Plum Island

CHAPTER 33

We went back upstairs, and I saw that Eva was no longer in the kitchen. Beth said to me, "I may have enough here to get a search warrant."

"No, you don't. What we found here is not connected in any way to any of the murders except through circumstantial evidence. And then only if you believe my line of reasoning." I reminded her, "Three potential witnesses are dead."

Beth said, "Okay… but I have human remains here. That's a start."

"That's true. It's worth a phone call." I added, "Don't mention that the bones could be about three hundred years old."

Beth picked up the wall phone. "Dead," she said.

I gave her my car keys and said, "Try my cell phone."

She went out the back door and jumped in the Jeep. I saw her dial and speak to someone.

I walked around the ground floor of the house. It was decorated in what appeared to be real antiques, but could have been good reproductions. The style and period seemed mostly English country stuff, maybe mid-eighteen hundreds. The point was, Fredric Tobin knew how to spend it. He'd constructed an entire world of leisure, good taste, and sophistication more suitable to the Hamptons than to the North Fork, which prided itself on simple American tastes and virtues. Undoubtedly Tobin would rather have been in Bordeaux, or at least living in the Hamptons next door to Martha Stewart, swapping recipes with her for stuffed hummingbird tongues; but for the time being, like most people, he had to live near where he worked, where the wine made his bread. In the living room, there was a beautiful carved wood curio cabinet with curved and beveled glass filled with what looked like priceless objects. I pushed the cabinet over, and it made a loud crash followed by little tinkling sounds. I love that sound. My ancestors must have been Vandals or Visigoths or something.

There was a small den off the living room, and I poked around His Lordship's desk, but he kept very little there. There were a few framed photos, one of Sondra Wells, another of his true love — himself, standing on the fly bridge of his cabin cruiser.

I found his address book and looked up Gordon. Tom and Judy were listed, but they'd been crossed off. I looked up Whitestone and saw that Emma, too, had a line through her name. Considering he'd murdered her only this morning, and the news was not even out yet, this showed a very sick and orderly mind. The sort of mind that sometimes worked against the person who possessed it.

There was a fireplace in the room, and above the mantel were rifle pegs for two weapons, but neither weapon was there. Eva was proving to be a reliable witness.

I went back to the kitchen and looked out the rear window. The bay was angry, as the old salts would say, but not totally pissed off yet. Still, I couldn't imagine what would send Fredric Tobin out on a day like this. Actually, I could imagine what. I had to play with it in my mind a little.

Beth came back in the house, her poncho wet from the short run between the Jeep and the door. She gave me my keys and said, "There is a forensic team at the Murphy house, and another at… the other scene." She added, "I am no longer heading the Gordon investigation."

"Tough break." I added, "But don't worry about it. You've already solved the case."

"You solved it."

"You have to make it stick. I don't envy you that job. Tobin can bring you down, Beth, if you're not careful with how you proceed."

"I know…" She glanced at her watch and said, "It's 6:40. There are forensic and homicide people on the way here, but it'll take them a while to get through this storm. They'll be working on a search warrant before they enter. We should be outside when they get here."

"How do you explain that you were already inside the premises?"

"Eva let us in. She was frightened — felt she was in danger. I'll finesse that." She added, "You don't have to worry about it. I'll say I went down to the basement to check the electric."

I smiled. "You're getting good at covering your ass. You must be hanging out with street cops."

"You owe me some cover on this, John. You broke every rule in the book."

"I barely got through page one."

"And that's as far as you're getting."

"Beth, this guy killed three people I was fond of and an innocent elderly couple. The last three people wouldn't have died if I'd moved faster and thought harder."

She put her hand on my shoulder. "Do not blame yourself. The police were responsible for the Murphys' safety… As for Emma… well, I know I wouldn't have guessed that she was in danger — "

"I don't want to discuss it."

"I understand. Look, you don't need to speak to the county cops when they get here. Take off, and I'll handle it."

"Good idea." I tossed her my car keys and said, "See you later."

"Where are you going without your keys?"

"For a boat ride." I took the Formula key from the keyboard.

"Are you crazy?"

"The jury's out on that. See you later." I headed toward the back door.

Beth held my arm. "No, John. You'll get killed out there. We'll catch up with Fredric Tobin later."

"I want him, now, with fresh blood on his hands."

"No." She was really squeezing my arm now. "John, you don't even know where he went."

