Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  “Don’t annoy me, Mr. Corey, or the next round goes right into your groin.”

  Well, we didn’t want Willie the Conqueror getting shot, though I didn’t see how I could avoid annoying Tobin. I asked him, “Where’s your shotgun?”

  He said, “I cocked the hammer and flung it across the room. Thankfully it fired without hitting me. But you went for the bait. You’re stupid.”

  “Hold on—it took you ten minutes standing in the dark with your finger up your ass to think of that. Who’s stupid?”

  “I’m getting tired of your sarcasm.”

  “Then shoot. You had no trouble killing those two firemen in their sleep.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Aren’t I close enough? How far were you from Tom and Judy? Close enough to leave powder burns. Or would you prefer to bash my head in like you did to the Murphys and to Emma?”

  “I would prefer that. Maybe I’ll wound you first, then smash your head in with my shotgun.”

  “Go ahead. Try for a wound. You get one shot, prick. Then I’m on you like a hawk on a chicken. Go for it.”

  He didn’t go for it and he didn’t reply. Obviously, he had some issues to resolve. Finally, he asked, “Who else knows about me? About any of this?”

  “Everyone.”

  “I think you’re lying. Where’s your lady friend?”

  “Right behind you.”

  “If you’re going to play games with me, Mr. Corey, then you’re going to die a lot sooner and in a lot of pain.”

  “You’re going to fry in the electric chair. Your flesh will burn and your toupee will ignite, and your caps will glow red, and your beard will smoke, and your contact lenses will melt into your eyeballs. And when you’re dead, you’ll go to hell and fry again.”

  Mr. Tobin had no reply to this.

  We both stood there, me with my hands on my head, him with the flashlight in his left hand and the pistol in his right. Obviously, he had the advantage. I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined it looking very devilish and smug. Finally, Tobin said to me, “You figured out the part about the treasure, didn’t you?”

  “Why did you kill Emma?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “You answer mine first.”

  He let a few seconds go by, then said, “She knew too much and she talked too much. But mainly, it was my way of showing you how extremely displeased I was with your sarcasm and your meddling.”

  “You’re a heartless little shit.”

  “Most people think I’m charming. Emma did. So did the Gordons. Now you answer my question. Do you know about the treasure?”

  “Yes. Captain Kidd’s treasure. Buried here on Plum Island. To be moved to another location and discovered there. Margaret Wiley, Peconic Historical Society, and so forth. You’re not as clever as you think.”

  “Neither are you. You’re mostly lucky.” He added, “However, your luck has run out.”

  “Maybe. But I still have all my hair and my original teeth.”

  “You’re really annoying me.”

  “And I’m taller than you are, and Emma said my dick is bigger than yours.”

  Mr. Tobin chose not to respond to my taunts. Obviously he needed to chat before he put a bullet in me.

  I said, “Did you have an unhappy childhood? A domineering mother and a distant father? Did the kids call you sissy and make fun of your argyle socks? Tell me about it. I want to share your pain.”

  Mr. Tobin did not speak for what seemed like a really long time. I could see that the flashlight was trembling in his hand, and so was the pistol. There are two theories when a guy has the drop on you—one is to play meek and be cooperative. The other is to needle the guy with the gun, call him names, and get him riled up so he makes a mistake. The first theory is now standard police procedure. The second theory has been ruled dangerous and crazy. Obviously I prefer the second theory. I said, “Why are you shaking?”

  Both his arms came up, the flashlight in his left hand and the automatic in his right, and I realized he was taking aim. Uh, oh. Back to Theory One.

  We stood looking at each other and I could see him trying to decide if he should pull the trigger. I was trying to decide if I should let out a bloodcurdling scream and go for him before he got the shot off.

  Finally, he brought the pistol and the flashlight down. Tobin said, “I will not let you make me angry.”

  “Good for you.”

  He asked me again, “Where is Penrose?”

