Plum Island

CHAPTER 7

I was up at six a.m., showered, and dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and Top-Siders: suitable attire for a quick change into biohazard gear or whatever they call it.

I did my Hamlet routine regarding my piece — to carry, or not to carry, that is the question. Finally, I decided to carry. You just never know what the day is going to bring. This might be a nice day to paint Ted Nash red.

By 6:45 a.m., I was traveling east on Main Road, through the heart of the wine country.

It occurred to me as I drove that it's not easy trying to pull a living out of the soil or the sea, as many of the locals did. But the vineyards had been surprisingly successful. In fact, to my left, as I passed through the hamlet of Peconic, was the most successful vineyard and winery, Tobin Vineyards, owned by Fredric Tobin, whom I'd met once briefly and who was a friend of the Gordons. I made a mental note to call on the gentleman and see if he could shed any light on the case at hand.

The sun was above the trees, off to my right front, and my dashboard thermometer said 16 degrees centigrade, which meant nothing to me. Somehow I'd screwed up the computer, and I was on the metric system. Sixteen degrees sounded cold, but I knew it wasn't. Anyway, the sun was burning off the ground mist and sunlight filled my overpriced sports utility vehicle.

The road was gently curved, and the vineyards were more picturesque than the potato fields I remembered from thirty years ago. Now and then a fruit orchard or cornfield kept the vineyards from becoming monotonous. Big birds sailed and soared on the morning thermals, and little birds sang and chirped in the fields and trees. All was right with the world, except that Tom and Judy were in the county morgue this morning; and very possibly there was a sickness in the air, rising and falling with the thermals, carried on the ocean breeze, sweeping across the farms and vineyards, and carried in the blood of humans and animals. And yet, everything seemed normal this morning, including myself.

I turned on the radio to an all-news channel from New York City and listened to the regular crap for a while, waiting for someone to say something about a mysterious outbreak of whatever. But it was too early for that. I tuned to the only local radio station and caught the seven a.m. news. The news guy was saying, "We spoke to Chief Maxwell by phone this morning, and here's what he told us."

A grumpy-sounding Max came out of my speakers, saying, "Regarding the deaths of Nassau Point residents Tom and Judy Gordon, we're calling this a double homicide, robbery, and burglary. This has nothing to do with the victims' work on Plum Island, and we want to put these speculations to rest. We urge all residents to be alert and aware of strangers and report anything suspicious to the town police. No need to be paranoid, but there's somebody out there with a gun who committed murder, robbery, and burglary. So you have to take some precautions. We're working with the county police on this, and we think we have some leads. That's all I have to say at this time. I'll talk to you later today, Don."

"Thanks, Chief," said Don.

That's what I like about this place — real down-to-earth and homey. I turned off the radio. What Chief Maxwell forgot to mention was that he was on his way to Plum Island, the place that had nothing to do with the double murders. He also forgot to mention the FBI and the CIA. I admire a man who knows how and when to gaslight the public. What if Max had said, "There's a fifty-fifty chance the Gordons sold plague viruses to terrorists who may be plotting the destruction of all life in North America "? That would cause a little dip in the Dow at the opening bell, not to mention a stampede for the airports and a sudden urge for a South American vacation.

Anyway, it was a nice morning, so far. I spotted a big pumpkin field to my right, and I recalled the autumn weekends out here as a kid, going nuts running through the pumpkin patches to find the absolutely biggest, roundest, orangest, and most perfect pumpkin. I remember having some disagreements with my kid brother, Jimmy, on the choice every year, but we settled it fairly with a fistfight that I always won since I was much bigger than he was. At least the kid had heart.

The hamlet after Peconic is Southold, which is also the name of the whole township. It's about here where the vineyards end and the land narrows between the Sound and the bay, and everything looks a little more windswept and wild. The Long Island Rail Road tracks, which begin at Penn Station in Manhattan, paralleled the highway to my left for a while, then the road and the tracks crossed and diverged again.

There wasn't much traffic at this hour except for a few farm vehicles. It occurred to me that if any of my fellow travelers to Plum Island were on the road, I might see them at some point.

