Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

I also spotted a big black Caprice that could have been the one I'd seen Tuesday with the four suit guys in it. I noted the license plate number.

Then, riding around through the hundred or so parked cars, I saw a white Ford Taurus with rental plates, and I was pretty certain this could be the car that Nash and Foster drove. Big doings at Plum Island today.

Neither ferry was in the slip or on the horizon, and except for the Marines waiting to drive their humvees onto an arriving ferry, there was no one around.

Except, when I looked in my sideview mirror, I saw four — count 'em, four — blue uniformed security guards running toward me, waving and hollering. Obviously I'd misunderstood the gate guard. Oh, dear.

I drove my vehicle toward the four guards. I could hear them now yelling, "Stop! Stop!" Fortunately, they weren't going for their guns.

I wanted the report to Messrs. Foster and Nash to be entertaining, so I drove in circles around the four guards, waving back at them, and yelling to them, "Stop! Stop!" I did a couple of figure eights, then, before anyone closed the steel gate or got crazy with the guns, I drove toward the exit. I cut hard left onto Main Road and hit the gas, heading back west. No one fired. That's why I love this country.

Within two minutes, I was on the narrow strip of land that connects Orient to East Marion. The Sound was to my right, the bay to my left, and lots of birds were in between. Atlantic Coastal Flyway. You learn something new every day.

Suddenly, this big white gull came in at me from twelve o'clock high. It was a beautifully timed and executed flight, a long steep dive, followed by a slight flare-out which resulted in a more shallow dive, then a pull-out and climb; then with perfect timing, he let loose his payload, which splattered purple and green across my windshield. It was that kind of day.

I hit the windshield wipers, but the washer reservoir was empty, and I had this stuff smeared across my field of vision. Yuck, yuck. I pulled over. "Damn." Ever resourceful, I got my expensive bottle of Tobin Merlot out of the back seat, and got my trusty Swiss Army knife with the corkscrew from the glove compartment. I opened the wine and poured some of the Merlot over the windshield as the wipers swept back and forth. I drank a little of the wine. Not bad. I.poured more on the windshield, then drank some more. A guy in a passing car honked and gave me a wave. Fortunately, the bombload was made up of pretty much what the wine was made of and the windshield was reasonably clean, except for a purple film. I finished the bottle and threw it in the back seat.

On my way again. I thought about Emma Whitestone. I'm the kind of guy who always sends flowers the next day. However, sending flowers to a florist might be redundant. For all I knew, my FTD order would go through her. She'd make up the bouquet and hand it to herself. Enough silliness, as Emma would say. I needed a gift for her. A bottle of Tobin wine was also not appropriate. I mean, what with them being ex-lovers and all. And, she had access to all the local handicrafts and gift shop junk she'd ever need. Jeez, this one had me stumped. I hate to buy jewelry or clothes for women, but maybe that's what I had to do.

Back on Main Road, I stopped at a service station and got gas. I also filled my windshield washer reservoir, washed my windshield, and invested in a local map.

I took the opportunity to scope out the road to see if anyone was parked nearby, watching me. It didn't appear that I was being followed, and I'm good at spotting a tail, the incident on West 102nd Street notwithstanding.

I didn't think I was in any danger, yet I considered going home for my piece, then decided against it.

Armed now with nothing more than a map and my superior intellect, I headed north, up to the bluffs. With some difficulty, I finally found the right dirt road that led to the right bluff. I parked, got out, and climbed to the top of the bluff.

This time, I poked around through the underbrush and the sawgrass. I found the rock I'd sat on and noted that it was big enough to be used as a point of reference if you were going to bury something.

I went to the edge of the bluff. It was obvious that a good deal of erosion must have taken place over the last three hundred years so that something buried on the north side — the Sound side — of the bluff might well have been exposed by wind and water, and maybe tumbled down onto the beach. I was putting this together now.

I came down from the bluff and got in my Jeep. Using my new map, I made my way to the west side of Mattituck Inlet. And there it was — no, not Captain Kidd's Trees, but a sign that said "Captain Kidd Estates." Apparently some subdivider had a marketing dream. I drove into Captain Kidd Estates, a small collection of 1960s ranches and Cape Cods. A kid — no pun intended — was riding by on his bicycle, and I stopped and asked him, "Do you know where Captain Kidd's Trees are?"

The boy, about twelve, didn't reply.

I said, "There's supposed to be a place near the inlet where there are a bunch of trees called Captain Kidd's Trees."

He looked at me, looked at my four-wheel drive, and I guess I struck him as an Indiana Jones type, because he asked me, "You gonna look for the treasure?"

"Oh… no, I just want to take a picture of the trees."

"He buried his treasure chest under one of those trees."

It seemed like everyone but me was hip to this. That's what happens when you don't pay attention. I said to the lad, "Where are the trees?"

"My friends and me dug a big hole once, before the cops chased us away. The trees are in a park, so you can't dig there."

"I just want to take a few pictures."

"If you wanna dig, I'll watch for the cops."

"Okay. Lead on."

I followed the boy on his bike to a winding lane that led downhill to the Sound and ended at a beach park where a few young mothers sat with toddlers in strollers. To the right was the Mattituck Inlet and a marina farther up the inlet. I pulled off to the side and got out. I didn't see any large oaks, only a field of brush and scrub trees across the lane. The field was bordered by the beach on the north and by the inlet on the east. Across the field, to the west, I could see a bluff descending to the water. On the south from where I'd come was a rise of land which were the Captain Kidd Estates.

The boy asked me, "Where's your shovel?"

"I'm just taking pictures."

"Where's your camera?"

"What's your name?"

"Billy. What's yours?"

"Johnny. Is this the right place?"

"Sure. "Where are Captain Kidd's Trees?"

"There. In the park."

He pointed to the big field. It was apparently an undeveloped piece of parkland, part of the beach park, more a nature preserve than what my Manhattan mind thought of as a park. Still, I saw no towering oaks. I said to him, "I don't see the trees."

"There." He pointed out to me all the scrub oak, wild cherry, and other assorted trees, none taller than twenty feet high. He said, "See that big one there? That's where me and Jerry dug. We're gonna go back some night."

"Good idea. Let's take a look."

Billy dropped his bike in the grass, and my new partner and I walked onto the field. The grass was high, but the bushes were widely spaced and the walking was easy. Obviously, Billy hadn't paid attention in earth science class or he'd have known that these few trees weren't three and four hundred years old. In fact, I really hadn't expected to see hundred-foot-high oaks with skulls and crossbones carved in them.

Billy said, "Do you have a shovel in your car?"

"No, I'm just scoping it out for now. Tomorrow we're coming back with bulldozers."

"Yeah? If you find the treasure, you have to share."

In my best pirate accent, I said, "If I find the treasure, me lad, I'll cut the throats of all who ask for their share."