Plum Island

CHAPTER 35

We sat in the grass, sort of collecting ourselves and catching our breaths. I was wet, tired, cold, and banged up, plus my punctured lung ached. I'd lost my boating shoes, and I noticed that Beth, too, was barefoot. On the positive side, we were alive, and I still had my.38 in my shoulder holster. I drew the revolver and made sure the one remaining round was next in line to fire. Beth was patting her pockets and she announced, "Okay… got mine."

We still had on our slickers and life vests, but I noticed that Beth had lost the binoculars around her neck.

We watched the sea and the eerie swirling of the towering clouds around the eye of the storm. It was still raining, but it wasn't a hard, driving rain. When you're drenched to the bones, a little rain is no big deal. My concern was hypothermia if we sat still too long.

I looked at Beth and asked, "How's that cut on your forehead?"

"It's okay." She added, "I soaked it in saltwater."

"Good. How about your bullet wound?"

"It's just terrific, John."

"And all your other cuts and bruises?"

"Every one of them is feeling great."

I thought I detected a touch of sarcasm in her voice. I stood and felt very wobbly.

Beth asked me, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I reached down, and she took my hand and pulled herself to her feet. "Well," I said, mixing cliches, "we're out of the frying pan, but not out of the woods."

She said to me in a serious tone, "I think Tom and Judy Gordon would be proud of your seamanship."

I didn't reply. There was another unspoken sentence hanging there, and it was something like, "Emma would be pleased and flattered to see what you've done for her."

Beth said, "I think we should head back in the direction of the Gut and find the main lab."

I didn't reply.

She continued, "We can't miss the lights. We'll get the Plum Island security force to help us. I'll put in a telephone call or radio call to my office."

Again, I didn't reply.

She looked at me. "John?"

I said, "I did not come this far to run to Paul Stevens for help."

"John, we're not in great shape, and we have about five bullets between us and no shoes. Time to call the cops."

"You can go to the main building if you want. I'm going to find Tobin." I turned and began walking east along the bluff, toward where we'd seen Tobin's boat anchored about a half mile farther down the beach.

She didn't call after me, but a minute later, she was walking beside me. We continued on in silence. We kept our life vests on, partly for warmth, partly, I guess, because you just never know when you're going to wind up back in the drink.

The trees came right up to the eroded bluff and the underbrush was thick. Without shoes, we stepped gingerly and were not making good time.

The wind was calm in the eye of the storm, and the air was very still. I could actually hear birds chirping. I knew that the air pressure was extremely low here in the eye, and though I'm not usually barometer sensitive, I did feel sort of… edgy, I guess, maybe a bit cranky, too. In fact, maybe pissed off and murderous was what I felt.

Beth spoke to me in a sort of hushed tone and asked, "Do you have a plan?"

"Of course."

"What's the plan, John?"

"The plan is to stay loose."

"Great plan."

"Right." There was some moonlight coming through the smoky clouds, and we could see about ten feet in front of us. Despite that, walking along the edge of the bluff was a little treacherous because of the erosion, so we cut inland and found the gravel road that Paul Stevens' tour bus had taken to the east end of the island. The narrow road was clogged with uprooted trees and fallen limbs, so we didn't have to worry about a motor patrol surprising us.

We rested on a fallen tree trunk. I could see our breaths fogging in the damp air. I took off my life vest and slicker, then my shoulder holster and polo shirt. I managed to rip the polo shirt in half, and I wrapped both pieces around Beth's feet. I said, "I'm taking off my undershorts. Don't peek."

"I won't peek. Mind if I stare?"

I got my tight, wet jeans off, then my shorts, which I ripped in two.

Beth said, "Boxers? I took you for a jockey guy."

Ms. Penrose seemed in a playful mood for some reason. Post-trauma survivor euphoria, I guess. I tied the pieces of cloth around my feet.