I drove into the village of Greenport, the main metropolis on the North Fork with a population, according to the sign, of 2,100. By comparison, Manhattan Island, where I worked, lived, and almost died, is smaller than the North Fork and has two million people piled on. The police force I work for has thirty thousand men and women, making it bigger than the entire population of Southold Township. Max, as I said, has about forty officers, if you include me and him. Greenport Village actually had its own police force once, about a half dozen guys, but they pissed off the populace somehow and were voted out of existence. I don't think that can happen in New York City, but it's not a bad idea.

Sometimes I think I should get Max to hire me — you know, big-time, big-city gunslinger rides into town, and the local sheriff pins a badge on him and says, "We need a man with your experience, training, and proven track record," or something like that. I mean, would I be a big fish in a small pond, or what? Would I have ladies stealing glances at me and dropping their handkerchiefs on the sidewalk, or what?

Back to reality. I was hungry. There are virtually no fast-food chains out here, which is part of the charm of the place, but also a pain in the ass. There are, however, a few convenience stores, and I stopped at one at the edge of Greenport and bought a coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich of mystery meat and cheese product. I swear you can eat the shrink wrap and Styrofoam, too, and not notice the difference. I grabbed a free weekly newspaper and had breakfast in the driver's seat. The newspaper, coincidentally, had an article on Plum Island. This is not uncommon as the locals seem very interested in this mist-shrouded island of mystery and all that. Over the years, I'd picked up most of my information about Plum from local sources. Now and then the island made the national news, but it was safe to guess that nine out of ten Americans never heard of the place. That might change real soon.

This article I was now reading had to do with Lyme disease, another obsession of the residents of eastern Long Island and nearby Connecticut. This disease, carried by deer ticks, had assumed plague-like proportions. I knew people who had Lyme; though rarely fatal, it could screw up a year or two of your life. Anyway, the locals were convinced that the disease came from Plum Island and was a bio-warfare experiment that had gotten loose by mistake or something. I would not be overstating if I said the locals would like Plum Island to sink into the sea. In fact, I had this image — like the scene in Frankenstein — of local farmers and fishermen, pitchforks and gaffing hooks in their hands, the women carrying torches, descending on the island and shouting, "To hell with your unnatural scientific experiments! God save us! Congressional investigation!" Or something like that. Anyway, I put the paper down and started the engine.

Properly fortified, I continued on, still keeping an eye out for my new colleagues.

The next hamlet was East Marion, though there doesn't seem to be a Marion around — I think it's in England, as with a lot of other East" places on Long Island. Southold was once Southwold, after the place in England where a lot of the early settlers came from, but they lost the "w" in the Atlantic or someplace, or maybe they traded it for a bunch of "e's." Who knows? Aunt June, who was a member of the Peconic Historical Society, used to fill my little head with all this crap, and I guess some of it was interesting and some of it stuck, but maybe it stuck sideways.

The land narrowed to the width of a causeway, and there was water on both sides of the road — the Long Island Sound to my left and Orient Harbor to my right. The sky and water were filled with ducks, Canada geese, snowy white egrets, and gulls, which is why I never open the sunroof. I mean, these birds eat prunes or something, then come in like dive-bombers, and they know when you've got your sunroof open.

The land widened again, and I passed through the super-quaint, ye-olde hamlet of Orient, then ten minutes later finally approached Orient Point.

I passed the entrance to Orient Beach State Park and began to slow down.

Up ahead, on the right, I saw a flagpole from which flew the Stars and Stripes at half-mast. I assumed that the flag's position had to do with the Gordons, and therefore the flagpole was on federal property, no doubt the Plum Island ferry station. You can see how a great detective's mind works, even at seven-something a.m. with little sleep.

I pulled over to the side of the road in front of a marina and restaurant and stopped the car. I took my binoculars from the glove compartment and focused on a big, black and white sign near the flagpole, about thirty yards down the road. The sign said, " Plum Island Animal Disease Center." It didn't say "Welcome" and it also didn't say "Ferry," but the water was right there, and so I deduced this was indeed the ferry station. Civilians assume, detectives deduce. Also, to be truthful, I'd passed this place about a dozen times over the years on my way to the New London ferry, which was just beyond the Plum Island ferry. Although I'd never given it much thought, I suppose I was always curious about the mysterious Plum Island. I don't like mysteries, which is why I want to solve them. It bothers me that there are things I don't know.

