Rain fell on me from the opening above, and Fredric Tobin’s screams assailed me from below. You’d think a guy would run out of screams after a while. I mean, once the initial horror has passed, then a guy should get a grip on and see about stuffing his guts back where they belong and shut up.
Anyway, the air was better the higher I got. At about fifteen feet, I could feel the wind blowing through the hole. At twenty feet, I was at the opening and the rain was driving hard and horizontally; the storm had returned.
I saw now that the opening above was surrounded by a barbed wire fence, obviously put there to keep animals from falling into the hole when the gun emplacements were used as animal pens. “Damn it.”
I stood on the last rung of the elevator structure, half my body out of the hole. The wind and the rain drowned out Tobin’s screams now.
I contemplated the four-foot-high barbed wire fence that surrounded me. I could climb the fence or go back down and get out through the tunnel. I thought about Tobin down there screaming his life out with his entrails all over the floor. And what if he got himself under control and found his shotgun or his pistol? So, having gotten myself this far, I decided to go the last four feet.
Pain is mostly mind over matter, so I made my brain blank and climbed up the barbed wire fence, got to the top, and leapt down to the pavement below.
I lay there awhile catching my breath, rubbing the cuts on my hands and feet, happy that the hospital docs had given me my tetanus booster in case the three slugs were dirty.
So, ignoring the pain of the cuts, I stood and looked around. I was in a circular artillery emplacement about thirty feet in diameter. The emplacement was cut into the hillside and was surrounded by a shoulder-high concrete wall that had once protected the big gun that sat here. Embedded on the concrete pavement was a steel traversing mechanism once used to swing the gun in a 180-degree arc.
I saw on the far side of the sunken gun emplacement a concrete ramp that led up to what looked like an observation tower. As far as I could determine, I was on the south side of the pork chop bone, and the artillery piece had pointed south, out to sea. In fact, I could hear the waves crashing on the shore nearby.
I could see how these emplacements would make good animal pens, and that in turn reminded me that the air was filled with plague. Not that you can easily forget something like that, but I guess I was suppressing it. Point is, I could make out the whine of the siren if I listened hard. I could also make out the screams of Fredric Tobin—not literally, but in my mind, and I knew I’d hear that for some time.
So, there I was—Tobin in my head, the biohazard siren in my ears, wind and water in my face, cold, shivering, thirsty, hungry, cut up and half naked, and I was feeling on top of the world. In fact, I let out a little whoop and did a sort of jig. I yelled into the wind, “Alive! Alive!”
Then, a little voice in my head said, “Not for long.”
I stopped doing my victory dance. “What?”
“Not for long.”
It wasn’t actually a little voice in my head; it was a voice behind me. I turned.
Up at the top of the five-foot-high wall, looking down on me, was a big figure, clad in dark rain gear with a hood so that the face was barely visible, and the effect was sort of like the Grim Reaper standing there in the storm, probably smiling and all that. Creepy. I asked, “Who the hell are you?”
The person—a man by the size and voice—didn’t reply.
I guess I felt a little foolish having been caught dancing around in the rain, making whooping sounds. But I had the strong sense that this was the least of my problems at the moment. “Who the hell are you?”
Again, no reply. But now I saw that the person was holding something across his chest. A standard Grim Reaper scythe? I hoped so. I could deal with a scythe. But, no such luck. The guy had a rifle. Shit.
I considered my options. I was at the bottom of a circular, five-foot-deep hole and someone with a rifle was standing on the wall near the exit ramp. Basically, I was in a deep, round, tight spot. I was profoundly fucked.
The guy just stood there staring down at me from about thirty feet away—an easy shot with the rifle. He was too close to the exit ramp for me to consider that way out. My only chance was the hole I’d just come out of, but that meant a fifteen-foot run toward him, a dive over the barbed wire fence, and a blind plunge into the elevator opening. That would take about four seconds, and the guy with the rifle could aim and fire twice in four seconds. But maybe the fellow meant me no harm. Maybe it was a Red Cross worker with brandy. Right. I said, “So, friend, what brings you out on a night like this?”
“You.”
“Moi?”
“Yes, you. You and Fredric Tobin.”
I recognized the voice now and I said, “Well, Paul, I was just leaving.”
“Yes,” Mr. Stevens replied, “you are leaving.”
I didn’t like the way he said that. I assumed he was still pissed off about me cold-cocking him on his back lawn, not to mention all the abuse I’d heaped on him. And here he was with a rifle. Life is funny sometimes.
He said again, “You will be gone soon.”
“Good. I was just passing through, and—”
“Where’s Tobin?”
“Right behind you.”
Stevens actually glanced quickly behind him, then faced me again. He said, “Two boats were spotted from the lighthouse—a Chris-Craft and a speedboat. The Chris-Craft turned back in the Gut, the speedboat made it through.”
“Yeah, that was me in the speedboat. Just out for a spin.” I asked, “How did you know the Chris-Craft was Tobin?”
“I know his boat. I’ve been expecting him.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” He added, “My motion sensors and microphones picked up at least two people at Fort Terry, plus a vehicle. I checked it out and here I am.” He said, “Someone murdered two firemen. You?”