Beth said, "I'd donate my panties, but they were so wet when I changed on the boat, I didn't bother to put them back on. Do you want my shirt?"

"No, thanks. This is okay." I pulled my jeans back on, then the shoulder holster against my bare skin, then the slicker, then the life vest. I was so cold now, I was starting to shiver.

We checked Beth's bullet wound, which was seeping some blood, but otherwise seemed all right.

We continued on along the dirt road. The sky was darkening again, and I knew the eye was traveling north and we'd soon be in the back end of the storm, which would be as violent as the leading edge had been. I whispered to Beth, "This is about where Tobin anchored. Careful and quiet from here on."

She nodded, and we both moved north, off the trail and through the woods back down to the edge of the bluff. And sure enough, about fifty yards off-shore was the Chris-Craft, and I could see it straining in the swells against two anchor lines that Tobin had set fore and aft. In the dim light, we could see the Whaler on the beach below, so we knew Tobin had come ashore. In fact, there was a line from the Whaler that ran up the bluff and was tied to a tree right near where we were crouched.

We remained motionless, listening and peering into the darkness. I was fairly certain Tobin had struck off for the interior of the island, and I whispered to Beth, "He's off to find the treasure."

She nodded and said, "We can't track him. So we'll wait here for him to return." She added, "Then I'll arrest him."

"Miss Goody-Two-Shoes."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, Ms. Penrose, that one does not arrest a person who has tried to kill you three times."

"You are not going to kill him in cold blood."

"Wanna bet?"

"John, I risked my life to help you on that boat. Now you owe me one." She added, "I'm still assigned to this case, I'm a cop, and we'll do it my way."

I didn't see any reason to argue what was already decided in my mind.

Beth suggested we untie the line and let the waves take the Whaler out, thereby cutting off Tobin's line of retreat. I pointed out that if Tobin approached from the beach below, he'd see that the Whaler was gone and he'd be spooked. I said to Beth, "Wait here and cover me."

I grabbed the line and lowered myself the fifteen feet down to the Whaler onto the rocky beach. In the stern, I found the plastic crate that I'd seen when the Whaler was in Tobin's boathouse. There was an assortment of odds and ends in the crate, though I noticed the air horn was gone. Fredric Tobin had probably figured out that I'd figured him out and he was ditching little pieces of the puzzle. No matter — he wasn't going to face a twelve-person jury.

Anyway, I found a pair of pliers, and I pulled out the shear pin that held the propeller to the drive shaft. I found some spare pins in the crate and pocketed them. I also found a small fish scaling and fleshing knife in the crate, which I took. I looked for a flashlight, but there wasn't one on board the small boat.

I pulled myself up the bluff using the line, my underwear-wrapped feet digging into the sandy bluff. At the top, Beth reached out and helped me up.

I said, "I took the shear pin out of the prop."

She nodded. "Good. Did you save it in case we need it later?"

"Yes. I swallowed it. How stupid do I look?"

"You don't look stupid. You do stupid things."

"That's part of my strategy." I gave her the pins, and kept the knife.

Beth, to my surprise, said, "Look, I'm sorry for some of my nasty remarks. I'm a little tired and tense."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'm cold. Can we… huddle?"

"Cuddle?"

"Huddle. You're supposed to huddle to conserve body heat."

"Right. I read that someplace. Okay…"

So, a little awkwardly, we huddled, or cuddled, with me sitting at the base of a big toppled tree trunk, and Beth sitting across my lap, her arms wrapped around me, and her face buried in my chest. It was a little warmer that way, though in truth it wasn't' sensual or anything, given the circumstances. It was just human contact, as well as teamwork and survival. We'd been through a lot together, and we were close to the end now, and we both sensed, I think, that something had changed between us since Emma's death.

