Plum Island

CHAPTER 15

We stood in the sun-dappled lane near Beth Penrose's black PD. It was approaching six o'clock. I said, "How about a cocktail?"

She replied, "Can you find Margaret Wiley's house?"

"Maybe. Is she serving cocktails?"

"We'll ask. Jump in." I got in. She started the big engine and off we went, north through Nassau Point, across the causeway, and onto the mainland of the North Fork.

"Which way?" she asked.

"Right, I think."

She took the turn with squealing tires. I said, "Slow down."

She slowed down.

It was pleasant with the windows down, the setting sun, the clean air, and all of that. We were away from the bay area now and were in farm and vineyard country. I said, "When I was a kid, there were two kinds of farms — potato farms owned mostly by Polish and German families who came here around the turn of the century, and the fruit and vegetable farms owned mostly by the original settlers. There are farms here that have been in the same family for three hundred and fifty years. Hard to comprehend."

She stayed silent awhile, then said, "My family owned the same farm for a hundred years."

"Really? And your father sold it?"

Had to. By the time I was born, the farm sat in the middle of the suburbs." She added, "We were considered weird. I was laughed at in school. For being a farmer's daughter." She smiled and said, "But Dad had the last laugh. A million bucks for the acreage. Big money then."

"Big money now." I asked, "Have you inherited?"

"Not yet. But I'm squandering a trust fund."

I asked, "Will you marry me?"

"No, but I'll let you drive my BMW."

"Slow down and turn left there."

She turned, and we headed north again. She glanced at me and said, "I understood you were married."

"Divorced."

"Signed, sealed, and delivered?"

"I think so." In truth, I didn't remember getting my final discharge papers.

"I remember a story on TV… when you were hit… an attractive wife visiting the hospital with the mayor, the police commissioner… you remember that?"

"Not really. Heard about it." I said, "Right and a quick left."

We found ourselves on Lighthouse Road, and I said, "Go slow and we'll read numbers."

The small road, which led to Horton Point Lighthouse about a mile farther on, had a scattering of small houses on both sides, surrounded by vineyards.

We came to a pleasant brick cottage whose mailbox said "Wiley." Beth stopped the car on the grass verge. "I guess this is it."

"Probably. The phone book was full of Wileys, by the way. Probably old originals."

We got out and went up a stone path to the front door. There was no bell and we knocked. We waited. There was a car parked under a big oak tree alongside the house, so we walked around to the side, then to the back.

A thin woman of about seventy wearing a flowered summer dress was puttering around in a vegetable garden. I called out, "Mrs. Wiley?"

She looked up from her garden, then came toward us. We met her on a patch of lawn between the house and the garden. I said, "I'm Detective John Corey. I phoned you last night. This is my partner, Detective Beth Penrose."

She stared at my shorts, and I thought maybe my fly was open or something.

Beth showed Mrs. Wiley her badge case, and the lady seemed satisfied with Beth, but still uncertain about me.

I smiled at Margaret Wiley. She had clear gray eyes, gray hair, and a sort of interesting face with translucent skin; a face that reminded me of an old painting — not any particular painting, or artist, or style, just an old painting.

She looked at me and said, "You called very late."

"I couldn't sleep. This double murder kept me awake, Mrs. Wiley. I apologize."

"I don't suppose I want an apology. What can I do for you?"

"Well," I said, "we were interested in the piece of land that you sold to the Gordons."

"I think I told you all I know."

"Yes, ma'am. You probably did. Just a few more questions."

"Sit over here." She led us to a grouping of green-painted Adirondack chairs beneath a weeping willow. We all sat.

The chairs, which had been popular when I was a kid, had made a big comeback, and you saw them all over now. These particular chairs in Mrs. Wiley's yard, I suspected, had never been away so that a comeback wasn't necessary. The house, the yard, the lady in the long cotton dress, the willow tree, the rusty swing set, and the old tire hanging by a rope from the oak tree — all of this had a 1940s or 1950s look, like an old photograph that had been color-tinted. Truly time moved more slowly here. There was a saying that in Manhattan the present was so strong, it obscured the past. But here, the past was so strong, it obscured the present.

I could smell the sea, the Long Island Sound, about a quarter mile away, and I thought I caught a whiff of the grapes that had fallen to the ground in the nearby vineyard. This was a unique environment of sea, rarrn, and vineyard, an unusual combination found only in a few places along the East Coast.

I said to Mrs. Wiley, "You have a beautiful place here."

"Thank you."

