Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

I called out, “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

  No reply.

  I pitched my ax in through the door and it landed with a metallic clank. But no one fired at it.

  I said to Beth, “You go first. I’ve already been shot this year.”

  “Thanks.” She got into a crouch and said, “I’m going right.” She moved quickly through the door and I followed. I broke left, and we stayed motionless in a crouch with our pistols up and out.

  I couldn’t see a thing, but I felt that the room was cooler and maybe dryer than the rest of the basement. I called out, “Police! Hands up!”

  We waited another half minute, then Beth snapped on the flashlight. The beam traveled across the room illuminating a row of wine racks. She moved the light around the room. There was a table in the center of the room on which were two candelabra and some candlesticks. There were packs of matches on the table, and I lit about ten candles, which cast a flickering glow around the wine cellar and which danced off the bottles.

  There were wooden racks all over the place as you’d expect in a wine cellar. There were also wooden crates and cardboard wine boxes, opened and unopened, piled here and there. There were six barrels of wine in cradles, each one tapped. I could see refrigeration coils on the walls protected by Plexiglas. The ceiling looked like cedar and the rough stone floor had been covered with smooth slates set in concrete. I remarked to Beth, “I keep my two bottles of wine in a kitchen cupboard.”

  Beth took the flashlight from me and examined some of the dust-covered bottles in one of the racks. She said, “These are vintage French wines.”

  I replied, “He probably keeps his own stuff in the garage.”

  She shone the light on the foundation wall where a few dozen cardboard boxes were stacked. She said, “There’s some of his stuff there. And the barrels have his wine labels on them.”

  “Right.”

  We poked around awhile, noting a cabinet that held glasses, corkscrews, napkins, and such. We found thermometers hung here and there, all reading about 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Finally, I said, “What was Eva trying to tell us?”

  Beth shrugged.

  I looked at Beth in the candlelight. She looked back at me. She said, “Maybe we should look at those crates and boxes.”

  “Maybe we should.”

  So, we started moving wooden crates and cardboard boxes. We ripped open a few of them, but there was only wine inside. Beth asked, “What are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Not wine.”

  In a corner where the two foundation walls met was a stack of Tobin Vineyards wine boxes, all labeled “Autumn Gold.” I went over to them and started pitching them off into an aisle between two wine racks. The sound of breaking glass filled the room as did the smell of wine.

  Beth said, “You don’t have to ruin good wine. Take it easy. Hand the boxes to me.”

  I ignored her and said, “Move out of the way.”

  I pitched the last layer of boxes away, and there, in the corner, between the wine boxes was something that wasn’t wine. In fact, it was an aluminum ice chest. I stared at it in the candlelight.

  Beth came up beside me, the flashlight in her hand shining on the chest. She said, “Is that what you were talking about? The aluminum chest from the Gordons’ boat?”

  “It certainly looks like it. But it’s a common enough chest, and unless it has their fingerprints on it, which I’m sure it doesn’t, then we’ll never know for sure.” I added, “My guess is that this is it—the chest everyone was convinced held dry ice and anthrax.”

  “It still may.” She added, “I’m not completely buying the pirate treasure thing.”

  I said, “Well, I hope the fingerprint people can lift some prints off that brushed aluminum.” I turned toward the door and started to leave.

  “Wait. Aren’t you going to … I mean …”

  “Open it? Are you crazy? And tamper with evidence? We don’t even belong here. We don’t have a search—”

  “Cut it out!”

  “Cut what—?”

  “Open the damned chest—no, I’ll open it. Hold this.” She handed me the flashlight and crouched in front of the chest that lay between two wine boxes. “Give me a handkerchief or something.”

  I handed her my handkerchief, and with it in her hand, she opened the latch, then lifted the hinged lid.

  I kept the beam of the flashlight pointed at the chest. I guess we expected to see gold and jewels, but before the lid was fully open, what we saw staring back at us was a human skull. Beth let out a startled sound, jumped back, and the lid fell shut. She stood a few feet from the chest and caught her breath. She pointed to the chest, but couldn’t speak for a second, then said, “Did you see that?”

  “Yeah. The guy’s dead.”

  “Why … ? What … ?”

  I crouched beside the chest and said, “Handkerchief.” She handed it to me, and I opened the lid. The flashlight moved around the interior of the big aluminum chest, and I saw that the skull sat amongst some bones. The skull itself had a copper coin in each eye socket, thick with verdigris.

  Beth crouched beside me and had her hand on my shoulder for balance or reassurance. She’d gotten herself under control and said, “It’s part of a human skeleton. A child.”

  “No, a small adult. People were smaller then. Did you ever see a seventeenth-century bed? I slept in one once.”

  “My God…. Why is there a skeleton … ? What is that other stuff … ?”

  I reached into the chest and extracted something unpleasant to the touch. I held it up to the flashlight. “Rotted wood.” I could see now that beneath the bones were a few pieces of rotted wood, and on closer examination, I found brass fittings covered with verdigris, and some iron nails which were mostly rust, and a piece of rotted cloth.

  The bones were not bleached white, they were reddish brown, and I could see that soil and clay still clung to them, indicating they hadn’t been buried in a coffin, but had lain in the earth for a long time.

  I poked around the stuff in the ice chest and found a rusted iron padlock and four gold coins, which I gave to Beth.

  I stood and wiped my hand on the handkerchief. “Captain Kidd’s treasure.”

  She looked at the four gold coins in her hand. “This?”

  “That’s part of it. What I see here is part of a wooden chest, pieces from the lid that was forced open, I would guess. The chest was wrapped in that rotting oilcloth or canvas to keep it waterproof for a year or so, but not for three hundred years.”

  She pointed to the skull and said, “Who’s that?”

  “I guess that’s the guardian of the treasure. Sometimes a condemned man or a native or a slave or some unlucky guy was murdered and thrown in on top of the chest. They believed in those days that a murdered man’s ghost was restless and would drive away anyone who dug up his grave.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read it in a book.” I added, “And for those who weren’t superstitious, and who may have seen people burying something or saw fresh earth, if they dug, the first thing they saw was a corpse, and they might think it was only a grave. Clever, yes?”

  “I guess. It would keep me from digging any further.” We both stood there in the wine cellar awhile, deep in our own thoughts. The contents of the aluminum chest didn’t smell all that good, so I bent over and closed the lid. I said to Beth, “I suppose this was all going to be displayed at some place and time, along with the gold and jewels.”

  She stared at the four gold coins in her hand and again asked, “But where is the treasure?”

  “If bones could speak, I’m sure he’d tell us.”

  “Why does he have coins in his eyes?”

  “Something to do with some superstition or another.”

  She glanced at me and said, “Well, you were right. I congratulate you on a remarkable piece of detective work.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

>   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’thave 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 sele
ctors 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!”