Plum Island (67 page)

“Let’s see … the cylinder holds five … I shot four … so, how many bullets does the copper have left in—”

“This is
not
a fucking joke!”

“I’m trying to lighten the moment.”

I heard some four-letter words coming from Ms. Penrose’s prim mouth, then she asked me, “Can you get any more speed out of
this fucking thing?”

“Maybe. Get something heavy down below and smash that windshield.”

She dove down below and came up with a fire extinguisher, which she used to smash the glass out of her wind-shield. Then she
threw the extinguisher overboard.

I said, “At this speed, we’re not taking on as much water, and the pumps will lighten the weight a little more every minute,
and we’ll pick up a little more speed.” I added, “Plus we’re burning all that heavy fuel.”

“I don’t need a lesson in physics.”

She was angry and that was much better than the quiet resignation I’d seen taking hold earlier. It’s good to be pissed off
when man and nature conspire to do you in.

Beth made a few more trips below and came back each time with something to toss overboard, including, unfortunately, the beer
from the refrigerator. She managed to get a portable TV set up the stairs and over the side. She also threw some clothes and
shoes overboard, and it occurred to me that if we lost Freddie, he might see the flotsam and jetsam and conclude that we’d
gone under.

We were picking up a little more speed, but the Chris-Craft was gaining on us and there was no escaping the fact that he was
going to begin laying down rifle fire very soon. I asked Beth, “How many rounds do you have left?”

“Nine.”

“You only had three magazines?”

“
Only?
You’re running around with a damned five-shot peashooter and not a single extra bullet on you, and you have the nerve—” She
suddenly crouched behind the seat and pulled her pistol. She said, “I saw a muzzle flash.”

I glanced back and sure enough, there was Fearless Fucking Freddie in his shooting post. The muzzle flashed again. Shooting
at one another from storm-tossed boats is easy; hitting anything is difficult, so I wasn’t overly concerned yet, but there
would be a moment when both boats were hanging on a crest and Tobin had the advantage of the higher perch and the long barrel.

Beth was wisely holding her fire.

I saw the Orient Point Lighthouse directly to my left and much closer than before. I realized I’d been blown north even as
I’d kept an easterly heading. I realized, too, there was only one thing left to do, and I did it. I cut the wheel hard left,
and the boat headed toward the Gut.

Beth called out, “What are you doing?”

“We’re running for the Gut.”

“John, we’ll drown there!”

“It’s either that or Tobin picks us off with his rifle or he rams and sinks us and laughs as he watches us drown.” I added,
“If we go down in the Gut, maybe he’ll go down with us.”

She didn’t reply.

The storm was coming in from the south, and as soon as I got my bow heading north, the boat picked up some speed. Within a
minute, I could see the outline of Plum Island to my right front. To my left front was the Orient Lighthouse. I aimed at a
point between the light and the coast of Plum Island, right into Plum Gut.

At first, Tobin followed, but as the waves got worse and as the wind blowing between both bodies of land got super-sonic,
we lost sight of him, and I guessed that he’d given up the chase. I was pretty sure I knew what he was going to do next and
where he was headed. I hoped I’d be alive in fifteen minutes to see if I was right.

We were into the Gut now, smack in the middle of it, between Orient Point to the west and Plum Island to the east, Gardiners
Bay to the south, and Long Island Sound to the north. I recalled that Stevens said that a hurricane a few hundred years before
had deepened the seafloor here, and I could believe it. I mean, it was like a washing machine with all kinds of stuff being
turned up from the seabed—sand, seaweed, wood, junk, and debris of every type. There was no pretense of me controlling the
boat any longer. The Formula was nothing more than another piece of flotsam and jetsam now, going with the flow. The boat
actually broached, which in plain English means it spun around a few times, and we found ourselves pointing south, east, and
west at various times, but the storm kept driving us north into the Sound, which is where I wanted to be.

The idea of trying to get into Plum Island cove was almost laughable now that I saw what a horrendous place this was.

Beth managed to make her way toward me, and she wedged herself into my chair behind me. She wrapped her legs and arms around
me as I held on to the wheel for dear life. It was nearly impossible to talk, but she buried her face in my neck, and I could
hear her say, “I’m scared.”