Margaret Wiley was my third old person of the day, and I determined to do better with her than I had with Edgar and Agnes. In fact, argaret Wiley wasn't going to take any crap from me; I could sense that. She was the no-nonsense, old-family, get-to-the-point, and mind-your-manners type. I'm a good interrogator because I can pick out personalities and types, and tailor my approach accordingly. This doesn't mean I'm simpatico, sensitive, or empathetic. I'm an overbearing, egocentric, and opinionated male chauvinist pig. That's my comfort zone. But I listen and I say what has to be said. It's part of the job.

I said to Mrs. Wiley, "Do you manage this place by yourself?"

"Mostly. I have a son and two daughters, all married and living in the area. Four grandchildren. My husband, Thad, died six years ago."

Beth said she was sorry.

That out of the way, Beth asked, "Do you own these vineyards?"

"I own some of this land. I lease it to the wine people. Regular farmer's lease for a season. Wine people need twenty years, they say. I don't know anything about grapevines." She looked at Beth. "Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, ma'am." Beth asked, "Why did you sell an acre to the Gordons?"

"What does that have to do with their murders?"

Beth replied, "We don't know until we find out more about the transaction."

"It was a simple land sale."

I said to Mrs. Wiley, "To be frank, ma'am, I find it odd that the Gordons spent so much money for land that couldn't be developed."

"I think I told you, Detective, they wanted a view of the Sound."

"Yes, ma'am. Did they mention any other use they might want to make of the land? For instance, fishing, boating, camping?"

"Camping. They mentioned pitching a tent. And fishing. They wanted to surf cast at night from their own beach. They also said something about wanting to buy a telescope. They wanted to study astronomy. They'd visited the Custer Institute. Have you been there?"

"No, ma'am."

"It's a small observatory in Southold. The Gordons had taken an interest in astronomy."

That was news to me. You'd think that people who looked at bugs through a microscope all day wouldn't want another lens in their eye at night. But you never know. I asked, "And boating?"

"You can't launch any boat from there, except maybe a canoe. The land is on a high bluff, and you couldn't get anything except a canoe up there, then down to the beach."

"But you could land a boat on the beach?"

"Maybe at high tide, but there are treacherous rocks along that stretch. You could probably anchor and swim or walk to the beach at low tide."

I nodded, then asked, "Did they mention any agricultural interest in the land?"

"No. It's not good for much. Didn't I tell you that?"

"I don't recall."

"Well, I did." She explained, "Whatever's growing on that bluff took a long time to get used to the wind and the salt air." She added, "You might try root vegetables on the landward side."

"Right." I tried another tack and inquired, "What was your impression of the Gordons?"

She looked at me, thought a moment, then replied, "A nice couple. Very pleasant."

"Happy?"

"They seemed happy."

"Were they excited about their purchase?"

"You could say so."

"Did they approach you about selling your land?"

"Yes. They made some inquiries first — I heard about that long before they came to me. When they asked me, I told them I wasn't interested."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I don't like to sell land."

"Why not?"

Land should be held and passed on to the family." She added, "I've inherited some parcels through my mother's side. This piece of land that the Gordons were interested in was from my husband's side." one seemed to reflect a moment, then added, "Thad made me promise not to sell any of it. He wanted it to go to the children. But this was Only an acre. I didn't really need the money, of course, but the Gordons seemed to have been heart-set on this bluff…" She glanced at me and Beth, and said, "I asked the children, and they thought that their father would approve."

It always amazed me that widows and children, who were entirely clueless about what to get the old boy for Christmas or Father's Day, knew exactly what the late great Pop would want after he popped off.

Mrs. Wiley continued, "The Gordons understood that the land couldn't be developed."

"You mentioned that." I asked pointedly, "And for that reason, wouldn't you agree that twenty-five thousand dollars was above market price?"

She leaned forward in the deep Adirondack chair and informed me, "I also gave them an easement through my land to theirs." She added, "Let's see what the land goes for when the estate sells it."

"Mrs. Wiley, I'm not faulting you for making a good deal for yourself. I'm wondering why the Gordons wanted or needed that land so badly."

"I told you what they told me. That's all I know."

"The view must be breathtaking for twenty-five big ones."

"It is."

I said, "You mentioned that you lease your farmland."

"Yes. My sons aren't interested in farming or in grape-growing for the wineries."

"Did that ever come up with the Gordons? I mean, about you leasing your farmland?"

"I suppose it did."

"And they never asked you if they could lease a part of the bluffs?"

She thought a moment, then said, "No, now that you mention it."

