"I do."
"Why?"
"To recover the treasure."
She said, "There won't be any of Stevens' patrol boats or any Coast Guard helicopters around in this storm."
"Not a one. And the roads will be impassable, so the truck patrols can't get around."
"True…" She asked, "Why didn't Tobin wait until he had all the treasure before he killed the Gordons?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe the Gordons surprised him while he was searching their house. I'm sure that all the treasure was supposed to be recovered, but something went wrong."
"So he has to recover the treasure himself. Does he know where it is?"
I replied, "He must, or he wouldn't be heading there. I found out from Emma that Tobin was on the island once with the survey group from the Peconic Historical Society. At that time, he would have made sure that Tom or Judy showed him the actual site of the treasure, which, of course, was supposed to be one of Tom's archaeological holes." I added, "Tobin was not a trusting man, and I have no doubt that the Gordons didn't particularly like him or trust him either. They were using one another."
She said, "There's always a falling out among thieves."
I wanted to say that Tom and Judy were not thieves, yet they were. And when they crossed that line from honest citizens to conspirators, their fate was basically sealed. I'm no moralist, but in my job, I see this every day.
Our throats were raw from shouting and from the salt, and we lapsed back into silence.
I was approaching the passage between the south coastline of the North Fork and Shelter Island, but the sea seemed to be worse at the mouth of the strait. A huge wave came up out of nowhere and hung for a second over the right side of the boat. Beth saw it and screamed. The wave broke right over the boat, and it felt as if we'd run into a waterfall.
I found myself on the deck, then a torrent of water washed me down the stairs, and I landed on the lower deck on top of Beth. We both scrambled to our feet and I clawed my way up the stairs. The boat was out of control, and the wheel was spinning all over the place. I grabbed the wheel and held it steady as I got myself into the seat, just in time to turn the bow into another monster wave. This one took us up on its rising slope, and I had the weird experience of being about ten feet in the air with both shorelines appearing lower than I was.
The wave crested and left us in midair for a second before we dropped into the next trough. I fought the wheel and got us headed east again trying to make it into the strait, which had to be better than this.
I looked to my left for Beth, but didn't see her on the companion-way stairs. I called out, "Beth!"
She shouted from the cabin, "I'm here! Coming!"
She came up the stairs on her hands and knees, and I saw that her forehead was bleeding. I asked, "Are you all right?"
"Yes… just got knocked around a little. My butt is sore." She tried to laugh, but it almost sounded like a sob. She said, "This is crazy."
"Go below. Make yourself a martini-stirred, not shaken."
She said, "Your idiotic sense of humor seems to fit the situation." She added, "The cabin is starting to take on water, and I hear the bilge pumps going. Can you come up with a joke for that?"
"Well… let's see… that's not the bilge pump you hear, it's Sondra Wells' electric vibrator underwater. How's that?"
"I may jump." She asked me, "Can the pumps keep up with the water we're taking on?"
"I guess. Depends on how many waves break on board." In fact, I'd noticed the response to the helm was sluggish, the result of the weight of the water now in the bilge and cabin.
Neither of us spoke for the next ten minutes. Between gusts of wind-driven rain, I could see about fifty yards ahead for a few seconds, but I didn't see Tobin's cabin cruiser, or any boat for that matter, except two small craft, capsized and tossed like driftwood by the storm.
I noticed a new phenomenon, or perhaps I should say a new horror-it was something that the Gordons called a following sea, which I had experienced with them in the Gut that day. What was happening was that the sea behind the boat was overtaking it, smashing into the Formula's stern and whipping the boat almost out of control in a violent side-to-side motion, called yawing. So now, along with rolling and pitching, I had to contend with yawing. About the only two things that were going right were that we were still heading east and we were still afloat, though I don't know why.
I tilted my head back so that the rain could wash some of the salt from my face and my eyes. And since I was looking up at the sky anyway, I said to myself, I went to church Sunday morning, God. Did you see me there? The Methodist place in Cutchogue. Left side, middle pew. Emma? Tell Him. Hey, Tom, Judy, Murphys-I'm doing this for you guys. You can thank me in person in about thirty or forty years.
"John?"
"What?"
'What are you looking at up there?"
"Nothing. Getting some freshwater."
"I'll get you some water from below."
"Not yet. Just stay here awhile." I added, "I'll give you the wheel later, and I'll take a break."
"Good idea." She stayed silent a minute, then asked me, "Are you… worried?"
"No. I'm scared."
"Me, too."
"Panic time?"
"Not yet."
I scanned the dashboard and noticed the fuel gauge for the first time. It read about an eighth full, which meant about ten gallons left, which, considering the rate of fuel burn of these huge MerCruisers at half throttle fighting a storm, meant we didn't have much time or distance left. I wondered if we could make it to Plum Island. Running out of gas in a car is not the end of the world. Running out of gas in an airplane is the end of the world. Running out of gas in a boat during a storm is probably the end of the world. I reminded myself to keep an eye on the gas gauge. I said to Beth, "Is it a hurricane yet?"
"I don't know, John, and I don't give a damn."
"I'm with you."
She said, "I had the impression you were not fond of the sea."
"I like the sea just fine. I just don't like to be on it or in it."
"There are a few marinas and coves along here on Shelter Island. Do you want to put in?"
"Do you?"
"Yes, but no."
"I'm with you," I said.
Finally, we got into the passage between the North Fork and Shelter Island. The mouth of the strait was about half a mile wide, and Shelter Island to the south had enough elevation and mass to block at least some of the wind. There was less howling and splashing, so we could talk easier, and the seas were just a bit calmer.
Beth stood and steadied herself by holding on to the grab handle mounted on the dashboard above the compamonway. She asked me, "What do you think happened that day? The day of the murders?"
I replied, "We know the Gordons left the harbor at Plum Island about noon. They went far enough offshore so that the Plum Island patrol boat couldn't identify them. The Gordons waited and watched with binoculars and saw the patrol boat pass. They then opened the throttles and raced toward the beach. They had forty to sixty minutes before the boat came around again. We established this fact on Plum Island. Correct?"
"Yes, but I thought we were talking about terrorists, or unauthorized persons. Are you telling me you were thinking about the Gordons even then?"
"Sort of. I didn't know why, or what they were up to, but I wanted to see how they could pull something off. A theft. Whatever."
She nodded. "Go on."
"Okay, they make a high-speed dash and get close to the shore. If a patrol vehicle or a helicopter spots their boat anchored, it's not a major problem because by now everyone knows who they are and recognizes their distinctive boat. Yet according to Stevens, no one did see their boat that day. Correct?"