  “She drowned.”

  “No, she didn’t. Where is she?”

  “Maybe she went to the main lab and called for reinforcements. Maybe you’re through, Freddie. Maybe you should give me the gun, pal.”

  He mulled this over.

  While he was mulling, I said, “By the way, I found the chest and bones and stuff in your basement under the wine boxes. I called the cops.”

  Tobin didn’t reply. Any hope he had that his secrets might die with me were now finished. I expected a bullet any second, but Fredric Tobin, ever the deal maker, asked me, “Do you want to go half?”

  I almost laughed. “Half? The Gordons thought they were going halves and look what you did to them.”

  “They got what they deserved.”

  “How so?”

  “They had an attack of conscience. Unforgivable. They wanted to turn over the treasure to the government.”

  “Well, that’s who it belongs to.”

  “It doesn’t matter who it belongs to. It matters who can find it and keep it.”

  “The Golden Rule according to Fredric Tobin—whoever has the gold makes the rules.”

  He chuckled. Sometimes I pissed him off, sometimes I made him laugh. In the absence of another cop, I had to play both good cop and bad cop. It’s enough to make a guy schizoid.

  Tobin was saying, “The Gordons came to me and asked if I’d consider working out a deal with the government whereby we’d get a fair share of the treasure as a finder’s fee, and the rest would go into new state-of-the-art lab equipment with some money left over for a Plum Island recreational facility, a day care center on the mainland for employees’ children, some environmental cleanup on the island, and historical restoration and other worthwhile projects on Plum Island. We would be heroes, philanthropists, and legitimate.” Tobin paused a second, then said, “I told them I thought it was a wonderful idea. Of course, at that point, they were as good as dead.”

  Poor Tom, poor Judy. They were completely out of their league when they made their pact with Fredric Tobin. I said, “So, the Fredric Tobin Toddler Town didn’t appeal to you?”

  “Not one bit.”

  “Oh, Freddie, you just act tough. I’ll bet you have the heart of a young boy.” I added, “I’ll bet you keep it in a jar on your mantelpiece.”

  Again, he chuckled. Time to change his mood once more and keep him interested in the conversation. I said, “By the way, the storm destroyed your vineyards and your boathouse. I wrecked your wine cellar and also your apartment in Tobin Tower. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Thank you for sharing that. You’re not very diplomatic, are you?”

  “Diplomacy is the art of saying nice doggy, until you can find a rock.”

  He laughed. “Well, you’re out of rocks, Mr. Corey, and you know it.”

  “What do you want, Tobin?”

  “I want to know where the treasure is.”

  This sort of surprised me, and I replied, “I thought it was here.”

  “So did I. It was here in August when the Gordons took me on a private archaeological tour of the island. It was right here in this room, buried under old ammunition crates. But it’s not here any longer.” He added, “There was a note.”

  “A note? Like a fuck-you note?”

  “Yes. A fuck-you note from the Gordons saying they moved the treasure, and if they had met an untimely end, then the treasure’s location would never be rediscovered.”

  “So, you fucked yourself. Good.”
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br />   Tobin replied, “I can’t believe they didn’t share this secret with someone they trusted.”

  “They may have.”

  He said to me, “Someone like you. Is that how you knew this had nothing to do with germ warfare? Is that how you knew about Captain Kidd’s treasure? Is that how you knew I was involved? Answer me, Corey.”

  “I figured everything out all by myself.”

  “Then you have no idea where the treasure is now?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Too bad.”

  The automatic came up again into the firing position.

  “Well,” I said, “I might have a small clue or two.”

  “I thought you might. Did they send you a posthumous letter?”

  No, but I wish they had. I said, “They gave me some hints that didn’t make any sense to me, but they might to you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well … hey, how much do you think it’s worth?”

  “Worth to you? Or worth all together?”

  “All together. I just want ten percent if I help you find it.”