“Not me.” I said, “Hey, Paul, my neck is getting stiff looking up at you and I’m cold. I’m coming up that ramp, and we’re going back to the lab for some coffee—”
Paul Stevens raised his rifle and pointed it at me. He said, “If you move one fucking inch, I’ll kill you.”
“Understood.”
He reminded me, “I owe you for what you did to me.”
“You have to try to work through your anger in a constructive—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Right.” In some instinctive way, I knew that Paul Stevens was more dangerous than Fredric Tobin. Tobin was a cowardly killer, and if he sensed danger, he’d run. Stevens, I was sure, was a more natural killer, the kind of man who’d face off with you, mano a mano. I said, “Do you know why Tobin and I are here?”
Still aiming the rifle at me, he said, “Of course, I do. Captain Kidd’s treasure.”
I said, “I can help you find the treasure.”
“No, you can’t. I have the treasure.”
Oh, my. I said, “How did you—?”
“Do you think I’m stupid? The Gordons thought I was stupid. I knew exactly what was going on with all this idiotic archaeological digging. I followed every move they made. I wasn’t sure who their partner was until August when Tobin arrived as a representative of the Peconic Historical Society.”
“Good detective work. I’ll see to it that you get a government efficiency award—”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Yes, sir. By the way, shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?”
“Why?”
“Why? Isn’t that the biohazard warning siren?”
“It is. It’s a test. I ordered a test. Everyone who has hurricane duty on the island is in the lab wearing biohazard gear, going through the drill of biocontainment.”
“In other words, we’re not all going to die?”
“No. Only you are going to die.”
I was afraid he was going to say that. I informed him, in an official tone, “Whatever you may have done is not as s
erious as committing murder.”
“Actually, I haven’t committed a single crime, and killing you is going to be a pleasure.”
“Killing a policeman is—”
“You’re a trespasser, and for all I know, a saboteur, a terrorist, and a murderer. Sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
I tensed my body, ready to make the dash for the hole, knowing it was a useless try, but I had to give it a shot.
Stevens continued, “You knocked out two of my teeth and split my lip. Plus you know too damned much.” He added, “I’m rich, and you’re dead. Bye-bye, bozo.”
I said to him, “Fuck you, asshole.” I charged toward the hole, looking not at the barbed wire, but at him as I ran. He steadied the rifle and drew a bead on me. He really couldn’t miss.
A shot rang out, but there was no muzzle flash from his rifle and no searing pain shooting through my body. As I reached the fence and was about to vault over the barbed wire and plunge headfirst into the hole, I saw Stevens jumping down into the pit to finish me off. At least that’s what I thought. But in fact, he was falling forward and he landed facedown on the concrete pavement. I collided with the barbed wire and came to a halt.
I stood there a moment, frozen, watching him. He twitched around awhile, like he’d been hit in the spinal column, so he was basically a goner. I heard that unmistakable pre-lights-out gurgle. Finally, the twitching and gurgling stopped. I looked up at the top of the wall. Beth Penrose was staring down at Paul Stevens, her pistol trained on him.
I said, “How’d you get here?”
“Walked.”
“I mean—”
“I came looking for you. I spotted him and followed.”
“Lucky for me.”
“Not so for him,” she replied.
I said, “Say, ‘Freeze, police!”’
She replied, “Fuck that.”
“I’m with you.” I added, “He was about to kill me.”
“I know that.”
“You could have fired a little sooner.”
“I hope you’re not critiquing my performance.”
“No, ma’am. Good shooting.”
She asked me, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. How about you?”
“I’m just fine. Where’s Tobin?”
“He’s … not here.”
She glanced down at Stevens again and asked me, “What’s with him?”
“Just a scavenger.”
“Did you find the treasure?”
“No, but Stevens did.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I was about to ask him.”
“No, John, he was about to put a bullet in you.”
“Thank you for saving my life.”
“You owe me a small favor for that.”
“Right. So, that’s it—case closed,” I said.
“Except for the treasure. And Tobin. Where is he?”
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.”
“Is he armed? Is he dangerous?”
“No,” I replied, “he has no guts.”
We sheltered from the storm in a concrete bunker. We huddled for warmth, but we were so cold, neither of us slept. We talked into the night, rubbing each other’s arms and legs to ward off hypothermia.
Beth bugged me about Tobin’s whereabouts, and I gave her an edited version of the confrontation in the ammunition storage room, saying that I’d stabbed him and he was mortally wounded.
She said, “Shouldn’t we get him medical attention?”
I replied, “Of course. First thing in the morning.”
She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, simply, “Good.”
Before dawn, we made our way back to the beach.
The storm had passed and before the helicopter or boat patrols came out, we replaced the shear pin and took the Whaler out to the Chris-Craft. I pulled the self-bailing plug in the Whaler and let the small craft swamp. Then we took Tobin’s cabin cruiser to Greenport where we called Max. He met us at the dock and drove us to police headquarters where we showered and got into sweatsuits and warm socks. A local doc checked us over and suggested antibiotics and bacon and eggs, which sounded fine.