I glanced at Beth. Clearly this made no sense. Two government employees who could be transferred at any time rent a house on the south bay, then buy an acre on the north shore for twenty-five large to have another water view. I asked Mrs. Wiley, "If they'd offered to lease an acre or so of that bluff, would you have said yes?" She nodded. "I might have preferred that."

"How much would you have asked by the year?"

"Oh… I don't know… the land has no use… I suppose a thousand would be fair." She added, "A very nice view."

I said, "Would you be good enough to show us this land?"

"I can give you directions. Or you can look up the survey in the county clerk's office."

Beth said, "We would really appreciate it if you would come with us."

Mrs. Wiley looked at her watch, then at Beth. "All right." She stood. "I'll be right back."

She went inside through the rear screen door.

I said to Beth, "Tough old duck."

"You bring out the worst in people."

"I was being very nice this time."

"That's what you call nice?"

"Yes, I'm being nice."

"Scary."

I changed the subject and said, "The Gordons had to own the property."

She nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't know… You tell me."

"Think about it."

"Okay…"

Mrs. Wiley came out of the back door, which she left unlocked. She was carrying her pocketbook and car keys. She walked toward her car, a basic gray Dodge about five years old. If Thad were alive, he'd approve.

Beth and I got in her car, and we followed Mrs. Wiley. We made a right on Middle Road, a four-lane road that ran east-west, parallel to the old colonial-era Main Road. Middle Road passed through the heart of the farmland and vineyards, with sweeping vistas in all directions. The sunshine on the windshield felt good, the air smelled of grapes, a copper-haired babe was driving, and if I wasn't investigating the murder of two friends, I'd be whistling.

On my left, about a mile away to the north, I could see where the flat tillable land suddenly rose up, like a wall, so steep it couldn't be farmed, and the slope was covered with trees and bush. This was, in fact, the bluff whose north slope fell into the sea, but from here, you couldn'tsee the water, and the sharp rise appeared to be a range of low hills.

Mrs. Wiley had a heavy foot, and we scooted past tractors and pickup trucks.

A sign told us we were in the hamlet of Peconic. There were a good number of vineyards on both sides of the road, all identified by wooden signs with gilded and lacquered logos, very upscale, promising expensive wines. I said to Beth, "Potato vodka. That's it. I need only twenty acres and a still. Corey and Krumpinski, fine potato vodka, natural and flavored. I'll get Martha Stewart to do cookbooks and suggested accompaniments to the vodka — clams, scallops, oysters. Very upscale. What do you think?"

"Who's Krumpinski?"

"I don't know. A guy. Polish vodka. Stanley Krumpinski. He's a marketing creation. He sits on his porch and says cryptic things about vodka. He's ninety-five years old. His twin brother, Stephen, was a wine drinker and died at thirty-five. Yes? No?"

"Let me think about it. Meanwhile, the overpriced acre seems more odd when you consider the Gordons could have had the same acre on a lease for a thousand dollars. Is this relevant to the murders or not?"

"Maybe. On the other hand, it could be nothing more than bad judgment on the Gordons' part, or even a land scam." I said, "The Gordons could have figured out a way to reverse the sale of the development rights. Therefore, they have a waterfront acre for twenty-five Gs that as a building plot is worth maybe a hundred. Neat profit."

She nodded. "I'll talk to the county clerk about comparative sale prices." She glanced at me as she drove and said, "You have formed another theory, obviously."

"Maybe. Not obviously."

She stayed silent awhile, then said, "They needed to own the land. Right? Why? Development? Right of way? Some big state park project in the works? Oil, gas, coal, diamonds, rubies…? What?"

"There are no minerals on Long Island, no precious metals, no gems. Just sand, clay, and rock. Even I know that."

"Right… but you're on to something."

"Not anything specific. I have this like… feeling… like I know what's relevant and what's not, sort of like one of those image association tests. You know? You see four pictures — a bird, a bee, a bear, and a toilet bowl. Which one doesn't belong?"

"The bear."

"The bear? Why the bear?"

"It doesn't fly."

"The toilet bowl doesn't fly either," I pointed out.

"Then the bear and the toilet bowl don't belong."

"You're not… Anyway, I can sense what belongs in the sequence and what doesn't."

"Is this like the pings?"

"Sort of."

Mrs. Wiley's brake lights went on, and she swung off the highway onto a dirt farm road. Beth, not paying attention, almost missed the turn and two-wheeled it behind Margaret.