  He shone the flashlight on my chest, just below my chin, and he regarded me awhile. He asked me, “Are you playing games with me, Mr. Corey?”

  “Not me.”

  Tobin stayed silent awhile, torn between his burning desire to plug me right then and there, and his faint hope that I might actually know something about what happened to the treasure. He was grasping at straws, and he knew it on the one hand, but he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that the whole scheme had come apart, that he was not only broke and wiped out, but that the treasure was missing, years of work were down the tube, and he stood a very good chance of being tried for murder, convicted, and deep-fried.

  Finally, Tobin said, “It was incredible, really. Not only were there gold coins but also jewels … jewels from the Great Mogul of India … rubies and sapphires and pearls set in the most exquisite gold settings … and bags and bags of other precious stones…. There must have been ten or twenty million dollars’ worth of jewels … maybe more….” He made a small sighing sound and said to me, “I think you know all of this. I think the Gordons either took you into their confidence, or left you a letter.”

  I really wish they’d done one or the other, preferably the former. However, they’d done neither, though maybe they’d intended to. But as I suspected, the Gordons had apparently given Tobin the impression that John Corey, NYPD, knew a little something; and that was supposed to keep them alive, but it hadn’t. It was keeping me alive at the moment, but not for many more moments. I said to Tobin, “You knew who I was when I came to see you at the vineyard.”

  “Of course I did. Did you think you’re the only clever man in the world?”

  “I know I’m the only clever man in this room.”

  “Well, if you’re so damned clever, Mr. Corey, why are you standing there with your hands on your head and why do I have the gun?”

  “Good point.”

  “You’re wasting my time. Do you know where the treasure is?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Enough. You have five seconds to tell me. One—” He steadied his aim.

  “What difference does it make where the treasure is? You’ll never get away with the treasure or the murders.”

  “My boat is equipped to take me as far as South America. Two—”

  “Get a grip on reality, Freddie. If you’re picturing yourself on a beach with native girls feeding you mangoes, forget it, pal. Give me the gun, and I’ll see that you don’t fry. I swear to God you won’t fry.” I’ll kill you myself.

  “If you know anything, you should tell me. Three—”

  “I think Stevens figured out some of this. What do you think?”

  “It’s possible. Do you think he has the treasure? Four—”

  “Freddie, forget the fucking treasure. In fact, if you go outside and listen carefully, you’ll hear the biohazard warning siren. There’s been a leak. We all have to get to a hospital in the next few hours or we’ll be dead.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not. Didn’t you hear the siren?”

  He stayed quiet for a long time, then said, “I guess it isover, one way or the other.”

  “Right. Let’s make a deal.”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “You give me the gun, we get out of here and get to your boat, quick, then to a hospital. We talk to the DA about your voluntary surrender and you get out on bail, then a year from now, we go to trial and everyone has his or her chance to tell lies. Okay?”

  Tobin stayed silent.

  Of course, the chance of getting out on bail on a charge of multiple murder was zero; also note I didn’t use words like arrest or jail or anything negative like that. I said, “I really will go to bat for you if you voluntarily turn yourself over to me.” Right, pal. “Really. Cross my heart.”

  He seemed to be contemplating this offer. This was a tricky and sticky moment because he had to choose between fight, flight, or surrender. I kept in mind that Tobin was a lousy long-shot gambler with an ego too big to cash in when he was down.

  He said, “It occurs to me that you’re not here as a law officer.”

  I was afraid he’d figure that out.

  “It occurs to me that you’ve taken all of this personally. That you’d like to do to me what I did to Tom, Judy, the Murphys, and Emma….”

  Of course, he was dead right, and that made me dead anyway, so I dived left, out of the beam of light, into the dark, and shoulder-rolled across the floor. Tobin swung the flashlight and fired, but I was much farther across the floor than he’d judged. In fact, I did another roll in the opposite direction as the shot echoed and covered the sound of my movement. I got the knife out of my pants before it sliced off my dick.