Anyway, this was also very Robinson Crusoe, or Treasure Island, or whatever, and I guess I was sort of enjoying it as boys of all ages enjoy matching themselves against man and nature, I had the distinct impression, though, that Beth Penrose was not sharing my boyish enthusiasm. Women tend to be a little more practical and less likely to have fun splashing in the mud. Also, I think, the hunt and the kill don't appeal much to females. And that's what this was really all about — hunt and kill.

So, we huddled there awhile, listening to the wind and the rain, and I watched the Chris-Craft roll and pitch in the waves, straining at the anchor lines, and I kept an eye on the beach below, and we listened for footsteps in the woods.

Finally, after about ten minutes, we unhuddled and I stood and worked the stiffness out of my joints, noticing another, unexpected stiffness in the old crankshaft.

I said to Beth, "I feel warmer."

She sat at the base of the fallen tree, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees. She didn't reply.

I said, "I'm trying to put myself in Tobin's shoes."

"At least he has shoes."

"Right. Let's say he's making his way inland toward where the treasure is hidden. Right?"

"Why inland? Why not along the beach?"

"The treasure may have been originally found near the beach, maybe on one of these bluffs — maybe these are Captain Kidd's Ledges — but the Gordons would most likely move the loot out of the shaft or hole where they'd uncovered it, because the hole could easily collapse and they'd have to dig again. Right?"

"Probably."

"I think the Gordons hid the treasure somewhere in or around Fort Terry or maybe that maze of artillery fortifications that we saw when we were here."

"Possible."

"So, assuming Tobin knows where it is, he now has to pack it out, through the woods and back here. It may take two or three trips depending on how heavy the loot is. Right?"

"Could be."

"So, if I were him, I'd go get the loot, bring it back here, then get it down to the Whaler. I wouldn't try to get the Whaler back to the Chris-Craft in this weather, or try to transfer the treasure in those waves. Right?"

"Right."

"So, he's going to wait in the Whaler until the storm blows out, but he'd want to get moving before dawn, before the helicopter and boat patrols get out and about. Right?"

"Right again. So?"

"So, we have to try to follow his trail and jump him as he's recovering the loot. Right?"

"Right — no, not right. I don't follow that line of reasoning."

"It's complicated, but logical."

"It's actually bullshit, John. Logic says we stay here. Tobin will be back here no matter what, and we'll be waiting for him."

"You can wait for him. I'm going to track down the son of a bitch."

"No, you're not. He's better armed than you are, and I'm not giving you my piece."

We looked at each other, and I said, "I'm going to find him. I want you to stay here, and if he shows up while I'm gone — "

"Then he's probably killed you. Stay here, John. There's safety in numbers." She added, "Get rational."

I ignored this and knelt beside her. I took her hand and said, "Go down to the Whaler. That way, you can see him if he comes along the beach or if he goes down the rope. Take cover down there among the rocks. When he's so close to you that you can see him clearly in the dark, put the first round in his midsection, then move in fast and close and put a bullet in his head. Okay?"

She didn't reply for a few seconds, then she nodded. She smiled and said, "Then I say, 'Freeze, police!' "

"Right. You're learning."

She drew her 9mm Clock and held it out to me. She said, "I only need one shot if he comes back here. Take this. It has four rounds left. Give me yours."

I smiled and said, "The metric system confuses me. I'll stick with my real American.38 caliber six-shooter."

"Five-shooter."

"Right. I have to remember that."

"Can I talk you out of this?"

"No."

Well, a quick kiss might have been appropriate, but neither of us was in the mood, I guess. I did squeeze her hand and she squeezed back, and I stood, turned, and walked through the trees, away from the windy bluff and away from Beth.

Within five minutes, I came to the gravel road again. Okay, I am Fredric Tobin now. I might have a compass, but whether or not I do, I'm smart enough to know I should put a blaze mark of some kind on one of these trees to show me where I am on this road relative to my landing spot on the beach.

I looked around and sure enough, I found a white length of cord tied between two trees about ten feet apart. I took this to be Tobin's compass heading, and though I had no compass, and no Empire State Building to guide me, it appeared that Tobin had gone almost due south. I struck out through the trees, trying to maintain that heading.

