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 flag-pole 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 farthest 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 “kilomètres” 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 4 [H11503] 4 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 from 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 fr
om 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 blue-fish, 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 fenetre 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 fenetre 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 sa
fety 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 isn’t.”
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.