Scared?
I was terrorized out of my fucking mind. This was easily the worst experience of my life, if you don’t count my walk down
the aisle to the altar.

The Formula was being tossed around so badly now that I was totally disoriented. There were times when I realized we were
literally airborne, and I knew that the boat—which had shown good stability in the water—could actually flip upside down in
midair. I think it was only the bilgewater that kept us hull-side down during our launches into the stratosphere.

I’d had the presence of mind to cut the throttles to idle as soon as I saw that the propellers were spending more time in
the air than the water. Fuel management is a long-term strategy, and I was in a short-term situation—but, hey, you never know.

Beth was clinging tighter, and if it weren’t for our imminent deaths by drowning, I might have found this pleasant. As it
was, I hoped the physical contact gave her some comfort. I know it did for me. She spoke again into my ear and said, “If we
go in the water, hold me tight.”

I nodded. I thought again of how Tobin had already killed five good people and was about to be the cause of two more dying.
I couldn’t believe that this little turd had actually caused all this death and misery. The only explanation I had for it
was that short people with beady eyes and big appetites were ruthless and dangerous. They really had a bone to pick with the
world. You know? Well, maybe there was more to it.

Anyway, we were blown through the Gut like a spitball through a straw. Ironically, I think it was the very ferocity of the
storm that got us through okay, and we were probably on an incoming tide. I mean, the whole thrust of the sea, wind, and tide
was north, which sort of canceled out the usual treacherous swirling of the wind and the tides in the Gut. Sort of like the
difference between being caught in a flushing toilet bowl or being in the waste pipe, to stretch an analogy.

We were in the Long Island Sound now, and the seas and wind were a little better. I revved up the engines and headed the boat
east.

Beth was still behind me, holding on, but not as tight.

Off to our right front was the dark shape of the old Plum Island Lighthouse. I knew if we could get behind that headland,
we would be a little more protected from the wind and seas, just as we had been when we had Shelter Island between us and
the storm. Plum Island was not as elevated as Shelter Island, and it was a lot more exposed to the open Atlantic, but it should
offer some protection.

Beth said, “Are we alive?”

“Sure.” I added, “You were very brave. Very calm.”

“I was paralyzed with fear.”

“Whatever.” I took one hand off the wheel and squeezed her right hand, which was clamped on to my tummy.

So, we got on the leeward side of Plum Island, and we passed the lighthouse on our right. I could see now into the lantern
of the lighthouse, and what I saw was a green dot, sort of following us. I drew Beth’s attention to it, and she said, “Night-seeing
device. We’re being watched by some of Mr. Stevens’ men.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “That’s about all the security they have left on a night like this.”

The wind was partly blocked by Plum Island, and the sea was just a bit calmer. We could hear the waves crashing up on the
beach about a hundred yards away.

Through the driving rain, I could see a glow of lights behind the trees, and I realized this was the security lighting of
the main laboratory building. This meant the generators were still working and this in turn meant that the air filters and
scrubbers were still doing their job. It would have been really unfair if we’d survived the storm, landed on Plum Island,
and died of anthrax. Really.

Beth let go of me and squeezed out of her nook between my seat and my butt. She stood beside me, holding the grip on the dashboard.
She asked me, “What do you think happened to Tobin?”

“I think he continued on around the south end of the island. I think he thinks we’re dead.”

“Probably,” Beth replied. “I thought so, too.”

“Right. Unless he has radio contact with someone on Plum Island who knows from the guy in the lighthouse that we made it.”

She thought a moment and asked, “Do you think he has an accomplice on Plum Island?”

“I don’t know. But we’re about to find out.”

“Okay … so where is Tobin going now?”

“There’s only one place he can go and that’s right here, on this side of the Island.”

She nodded. “In other words, he’s coming around from the other direction, and we’ll meet him coming at us.”

“Well, I’ll try to avoid that. But he’s definitely got to get on the leeward side if he’s going to anchor and get onto the
beach with that Whaler.”

She thought a moment, then asked, “Are we going to land on the island?”