In truth, if I hadn't gotten lucky and hadn't found anything to indicate where Tobin had gone, I might have turned back and rejoined Beth. But I had this feeling — amounting to almost an assurance — that something was pulling and pushing me toward Fredric Tobin and Captain Kidd's treasure. I had a clear vision of me, Tobin, and the treasure all together, and in the shadows around us were the dead — Tom and Judy, the Murphys, Emma, and Kidd himself.

The land rose and I soon found myself at the edge of a clearing. On the other side of the clearing, I could make out two small buildings silhouetted against the dark horizon. I realized I was at the edge of the abandoned Fort Terry.

I searched around for a marker and found a length of rope hanging from a tree. This was Tobin's exit point from the woods, and it would be his entry point when he returned. Apparently, the inertial navigation system in my head was working fairly well. If I was a migrating bird heading south, I'd be right on track to Florida.

It was no surprise that Tobin was heading to Fort Terry. Virtually all the roads and paths on Plum Island converged there, and there were hundreds of good hiding places among the abandoned buildings and nearby artillery bunkers.

I knew if I waited right there, I'd be able to ambush him when he returned. But I was in more of a hunter-stalker mood than a patient ambusher mood.

I waited a few minutes, trying to determine if anyone with a rifle was waiting for me on the far side of the clearing. From a hundred war movies, I knew I wasn't supposed to cross a clearing — I was supposed to go around. If I did that, though, I'd either miss Tobin, or get myself lost. I had to go the route he'd gone. The rain was getting heavier and the wind was picking up. I was miserable. I put my head back, opened my mouth, and got some fresh water on my face and down my throat. I felt better.

I entered the clearing and continued in a southerly direction across the open land. The cloth around my feet was in tatters and my feet were sore and bleeding. I kept reminding myself that I was tougher than twinkle-toes Tobin, and that all I needed was one bullet and a knife.

I approached the end of the field and saw that a thin treeline separated the field from the large expanse of Fort Terry. I had no way of knowing where he'd headed, and there'd be no further markings because the buildings were now his landmarks. All I could do was press on.

I zigzagged from one building to another, looking for some sign of Tobin. After about ten minutes, I found myself near the old headquarters building. I realized that I'd lost him, that he could have gone anywhere from here — south to the seal beach, or west toward the main building, or east out onto the pork chop bone. Or, he could be waiting somewhere for me to get closer. Or, I could have somehow missed him, as I'd done on the water, and he was behind me. Not good.

I decided to check out the rest of the buildings in the fort, and I began moving in a running crouch toward the chapel. All of a sudden, I heard a gunshot ring out, and I dived to the ground. I stayed motionless as another shot rang out. They were oddly muffled shots, not followed by a sharp crack, or by anything whistling over my head. I realized the shots weren't meant for me.

I sprinted to the side of the clapboard chapel and looked toward the direction where I thought the shots had come from. I could see the fire station about fifty yards away, and it occurred to me that the shots were fired inside, which was why they were muffled.

I started to move toward the firehouse, but hit the ground again as one of the big overhead doors began to open. It seemed as if it was going up in short lurches, as if someone were opening it with a pulley rope, and I figured the electric power was out here. In fact, in the upstairs windows, I saw a flickering light — candle or kerosene.

Anyway, before I had to decide what to do next, a big ambulance without any lights showing came out of the garage bay and turned onto the road, heading east toward the narrow bone of land where the ruined artillery batteries were.

The ambulance had a high chassis and ran easily over the deadfall on the road. Soon, it disappeared in the dark.

I ran as quickly as I could barefoot toward the firehouse, drew my revolver, and dashed in through the open garage door. I could make out three fire trucks in the garage.