"There's only one place he would go on a night like this in a boat."

"Where is that?"

"You know where — Plum Island."

"But why?"

"I think the treasure is still there."

"How do you know that?"

"Just a guess. Ciao." Before she could get in my way again, I left.

I headed across the lawn toward the boat. The wind was really howling, and a huge branch fell not far from me. There was almost no daylight left, which was fine because I didn't want to see what the water looked like.

I made my way along the dock, holding on to the pilings, then sprinting to the next one so as not to get blown off into the water. Finally, I reached the boathouse, which was creaking and groaning. In the dim light, I saw that the Formula 303 was still there, but I noticed that the Whaler was gone, and I wondered if it had broken loose and been washed away, or if Tobin was towing it behind the Chris-Craft, either as a lifeboat or as a way to get onto the beach at Plum Island.

I stared at the Formula rising and falling on the swells and thumping against the rubber bumpers on the floating dock. I hesitated a moment, trying to get into a rational frame of mind, telling myself that it wasn't necessary for me to take a boat into a storm. Tobin was finished, one way or another. Well… maybe not. Maybe I had to finish him before he got himself lawyered up and alibied and outraged at my violations of his civil rights. Dead men can't sue.

I kept staring at the Formula, and in the dim light, I thought I saw Tom and Judy on board, smiling and motioning for me to join them. Then, an image of Emma flashed in my mind, and I saw her again, swimming in the bay smiling at me. And then I saw Tobin's face at his party as he was speaking to her, knowing he was going to kill her…

Beyond the legal necessities, I realized that the only way I could bring closure to this case for me personally was to capture Fredric Tobin myself, and having captured him, to… well, I'd think about that later.

The next thing I knew, I was jumping from the dock into the speedboat.

I caught my balance on the pitching deck and made my way to the right-hand seat, the captain's seat.

I experienced my first problem, which was finding the ignition. I finally found it near the throttle. I tried to recall what I'd seen the Gordons do and remembered that they'd once handed me a printed plastic card titled "Suddenly in Command," and told me to read it. I had read it and decided I didn't want to be suddenly in command. But now I was. I wished I still had the card.

Anyway, I remembered to put both gear selectors in neutral, put the key in the ignition, move it to on… then… what…? Nothing was happening. I saw two buttons marked "start" and pushed the right one. The starboard engine turned over and fired. Then I pressed the second button and the port engine started. I felt them running a little rough, and I pushed both throttles slightly forward and gave them more gas. I remembered I had to let the engines warm a few minutes. I didn't want to stall out in that sea. While they were warming, I found a knife in the open glove compartment in the dashboard and cut the spring line, then both mooring lines, and the Formula immediately rolled with a wave and smashed into the side of the boathouse about five feet from the dock.

I shifted into forward gear and gripped the dual throttles. The bow was pointed to the bay, so all I had to do was push forward on the throttles, and I would be out into the storm.

Just as I was about to do this, I heard something behind me and looked over my shoulder. It was Beth, calling my name over the noise of the wind, water, and motors.

"JOHN!"

"What?"

"Wait! I'm coming!"

"Then come on!" I shifted the boat into reverse, grabbed the wheel, and managed to back the boat closer to the dock. "Jump!"

She jumped and landed on the rolling deck behind me, then fell.

"Are you okay?"

She stood, then a swell pitched the boat, and she fell again, then stood again. "I'm okay!" She made her way to the left-hand seat and said, "Let's go."

"Are you sure?"

"Go!"

I pushed the throttles forward, and we cleared the boathouse into the driving rain. A second later, I saw a huge wave coming at us from the right, and it was going to hit us broadside. I cut the wheel right and got the bow into the wave. The boat rode up, hung on to the crest as if it were in midair, then the wave broke behind me, leaving the boat literally in midair. The boat came down, bow first, digging into the swelling sea. Then the bow rose and the stern hit the water. The propellers caught, and we were off, but in the wrong direction. In the trough between waves, I swung the boat around 180 degrees and headed east. As we passed the boathouse, I heard a sharp crack and the entire structure leaned to the right, then collapsed onto the boiling sea. "Jeez!"

Beth called out over the noise of the storm, "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Sure. I took a course once called Suddenly in Command."

"About boats?"

"I think so." I looked at her, and she looked back at me. I said, "Thanks for coming."

She said, "Drive."