We headed north, toward the bluffs on the dirt road that ran between a potato field to the left and a vineyard to the right. We bumped along at about thirty miles an hour, dust flying up all over the place, and I could actually taste it on my tongue. I rolled up my window and told Beth to do the same.

She did and said, apropos of nothing, "We're approaching toidytoid and toid."

"I do not speak with that kind of accent. I do not find that amusing."

"I hear ya."

Mrs. Wiley swung off onto a smaller rutted track that ran parallel to the bluff, which was only about fifty yards away now. After a few hundred yards, she stopped in the middle of the track, and Beth pulled up behind her.

Mrs. Wiley got out, and we followed suit. We were covered with dust and so was the car, inside and out.

We approached Mrs. Wiley, who was standing at the base of the bluff. She said, "Hasn't rained in two weeks. The grape growers like it that way this time of year. They say it makes the grape sweeter, less watery. Ready for harvest."

I was brushing dust off my T-shirt and eyebrows and really didn't give a damn.

Mrs. Wiley went on, "The potatoes don't need the rain either this time of year. But the vegetables and fruit trees could use a good soaking."

I really, really didn't care, but I didn't know how to convey this without sounding rude. I said, "I guess some folks are praying for ram, and some are praying for sun. That's life."

She looked at me and said, "You're not from around here, are you?"

No, ma'am. But my uncle has a place here. Harry Bonner. My mother's brother. Has a farm bay estate down in Mattituck. Or is it a bay farm estate? Anyway — "

"Oh, yes. His wife, June, passed away about the same time as my Thad."

"That would be about right." I wasn't totally blown away that Margaret Wiley knew Uncle Harry — I mean, the full-time population out here is, as I said, about twenty thousand, which is five thousand fewer people than work in the Empire State Building. I don't mean that all twenty-five thousand people who work in the Empire State Building know one another, but — anyway, Margaret and, I guess, the late Thad Wiley knew Harry and the late June Bonner. I had this bizarre thought that I'd get Margaret and crazy Harry together, they'd marry, she'd die, Harry would die, and leave me thousands of acres of North Fork real estate. I'd have to first bump off my cousins, of course. This sounded a little too Shakespearean. I had the strong feeling I'd been out here too long in the seventeenth century,

"John? Mrs. Wiley is speaking to you."

"Oh, sorry. I was badly wounded, and I have some residual consciousness lapses."

"You look awful," Mrs. Wiley informed me.

"Thank you."

"I was saying, how is your uncle?"

"Very fine. He's back in the city. Makes a lot of money on Wall Street. But very lonely since Aunt June died."

"Give him my regards."

"I will."

"Your aunt was a fine woman." She said it with that inflection that means, "How'd she get such a dork of a nephew?"

Margaret continued, "June was a good amateur archaeologist and historian."

"Right. Peconic Historical Society. Are you a member?"

"Yes. That's how I met June. Your uncle was not interested, but he did finance a few digs. We excavated the foundation of a farmhouse that dated to 1681. You ought to see our museum if you haven't."

"In fact, I was going to see it today, but this other thing came up."

"We're only open weekends after Labor Day. But I have a key."

"I'll give you a call." I looked up at the bluff rising out of the flat earth. I asked Mrs. W, "Is this the Gordons' land?"

"Yes. You see that stake over there? That's the southwest corner. Down the trail here about a hundred yards is the southeast corner. The land starts here and rises to the top of the bluff, then down the other side, and ends at the high-water mark."

"Really? Doesn't sound too accurate."

"Accurate enough. It's custom and law. High-water mark. The beach belongs to everyone."

"That's why I love this country."

"Do you?"

"Absolutely."

She looked at me and said, "I'm a Daughter of the American Revolution."

"I thought you might be."

"My family, the Willises, have been here in this township since 1653."

"My goodness."

"They came to Massachusetts on the ship after the Mayflower, the Fortune. Then they came here to Long Island."

"Incredible. You just missed being a Mayflower descendant."

She replied, "I'm a Fortune descendant." She looked around, and I followed her gaze. South of us stretched the potato field to the right and the vineyard to the left. She said, "It's hard to imagine what life was like in the sixteen hundreds. Thousands of miles from England, woods where those fields are now, cleared by ax and ox, unknown climate, unknown soil, few domestic animals, an unreliable source of clothing, tools, seed, gunpowder, and musket balls, and hostile Indians all around."

"Sounds worse than Central Park after midnight in August."

Margaret Wiley ignored me and said, "It's very difficult for people like us — I mean my people — to part with even an acre of land."

Right." But for twenty-five large, we can talk. I said, "I found a musket ball once."

