night,
I stared up at the ceiling and thought about murder, death, Plum Island, and plague. I saw in my mind’s eye the image of the
Jolly Roger flapping in the night sky, the death’s head white and grinning.
It occurred to me that the only people resting in peace tonight were Tom and Judy Gordon.
C HAPTER 7
I was up at six A.M. , showered, and dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and Top-Siders: suitable attire for a quick change into biohazard gear or whatever
they call it.
I did my Hamlet routine regarding my piece—to carry, or not to carry, that is the question. Finally, I decided to carry. You
just never know what the day is going to bring. This might be a nice day to paint Ted Nash red.
By 6:45 A.M. , I was traveling east on Main Road, through the heart of the wine country.
It occurred to me as I drove that it’s not easy trying to pull a living out of the soil or the sea, as many of the locals
did. But the vineyards had been surprisingly successful. In fact, to my left, as I passed through the hamlet of Peconic, was
the most successful vineyard and winery, Tobin Vineyards, owned by Fredric Tobin, whom I’d met once briefly and who was a
friend of the Gordons. I made a mental note to call on the gentleman and see if he could shed any light on the case at hand.
The sun was above the trees, off to my right front, and my dashboard thermometer said 16 degrees centigrade, which meant nothing
to me. Somehow I’d screwed up the computer, and I was on the metric system. Sixteen degrees sounded cold, but I knew it wasn’t.
Anyway, the sun was burning off the ground mist and sunlight filled my over-priced sports utility vehicle.
The road was gently curved, and the vineyards were more picturesque than the potato fields I remembered from thirty years
ago. Now and then a fruit orchard or cornfield kept the vineyards from becoming monotonous. Big birds sailed and soared on
the morning thermals, and little birds sang and chirped in the fields and trees. All was right with the world, except that
Tom and Judy were in the county morgue this morning; and very possibly there was a sickness in the air, rising and falling
with the thermals, carried on the ocean breeze, sweeping across the farms and vineyards, and carried in the blood of humans
and animals. And yet, everything seemed normal this morning, including me.
I turned on the radio to an all-news channel from New York City and listened to the regular crap for a while, waiting for
someone to say something about a mysterious outbreak of whatever. But it was too early for that. I tuned to the only local
radio station and caught the seven A.M. news. The news guy was saying, “We spoke to Chief Maxwell by phone this morning, and here’s what he told us.”
A grumpy-sounding Max came out of my speakers, saying, “Regarding the deaths of Nassau Point residents Tom and Judy Gordon,
we’re calling this a double homicide, robbery, and burglary. This has nothing to do with the victims’ work on Plum Island,
and we want to put these speculations to rest. We urge all residents to be alert and aware of strangers and report anything
suspicious to the town police. No need to be paranoid, but there’s somebody out there with a gun who committed murder, robbery,
and burglary. So you have to take some precautions. We’re working with the county police on this, and we think we have some
leads. That’s all I have to say at this time. I’ll talk to you later today, Don.”
“Thanks, Chief,” said Don.
That’s what I like about this place—real down-to-earth and homey. I turned off the radio. What Chief Maxwell forgot to mention
was that he was on his way to Plum Island, the place that had nothing to do with the double murders. He also forgot to mention
the FBI and the CIA. I admire a man who knows how and when to gaslight the public. What if Max had said, “There’s a fifty-fifty
chance the Gordons sold plague viruses to terrorists
I stared up at the ceiling and thought about murder, death, Plum Island, and plague. I saw in my mind’s eye the image of the
Jolly Roger flapping in the night sky, the death’s head white and grinning.
It occurred to me that the only people resting in peace tonight were Tom and Judy Gordon.
C HAPTER 7
I was up at six A.M. , showered, and dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and Top-Siders: suitable attire for a quick change into biohazard gear or whatever
they call it.
I did my Hamlet routine regarding my piece—to carry, or not to carry, that is the question. Finally, I decided to carry. You
just never know what the day is going to bring. This might be a nice day to paint Ted Nash red.
By 6:45 A.M. , I was traveling east on Main Road, through the heart of the wine country.
It occurred to me as I drove that it’s not easy trying to pull a living out of the soil or the sea, as many of the locals
did. But the vineyards had been surprisingly successful. In fact, to my left, as I passed through the hamlet of Peconic, was
the most successful vineyard and winery, Tobin Vineyards, owned by Fredric Tobin, whom I’d met once briefly and who was a
friend of the Gordons. I made a mental note to call on the gentleman and see if he could shed any light on the case at hand.
The sun was above the trees, off to my right front, and my dashboard thermometer said 16 degrees centigrade, which meant nothing
to me. Somehow I’d screwed up the computer, and I was on the metric system. Sixteen degrees sounded cold, but I knew it wasn’t.
Anyway, the sun was burning off the ground mist and sunlight filled my over-priced sports utility vehicle.
The road was gently curved, and the vineyards were more picturesque than the potato fields I remembered from thirty years
ago. Now and then a fruit orchard or cornfield kept the vineyards from becoming monotonous. Big birds sailed and soared on
the morning thermals, and little birds sang and chirped in the fields and trees. All was right with the world, except that
Tom and Judy were in the county morgue this morning; and very possibly there was a sickness in the air, rising and falling
with the thermals, carried on the ocean breeze, sweeping across the farms and vineyards, and carried in the blood of humans
and animals. And yet, everything seemed normal this morning, including me.
I turned on the radio to an all-news channel from New York City and listened to the regular crap for a while, waiting for
someone to say something about a mysterious outbreak of whatever. But it was too early for that. I tuned to the only local
radio station and caught the seven A.M. news. The news guy was saying, “We spoke to Chief Maxwell by phone this morning, and here’s what he told us.”
A grumpy-sounding Max came out of my speakers, saying, “Regarding the deaths of Nassau Point residents Tom and Judy Gordon,
we’re calling this a double homicide, robbery, and burglary. This has nothing to do with the victims’ work on Plum Island,
and we want to put these speculations to rest. We urge all residents to be alert and aware of strangers and report anything
suspicious to the town police. No need to be paranoid, but there’s somebody out there with a gun who committed murder, robbery,
and burglary. So you have to take some precautions. We’re working with the county police on this, and we think we have some
leads. That’s all I have to say at this time. I’ll talk to you later today, Don.”
“Thanks, Chief,” said Don.
That’s what I like about this place—real down-to-earth and homey. I turned off the radio. What Chief Maxwell forgot to mention
was that he was on his way to Plum Island, the place that had nothing to do with the double murders. He also forgot to mention
the FBI and the CIA. I admire a man who knows how and when to gaslight the public. What if Max had said, “There’s a fifty-fifty
chance the Gordons sold plague viruses to terrorists
Similar Books