The Formula was at half throttle, which is how I think you're supposed to keep control in a storm. I mean, we seemed to be above the water about half the time, flying over the troughs, then slicing right into the oncoming waves where the propellers would whine, then bite into the water and shoot us forward like a surfboard into the oncoming sea again. The one thing I knew I had to do was to keep the bow into the oncoming waves and keep from being broadsided by a big one. The boat would probably not sink, but it could capsize. I'd seen capsized boats in the bay after lesser storms than this.

Beth called out, "Do you know how to navigate?"

"Sure. Red right return."

"What does that mean?"

"You keep the red marker on your right when returning to harbor."

"We're not returning to the harbor. We're leaving."

"Oh… then look for green markers."

"I don't see any markers," she informed me.

"Neither do I." I added, "I'll just stay to the right of the double white line. Can't go wrong doing that."

She didn't reply.

I tried to get my head into a nautical frame of mine. Boating is not my number one hobby, but I'd been a guest on a lot of boats over the years, and I figured I'd sucked up some facts since I was a kid. And in June, July, and August, I'd been out with the Gordons about a dozen times, and Tom was a nonstop chatterer, and he liked to share his nautical enthusiasm and knowledge with me. I don't recall paying a lot of attention (being more interested in Judy in her bikini), but I was positive there was a little pigeonhole in my cerebral cortex labeled "Boats." I just had to locate it. In fact, I was sure I knew more about boats than I realized. I hoped so.

We were now well into the Peconic Bay, and the boat was slamming very hard into the water — jarring, teeth-rattling thumps, one after the other, like a car driving over railroad ties, and I could feel my stomach getting out of sync with the vertical movement of the boat; when the boat was down, my stomach was still up, and when the boat was tossed into the air, my stomach dropped down. Or so it seemed. I couldn't see a thing through the windshield, so I stood and looked over the windshield, my butt braced against the seat behind me, my right hand on the steering wheel, my left on a handgrip on the dashboard. I'd swallowed enough saltwater to raise my blood pressure fifty points. Also, the salt was starting to burn my eyes. I glanced at Beth and saw she was wiping her eyes, too.

To my right, I saw a huge sailboat lying on its side in the water, its keel barely visible and its mast and sail swamped. "Good God…"

Beth said, "Do they need help?"

"I don't see anyone."

I got closer to the sailboat, but there was no sign of anyone clinging to the masts or rigging. I found the horn button on the dashboard and gave a few blasts, but I still didn't see any signs of life. I said to Beth, "They may have taken a life raft to shore."

Beth didn't reply.

We pressed on. I remembered that I was the guy who didn't even like the gentle rolling of the ferry boat, and here I was in a thirty-foot open speedboat plowing through a near hurricane.

I could feel the impacts in my feet, like someone was slapping the soles of my shoes with a club, and the shock traveled up my legs to my knees and hips, which were starting to ache now. In other words, it sucked.

I was getting nauseous from the salt, the motion, the constant slamming into the waves, and also from my inability to see or separate the horizon from the water. Add to this my precarious post-trauma physical condition… I recalled Max assuring me this wouldn't be strenuous. If he were here now, I'd tie him to the bow.

Through the rain, I could see the shoreline to my left about two hundred yards, and up ahead to my right I could see the dim outline of Shelter Island. I knew we would be a little safer once I got into the protected passage on the leeward side of the island, which I guess is why it's called Shelter Island. I said to Beth, "I can put you ashore on Shelter Island."

"You can steer the damned boat and stop worrying about frail little Beth."

"Yes, ma am."

She added, in a nicer tone of voice, "I've been on rough water before, John. I know when to panic."

"Good. Tell me when."

"Close," she said. "Meanwhile, I'm going below to get some life vests and see if I can find something more comfortable to wear."

"Good idea." I added, "Wash the salt out of your eyes and also look for a chart."

She disappeared down the companionway between the two seats. The Formula 303 has a good-sized cabin for a speedboat and also has a head, which might come in handy real soon. Basically, it's a comfortable, seaworthy craft, and I always felt safe when Tom or Judy was at the helm. Also, Tom and Judy, like John Corey, didn't like rough weather, and at the first sign of a whitecap, we'd be heading back. Yet here I was, confronting one of my A-List fears, looking it right in the eye, so to speak, and it was spitting at me. And crazy as it sounds, I almost enjoyed the ride — the feel of the throttles as I adjusted power, the vibrations of the engines, the helm in my hand. Suddenly in command. I'd been sitting on the back porch too long.