We had breakfast in Max’s conference room and made a report to the chief. Max was amazed, incredulous, pissedoff, happy, envious, relieved, worried, and so forth. He kept saying, “Captain Kidd’s treasure? Are you sure?”
During my second breakfast, Max inquired, “So, only Stevens knew the location of this treasure?”
I replied, “I think so.”
He stared at me, then at Beth and said, “You wouldn’t hold back on me, would you?”
I replied, “Of course I would. If we knew where twenty million bucks in gold and jewels were, you’d be the last to know, Max. But the fact is, the stuff is missing again.” I added, “However, we know it exists and we know Stevens had it for a short period of time. So, maybe with some luck, the cops or the Feds can find it.”
Beth added, “That treasure has caused so many deaths that I really think it’s cursed.”
Max shrugged and replied, “Cursed or not, I’d like to find it.” He added, “For historical reasons.”
“Absolutely.”
Max seemed unable to take all of this in and process it, and he kept repeating questions to which he’d already gotten answers.
I said to him, “If this debriefing is becoming an interrogation, then I have to either call my lawyer or beat the shit out of you.”
Max forced a smile and said, “Sorry … this is just mind-blowing….”
Beth said, “Thank us for doing a good job.”
“Thank you for doing a good job.” He said to me, “I’m glad I hired you.”
“You fired me.”
“Did I? Forget that.” He asked me, “Did I understand you to say that Tobin was dead?”
“Well … not the last time I saw him…. I mean, I guess I should have stressed that you need to get him some medical attention.”
Max looked at me a moment, then inquired, “Where exactly is this underground room?”
I gave him directions as best I could, and Max quickly disappeared to make a phone call.
Beth and I looked at each other across the table in Max’s conference room. I said to her, “You’re going to make a fine detective.”
“I am a fine detective.”
“Yes, you are. How can I repay you for saving my life?”
“How about a thousand dollars?”
“Is that what my life is worth?”
“Okay, five hundred.”
“How about dinner tonight?”
“John….” She looked at me and smiled sort of wistfully, then said, “John … I’m very fond of you, but … It’s too … complicated … too … I mean with all these deaths … Emma …”
I nodded. “You’re right.”
The phone on the table rang, and I picked it up. I listened and said, “Okay … I’ll tell her.” I put the receiver down and said to Beth, “Your county limousine is here for you, madam.”
She stood and went to the door, then turned back to me and said, “Call me in a month. Okay? Will you do that?”
“Yes, I will.” But I knew I wouldn’t.
Our eyes met, I winked, she winked back, I blew a kiss, she blew it back. Beth Penrose turned and left.
After a few minutes, Max returned and said to me, “I called Plum. Spoke to Kenneth Gibbs. Remember him? Stevens’ assistant. The security guys already found their boss. Dead. Mr. Gibbs didn’t seem all that upset or even too curious.”
“Never look too hard at an unexpected promotion.”
“Yeah. Also, I told him to look for Tobin in the underground ammo rooms. Right?”
“Right. Can’t remember which one. It was dark.”
“Yeah.” He thought a moment, then said, “What a mess. What a ton of paperwork this is going to—” He looked around the room and asked, “Where’s Beth?”
“County PD came and took her away.”
“Oh … okay….” He informed me, “I just got an official-looking fax from the NYPD asking me to locate and watch you until they arrive about noon.”
“Well, here I am.”
“You gonna give me the slip?”
“No.”
“Promise. Or I have to give you a room with bars.”
“I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Get me a ride to my house. I need stuff.”
“Okay.”
He left and a uniformed officer, my old bud, Bob Johnson, stuck his head in the room and said, “Need a lift?”
“Yup.”
I went with him and he drove me back to Uncle Harry’s house. I got into nice duds that didn’t say “Property of Southold Town PD” on them, and I got a beer and sat on the back porch, watching the sky clearing and the bay calming down.
The sky was that almost incandescent blue you get after a storm has blown out the pollutants and washed the air clean. This is what the sky must have looked like a hundred years ago, before diesel trains and trucks, cars and boats and oil furnaces and lawn mowers and chemicals and pesticides and who knew what the hell else was floating around.
The lawn was a mess because of the storm, but the house was okay, though the electricity was still out and the beer was warm, which was bad, but the good news was that I couldn’t play my answering machine.
I suppose I should have waited for the NYPD as I promised Max I would, but instead I called a taxi and went to the train station in Riverhead and took the train to Manhattan.
* * *
Back in my apartment on East Seventy-second Street after all these months, I noticed thirty-six messages on my answering machine, which was the maximum it would hold.
My cleaning lady had stacked the mail on the kitchen table and there was about ten pounds of the crap.
Amongst the bills and junk was my final divorce decree, which I stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.
I was about to give up on the piles of unwanted mail when a plain white envelope caught my eye. It was hand-addressed, and the return address was that of the Gordons, though the postmark said Indiana.
I opened the envelope and took out three sheets of lined paper, each side of which was filled with neat script, written in blue ink. I read:
Dear John, If you’re reading this, it means we’re dead— so, greetings from the grave.