Anyway, to the right of the sign and flagpole was a one-story brick building, apparently an administration and reception center. Behind and beyond the building was a large, blacktop parking lot that ran down to the water. The parking lot was surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

Where the parking lot ended at the bay were several large warehouses and storage sheds attached to big wharfs. A few trucks were parked near the loading docks. I assumed — oops, deduced — that this was where they loaded the animals that were making the one-way trip to Plum.

The parking lot stretched along the bay for about a hundred yards and at the furthest end, through a light mist, I could see about thirty passenger vehicles parked near the ferry slips. There were no people visible.

I put down the binoculars and checked my dashboard digital clock, which read 07:29 and the temperature was now 17 degrees. I really had to get this car off the metric system. I mean, the friggin' computer was displaying weird French words, like "kilomè tres" and "litres" and all kinds of French things. I was afraid to turn the seat warmer on.

I was a half hour early for the outbound ferry to Plum Island, but I was on time for the inbound from Plum, which is what I intended. As Uncle Harry used to say when he rousted me out of bed at dawn, "The early bird gets the worm, Johnny." And as I used to wisecrack to him, "The early worm gets eaten." What a character I was.

Out of the mist appeared a white and blue ferry boat that glided toward the ferry slip. I raised my binoculars again. On the bow of the boat was a government seal of some sort, probably Department of Agriculture, and the name of the boat — The Plum Runner, which showed a small sense of humor on someone's part.

I had to get closer, so I put the 4X4 into gear and drove toward the sign, flagpole, and brick building. To the right of the building, the chain-link gates were open, and I saw no guard around, so I drove into the parking lot and headed toward the warehouses. I parked near some delivery trucks and shipping containers, hoping my vehicle would be lost in the clutter. I was only about fifty yards from the two ferry slips now, and I watched through my binoculars as the ferry turned and backed into the closest of the slips. The Plum Runner looked fairly new and sleek, about sixty feet with a top deck on which I saw chairs. The stern hit the bulkhead, and the captain shut down the engines as a mate jumped off and secured the lines to the pilings. I noticed there was no one on the dock.

As I watched through my binoculars, a group of men came out of the passenger cabin and onto the stern deck where they disembarked rrorn the open stern directly onto the parking lot. I counted ten men, all dressed in some sort of blue uniform, and either they were the Department of Agriculture band, sent out to greet me, or they were the night security guards who'd been relieved by the guards who'd taken the seven a.m. ferry to Plum. The ten guards all wore pistol belts, though I didn't see any holsters attached.

Next off the ferry was a big guy in a blue blazer and tie, chatting with the ten guards as if he knew them, and I guessed he could be Paul Stevens, the security chief.

Then came four guys in spiffy suits, and I had to think this was a little unusual. I mean, I doubt if these four dudes had spent the night on the island, so I had to figure they'd gone over on the seven a.m. ferry. But that would give them only a few minutes' turnaround time on the island. Therefore, they'd gone over earlier, either on a special ferry run or on another boat, or a helicopter.

And last but not least, waltzing off the boat, wearing casual attire, were Mr. George Foster and Mr. Ted Nash, which did not completely surprise me. Well, there you are — early to bed, early to rise, makes a man sneaky and full of lies. Those SOBs… I had expected they'd pull a fast one on me.

As I watched, Nash, Foster, and the four suits were in deep conversation, and the guy with the blue blazer stood respectfully to the side. I could tell by the body language that Ted Nash was The Man. The other four guys were probably up from D.C., and who knew who the hell sent them? This was all hard to figure, what with the FBI, CIA, Department of Agriculture, and no doubt the Army and Defense Department, and whoever else had their asses hanging out. As far as I was concerned, they were all the Feds and they, in turn, thought of me — if at all — as an annoying hemorrhoid.

Anyway, I put the binocs down and picked up the weekly newspaper and the empty coffee cup in case I had to play hide-the-face. So, here were all these bright boys pulling this early-bird crap on me, and they didn't even bother to look around to see if they were under surveillance. They had total disdain for lowly coppers and that pissed me off.

The blue blazer guy spoke to the ten guards, dismissed them, and they went to their respective cars, got in, and drove off past me. Mr. Blue Blazer then went back onto the stern deck and disappeared into the ferry.