I stood, one hand on the wheel, one on the top of the windshield to keep my balance. I peered into the driving rain, scanning the heaving sea for a boat, a Chris-Craft to be exact, but I could barely make out the horizon or the shore, let alone another boat.

Beth came up the stairs and handed me a life vest. "Put this on." She shouted, "I'll hold the wheel." Still standing, she took the wheel as I put on the life vest. I saw that she had a pair of binoculars hung around her neck. She also had a pair of jeans under her yellow slicker and was wearing a pair of boating shoes as well as an orange life vest. I asked, "Are you wearing Fredric's clothes?"

"I hope not. I think these belong to Sondra Wells. A little tight." She added, "I laid a chart out on the table if you want to take a look."

I asked her, "Can you read a chart?"

"A little. How about you?"

"No problem. Blue is water, brown is land. I'll look at it later."

Beth said, "I looked for a radio down there, but I didn't see one."

"I can sing. Do you like 'Oklahoma'?"

"John… please don't be an idiot. I mean, the ship-to-shore radio. To send distress calls."

"Oh… that. Well, there's no radio here either."

She said, "There's a mobile phone recharger down below, but no phone."

"Right. People tend to use mobile phones in small boats. Me, I prefer a two-way radio. In any case, what you're saying is that we're out of touch."

"That's right. We can't even send an SOS."

"Well, neither could the people on the Mayflower. Don't worry about it."

She ignored me and said, "I found a signal pistol." She tapped the big pocket of her slicker.

I didn't think anyone could see a signal flare tonight, but I said, "Good. We may need it later."

I took the helm again, and Beth sat on the stairs in the companion-way beside me. We took a break from shouting above the storm and sat in silence awhile. We were both soaked, our stomachs were churning, and we were scared. Yet some of the terror of riding through the storm had passed, I think, as we realized that every wave was not going to sink us.

After about ten minutes, Beth stood and moved close to me so she could be heard. She asked, "Do you really think he's going to Plum Island?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"To recover the treasure."

She said, "There won't be any of Stevens' patrol boats or any Coast Guard helicopters around in this storm."

"Not a one. And the roads will be impassable, so the truck patrols can't get around."

"True…" She asked, "Why didn't Tobin wait until he had all the treasure before he killed the Gordons?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe the Gordons surprised him while he was searching their house. I'm sure that all the treasure was supposed to be recovered, but something went wrong."

"So he has to recover the treasure himself. Does he know where it is?"

I replied, "He must, or he wouldn't be heading there. I found out from Emma that Tobin was on the island once with the survey group from the Peconic Historical Society. At that time, he would have made sure that Tom or Judy showed him the actual site of the treasure, which, of course, was supposed to be one of Tom's archaeological holes." I added, "Tobin was not a trusting man, and I have no doubt that the Gordons didn't particularly like him or trust him either. They were using one another."

She said, "There's always a falling out among thieves."

I wanted to say that Tom and Judy were not thieves, yet they were. And when they crossed that line from honest citizens to conspirators, their fate was basically sealed. I'm no moralist, but in my job, I see this every day.

Our throats were raw from shouting and from the salt, and we lapsed back into silence.

I was approaching the passage between the south coastline of the North Fork and Shelter Island, but the sea seemed to be worse at the mouth of the strait. A huge wave came up out of nowhere and hung for a second over the right side of the boat. Beth saw it and screamed. The wave broke right over the boat, and it felt as if we'd run into a waterfall.

I found myself on the deck, then a torrent of water washed me down the stairs, and I landed on the lower deck on top of Beth. We both scrambled to our feet and I clawed my way up the stairs. The boat was out of control, and the wheel was spinning all over the place. I grabbed the wheel and held it steady as I got myself into the seat, just in time to turn the bow into another monster wave. This one took us up on its rising slope, and I had the weird experience of being about ten feet in the air with both shorelines appearing lower than I was.

The wave crested and left us in midair for a second before we dropped into the next trough. I fought the wheel and got us headed east again trying to make it into the strait, which had to be better than this.

I looked to my left for Beth, but didn't see her on the companion-way stairs. I called out, "Beth!"

She shouted from the cabin, "I'm here! Coming!"

