Plum Island (John Corey, #1)

by Nelson DeMille

“Even if they find out or already know what the Gordons stole, they’re not going to tell us. They’ll tell Foster and Nash.” “So what? We’re investigating a murder.” “When I know what and why, I’m close to who,” I said.

“I sometimes wonder what would happen if an earthquake caused a biocontainment leak and a nuclear leak at the same time. Would the radioactivity kill the germs?” He smiled again. Weird, weird. He mused philosophically, “The modern world is full of unimaginable horrors.”

I think he was generally pleased that he’d hired me, but he might be wondering how he could control a dollar-a-week independent consultant who was generally pissing off everyone.

Finally, Dr. Zollner leaned across his desk toward me and said in his slight accent, “Detective Corey, if you had the key to the gates of hell, would you open them? If you did, you should be a very fast runner.” I contemplated this a moment, then replied, “If opening the gates of hell is so unthinkable, then why do you need a lock and key?” He nodded and replied, “I suppose to protect us from madmen.”

I nodded. “Incredible. And how did they smuggle this stuff out? I mean, how big is a Jell-O plate?” “Gel plate.” “Right. How big?” “Oh… perhaps a foot and a half wide, and two and a half feet long.” “How do you get that out of biocontainment?” “I’m not sure.” “And their notes?” “Fax. I’ll show you later.” “And the actual vaccine?” “That would be easier. Anal and vaginal.” “I don’t want to sound crude, Doc, but I don’t think they could get a thirty-inch gel plate up their ass without attracting a little attention.”

An attendant handed us open locks without keys and freshly laundered lab whites. In a plastic bag were paper underwear, socks, and cotton slippers. Zollner showed us to a row of empty lockers and said, “Please remove everything, including underwear and jewelry.” So, we all stripped down to our birthday suits, and I couldn’t wait to tell Beth that Ted Nash carried a .38 with a three-inch barrel and that the barrel was longer than his dick.

Also, the basement is off-limits.” “Why,” I asked, “is the basement off-limits?” “Because that’s where we hide the dead aliens and the Nazi scientists.” He laughed again. I love being the straight man for a fat Ph.D. with a Dr. Strangelove accent. Really. More to the point, I knew that Stevens had indeed spoken to Zollner. I would have liked to have been a tsetse fly on that wall. Mr. Foster attempted humor and said, “I thought the aliens and the Nazis were in the underground bunkers.” “No, the dead aliens are in the lighthouse,” Zollner said. “We moved the Nazis out of the bunkers when they complained about the vampires.” Everyone laughed—ha, ha, ha. Humor in biocontainment. I should write to Reader’s Digest.

Dr. Zollner laughed. “You are feeling somewhat nervous, yes? Nothing to fear here. We are very cautious. Very respectful of the little bugs in this building.” “Sounds like the ‘my dog doesn’t bite’ crap.”

Clearly, I thought, Ms. By-the-Book was not handling the unique circumstances of this case very well. But I gave her credit for trying to do it right. If she’d been one of the crew on the Titanic, she’d have made everyone sign for the life jackets.

The way to a woman’s heart is through her funny bone. Women like men who make them laugh. I think.

“Do you know why Daughters of the American Revolution don’t have group sex?” “No, but I’m about to find out.” “You are. Daughters of the American Revolution don’t have group sex because they don’t want to have to write all those thank-you notes.” “Do these jokes come from an inexhaustible supply?” “You know they do.”

In the service station office, I bought some really gross snacks—beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears. Out in the car, I offered some to Beth, who refused. I said, “If you chew this all together, it tastes like a Thai dish called Sandang Phon. I discovered that by accident.”

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 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.

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.

More annoyed than hurt, I left the house. I was wearing Mr. Ralph Lauren’s blazer, Mr. Tommy Hilfiger’s oxford shirt, Mr. Eddie Bauer’s pants, Mr. Perry Ellis’ boxer shorts, Mr. Karl Lagerfeld’s aftershave, and Messrs. Smith and Wesson’s revolver.