Then the four suits took their leave of Nash and Foster, got into a black Chevy Caprice and came toward me. The Caprice slowed down opposite me, almost stopped, then went on, out the chain-link gates I'd entered.

At this point, I saw that Nash and Foster had noticed my vehicle, so I put it into gear and drove toward the ferry as if I'd just arrived. I parked away from the pier and sipped at the empty coffee cup and read about the return of the bluefish, ignoring Messrs. Nash and Foster, who stood near the ferry.

At about ten to eight, an old station wagon pulled up beside me, and Max got out wearing jeans, a windbreaker, and a fishing cap pulled down low on his forehead. I lowered my window and asked him, "Is that a disguise, or did you get dressed in the dark?"

He frowned. "Nash and Foster suggested I shouldn't be seen going to Plum."

"I heard you on the radio this morning."

"How'd I sound?"

"Totally unconvincing. Boats, planes, and cars have been leaving Long Island all morning. Total panic along the entire East Coast."

"Shove it."

"Right." I shut off the ignition and waited for my Jeep to tell me something, but I guess I hadn't screwed up this time. I took my keys out of the ignition, and a female voice said, "Votre fenêtre est ouverte." Now why would a nice American car say that? Well, because when I tried to shut off the stupid voice thing, I somehow got it to speak French — these cars are exported to Quebec, which explained the metric thing, too. "Votre fenêtre est ouverte."

"Mangez merde," I replied in my best graduate school French and got out of the car.

Max asked me, "You got somebody in there?"

"No."

"Somebody's talking — "

"Ignore it."

I -was going to tell Max that I saw Nash and Foster get off the ferry from Plum, but since Max hadn't thought to get his butt here early, or ask me to do it, then he didn't deserve to know what I knew.

Cars started arriving and the experienced Plum Island commuters hit the pier with split-second timing as the ferry horn blasted.

Ted Nash called out to Max and me, "Hey, all aboard!"

I looked around for Beth Penrose while making little misogynist remarks about women being late.

Max said, "There she is."

And there she was, walking away from a black Ford, probably her unmarked PD, that had been parked before even I arrived. Could it be that there were people in the world as bright as I? Not likely. I think I planted the idea in her head of arriving early.

Max and I walked across the misty parking lot toward the pier as the ferry horn sounded again. Detective Penrose joined Mr. Nash and Mr. Foster, and they were chatting near the ferry as we approached. Nash looked up and made an impatient gesture for us to hurry. I've killed people for less.

As Max and I got to the pier, Nash, without so much as a "good morning," looked at my shorts and said, "Aren't you a little cold, John?"

I mean, fuck you, Ted. He had that patronizing tone of voice that superiors adopt with inferiors, and this guy had to be set straight. I replied, apropos of his stupid rose-colored golf slacks, "Do those come with panty shields?"

George Foster laughed, and Ted Nash turned the color of his pants. Max pretended he didn't hear the exchange, and Beth rolled her eyes.

Mr. Foster said, belatedly, "Good morning. Ready to board?"

The five of us turned toward the ferry, and coming across the stern deck toward us was the gentleman with the blue blazer. He said, "Good morning. I'm Paul Stevens, security chief of Plum Island." He sounded like he had a computer-generated voice.

Mr. Red Pants said, "I'm Ted Nash with the Department of Agriculture."

What a load of crap. Not only had these three clowns just come from Plum Island together, but Nash was still putting out the agriculture manure.

Stevens had a clipboard in his hand — he looked like one of those whistle and clipboard types: short blond hair, icy blue eyes, Mr. Can-Do, ex-jock, fit and trim, ready to organize a sporting event or assign people to boxcars, whatever needed doing.

Beth, by the way, was wearing what she'd had on the day before, and I deduced she'd had no idea she'd be staying overnight out here when she caught the squeal, as we say, which may be appropriate in this case… You know, animal disease center, swine fever, pork-chop-shaped island…

Mr. Stevens, glancing at his clipboard, said to Max, "And you're George Foster?"

"No, I'm Chief Maxwell."

"Right," said Mr. Stevens. "Welcome."

I said to Stevens, "I'm Beth Penrose."