She came up the stairs on her hands and knees, and I saw that her forehead was bleeding. I asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes… just got knocked around a little. My butt is sore." She tried to laugh, but it almost sounded like a sob. She said, "This is crazy."

"Go below. Make yourself a martini — stirred, not shaken."

She said, "Your idiotic sense of humor seems to fit the situation." She added, "The cabin is starting to take on water, and I hear the bilge pumps going. Can you come up with a joke for that?"

"Well… let's see… that's not the bilge pump you hear, it's Sondra Wells' electric vibrator underwater. How's that?"

"I may jump." She asked me, "Can the pumps keep up with the water we're taking on?"

"I guess. Depends on how many waves break on board." In fact, I'd noticed the response to the helm was sluggish, the result of the weight of the water now in the bilge and cabin.

Neither of us spoke for the next ten minutes. Between gusts of wind-driven rain, I could see about fifty yards ahead for a few seconds, but I didn't see Tobin's cabin cruiser, or any boat for that matter, except two small craft, capsized and tossed like driftwood by the storm.

I noticed a new phenomenon, or perhaps I should say a new horror — it was something that the Gordons called a following sea, which I had experienced with them in the Gut that day. What was happening was that the sea behind the boat was overtaking it, smashing into the Formula's stern and whipping the boat almost out of control in a violent side-to-side motion, called yawing. So now, along with rolling and pitching, I had to contend with yawing. About the only two things that were going right were that we were still heading east and we were still afloat, though I don't know why.

I tilted my head back so that the rain could wash some of the salt from my face and my eyes. And since I was looking up at the sky anyway, I said to myself, I went to church Sunday morning, God. Did you see me there? The Methodist place in Cutchogue. Left side, middle pew. Emma? Tell Him. Hey, Tom, Judy, Murphys — I'm doing this for you guys. You can thank me in person in about thirty or forty years.

"John?"

"What?"

'What are you looking at up there?"

"Nothing. Getting some freshwater."

"I'll get you some water from below."

"Not yet. Just stay here awhile." I added, "I'll give you the wheel later, and I'll take a break."

"Good idea." She stayed silent a minute, then asked me, "Are you… worried?"

"No. I'm scared."

"Me, too."

"Panic time?"

"Not yet."

I scanned the dashboard and noticed the fuel gauge for the first time. It read about an eighth full, which meant about ten gallons left, which, considering the rate of fuel burn of these huge MerCruisers at half throttle fighting a storm, meant we didn't have much time or distance left. I wondered if we could make it to Plum Island. Running out of gas in a car is not the end of the world. Running out of gas in an airplane is the end of the world. Running out of gas in a boat during a storm is probably the end of the world. I reminded myself to keep an eye on the gas gauge. I said to Beth, "Is it a hurricane yet?"

"I don't know, John, and I don't give a damn."

"I'm with you."

She said, "I had the impression you were not fond of the sea."

"I like the sea just fine. I just don't like to be on it or in it."

"There are a few marinas and coves along here on Shelter Island. Do you want to put in?"

"Do you?"

"Yes, but no."

"I'm with you," I said.

Finally, we got into the passage between the North Fork and Shelter Island. The mouth of the strait was about half a mile wide, and Shelter Island to the south had enough elevation and mass to block at least some of the wind. There was less howling and splashing, so we could talk easier, and the seas were just a bit calmer.

Beth stood and steadied herself by holding on to the grab handle mounted on the dashboard above the compamonway. She asked me, "What do you think happened that day? The day of the murders?"

I replied, "We know the Gordons left the harbor at Plum Island about noon. They went far enough offshore so that the Plum Island patrol boat couldn't identify them. The Gordons waited and watched with binoculars and saw the patrol boat pass. They then opened the throttles and raced toward the beach. They had forty to sixty minutes before the boat came around again. We established this fact on Plum Island. Correct?"

"Yes, but I thought we were talking about terrorists, or unauthorized persons. Are you telling me you were thinking about the Gordons even then?"

"Sort of. I didn't know why, or what they were up to, but I wanted to see how they could pull something off. A theft. Whatever."

She nodded. "Go on."

"Okay, they make a high-speed dash and get close to the shore. If a patrol vehicle or a helicopter spots their boat anchored, it's not a major problem because by now everyone knows who they are and recognizes their distinctive boat. Yet according to Stevens, no one did see their boat that day. Correct?"