  The narrow beam swung wildly around the room, and now and then he’d fire blindly and the bullet would ricochet off the concrete walls as the blast echoed into the blackness.

  Once, the beam passed right over me, but by the time Tobin realized it and swung the light back, I was gone again. Playing tag with a flashlight and bullets is not as much fun as it sounds, but it’s a lot easier than you’d think, especially in a big space like this with no obstructions.

  I felt around for the shotgun each time I did a roll or a scramble, but I never came into contact with it. Notwithstanding my lack of firepower, the advantage was now mine, and as long as the idiot kept the light on and kept firing, I knew where he was. Clearly, cool Freddie had lost it.

  However, before he figured out that he should shut off the light, I charged like a linebacker right toward him. He heard me coming at the last second and swung the flashlight and the pistol simultaneously toward me just as I collided with him.

  He made a sound like a popping balloon and went down like a tenpin. No contest. I wrenched the pistol out of his hand easily enough, then pulled the flashlight from him. I knelt with my knees on his chest, one hand holding the flashlight in his face, the other hand holding my fleshing knife to his throat.

  Tobin had trouble breathing but managed to say, “All right…. All right…. You win….”

  “Correct.” I brought the butt of the knife down on his nose and smashed the bridge. I heard the crack and saw the blood spurting out of his nostrils as he screamed. The screams turned to whimpers and he looked at me wide-eyed, then let out a groan. “No … please … enough….”

  “No, no, not enough. Not enough.” My second blow with the butt of the knife cracked his capped teeth, then I reversed the knife and sliced at the base of his hair weave, and I ripped the rug off. He let out another groan, but he was in semi-shock and wasn’t fully reacting to my nastiness. I heard myself screaming in the darkness, “You bashed her head in! You raped her! You fucking bastard!”

  “No … oh, no….”

  I knew I was not rational anymore, and I should have just gotten out of there. But those images of the dead were truly lurking in the darkness, and
by this time, after the terror of the boat ride, the chase across Plum Island, the biohazard leak, and dodging bullets in the dark, John Corey had reverted to something best kept in the dark. I smashed the butt of the knife down on his forehead twice but couldn’t crack his skull.

  Tobin let out a long, pathetic wail. “Noooo….”

  I truly wanted to stand up and run out of there before I did something that was irretrievably evil, but the black heart that lurks in all of us had awakened in me.

  I reached behind me with the fleshing knife and sliced through Tobin’s pants into his lower abdomen, a deep, lateral incision that parted the flesh and muscle and caused a rupture of his intestines out of the abdominal cavity.

  Tobin screamed, but then went strangely silent and stayed motionless, as though trying to figure out what happened. He must have felt the warmth of the blood, but otherwise his vital signs were fine and he was probably thanking God he was alive. I would soon put an end to that.

  I reached back with my right hand and grabbed a nice big handful of warm guts, which I pulled out and dragged along beside me; then I threw the entrails into Tobin’s face.

  His eyes met mine in the illumination of the flashlight and he looked at me almost quizzically. But since he had no point of reference for the steaming stuff lying across his face, he needed a word or two from me. So I said, “Your guts.”

  He screamed, and screamed again, his hands flailing at his face.

  I stood, wiped my hands on my trousers, and walked away. Tobin’s screams and cries echoed in the cold, cold room.

  CHAPTER 37

  I wasn’t looking forward to the long walk back through the dark tunnel. Also, it’s good tactics not to go back the way you come; someone may be waiting for you.

  I looked at the opening above. A dark, stormy sky never looked so inviting. I moved to the steel structure that rose from the floor to the ceiling of the ammunition magazine. This was, as I said, the elevator by which huge cannon shells and gunpowder were once hoisted to the gun emplacements above, so I figured it was built right. I got up on the first crossbar and it held. I went up another few crossbars and noticed that they were pretty rusty, but they also held.