She looked at me as if I were a half-wit. She directed her attention toward Beth and prattled on a bit, then said, "Well, you don't need me to show you up to the top. There's a path right there. It's not going up, but be careful on the sea side. It drops steeply and there aren't many footholds." She added, "This bluff is actually the terminal moraine of the last ice age. The glacier ended right here."

In fact, the glacier stood before me now. I said, "Thank you for your time and patience, Mrs. Wiley."

She started to walk off, then looked at Beth and asked her, "Do you have any idea who could have done it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Did it relate to their work?"

"In a way. But nothing to do with germ warfare or anything dangerous."

Margaret Wiley didn't look convinced. She went back to her car, started it, and drove off in a cloud of dust. I called after her, "Eat my dust, Margaret. You old — "

"John!"

I brushed the dust off my clothes again. I said to Beth, "Do you know why Daughters of the American Revolution don't have group sex?"

"No, but I'm about to find out."

"You are. Daughters of the American Revolution don't have group sex because they don't want to have to write all those thank-you notes."

"Do these jokes come from an inexhaustible supply?"

"You know they do."

We both looked up at the bluff. I said, "Let's see that twenty-five-G view."

We found the small path, and I went first. The path led through some thick bushes, a lot of scrub oak, and a few bigger trees that looked like maples, but could have been banana trees, for all I knew.

Beth, dressed in a khaki poplin skirt and street shoes, wasn't having an easy time of it. I pulled her up over a few steep spots. She hiked her skirt up, or it rode up, and I was treated to a perfect pair of legs.

It was only about fifty feet to the top, the equivalent of a five-story walk-up, which I used to be able to do with enough energy left to kick down a door, wrestle a perp to the floor, slap the cuffs on, and drag him down to the street and into a PD. But that was then. This was now, and I felt shaky. Black spots danced before my eyes, and I had to stop and kneel down.

Beth asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah… Just a minute…" I took a bunch of breaths and then continued on.

We reached the top of the bluff. The growth here was much more stunted because of the wind and salt air. We looked out over the Long Island Sound, and truly it was an incredible panorama. Although the south slope of the bluff was only fifty feet from the base to the crest, the north slope down to the beach was about a hundred feet. It was, as Mrs. Wiley warned, very steep, and when we peered down over the edge, we could see sea grasses, erosion gullies, mud slides, and rock falls that swept down to a nice long beach that stretched east and west for miles.

The Sound was calm, and we saw a few sailboats and powerboats. A huge cargo ship was heading west toward New York or one of the Connecticut ports. About ten miles away, we could make out the Connecticut coast.

The bluff ran west for a mile or so and disappeared at a point of land jutting into the Sound. To the east, the bluff ran with the beach for several miles and ended at Horton Point, which was identifiable because of the lighthouse.

Behind us, the way we had come up, were the flat farmlands, and from up here, we could see the quiltwork of potatoes, grapevines, orchards, and corn. Quaint clapboard houses and white, not red, barns dotted the green fields. I said, "What a view."

"Magnificent," Beth agreed. She asked, "Worth twenty-five thousand?"

"That is the question." I looked at her. "What do you think?" In theory, no. But up here, yes."

"Well put." I saw a boulder in the tall grass and sat on it, staring out to sea.

Beth stood to my side, also staring out to sea. We were both sweaty, dirty, dusty, out of breath, and tired. "Time for cocktails," I said. "Let's head back."

Just a minute. Let's be Tom and Judy. Tell me what they wanted here, what they were seeking."

Okay…" I stood on the boulder and looked around. The sun was setting, and way off to the east the sky was purple. To the west, lt: was pink and overhead it was blue. Gulls sailed, whitecaps raced across the Sound, birds sang in the trees, a breeze blew out of the northeast, and there was a smell of autumn as well as salt. I said to Beth, "We've spent the day on Plum Island. We were in biocontainment all day, wearing lab clothes, surrounded by viruses. We shower out, race to the Spirochete or to the ferry, cross the Gut, get into our car, and come here. This is wide open, clean, and invigorating. This is life… We brought a bottle of wine and a blanket. We drink the wine, we make love, we lie on the blanket, and watch the stars come out. Maybe we go down to the beach and swim or surf cast under the stars and moon. We are a million miles from the laboratory. We go home, ready for another day in biocontainment."

Beth stayed silent for a while, then without replying, she moved to the edge of the bluff, then turned and walked to the only substantial tree on the crest, a ten-foot-tall, gnarled oak. She bent down, then straightened up, holding a coil of rope in her hand. "Look at this."

