"I'm getting cold.
"Here, you can have my T-shirt."
"No, it smells."
"You're no petunia yourself."
"I'm tired, I'm dirty, my pantyhose are ripped, and I have to go to the bathroom."
"This is romantic."
"It could be. But it's not now." She stood, grabbed the rope, and walked up to the crest. I waited until she got to the top, then followed.
Beth coiled the rope and put it back at the base of the tree as she'd found it. She turned, and we found ourselves face-to-face, about a foot apart. It was one of those awkward moments, and we stood for exactly three seconds, then I put my hand out and brushed her hair, then her cheek. I moved in for the big smooch, confident we were about to lock lips, but she stepped back and uttered the magic word that all modern American men have been Pavloved to respond to. "No."
I immediately jumped back six feet, and I clasped my hands behind my back. My little woody dropped like a dead tree, and I exclaimed, "I mistook your friendly banter for a sexual come-on. Forgive me."
Actually, that's not exactly what happened. She did say "no," but I hesitated, a look of abject disappointment on my face, and she said, "Not now," which is good, then "maybe later," which was better, then "I like you," which was best.
I said, "Take your time," which I sincerely meant, as long as she didn't take more than seventy-two hours, which is sort of my limit. Actually, I've waited longer.
We didn't say anything else about that, but walked down the landward side of the bluff and got into the black PD.
She started the car, threw it into gear, then put it back into park, and leaned over and kissed me perfunctorily on the cheek, then into gear again and off we went, raising dust.
A mile later, we were on Middle Road. She had a good sense of direction and headed back to Nassau Point without my help.
She saw an open service station, and we both used the respective lavs to freshen up, as they say. I couldn't remember the last time I looked this dirty. I'm a pretty dapper guy on the job, a Manhattan dandy in tailor-made suits. I felt like a kid again, dirty Johnny rooting around the Indian burial sites.
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."
"I hope so."
We drove a few minutes. The combo of beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, and gummy bears actually tasted awful, but I was starving, and I wanted that dust out of my throat. I asked Beth, "What do you think? I mean, about the bluff?"
She thought a moment, then replied, "I think I would have liked the Gordons."
"You would have."
"Are you sad?"
"Yeah… I mean, we weren't best buddies… I only knew them a few months, but they were good people, full of fun and life. They were too young to have ended their lives like that."
She nodded.
We drove across the causeway onto Nassau Point. It was getting dark.
She said, "My brain is telling me this piece of land is what it appears to be. A romantic retreat, a place to call their own. They were Midwesterners, they probably came from land, and they found themselves here as tenants in a place where land means a lot, like where they came from… Right?"
"Right."
"And yet…"
"Yes. And yet… And yet, they could have saved themselves about twenty Gs if they'd leased for five years." I added, "They had to own the land. Think about that."
"I'm thinking about it."
We wound up at the house where the Gordons had lived, and Beth pulled up behind my Jeep. She said, "It was a long day."
"Come back to my place. Follow me."
"No, I'm going home tonight."
"Why?"
"There's no reason to be here twenty-four hours a day any longer, and the county won't pay for the motel."
"Stop at my place first. I have to give you the computer printouts."
"They'll wait until tomorrow." She said, "I need to go to the office tomorrow morning. Why don't I meet you tomorrow about five o'clock?"
"My place."
"All right. Your place, five p.m. I'll have some information by then."
"Me, too."
"I'd rather you didn't proceed until you see me," she said.
"Okay."
"Get your status straight with Chief Maxwell."
"Will do."
"Get some rest," she said.
"You, too."
"Get out of my car." She smiled. "Go home. Really."
"I will. Really." I got out of her car. She made a U-turn, waved, and drove off.
I got into my Jeep, determined not to do anything that would make it speak French. Seat belt on, doors locked, emergency brake off. I started the engine and the car didn't utter a peep.
As I drove back to my bay farm estate, or farm bay estate, or whatever, I realized I hadn't remembered to use the remote to start the vehicle. Well, what difference did it make? The new car bombs all exploded after about five minutes anyway. Besides, no one was trying to kill me. Well, someone had tried to kill me, but that had to do with something else. Quite possibly, that was random, or if it were planned, the shooters considered that I was out of action, and whatever I'd done to piss them off was avenged without me having to be actually dead. That's the way the Mafia operated-if you survived, you were usually left alone. But these gentlemen who were blasting away at me looked decidedly Hispanic. And those hombres didn't always consider the job done until you were planted.
But that wasn't my concern at the moment. I was more concerned about what was going on around here, whatever it was. I mean, here I am in a very peaceful part of the planet, trying to get my mind and body to heal, and right beneath the surface we have all sorts of weird crap going down. I kept thinking about that pig bleeding from its ears and nose and mouth… I realized that people on that little island had discovered stuff that could exterminate almost every living thing on the planet.
The convenient thing about biological warfare has always been easy deniability, and its untraceable origins. The entire culture of biological research and weapons development has always been permeated with lies, deception, and denial.
I pulled into the driveway of Uncle Harry's house. My tires crunched over the seashells. The house was dark, and when I shut off my headlights, the entire world fell into darkness. How do rural people live in the dark?
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.