some reason. I went down to One Police Plaza with them to
explain why I’d failed to return official phone calls and why I’d missed my appointment, not to mention my moonlighting as
a Southold Township cop. My boss, Lieutenant Wolfe, was there, which sucked, but Dom Fanelli was there, too, and we had a
nice reunion and a few laughs.

Anyway, the bosses went through this crap about all the trouble I was in, so I called my lawyer and my Detective Endowment
Association rep, and by evening we were close to a deal.

That’s life. The meaning of life has not much to do with good and evil, right and wrong, duty, honor, country, or any of that.
It has to do with cutting the right deal.