I joined her and looked at her find. The rope, made of green nylon about a half an inch thick, was knotted every three feet or so for handholds. One end was tied to the base of the tree. Beth said, "There's probably enough rope here to reach the beach."

I nodded. "That would certainly make the climb up and down easier."

"Yes." She knelt and looked down the slope. I did the same. We could see where the grass was worn from the climbs up and down the face of the bluff. It was, as I said, a steep slope, but not too difficult for anyone in decent shape, even without a rope.

I leaned farther over the edge and noticed that where the grass had eroded there were those reddish streaks of clay and iron in the soil. I noticed something else: about ten feet below, a sort of shelf or ledge appeared. Beth noticed it, too, and said, "I'm going to have a look."

She pulled at the rope, and satisfied that it was securely attached to the tree trunk, and the tree trunk was securely attached to the ground, she took the rope in both hands and walked backwards down the ten feet to the ledge, playing out the rope as she descended. She called up, "Come on down. This is interesting."

"Okay." I walked down the slope, holding the rope in one hand. I stood on the ledge beside Beth.

She said, "Look at that."

The ledge was about ten feet long and three feet deep at the widest. In the center of the ledge was a cave, but you could tell it was not natural. In fact, I could see shovel marks. Beth and I crouched down and peered into the opening. It was small, about three feet in diameter and only about four feet deep. There was nothing inside the excavation. I couldn't imagine what this was for, but I speculated, "You could stash a picnic lunch and a cooler of wine in there."

Beth added, "You could even put your legs in there and your body out on this ledge, and go to sleep."

"Or have sex."

"Why did I know you were going to say that?"

"Well, it's true." I stood. "They may have intended to make this bigger."

"For what?"

"I don't know." I turned toward the Sound and lowered myself into a sitting position, my feet dangling over the ledge. "This is nice. Have a seat."

"I'm getting cold.

"Here, you can have my T-shirt."

"No, it smells."

"You're no petunia yourself."

"I'm tired, I'm dirty, my pantyhose are ripped, and I have to go to the bathroom."

"This is romantic."

"It could be. But it's not now." She stood, grabbed the rope, and walked up to the crest. I waited until she got to the top, then followed.

Beth coiled the rope and put it back at the base of the tree as she'd found it. She turned, and we found ourselves face-to-face, about a foot apart. It was one of those awkward moments, and we stood for exactly three seconds, then I put my hand out and brushed her hair, then her cheek. I moved in for the big smooch, confident we were about to lock lips, but she stepped back and uttered the magic word that all modern American men have been Pavloved to respond to. "No."

I immediately jumped back six feet, and I clasped my hands behind my back. My little woody dropped like a dead tree, and I exclaimed, "I mistook your friendly banter for a sexual come-on. Forgive me."

Actually, that's not exactly what happened. She did say "no," but I hesitated, a look of abject disappointment on my face, and she said, "Not now," which is good, then "maybe later," which was better, then "I like you," which was best.

I said, "Take your time," which I sincerely meant, as long as she didn't take more than seventy-two hours, which is sort of my limit. Actually, I've waited longer.

We didn't say anything else about that, but walked down the landward side of the bluff and got into the black PD.

She started the car, threw it into gear, then put it back into park, and leaned over and kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek, then into gear again and off we went, raising dust.

A mile later, we were on Middle Road. She had a good sense of direction and headed back to Nassau Point without my help.

She saw an open service station, and we both used the respective lavs to freshen up, as they say. I couldn't remember the last time I looked this dirty. I'm a pretty dapper guy on the job, a Manhattan dandy in tailor-made suits. I felt like a kid again, dirty Johnny rooting around the Indian burial sites.

In the service station office, I bought some really gross snacks — beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears. Out in the car, I offered some to Beth, who refused. I said, "If you chew this all together, it tastes like a Thai dish called Sandang Phon. I discovered that by accident."

"I hope so."

We drove a few minutes. The combo of beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears actually tasted awful, but I was starving, and I wanted that dust out of my throat. I asked Beth, "What do you think? I mean, about the bluff?"

She thought a moment, then replied, "I think I would have liked the Gordons."

"You would have."

"Are you sad?"

"Yeah… I mean, we weren't best buddies… I only knew them a few months, but they were good people, full of fun and life. They were too young to have ended their lives like that."

She nodded.

We drove across the causeway onto Nassau Point. It was getting dark.