"So far."

"Okay, it's a nice, calm summer day. The Gordons take their rubber raft onto the beach and drag it into the bush. On the raft the aluminum chest."

"And shovels."

"No, they've already uncovered this treasure and hidden it where they could get at it easily. But first, they had to do a lot of groundwork, like archival and archaeological work, buying the Wiley land, and so forth."

Beth thought a moment, then asked, "Do you think the Gordons were holding out on Tobin?"

"I don't think so. The Gordons would be satisfied with half the treasure, minus half of that to the government. Their needs weren't anywhere near what Tobin's were. And also, the Gordons wanted the publicity and the acclaim of being the finders of Captain Kidd's treasure." I added, "Tobin's needs, however, were different and his agenda was different. He had no scruples about killing his partners, taking the whole treasure, fencing most of it, and then discovering a small portion of it on his own land and holding an auction at Sotheby's, complete with media and the IRS guy in the back."

Beth reached under her slicker and retrieved the four gold coins. She held them out toward me, and I took one and examined it while I steered the boat. The coin was about the size of an American quarter, but it was heavy — the weight of gold always surprised me. The gold was amazingly bright, and I could see a guy's profile on it and some writing that looked Spanish. "This could be what's called a doubloon." I handed it back to her.

She said, "Keep it for luck."

"Luck? I don't need the kind of luck this brought to anyone."

Beth nodded, looked awhile at the three coins in her hand, then threw them over the side. I did the same.

This was an idiotic gesture, of course, but it made us feel better. I could understand the universal sailors' superstition about throwing something valuable — or someone — over the side to appease the sea and make it stop doing whatever the hell it was doing that was scaring the crap out of everybody.

So we felt better after we threw the gold overboard and sure enough the wind dropped a little as we made our way along the Shelter Island coast, and the waves had diminished in height and frequency as if the gift to the sea had worked.

The land masses around me looked black, totally devoid of color like piles of coal, while the sea and sky were an eerie gray luminescence. Normally at this hour, you could see lights along the coast, evidence of human habitation, but apparently the power was out all over and the coasts had slipped back a century or two.

All in all, the weather was still a horror show, and it would become deadly again once we cleared Shelter Island and got out into Gardiners Bay.

I knew I was supposed to turn on my running lights, but there was only one other boat out here, and I didn't want to be seen by that boat. I was certain he wasn't running with his lights either.

Beth said, "So the Gordons didn't have time to go back for a second load before the Plum Island patrol boat came around again."

"Right," I answered, "a rubber raft can hold only so much, and they didn't want to leave the bones and so forth unguarded on the Formula while they went back for a second trip."

Beth nodded and said, "So they decided to get rid of what they'd already recovered and come back for the main treasure some other time."

"Right. Probably that very night, if the temporary clove hitch was an indication." I added, "They had to pass Tobin's house on Founders Landing on the way back to their house. I have no doubt they pulled into his boathouse, maybe intending to leave the bones, the rotted sea chest, and the four coins — as a sort of souvenir of the find — at his house. When they saw that the Whaler was gone, they figured Tobin was gone, so they continued on to their house."

"Where they surprised Tobin."

"Right. He'd already ransacked their house to simulate a burglary, as well as to see if the Gordons were holding out on any treasure."

"Also, he'd want to see if there was any incriminating evidence in their house linking them to him."

"Exactly. So the Gordons pull into their dock, and maybe it's at this point that they raise the flags signaling Dangerous Cargo, Need Assistance." I added, "I'm sure they'd raised the Jolly Roger in the morning, signaling to Tobin that this was, indeed, the day as agreed. Calm seas, no rain, and a lot of confidence and good vibes, or whatever."

"And when the Gordons pulled into their dock, Tobin's Whaler was in the wetlands nearby."

"Yes." I thought a minute and said, "We'll probably never know what happened next — what was said, what Tobin thought was in the chest, what the Gordons thought Tobin was up to. At some point, all three of them knew that their partnership had ended. Tobin knew he'd never have another opportunity to murder his partners. So… he raised his gun, pressed on the handle of the air horn, and squeezed on the trigger of his pistol. The first round hits Tom in the forehead at close range, Judy screams and turns toward her husband and the second round hits her in the side of the head… Tobin stops squeezing the air horn. He opens the aluminum chest and sees that there isn't much gold or jewels in it. He figures the rest of the loot is on board the Spirochete, and he goes down to the boat and searches it. Nothing there. He realizes he's killed the geese that were supposed to deliver the golden eggs. But all is not lost. He knows or believes that he can complete the job himself. Right?"

