Plum Island (32 page)

I tucked my T-shirt in so as to free the butt of my .38. I didn’t even know if my piece had been tampered with— anyone who
would tamper with a guy’s shorts would certainly tamper with his revolver. I should have checked before.

Anyway, keys in my left hand, I opened the front door, my right hand ready to go for the gun. The gun should have been
in
my right hand, but men, even when completely alone, have to show balls. I mean, who’s looking? I guess I’m looking. You have
balls, Corey. You’re a real man. The real man had a sudden urge to go tinkle, which I did in the bathroom off the kitchen.

Without turning on any lights, I checked the answering machine in the den and saw I had ten messages; quite a lot for a fellow
who had none the whole preceding week.

Assuming that none of these messages would be particularly pleasant or rewarding, I poured a big, fat brandy from Uncle’s
crystal decanter into Uncle’s crystal glass.

I sat in Uncle’s recliner and sipped, vacillating between the message button, my bed, or another brandy. Another brandy won
a few more times, and I postponed coming to grips with the electronic horror of the telephone answering machine until I had
a little buzz on.

Finally, I hit the message button.

“You have ten messages,” said the voice, agreeing with the message counter.

The first message came at seven
A.M.
and was from Uncle Harry, who’d seen me on TV the night before but didn’t want to call so late, though he had no problem
calling so early. Thankfully, I was already on my way to Plum Island at seven
A.M.

There were four similar messages: one from my parents in Florida, who hadn’t seen me on TV but had heard I was on TV; one
from a lady named Cobi who I see now and then, and who may have wanted to be Cobi Corey for some reason; and then a call each
from my siblings, Jim and Lynne, who are good about staying in touch. There would probably have been more calls about my brief
TV appearance, but very few people had my number, and not everyone would recognize me since I had lost so much weight and
looked terrible.

There was no call from my ex-wife, who despite no longer loving me, wants me to know that she likes me as a person, which
is odd because I’m not that likable. Lovable, yes; likable, no.

Then there was my partner, Dom Fanelli, who called at nine
A.M.
and said, “Hey, you hump, I saw your mug on the morning news. What the hell are you doing out there? You got two Pedros looking
for your ass, and you show up on TV, and now everyone knows you’re out east. Why don’t you put your poster in the Colombian
post office? Jesus, John, I’m trying to find these guys before they find you again. Anyway, more good news—the boss is wondering
what the hell you’re doing at a crime scene. What’s going on out there? Who iced those two? Hey, she was a looker. You need
help? Give a call. Keep your pee-pee in the teepee. Ciao.”

I smiled. Good old Dom. A guy I could count on. I still remember him standing over me as I lay bleeding in the street. He
had a half-eaten donut in one hand and his piece in the other. He took another bite of the donut and said to me, “I’ll get
them, John. I swear to God, I’ll get the bastards who killed you.”

I remember informing him I wasn’t dead, and he said he knew that, but I probably would be. He had tears in his eyes, which
made me feel terrible, and he was trying to talk to me while chewing the donut, and I couldn’t understand him, then the pounding
started in my ears and I blacked out.

Anyway, the next call came at nine-thirty
A.M.
and was from the
New York Times
, and I wondered how they knew who I was and where I was staying. Then the voice said, “You can have the paper delivered to
your door daily and Sunday as a new subscriber for only $3.60 weekly for thirteen weeks. Please call us at 1-800-631-2500,
and we’ll begin service immediately.”

“I get it at the office. Next.”

Max’s voice came over the speaker and said, “John, for the record, you’re no longer employed by the Southold Township PD.
Thanks for your help. I owe you a buck, but I’d like to buy you a drink instead. Call me.”

“Screw you, Max.”

The next call was from Mr. Ted Nash, CIA super-spook. He said, “I just want to remind you that a murderer or murderers are
on the loose, and you may be a target. I thoroughly enjoyed working with you, and I know we’ll meet again. Take care of yourself.”

“Fuck you, Ted.” I mean, if you’re going to threaten me, at least have the balls to come out and say it, even if it is being
recorded.

There was one more message on the machine, but I hit the stop button before it played, then I dialed the Soundview and asked
for Ted Nash. The clerk, a young man, said there was no one there registered by that name. I asked, “How about George Foster?”

“No, sir.”

“Beth Penrose?”

“She just checked out.” I described Nash and Foster to the clerk, and he said, “Yes, there are two gentlemen here that fit
that description.”

“They still there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the bigger guy, the one with the curly black hair, that Mr. Corey got his message and that he should heed his own warning.
Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, tell him I said he should go fuck himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hung up and yawned. I felt like crap. I probably had gotten three hours sleep in the last forty-eight. I yawned again.

I hit the play button, and the final message came on. Beth’s voice said, “Hi, I’m calling from the car…. I just wanted to
say thanks for your help today. I don’t know if I said that…. Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you, and if somehow we don’t get together
tomorrow—I may not get out that way—lots of office stuff and reports—well, I’ll call either way. Thanks again.”

The machine said, “End of messages.”

I played the last one again. The call had come not ten minutes after I’d left her, and her voice sounded distinctly formal
and distant. In fact, it was a brush-off. I had this totally paranoid thought that Beth and Nash had become lovers and were
at that moment in his room having wild, passionate sex. Get a grip, Corey. Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make
horny.

I mean, what else could go wrong? I spend the day in biocontainment, and I’m probably infected with bubonic plague, I’m probably
in trouble back on the job, Pedro and Juan know where I am, Max, my bud, fires me, then a CIA guy threatens my life for no
reason … well, he may have had an imagined reason—and then my true love takes a powder, and I’m picturing her with her legs
wrapped around bozo boy. Plus, Tom and Judy, who liked me, are dead. And it was only nine
P.M.