She said, "My brain is telling me this piece of land is what it appears to be. A romantic retreat, a place to call their own. They were Midwesterners, they probably came from land, and they found themselves here as tenants in a place where land means a lot, like where they came from… Right?"

"Right."

"And yet…"

"Yes. And yet… And yet, they could have saved themselves about twenty Gs if they'd leased for five years." I added, "They had to own the land. Think about that."

"I'm thinking about it."

We wound up at the house where the Gordons had lived, and Beth pulled up behind my Jeep. She said, "It was a long day."

"Come back to my place. Follow me."

"No, I'm going home tonight."

"Why?"

"There's no reason to be here twenty-four hours a day any longer, and the county won't pay for the motel."

"Stop at my place first. I have to give you the computer printouts."

"They'll wait until tomorrow." She said, "I need to go to the office tomorrow morning. Why don't I meet you tomorrow about five o'clock?"

"My place."

"All right. Your place, five p.m. I'll have some information by then."

"Me, too."

"I'd rather you didn't proceed until you see me," she said.

"Okay."

"Get your status straight with Chief Maxwell."

"Will do."

"Get some rest," she said.

"You, too."

"Get out of my car." She smiled. "Go home. Really."

"I will. Really." I got out of her car. She made a U-turn, waved, and drove off.

I got into my Jeep, determined not to do anything that would make it speak French. Seat belt on, doors locked, emergency brake off. I started the engine and the car didn't utter a peep.

As I drove back to my bay farm estate, or farm bay estate, or whatever, I realized I hadn't remembered to use the remote to start the vehicle. Well, what difference did it make? The new car bombs all exploded after about five minutes anyway. Besides, no one was trying to kill me. Well, someone had tried to kill me, but that had to do with something else. Quite possibly, that was random, or if it were planned, the shooters considered that I was out of action, and whatever I'd done to piss them off was avenged without me having to be actually dead. That's the way the Mafia operated — if you survived, you were usually left alone. But these gentlemen who were blasting away at me looked decidedly Hispanic. And those hombres didn't always consider the job done until you were planted.

But that wasn't my concern at the moment. I was more concerned about what was going on around here, whatever it was. I mean, here I am in a very peaceful part of the planet, trying to get my mind and body to heal, and right beneath the surface we have all sorts of weird crap going down. I kept thinking about that pig bleeding from its ears and nose and mouth… I realized that people on that little island had discovered stuff that could exterminate almost every living thing on the planet.

The convenient thing about biological warfare has always been easy deniability, and its untraceable origins. The entire culture of biological research and weapons development has always been permeated with lies, deception, and denial.

I pulled into the driveway of Uncle Harry's house. My tires crunched over the seashells. The house was dark, and when I shut off my headlights, the entire world fell into darkness. How do rural people live in the dark?

I tucked my T-shirt in so as to free the butt of my.38. I didn't even know if my piece had been tampered with — anyone who would tamper with a guy's shorts would certainly tamper with his revolver. I should have checked before.

Anyway, keys in my left hand, I opened the front door, my right hand ready to go for the gun. The gun should have been in my right hand, but men, even when completely alone, have to show balls. I mean, who's looking? I guess I'm looking. You have balls, Corey. You're a real man. The real man had a sudden urge to go tinkle, which I did in the bathroom off the kitchen.

Without turning on any lights, I checked the answering machine in the den and saw I had ten messages; quite a lot for a fellow who had none the whole preceding week.

Assuming that none of these messages would be particularly pleasant or rewarding, I poured a big, fat brandy from Uncle's crystal decanter into Uncle's crystal glass.

I sat in Uncle's recliner and sipped, vacillating between the message button, my bed, or another brandy. Another brandy won a few more times, and I postponed coming to grips with the electronic horror of the telephone answering machine until I had a little buzz on.

Finally, I hit the message button.

"You have ten messages," said the voice, agreeing with the message counter.

The first message came at seven a.m. and was from Uncle Harry, who'd seen me on TV the night before but didn't want to call so late, though he had no problem calling so early. Thankfully, I was already on my way to Plum Island at seven a.m.

There were four similar messages: one from my parents in Florida, who hadn't seen me on TV but had heard I was on TV; one from a lady named Cobi who I see now and then, and who may have wanted to be Cobi Corey for some reason; and then a call each from my siblings, Jim and Lynne, who are good about staying in touch. There would probably have been more calls about my brief TV appearance, but very few people had my number, and not everyone would recognize me since I had lost so much weight and looked terrible.

There was no call from my ex-wife, who despite no longer loving me, wants me to know that she likes me as a person, which is odd because I'm not that likable. Lovable, yes; likable, no.

