"I can show it to you, but then I have to kill you." I smiled.
He thought a moment, running through his options, then came to the correct decision and said, "The bus is leaving."
I walked past him and he fell in behind me. I half expected a garrote around my neck, a blow to the head, a shiv in my spine — but Paul Stevens was smoother than that. He'd probably offer me a cup of coffee later, laced with anthrax.
We boarded the bus and off we went.
We'd all taken our former seats, and Stevens remained standing. The bus headed west, back toward the area of the ferry dock and the main lab. A pickup truck with two men in blue uniforms carrying rifles passed us going the opposite way.
All in all, I'd learned more than I thought I would, seen more than I'd expected, and heard enough to make me curiouser and curiouser. I was convinced that the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon had been killed was on this island. And, as I said, when I knew why, I would ultimately know who.
George Foster, who had been mostly silent up to now, asked Stevens, "You're quite sure the Gordons left in their own boat at noon yesterday?"
"Absolutely. According to the logbook, they had worked in the biocontainment section in the morning, signed out, showered, and gotten on a bus like this which took them to the ferry dock. They were seen by at least two of my men getting into their boat, the Spirochete, and heading out into Plum Gut."
Foster asked, "Did anyone in the helicopter or the patrol boat see them once they were out in the Gut?"
Stevens shook his head. "No. I asked."
Beth queried, "Is there anywhere along this shoreline where a boat can be hidden?"
"Absolutely not. There are no deep coves, no inlets, on Plum. It's a straight beach, except for the one man-made cove where the ferry comes in."
I asked, "If your patrol boat had seen the Gordons' boat anchored anywhere near the island, would your people have chased them off?"
"No. The Gordons, in fact, did sometimes anchor and fish or swim off the coast of Plum. They were well known to the patrols."
I didn't know the Gordons were such avid fishermen. I asked, "Were they ever seen by your people anchored near the beach after dark — late at night?"
Stevens thought a moment, then replied, "Only once that came to my attention." He added, "Two of my men in the patrol boat mentioned that the Gordons' boat was anchored close to the south beach one night in July, about midnight. My men noticed the boat was empty, and they shined their spotlights over the beach. The Gordons were on the beach…" He cleared his throat in a way that suggested what the Gordons were doing on the beach. Mr. Stevens said, "The patrol boat left them in peace."
I thought about this a moment. Tom and Judy struck me as the sort of couple who'd make love anywhere, so doing it on a deserted beach at night was not unusual. Doing it on Plum Island beach, however, raised both my eyebrows and a few questions. Oddly, I'd once had a sort of reverie about making love to Judy on a wave-washed beach. Maybe more than once. Every time I had this thought, I slapped myself in the face. Naughty, naughty, piggy, piggy
The bus went past the ferry dock, then swung north, stopping in an oval-shaped driveway in front of the main research facility.
The curved front of the new two-story art deco — style building was made of some sort of pink and brown block. A big sign rising from the lawn said, "Department of Agriculture," and there was another flagpole with the flag at half-mast.
We all got out of the bus, and Paul Stevens said, "I hope you enjoyed your tour of Plum Island and that you got a good feel for our security arrangements."
I asked, "What security?"
Mr. Stevens looked hard at me and said, "Everyone who works here is well aware of the potential for disaster. We're all security-conscious, and we're all dedicated to the job and to the highest standards of safety that exist in this field. But you know what? Shit happens."
This profanity and flippancy from Mr. Ramrod Straight sort of surprised everyone. I said, "Right. But did it happen yesterday?"
"We'll know soon enough." He looked at his watch and said, "All right, we can go inside now. Follow me."
CHAPTER 10
The semicircular lobby of the Plum Island research laboratory was two stories high with a mezzanine running around the central staircase. It was a light and airy space, pleasant and welcoming. The doomed animals probably came in the back.
On the left wall were the standard government chain-of-command photos — the president, the secretary of agriculture, and Dr. Karl Zollner; a rather short chain for a government agency, I thought, leading me to believe that Dr. Zollner was maybe a heartbeat or two away from the Oval Office.
Anyway, there was a reception counter, and we had to sign in and exchange our blue clip-on passes for white passes on a plastic chain that we hung around our necks. A good security procedure, I thought — the island was divided between this building and everything else. And within this building were the Zones. I should not underestimate Mr. Stevens.
An attractive young lady with a knee-length skirt had come down the staircase before I had a chance to check out her thighs, and she introduced herself as Donna Alba, Dr. Zollner's assistant. She smiled and said, "Dr. Zollner will be with you shortly. Meanwhile, I'll show you around."
Paul Stevens said to us, "I'll take this opportunity to check in with my office and see if there are any further developments." He added, "Donna will take good care of you." He looked at me and said, "Please stay with Ms. Alba at all times."
"What if I have to go to the men's room?"
"You already did." He went up the stairs, stopping, I'm sure, at Dr. Zollner's to report on the five intruders.
I looked at Donna Alba. Mid-twenties, brunette, good face and body, blue skirt, white blouse, and running shoes. I suppose if you considered the daily boat commute and the possibility of having to travel somewhere on the island, then high heels weren't practical. In fact, I thought, if you liked a predictable commute and an average day at the office, Plum Island wasn't your kind of place.
In any case, Donna was attractive enough so that I recalled she'd been on the eight a.m. ferry with us this morning, and she was therefore not yet acquainted with Messrs. Nash and Foster and was therefore probably not on the inside of any cover-up.
Anyway, Donna asked that we all introduce ourselves, which we did, without using any upsetting job titles, such as "homicide detective", "FBI", or "CIA."
She shook hands all around and gave Nash a special smile. Women are such bad judges of character.
Donna began, "Welcome to the Plum Island Animal Disease Center research facility. I'm sure Paul briefed you and gave you a nice history of the island and a good tour."
Her face tried to remain smiley, but I could see it was forced. She said to us, "I'm very… it's terrible what happened. I really liked the Gordons. Everyone liked them." She glanced around, like people do in police states, and said, "I'm not supposed to discuss or comment on any of that. But I thought I should say how I felt."
Beth glanced at me, and seeing, I think, a possible weak spot in the Plum Island armor, said to Donna, "John and Max were good friends of Tom and Judy."
I looked into Donna Alba's eyes and said, "We appreciate all the help and cooperation we've gotten from the staff here." Which, so far, consisted of Mr. Stevens' giving us the fifty-cent tour of the rums and wilderness, but it was important for Donna to believe that she could speak freely; not here and now, of course, but when we visited her home.
She said, "I'll show you around a bit. Follow me."
We did a little walk around the lobby, and Donna pointed out various things on the walls, including blown-up news articles and horror stories from around the world about Mad Cow Disease and something called rinderpest and swine fever, and other gruesome diseases. There were maps showing outbreaks of this and that, charts, graphs, and photos of cattle with blistered lips and stringy saliva running from their mouths, and pigs with horrible oozing sores. You wouldn't mistake this for the lobby of a steakhouse.