I had been in the rain so long that the lack of ram felt sort of strange for about ten seconds, but I got used to it real fast.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a fire pole toward the rear of the garage, and the flickering light from the bunkroom upstairs filtered down through the hole in the ceiling. To the left of the pole, I saw a wide staircase. I went to the staircase and climbed the creaky steps, my pistol out front. I knew there was no danger to me, and I knew what I was going to find.

At the top of the stairs was the bunkroom, lit by kerosene lamps. By the light of the lamps, I saw two men in their bunks, and I didn't have to get closer to see they were dead. That brought the known number of people murdered by Tobin to seven. We definitely didn't need a silly old trial to settle these scores.

Boots and socks sat at the side of each bed. I sat on a bench and pulled on a pair of heavy socks and a pair of galvanized rubber boots that fit well enough. There were lockers against the wall, and on another wall, there were raincoats and sweatshirts hanging on hooks. But I had on about as much of a dead man's clothing as I wanted. Not that I'm superstitious.

There was a small, galley-type kitchen at the rear of the firehouse bunkroom and on the counter was a box of chocolate donuts. I took one and ate it.

I went down the stairs and out to the road that ran east-west in front of the firehouse. I headed east, up the rising paved road in the trail of the ambulance. Broken limbs and branches lay in the road where the ambulance had run over them.

I walked for about a half mile, and even in the dark, I recalled this road from Stevens' tour. The rain was driving hard now, and the wind was starting to rip branches from the trees again. Every now and then, I'd hear a crack that sounded like a rifle shot and it made my heart skip a beat, but the sound came from limbs snapping off and falling through the trees.

The paved road was running with a torrent of water that was coming from the higher ground on both sides of the road. The drainage ditches along the road were full and overflowing as I tried to fight my way uphill against the current and through the mudslides and fallen limbs. This was definitely worse than slush in front of my condo. Nature is awesome. Sometimes, nature sucks.

Anyway, I wasn't paying enough attention to my front because when I looked up, the ambulance sat right in front of me, no more than fifteen feet away. I stopped dead, drew my pistol, and dropped to one knee. Through the rain, I could see that a huge tree had toppled over and blocked the road in front of the ambulance.

The ambulance took up most of the narrow road and I edged around it to the left, knee-deep in the torrent of water from the drainage ditch. I got to the driver's side door and peeked inside, but there was no one in the cab.

I wanted to disable the vehicle, but the cab doors were locked, and the engine hood was latched from the inside. Damn. I crawled under the high chassis and drew my knife. I don't know much about auto mechanics, and Jack the Ripper didn't know much about anatomy. I slashed a few hoses that turned out to be water and hydraulic, then for good measure, I cut a few electrical wires. Reasonably certain I'd committed enginecide, I crawled out from under, and continued on, up the road.

I was in the midst of the artillery fortifications now, massive concrete, stone, and brick rums, covered with vines and brush, looking very much like the Mayan rums I'd once seen in the rain forest outside of Cancun. In fact, that had been on my honeymoon. This was no honeymoon. Neither was my honeymoon.

I stuck to the main road though I could see smaller lanes and concrete ramps and steps to my right and left. Obviously Tobin could have taken any one of these passages into the artillery fortifications. I realized that I'd probably lost him. I stopped walking and crouched beside a concrete wall that abutted the road. I was about to turn back, when I thought I heard something in the distance. I kept listening, trying to still my heavy breathing, and I heard it again. It was a sharp, whiny noise, and I finally recognized it as a siren. It was very far away and barely audible over the wind and rain. It came from the west, a long, shrill sound, followed by a short blast, then a long sound again. It was obviously a warning siren, an electric horn, and it was probably coming from the main building.