Then there was my partner, Dom Fanelli, who called at nine a.m. and said, "Hey, you hump, I saw your mug on the morning news. What the hell are you doing out there? You got two Pedros looking for your ass, and you show up on TV, and now everyone knows you're out east. Why don't you put your poster in the Colombian post office? Jesus, John, I'm trying to find these guys before they find you again. Anyway, more good news — the boss is wondering what the hell you're doing at a crime scene. What's going on out there? Who iced those two? Hey, she was a looker. You need help? Give a call. Keep your pee-pee in the teepee. Ciao."

I smiled. Good old Dom. A guy I could count on. I still remember him standing over me as I lay bleeding in the street. He had a half-eaten donut in one hand and his piece in the other. He took another bite of the donut and said to me, "I'll get them, John. I swear to God, I'll get the bastards who killed you."

I remember informing him I wasn't dead, and he said he knew that, but I probably would be. He had tears in his eyes, which made me feel terrible, and he was trying to talk to me while chewing the donut, and I couldn't understand him, then the pounding started in my ears and I blacked out.

Anyway, the next call came at nine-thirty a.m. and was from the New York Times, and I wondered how they knew who I was and where I was staying. Then the voice said, "You can have the paper delivered to your door daily and Sunday as a new subscriber for only $3.60 weekly for thirteen weeks. Please call us at 1-800-631-2500, and we'll begin service immediately."

"I get it at the office. Next."

Max's voice came over the speaker and said, "John, for the record, you're no longer employed by the Southold Township PD. Thanks for your help. I owe you a buck, but I'd like to buy you a drink instead. Call me."

"Screw you, Max."

The next call was from Mr. Ted Nash, CIA super-spook. He said, "I just want to remind you that a murderer or murderers are on the loose, and you may be a target. I thoroughly enjoyed working with you, and I know we'll meet again. Take care of yourself."

"Fuck you, Ted." I mean, if you're going to threaten me, at least have the balls to come out and say it, even if it is being recorded.

There was one more message on the machine, but I hit the stop button before it played, then I dialed the Soundview and asked for Ted Nash. The clerk, a young man, said there was no one there registered by that name. I asked, "How about George Foster?"

"No, sir."

"Beth Penrose?"

"She just checked out."

I described Nash and Foster to the clerk, and he said, "Yes, there are two gentlemen here that fit that description."

"They still there?"

"Yes."

"Tell the bigger guy, the one with the curly black hair, that Mr. Corey got his message and that he should heed his own warning. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Also, tell him I said he should go fuck himself."

"Yes, sir."

I hung up and yawned. I felt like crap. I probably had gotten three hours sleep in the last forty-eight. I yawned again.

I hit the play button, and the final message came on. Beth's voice said, "Hi, I'm calling from the car… I just wanted to say thanks for your help today. I don't know if I said that… Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you, and if somehow we don't get together tomorrow — I may not get out that way — lots of office stuff and reports — well, I'll call either way. Thanks again."

The machine said, "End of messages."

I played the last one again. The call had come not ten minutes after I'd left her, and her voice sounded distinctly formal and distant. In fact, it was a brush-off. I had this totally paranoid thought that Beth and Nash had become lovers and were at that moment in his room having wild, passionate sex. Get a grip, Corey. Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make horny.

I mean, what else could go wrong? I spend the day in biocontainment, and I'm probably infected with bubonic plague, I'm probably in trouble back on the job, Pedro and Juan know where I am, Max, my bud, fires me, then a CIA guy threatens my life for no reason… well, he may have had an imagined reason — and then my true love takes a powder, and I'm picturing her with her legs wrapped around bozo boy. Plus, Tom and Judy, who liked me, are dead. And it was only nine p.m.

The idea of a monastery suddenly popped into my head. Or better yet, a month in the Caribbean, following my big friend Peter Johnson from island to island.

Or, I could stay here and tough it. Revenge, vindication, victory, and glory. That's what John Corey was about. Furthermore, I had something no one else had — I had a half-assed idea of what this was about.

I sat in the dark, quiet den and for the first time all day, I was able to think without interruption. My mind had a whole bunch of things on hold, and now I started to put them together.

As I stared out the dark window, those little pings in my head were making white dots on the black screen, and the image was starting to take shape. I was far from seeing the complete picture let alone any of the details, but I could make a good guess about this thing's size, shape, and direction. I needed a few more points of light, a half dozen little pings, and then I would have the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon were murdered.