Mr. Tobin indicated my little bag with his logo on it and inquired, “What did you buy?” “A painted tile for my girlfriend.” “Which one?” “Beth.” “I mean, which painted tile?” “Oh. The osprey.” “They’re making a comeback.” “Painted tiles?” “No. Ospreys. Look, Detective—” “They’re weird. I read that they mate for life. I mean, they’re probably not Catholic. Why do they mate for life?” “Detective—” “But then I read another version of that. The females will mate for life if the male comes back to the same nest. You know, the wildlife people put these big poles up with platforms on them, and they build their nests there. The ospreys. Not the wildlife people.” “Detective—” “What it comes down to is that the female is not really monogamous. She’s attached to the nest. She goes back to the same nest every year, and she’ll screw for the first male who shows up. Sort of like Southampton ladies in their summer houses. You know? They never want to give up the Hampton house. I mean, okay, the guy may be dead, or he took a powder, and he’ll never show up. But sometimes he’s just late getting a train. You know? Meanwhile, she’s balling the pool guy. But anyway, back to ospreys—” “Excuse me, Detective… what was—?” “Just call me John.”

“Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?” “No, sir, I don’t. I think the Gordons are still in the ME’s office—the medical examiner. They’re all, like, in pieces now, and then they get put back together later. Like a jigsaw puzzle except the ME saves the organs. I mean, how would anyone know the organs are missing?” Mr. Tobin didn’t comment.

“About a week ago. Here, try this.” He put a few grapes in my hand. I put one into my mouth, chewed, and spit out the skin. “Not bad.” “The skins have been sprayed. You should squeeze the pulp into your mouth. Here.” He handed me half the bunch. We walked along like old buds, squeezing grape pulp into our mouths—but not each other’s mouths. We weren’t that close yet.

“Also,” he said, “they were an exceptionally attractive couple.” He asked me, “Did you… I mean, I suppose when you saw them… but she was a rare beauty.” “Indeed she was.” I asked, “Were you popping her?” “Excuse me?” “Were you sexually involved with Mrs. Gordon?” “Heavens, no.” “Did you give it a try?” “Of course not.” “Did you at least think about it?” He thought about if he thought about it, then said, “Sometimes. But I’m not a wife chaser. I have enough on my plate.” “Do you?” I guess champagne works when you own the vineyard, the château, the fermenting vats, and the bottling plant. I wonder if guys who own microbreweries get laid as much as vintners? Probably not. Go figure.

My advice is monitor your calls. That’s it for now. Keep your bubble out of trouble.”

I always suspected there was a big party held each November, open to locals only, and it was called, “The North Fork Residents Say Good Riddance to the Fucking Tourists Festival.”

“What do you teach?” she asked. “Criminal science and ceramics.” She smiled. Her toes wiggled. She recrossed her legs. Beige. The panties were beige like the dress. I was at a point where I almost had to cross my legs lest Ms. Whitestone notice that Lord Pudly was stirring from his nap. Keep your pee-pee in the teepee.

He realized he’d done something very bad, trying to shoot my balls off with an empty gun. He kept staring at the Beretta. “I hit him with a left hook,

I think the CIA, the FBI, and the government in general should always try out their bullshit on bartenders, barbers, and taxi drivers before they try to sell it to the country. I mean, I usually bounce things off bartenders or my barber when I need a reality check, and it works.

I also knew that when the problem was a nail, all you needed was a hammer. I had a hammer.

Beth called out, “Do you know how to navigate?” “Sure. Red right return.” “What does that mean?” “You keep the red marker on your right when returning to harbor.” “We’re not returning to the harbor. We’re leaving.” “Oh… then look for green markers.” “I don’t see any markers,” she informed me. “Neither do I.” I added, “I’ll just stay to the right of the double white line. Can’t go wrong doing that.”

I asked her, “Can you read a chart?” “A little. How about you?”

“No problem. Blue is water, brown is land. I’ll look at it later.” Beth said, “I looked for a radio down there, but I didn’t see one.” “I can sing. Do you like ‘Oklahoma’?” “John… please don’t be an idiot. I mean, the ship-to-shore radio. To send distress calls.” “Oh… that. Well, there’s no radio here either.”

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

For my part, all I had to do was retire and make positive public statements about the NYPD and my superiors. I’m living up to my end. Every day when I’m on the subway, I say aloud and publicly, “The New York Police Department is great. I love Lieutenant Wolfe.”