“I hope so.”

“How?”

“I’ll try to run up on the beach.”

She took the chart out again and said, “There are rocks and shoals along most of this beach.”

“Well, pick a place where there aren’t any rocks or shoals.”

“I’ll try.”

We moved east for another ten minutes. I looked at the fuel gauge and saw it read Empty. I knew I should make my run to the
beach now because if I ran out of fuel, we’d be at the mercy of the weather, and we would either blow out to sea or wash up
onto the rocks. But I wanted to at least catch sight of Tobin’s boat before I beached.

Beth said, “John, we’re about out of gas. You’d better head in.”

“In a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute. It’s about a hundred yards to the beach. Turn now.”

“See if you can spot the Chris-Craft in front of us.”

The binoculars were still on the strap around her neck, and she raised them and peered out over the bow. She said, “No, I
don’t see any boat. Turn into the beach.”

“Another minute.”

“No. Now. We did all of this your way. Now we do it my way.”

“Okay….” But before I began my turn into the beach, the wind suddenly dropped and I could see this incredible wall of towering
clouds rising above us. More incredibly, I saw the night sky overhead, circled by these swirling walls of clouds, as if we
were at the bottom of a well. Then I saw stars, which I never thought I’d see again.

Beth said, “The eye is passing over us.”

The wind was much calmer though the waves weren’t. The starlight filtered into this sort of round hole, and we could see the
beach and the sea.

Beth said, “Go for it, John. You won’t get another chance like this.”

And she was right. I could see the breaking waves so I could time them, and I could also see any rocks protruding out of the
water as well as shoaling waves, which indicated shoals and sandbars.

“Go!”

“One minute. I really want to see where that bastard made land. I don’t want to lose him on the island.”

“John, you’re out of gas!”

“Plenty of gas. Look for the Chris-Craft.”

Beth seemed resigned to my idiocy, and she raised the binoculars and scanned the horizon. After what seemed like a half hour,
but was probably a minute or two, she pointed and called out, “There!” She handed me the binoculars.

I looked into the rainy darkness and sure enough, silhouetted against the dark horizon, was a shape that could have been the
fly bridge of the Chris-Craft—or could have been a pile of rocks.

As we got a little closer, I saw that it was definitely the Chris-Craft, and it was relatively motionless, indicating that
Tobin had at least two anchors out, bow and stern. I handed Beth the binoculars. “Okay. We’re going in. Hold on. Look for
rocks and stuff.”

Beth knelt on her seat and leaned forward, her hands gripped on the top of the glassless windshield frame. Whenever she moved,
I could tell by the expression on her face that she was in some pain from her wound.

I turned the Formula ninety degrees to starboard and pointed the bow at the distant beach. Waves began breaking over the stern,
and I gave the engines more gas. I needed about one more minute of fuel.

The beach got closer and more distinct. The waves smashing onto the sand were monstrous and getting louder as we got closer.
Beth called out, “Sandbar right ahead!”

I knew I couldn’t turn in time so I gave it full throttle, and we ripped across the sandbar.

The beach was less than fifty yards away now, and I thought we actually had a chance. Then the Formula hit something a lot
harder than a sandbar, and I heard the unmistakable sound of splitting fiberglass and a half second later, the boat lifted
out of the water, then came down with a thud.

I glanced at Beth and saw she was still hanging on.

The boat was very sluggish now, and I could picture water pouring in through the smashed hull. The engines seemed to be laboring
even at full throttle. The incoming waves were pushing us toward the beach, but now the under-tow was pulling us back between
waves. If we were making any forward headway at all, it was very slow. Meanwhile, the boat was filling with water, and in
fact I could see the water sloshing on the bottom step of the companionway.

Beth called out, “We’re not moving! Let’s swim for it!”

“No! Stay with the boat. Wait for the perfect wave.”

And we waited, watching the shoreline get closer, then receding for about six wave cycles. I looked behind me and watched
the swells forming. Finally, I saw a huge wave forming behind us, and I threw the nearly swamped Formula into neutral. The
boat pitched backwards a little and caught the wave just below its mounting crest. I called out, “Get down and hold on!”