The idea of a monastery suddenly popped into my head. Or better yet, a month in the Caribbean, following my big friend Peter
Johnson from island to island.

Or, I could stay here and tough it. Revenge, vindication, victory, and glory. That’s what John Corey was about. Furthermore,
I had something no one else had—I had a half-assed idea of what this was about.

I sat in the dark, quiet den and for the first time all day, I was able to think without interruption. My mind had a whole
bunch of things on hold, and now I started to put them together.

As I stared out the dark window, those little pings in my head were making white dots on the black screen, and the image was
starting to take shape. I was far from seeing the complete picture let alone any of the details, but I could make a good guess
about this thing’s size, shape, and direction. I needed a few more points of light, a half dozen little pings, and then I
would have the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon were murdered.

M
orning sunlight streamed into my second-floor bedroom windows, and I was happy to be alive; happy to discover that the bloody
dead pig on the pillow beside me had been a bad dream. I listened for the sounds of birds just to be sure I wasn’t the only
living creature on earth. A gull squawked somewhere over the bay. Canada geese were honking on my lawn. A dog barked in the
distance. So far, so good.

I arose, showered, shaved, and so forth, and made a cup of freeze-dried microwave coffee in the kitchen.

I had spent the night thinking, or, as we say in the biz, engaged in deductive reasoning. I had also made callbacks to Uncle
Harry, parents, siblings, and Dom Fanelli, but not to the
New York Times
or to Max. I told everyone that the person on TV was not me, and that I had not seen the news show or shows in question;
I said that I had spent the night watching
Monday Night Football
in the Olde Towne Taverne—which is what I should have done—and I had witnesses. Everyone bought it. I hoped my commanding
officer, the aforementioned Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, would also buy it.

Also, I told Uncle H that Margaret Wiley had the hots for him, but he seemed uninterested. He informed me, “Dickie Johnson
and I were born together, grew up together, had lots of women together, and got old together, but he died before me.”

How depressing. Anyway, I called Dom Fanelli, but he was out, and I left a message with his wife, Mary, whom I used to get
along with until I got married, but Mary and Ex didn’t like each other at all. Neither my divorce nor my getting shot had
made Mary and me buddies again. It’s weird. I mean, with partners’ wives. It’s a bizarre relationship at best. Anyway, I said
to Mary, “Tell Dom that wasn’t me on TV. A lot of people made the same mistake.”

“Okay.”

“If I die, it’s the CIA who did it. Tell him.”

“Okay.”

“There may be people on Plum Island who are also trying to kill me. Tell him that.”

“Okay.”

“Tell him to talk to Sylvester Maxwell, chief of police out here, if I die.”

“Okay.”

“How’re the kids?”

“Okay.”

“Gotta run. My lung is collapsing.” I hung up.

Well, at least I was on record, and if my phone was tapped by the Feds, it’s good for them to hear me tell people that I think
the CIA is trying to kill me.

Of course, I didn’t really think that. Ted Nash, personally, would like to kill me, but I doubted if the Agency would approve
capping a guy just because he was a sarcastic prick. Point was, though, if this thing had to do with Plum Island in some significant
way, then it wouldn’t surprise me if a few more bodies did turn up.

Last night, while I made my phone calls, I checked out my piece and ammo with a flashlight and magnifying glass. Everything
looked okay. Paranoia’s kind of fun if it doesn’t eat up too much time and doesn’t get you off the track. I mean, if you’re
having a routine day, you can make believe someone’s trying to kill you, or otherwise fuck you up, then you can play little
games, like using the remote car ignition, imagining someone’s tapped your phone, or tampered with your weapon. Some crazy
people make up imaginary friends who tell them to kill people. Other crazy people make up imaginary enemies who are trying
to kill
them
. The latter, I think, is a little less crazy and a lot more useful.

Anyway, I had spent the rest of the night going through the Gordons’ financial records again. It was that or Jay Leno.

I had looked closely at May and June of the previous year to see how the Gordons had financed their one-week vacation in England
after their business trip. I noticed now that the Visa card in June
was
slightly higher than usual and so was their Amex. A small bump in a usually smooth road. Also, their phone bill last June
was about a hundred dollars higher than usual, indicating perhaps long-distance activity in May. Also, I had to assume they’d
taken cash or traveler’s checks with them, yet there were no unusual cash withdrawals. This was the first and only indication
that there was outside cash available to the Gordons. People with illegal income often buy thousands of dollars in traveler’s
checks, go out of the country, and blow it out big time. Or maybe the Gordons knew how to do England on twenty dollars a day.

Whatever the case might be, regarding the printouts, they basically had clean sheets, as we say. Whatever they were up to,
they hid it well, or it didn’t entail large expenses or large deposits. At least not in this account. The Gordons were very
bright, I reminded myself. And they were scientists, and as such, they were careful, patient, and meticulous.

It was now eight
A.M.
Wednesday morning, and I was on my second cup of bad coffee, looking around the refrigerator for something to eat. Lettuce
and mustard? No. Butter and carrots? That worked.

I stood at the kitchen window with my carrot and tub of butter, mulling, brooding, noodling, chewing, and so forth. I waited
for the phone to ring, for Beth to confirm for five
P.M.
, but the kitchen was quiet except for the clock.

I was dressed more spiffily this morning with tan cotton pants and striped oxford shirt. A blue blazer hung on the back of
the kitchen chair. My .38 was on my ankle, and my shield—for what it was worth out here—was inside my jacket. And, optimist
that I am, I also had a condom in my wallet. I was ready for battle or romance, or whatever the day would bring.