Plum Island by Nelson DeMille

over with.”
    “I’ll think about it. Hey, did you find anything in the computer printouts?”
    “Come over and I’ll show you my hard drive.”
    “Cut it out.”
    “I’ll pick you up.”
    “It’s too late. I’m tired. I’minmy—I’m dressed for bed.”
    “Good. We can play hide the pickle.” I heard her take a long, patient breath, then say, “I would have thought there’d be a
     clue in their financial records. Maybe you’re not looking hard enough. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re doing.”
    “Probably.”
    She said, “I thought we agreed to share information.”
    “Yes, with each other. Not the whole world.”
    “What … ? Oh … I see.”
    We both knew that when you’re working with the Feds, they’d slap a tap on your phone within five minutes of being introduced
     to you. They didn’t even bother with a court order when they eavesdropped on friendlies. I was sorry I’d made the call to
     Margaret Wiley.
    I asked Beth, “Where’s Ted?”
    “How do I know?”
    “Keep your door bolted. He fits the description of a rapist-murderer I’m looking for.”
    “Give it a break, John.” She hung up.
    I yawned. While I was disappointed that Detective Penrose didn’t want to come over, I was also a little relieved. I really
     think those nurses put saltpeter in a guy’s Jell-O or something. Maybe I needed more red meat in my diet.
    I turned off the coffeepot, flipped the light switch, and left the kitchen. I made my way in the dark through the big, lonely
     house, through the polished oak vestibule, up the winding, creaky staircase, and down the long hallway to the high-ceilinged
     room that I’d slept in as a boy.
    As I undressed for bed, I reflected on this day, and tried to decide if I really wanted to make that eight A.M. ferry.
    On the yes side, I liked Max, and he’d asked a favor of me. Two, I liked the Gordons and I wanted to do them a favor, to sort
     of pay them back for the good company and the wine and the steaks at a time when I was not feeling my best. Three, I didn’t
     like Ted Nash and I had this childish desire to screw him big time. Four, I
did
like Beth Penrose and I had this grown-up desire to … whatever. And then there was me, and I was bored…. No, that wasn’t
     it. I was trying to prove that I still had the stuff. So far, so good. And last, and certainly not least, the little problem
     of the plague, the black death, the red death, the multifaceted threat or whatever; the possibility that this would be the
     last autumn any of us on earth would see.
    For all those reasons, I knew I should be on the eight A.M. ferry to Plum Island, not in bed with the covers pulled over me, like when I was a kid and there was something I didn’t want
     to face….
    I stood naked at the big window and watched the fog climbing out of the bay, ghost white in the moonlight, creeping and crawling
     across the dark lawn toward the house. That used to scare the crap out of me. Still does. I felt goose bumps rising on my
     skin.
    My right hand went unconsciously to my chest, and my fingers found the entry hole of bullet one, then I slid my hand down
     to my abdomen where the second, or maybe the third shot had ripped through my formerly tight muscles, drove through my intestines,
     chipped my pelvis, and blew out my rear end. The other shot passed through my left calf without much damage. The surgeon said
     I was lucky. And he was right. I’d flipped my partner, Dom Fanelli, to see who was going to go into the deli to buy coffee
     and donuts, and he lost. Cost him four bucks. My lucky day.
    Somewhere out on the bay, a foghorn sounded, and I wondered who would be out in this weather at this hour.
    I turned from the window and checked to see that my alarm clock was set, then made sure there was a round in the chamber of
     the .45 automatic I kept on the nightstand.
    I tumbled into bed, and like Beth Penrose, and Sylvester Maxwell, and Ted Nash, and George Foster, and many others that