Beth nodded, thought a moment, then said, "Or, Tobin has another accomplice on the island."

I said, "Indeed." I added, "Then killing the Gordons is no big deal."

We continued east through the passage, which is about four miles long and half a mile wide at its narrowest. It was definitely dark now — no lights, no moon, and no stars, only an ink-black sea and a smoke-black sky. I could barely see the channel markers, and if it weren't for them, I'd have been totally lost and disoriented, and would have wound up on the rocks or shoals.

To our left, I saw a few lights onshore, and realized we were passing Greenport where there was obviously some emergency generator lighting. I said to Beth, "Greenport."

She nodded.

We both had the same thought, which was to make for this safe harbor. I pictured us in some bar at a traditional hurricane party — candlelight and warm beer.

Somewhere to our right, though I couldn't see it, was Dering Harbor on Shelter Island, and I knew there was a yacht club there where I could put in. Greenport and Dering Harbor were the last of the big easily navigable ports before the open sea. I looked at Beth and reminded her, "As soon as we clear Shelter Island, it's going to get rough."

She replied, "It's rough now." She shrugged, then said, "Let's give it a shot. We can always turn back."

I thought it was time to tell her about the fuel, and I said, "We're low on gas and at some point out in Gardiners Bay, we will reach that legendary point of no return."

She glanced at the gas gauges and said, "Don't worry about that. We'll capsize long before then."

"That sounds like some idiotic thing I'd say."

She smiled at me, which was unexpected. Then she went below and came back with a lifesaver, meaning a bottle of beer. I said, "Bless you." The boat was banging around so badly, I couldn't put the neck of the bottle to my lips without knocking my teeth out, so I poured the beer into my upturned and open mouth, getting about half of it on my face.

Beth had a plastic-coated chart, which she spread out on the dashboard and said, "Coming up on our left over there is Cleeves Point, and to the right over there is Hays Beach Point on Shelter Island. When we pass those points, we're in this sort of funnel between Montauk Point and Orient Point where the Atlantic weather blows right in."

"Is that good or bad?"

"This is not funny."

I took another swig of the beer, an expensive imported brand, which is what I'd expect from Fredric Tobin. I said, "I sort of like the idea of stealing his boat and drinking his beer."

Beth replied, "Which has been the most fun — wrecking his apartment or sinking his boat?"

"The boat is not sinking."

"You ought to go look below."

"I don't have to — I can feel it in the helm." I added, "Good ballast."

"You're a real sailor all of a sudden."

"I'm a quick learner."

"Right. Go take a break, John. I'll take the helm."

"Okay." I took the chart, gave the wheel to Beth, and went below.

The small cabin was awash in about three inches of water, which meant we were taking in more water than the bilge pumps could handle. As I indicated, I didn't mind a little water to add weight and ballast to make up for the lighter fuel tanks. It was too bad the engine wouldn't burn water.

I went into the head and retched about a pint of saltwater into the toilet. I washed the salt off my face and hands, and came back into the cabin. I sat on one of the bench beds, studied the chart, and sipped my beer. My arms and shoulders ached, my legs and hips ached, and my chest was heaving, though my stomach felt better. I stared at the chart for a minute or two, went to the bar refrigerator and found another beer, which I carried topside along with the chart.

Beth was doing fine in the storm, which, as I said, wasn't too bad here on the leeward side of Shelter Island. The seas were high, but they were predictable, and the wind at sea level wasn't so bad as long as the island sheltered us.

I looked out at the horizon and was able to see the black outline of the two points of land that marked the end of the safe passage. I said to Beth, "I'll take the wheel. You take the chart."

"Okay." She tapped the chart and said, "There's some tricky navigating coming up. You have to stay to the right of Long Beach Bar Lighthouse."

"All right," I replied. We exchanged places. As she sidestepped past me, she glanced toward the stern and let out a scream.

I thought it must be a monster wave that caused that reaction and I looked quickly back over my shoulder as I took the wheel.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing — a huge cabin cruiser, a Chris-Craft to be exact, the Autumn Gold to be specific — was no more than twenty feet off our tail on a collision course and gaining fast.