He said to me, "No, you're John Corey."

"Right. Can I get aboard now?"

"No, sir. Not until we're all checked in." He looked at Beth and said, "Good morning, Detective Penrose," then at George Foster and said, "Good morning — Mr. Foster of the FBI. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Welcome aboard. Please follow me."

We boarded The Plum Runner, and within a minute, we'd cast off and were on our way to Plum Island, or as the tabloids sometimes called it, Mystery Island, or somewhat less responsibly, Plague Island.

We followed Mr. Stevens into the big, comfortable, wood-paneled cabin where about thirty men and women sat on upholstered airplane-type seats, talking, reading, or nodding off. There seemed to be seating for maybe a hundred people, and I guessed that the next trip transported the majority of the people who worked on Plum.

We didn't sit with the passengers but followed Mr. Stevens down a set of stairs into a small room which seemed to serve as a chartroom or wardroom or whatever. In the center of the room was a round table and a carafe of coffee. Mr. Stevens offered seats and coffee, but no one wanted either. It was stuffy below deck, and the sound of the engine filled the room.

Stevens produced some papers from his clipboard, and he gave each of us a single printed sheet with a carbon copy attached. He said, This is a waiver that you are required to sign before disembarking on Plum Island. I know you're all law officers, but rules are rules." He added, "Please read and sign."

I looked at the form, which was labeled "Visitor Affidavit." This was one of those rare government forms that were written in plain English. Basically, I was agreeing to stay with the group and hold hands, and to be accompanied at all times by a Plum Island employee. I also agreed to abide by all safety regulations, and I further agreed that I'd avoid hanging around with animals after I left the island, for at least seven days, and I promised I wouldn't associate with cattle, sheep, goats, swine, horses, and so on, and I wouldn't visit a farm, zoological garden, circus, or even a park, plus I had to stay away from sale barns, stockyards, animal laboratories, packing houses, zoos, menageries, and animal exhibits such as at fairs. Wow. That really limited my social life for the next seven days. The last paragraph was interesting and read:

In the event of an emergency, the Center Director or Safety Officer may detain the visitor on Plum Island pending accomplishment of necessary biological safety precautionary measures. Personal clothing and other items may be temporarily held on Plum Island for decontamination and substitute clothing provided in order that the visitor may leave the Island after completion of a decontamination shower. The retained clothing items will be returned as soon as possible.

And to add to the enjoyment of my visit, I consented to any quarantine and detention necessary. I said to Stevens, "I guess this isn't the Connecticut ferry."

"No, sir, it isnt."

The efficient Mr. Stevens handed out a few government pens, and we laid the forms on the table and still standing, we scratched, skipped, and clotted our names on them. Stevens collected the forms, then he gave us the carbon copies as souvenirs.

Stevens then handed out blue clip-on passes, which we dutifully affixed to our clothing. He asked us, "Are any of you armed?"

I replied, "I believe we all are, but you'd be well advised not to ask for our guns."

Stevens looked at me and replied, "That's exactly what I'm going to ask for. Firearms are absolutely prohibited on the island." He added, "I have a lock box here where your pistols will be safe."

I said, "My pistol is safe where it is now."

Max added, " Plum Island is within the jurisdiction of Southold Township. I am the law on Plum Island."

Stevens considered a long moment, then said, "I suppose the prohibition doesn't apply to law officers."

Beth said, "You can be sure it doesn't."

Stevens, his little power play foiled, accepted defeat with good grace and smiled. It was, however, the kind of smile that, in the movies, the creepy villain gives before saying, "You have won this battle, sir, but I assure you, we will meet again." Click heels, turn, stomp off.

But Mr. Stevens was stuck with us for the time being, and he said, "Why don't we go on the top deck?"

We followed our host up the stairs, through the cabin, and outside to a staircase that led to a nice deck above the cabin. No one else was on the deck.

Mr. Stevens indicated a grouping of seats. The boat was making about fifteen miles an hour, which I think is about two hundred knots. Maybe a little less. It was a bit breezy up top, but quieter away from the engines. The mist was burning off and sunlight suddenly broke through.

I could see into the glass-enclosed bridge where the captain stood at the steering wheel, aka helm, talking to the mate. From the stern below flew an American flag, snapping in the wind.