When I was a kid, I'd come to recognize an air raid siren, and this wasn't it. Neither was it a fire signal or an ambulance or police car siren, or a radiation leak signal, which I'd heard once in a police training film. So, partly by process of elimination and partly because I'm not really stupid, I knew — though I'd never heard this signal before — that I was listening to a warning siren for a biohazard leak. "Jesus…"

The electricity from the mainland was down and the backup generator near the main building must have died; the negative air flow pumps had stopped and the electronic air filters were breached. "Mary…"

Somewhere, a big, battery-powered siren was putting out the bad news, and everyone who was pulling hurricane duty on the island now had to suit up in biohazard gear and wait it out. I didn't have any biohazard gear. Hell, I didn't even have underwear. "… and Joseph. Amen."

I didn't panic because I knew exactly what to do. This was just like in school when we went into the basement as the air raid sirens wailed and the Russian missiles were supposed to be streaking toward Fiorello H. La Guardia High.

Well, maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. The wind was blowing hard from the south to the north… or was it? Actually, the storm was tracking north, but the wind was blowing in a counterclockwise direction, so that conceivably whatever the wind picked up at the main laboratory on the west end of the island could wind up here on the eastern edge of the island. "Damn it."

I crouched there in the rain and thought about all this — all these murders, all this chasing around through the storm and narrowly escaping death and all that — and after all this mortal foolishness and silly vanity, greed and deceit, then the Grim Reaper steps in and clears the board. Poof. Just like that.

I knew in my heart that if the generators conked out, then the entire lab was leaking everything it had inside into the outside air. "I knew it! I knew this would happen!" But why today? Why did this happen on the second day of my whole life that I was on this idiotic island?

Anyway, what I decided to do was run as fast as I could back to the beach, get Beth, get in the Whaler, get on the Chris-Craft, and haul ass away from Plum Island, hoping for the best. At least we'd have a chance, and the Grim Reaper could take care of Tobin for me.

Another thought passed through my mind, but it wasn't a nice thought — what if Beth, recognizing the warning siren for what it was, took the Whaler to the Chris-Craft and left? I mulled that over a moment, then decided that a woman who would jump aboard a small boat in a storm with me wouldn't abandon me now. Yet… there was something about plague that was more terrifying than a storm-tossed sea.

As I hurried down the sloping road toward the ambulance, I came to some realizations and conclusions: one, I'd come too far to run away now; two, I didn't want to discover what Beth had decided; three, I had to find and kill Fredric Tobin; four, I was a dead man anyway. Suddenly ashamed at my loss of nerve, I turned back toward the fortifications to meet my fate. The siren continued to wail.

As I approached the crest of the road, my eye caught a flash of light — a beam, actually, that brushed past the horizon to my right for a second, then disappeared.

I explored the area around the side of the road and found a narrow brick lane that led through the vegetation. I could see that someone had been through there recently. I made my way through the tangle of brush and fallen branches, and finally came out into a sort of sunken courtyard, surrounded by concrete walls in which were iron doors that led to the underground ammunition storage areas. At the top of the circling hills, I could see the concrete artillery emplacements. I realized that I'd stood atop these emplacements on my last visit here and had looked down into this courtyard.

Still crouched in the bushes, I peered across the open expanse of cracked concrete, but couldn't see any movement and neither did I see the light again.

Drawing my revolver and moving cautiously into the courtyard, I began working my way in a counterclockwise direction around the perimeter, keeping the lichen-covered concrete wall to my back.

I came to the first of the big steel double doors in the concrete. They were closed, and I could tell by the hinges that they were outward-swinging doors. I could also see by the rubble and debris in front of them that they hadn't been opened recently.

I continued on around the perimeter of the courtyard, realizing I was a sitting duck, a dead duck, and a cooked duck if anyone was on the parapets overlooking this open space. I came to the second door and found the same thing as the first — old, rusted steel doors that apparently hadn't been opened in decades.

On the third wall of the courtyard, the south wall, one of the double doors was slightly ajar. The debris on the ground had been swept aside when the door had been opened. I peered into the four-inch crack, but couldn't see or hear anything.

I pulled the door toward me a few more inches and the hinges squeaked loudly. Damn it. I stood frozen and listened, but all I could hear was the wind and the rain, and the faraway cry of the siren telling everyone that the unimaginable had happened.