I sat facing the bow, with Beth to my right, Max to my left, Stevens across from me, and Nash and Foster on either side of him. Stevens remarked, "The scientists who work in biocontainment always ride up here unless the weather is really foul. You know, they don't see the sun for eight to ten hours." He added, "I asked that we have some privacy this morning."

To my left, I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse, which is not one of the old-fashioned stone towers built on a headland, but a modern steel structure built on rocks. Its nickname is "The Coffeepot" because it's supposed to look like one, but I don't get it. You know, sailors mistake sea cows for mermaids, porpoises for sea serpents, clouds for ghost ships, and on and on. If you spend enough time at sea, you get a little batty, I think.

I looked at Stevens and our eyes met. The man really had one of those rare, never forgotten wax faces. I mean, nothing moved but the mouth, and the eyes bored right into you.

Paul Stevens addressed his guests and said, "Well, let me begin by saying that I knew Tom and Judy Gordon. They were well regarded by everyone on Plum — staff, scientists, animal handlers, lab people, maintenance people, security people — everyone. They treated all their fellow workers with courtesy and respect." His mouth made a sort of weird smile. "We'll sure miss them."

I had the sudden notion that this guy could be a government assassin. Yeah. What if it was the government who whacked Tom and Judy? Jeez, it just hit me that maybe the Gordons knew something or saw something, or were going to blow the whistle on something… As my partner, Dom Fanelli, would say, "Mama mia!" This was a whole new possibility. I looked at Stevens and tried to read something in those icy eyes, but he was a cool actor, as he'd shown on the gangplank.

Stevens was going on, "As soon as I heard about the deaths last night, I called my security sergeant on the island and tried to determine if anything was missing from the labs — not that I would suspect the Gordons of such a thing, but the way the murder was reported to me… well, we have standard operating procedures here."

I looked at Beth and our eyes met. I hadn't had a chance to say a word to her this morning, so I winked at her. She apparently couldn't trust her emotions so she turned away.

Stevens went on, "I had one of my security patrol boats take me to Plum very early this morning, and I did a preliminary investigation. As far as I can determine at this point in time, there is nothing missing from any of the stored micro-organisms or any stored samples of tissue, blood, or any other organic or biological material."

This statement was so patently self-serving and idiotic that no one even bothered to laugh. But Max did glance at me and shake his head. Messrs. Nash and Foster, however, were nodding as if they were buying Stevens' baloney. Thus encouraged, Mr. Stevens, aware that he was among fellow government-employed friends, continued to put out the line of official crap.

You can imagine how much bullshit I have to listen to in my professional life — suspects, witnesses, informants, and even my own team, like ADAs, brass, incompetent subordinates, low pols, and so forth. Bullshit and cowshit, the former being a gross and aggressive distortion of the truth, while the latter is a milder, more passive crock of crap. And that's the way it is with police work. Bullshit and cow-shit. No one's going to tell you the truth. Especially if you're trying to send them to the electric chair, or whatever they're using these days.

I listened awhile as Mr. Paul Stevens explained why no one could get a single virus or bacteria off the island, not even a case of crotch itch, if we were to believe Pinocchio Stevens.

I gripped my right ear and twisted, which is how I tune out idiots. With Stevens' voice now far away, I looked out at the beautiful blue morning. The New London ferry was inbound and passed us off our left side, which I happen to know is called the port side. The one and a half miles of water between Orient Point and Plum Island is known as Plum Gut, another nautical term. There are a lot of nautical terms out here, and they give me a headache sometimes. I mean, what's wrong with regular English?

Anyway, I know that the Gut is a place where the currents get bad because the Long Island Sound and the open Atlantic sort of smack together in the Gut. I was with the Gordons once, in their speedboat, when we got into a situation right about here with the wind, the tide, and the currents slapping the boat around. I really don't need a day like that on the water, if you know what I mean.

But today was okay, and the Gut was calm and the boat was big. There was a little rocking, but I guess that can't be helped on the water, which is basically liquid and nowhere near as reliable as blacktop.

Well, it was a nice view from out here, and while Mr. Stevens was flapping his gums, I watched a big osprey circling. These things are weird, I mean totally crazy birds. I watched this guy circling, looking for breakfast, then he spotted it, and began this insane kamikaze dive into the water, shrieking like his balls were on fire, then he hit the water, disappeared, then shot up and out like he had a rocket up his ass. In his talons was a silver fish who'd been just paddling along down there, chomping minnows or something, and whoosh, he's airborne, about to slide down the gullet of this crazy bird. I mean, the silver fish maybe has a wife, kids, and whatever, and he goes out for a little breakfast and before he can bat an eye, he is breakfast. Survival of the fittest and all that. Awesome. Totally.

We were about a quarter mile from Plum Island when a strange but familiar noise caught our attention. Then we saw it — a big white helicopter with red Coast Guard markings passed us off our starboard side. The guy was going low and slow, and leaning out the door of the helicopter was a man, secured by straps or something. The man was wearing a uniform, a radio helmet, and was carrying a rifle.

Mr. Stevens commented, "That's the deer patrol." He explained, "As a purely precautionary measure, we look for deer that might swim to or from Plum Island."

No one spoke.

Mr. Stevens thought he should expand on that, and said, "Deer are incredibly strong swimmers, and they've been known to swim to Plum from Orient and even Gardiners Island, and Shelter Island, which is seven miles away. We discourage deer from taking up residence or even visiting Plum Island."

"Unless," I pointed out, "they sign the form."

Mr. Stevens smiled again. He liked me. He liked the Gordons, too, and look what happened to them.

Beth asked Mr. Stevens, "Why do you discourage deer from swimming to the island?"

"Well… we have what's called a 'Never Leave' policy. That is, whatever comes on the island may never leave unless it's decontaminated. That includes us when we leave later. Big items that can't be decontaminated, such as cars, trucks, lab equipment, construction debris, garbage, and so forth never leave the island."

Again, no one spoke.

Mr. Stevens, realizing he'd frightened the tourists, said, "I don't mean to suggest the island is contaminated."

"Fooled me," I admitted.

"Well, I should explain — there are five levels of biohazard on the island, or I should say, five zones. Level One or Zone One is the ambient air, all the places outside the biocontainment laboratories, which is safe. Zone Two is the shower area between the locker rooms and the laboratories and also some low-contagion workplaces. You'll see this later. Then Level Three is the biocontainment labs where they work with infectious diseases. Level Four is deeper into the building and includes the pens where diseased animals are held, and also where the incinerators and dissection rooms are." He looked at each of us to see if he had our attention, which he most certainly did, and continued, "Recently, we have added a Level Five capability, which is the highest biocontainment level. There are not many Level Five facilities in the world. We added this one because some of the organisms we were receiving from places such as Africa and the Amazon jungle were more virulent than suspected." He looked at each of us and said, sort of sotto voce, "In other words, we were getting blood and tissue samples infected with Ebola."

I said, "I think we can go back now."

Everyone smiled and tried to laugh. Ha, ha. Not funny.

Mr. Stevens continued, "The new laboratory is a state-of-the-art containment facility, but there was a time when we had the old post-World War Two facility, and that wasn't, unfortunately, as safe. So, at that time, we adopted the 'Never Leave' policy as a precaution against spreading infection to the mainland. The policy is still officially in effect, but it's somewhat relaxed. Still, we don't like things and people traveling too freely between the island and the mainland without being decontaminated. That, of course, includes deer."

Beth asked again, "But why?"

"Why? Because they might pick up something on the island."

"Like what?" I asked. "A bad attitude?"

Mr. Stevens smiled and replied, "Maybe a bad cold."

Beth asked, "Do you kill the deer?"

"Yes."

No one spoke for a long moment, then I asked, "How about birds?"

Mr. Stevens nodded and replied, "Birds could be a problem."

I asked my follow-up question, "And mosquitoes?"

"Oh, yes, mosquitoes could be a problem. But you must remember that all lab animals are kept indoors, and all experiments are done in negative air pressure biocontainment labs. Nothing can escape."

Max asked, "How do you know?"

Mr. Stevens replied, "Because you're still alive."

On that optimistic note, while Sylvester Maxwell contemplated being compared to a canary in a coal mine, Mr. Stevens said, "When we disembark, please stay with me at all times."

Hey, Paul, I wouldn't have it any other way.