I took a deep breath and slipped through the opening.

I stood very still for a full minute, trying to sense what kind of place this was. Again, as in the firehouse, coming in out of the rain was a treat. I was pretty sure that was the end of the treats here.

The place felt damp and smelled damp, like a place where there was no sunlight, ever.

I moved quietly to my left for two long paces and came into contact with a wall. I felt the wall and determined that it was concrete and that it was curved. I took four paces in the opposite direction and again came to a curved concrete wall. I assumed I was in a tunnel such as the one we'd seen on our first trip here — the tunnel that led to the Roswell aliens or the Nazi laboratory.

But I had no time for Nazis and no interest in aliens. I had to decide if this was where Tobin had gone. And if so, was he heading for the treasure? Or had he spotted me and led me into this trap? I didn't really care what he was up to as long as he was here.

I saw no flashlight ahead, just total blackness of the sort you get only underground. No human eyes could adjust to this darkness, so if Tobin were here, he'd have to turn on his flashlight to get me in his gun sights. And if he did that, my shot would go directly along his beam of light. There would be no second shot in this situation.

The rainslicker and rubber boots were making squeaky noises so I removed both along with my life vest. Clad now in a fashionable leather shoulder holster, jeans, sans underwear, and a fleshing knife stuck in my belt, and a dead man's wool socks, I began walking in the pitch darkness, stepping high to avoid rubble or debris, or whatever. I thought about rats, bats, bugs, and snakes, but I pushed those thoughts right out of my head; rats and stuff weren't my problem. The problem was anthrax in the air behind me, and a psycho with a gun in the dark somewhere in front of me.

Hail Mary… I've always been very religious, actually, very devout. It's just that I don't talk or think about it much while things are okay. I mean, when I was lying in the gutter bleeding to death, it wasn't that I called on God just because I was in trouble. It was more like it just seemed a convenient time and place to pray, what with nothing else going on at the moment… Mother of God …

My right foot stepped on something slippery, and I almost lost my balance. I went down into a crouch and felt around near my feet. I touched a cold metal object. I tried to move it, but it wouldn't budge. I passed my hand over it and finally figured out that it was a rail embedded in the concrete floor. I remembered that Stevens had said there had once been a narrow-gauge railroad on the island that delivered munitions from the ships in the cove to the artillery batteries. Obviously, this was a rail tunnel that led to an ammunition storage room.

I continued on, keeping my foot in contact with the rail. After a few minutes, I sensed the rail bending to the right, then felt something rough. I knelt and felt around. There was a switch here, and the rail split and veered right and left. Just when I thought Tobin and I were nearing the end of the line together, there's a damned fork in the road. I remained kneeling and peered into the darkness in both directions, but I couldn't see or hear anything. It occurred to me that if Tobin thought he was alone, he'd have his light on, or at least he'd be treading heavily and noisily. Since I couldn't see or hear him, I made one of my famous deductions, and deduced that he knew he wasn't alone. Or maybe he was just too far ahead of me. Or maybe he wasn't even here… pray for us sinners …

I heard something to my right, like maybe a piece of concrete or a stone hitting the floor. I listened harder and heard what seemed like water. It occurred to me that this tunnel might have cave-ins with this rain… now, and at the hour …

I stood and walked to the right, guided by the rail. The noise of falling water got louder, and the air got better.

A few minutes later, I had the sense that the tunnel had ended and that I was in a bigger space — the ammunition magazine. In fact, my eyes were drawn upward and I could see a small piece of dark sky overhead. Rain fell through the hole and onto the floor. I could also make out a sort of scaffolding rising up to the hole, and I realized that this was the ammunition elevator where the shells were hoisted to the gun emplacements overhead. This, then, was the end of the line, and I knew that Tobin was here, and that he was waiting for me… of our death. Amen.