Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

"Someplace where I can get a beer."

"I'll go with you."

"No, I don't need the company."

She informed me, "You need lots of company, my friend. That's your problem. You've been alone too long."

"Do you write a lovelorn column for the local weekly?"

"I will not let you bait me, and I will not let you leave alone. Where are you going?"

"Ye Olde Towne Taverne."

"My favorite dive. Have you had their nacho platter?" She took my arm and off we went.

I got in her old car and within twenty minutes, we were ensconced in a booth at the Olde Towne Taverne, beers in hand, nachos and chicken wings on the way. The Saturday night regulars didn't look as if they were on their way to, or back from, Freddie's fabulous fete.

Emma said, "I called you last night."

"I thought you went out with the girls."

"I called you when I got back. About midnight."

"No luck with the hunt?"

"No." She said, "I guess you were sleeping."

"Actually, I went to Foxwoods. You can lose your drawers there."

"Tell me about it."

We talked awhile, and I said to her, "I'm assuming you didn't say anything to Fredric about what we've been discussing."

She hesitated a half second too long, then replied, "I didn't… but I did tell him… I said that you and I were dating." She smiled. "Are we dating?"

"Archivists are always dating — July 4, 1776, December 7, 1941 — "

"Be serious."

"Okay, I seriously wish you hadn't mentioned me at all."

She shrugged. "I'm happy, and I want everyone to know it. He wished me luck."

"What a gentleman."

She smiled. "Are you jealous?"

"Not at all." I'm going to see him fry . "I think you should not discuss us with him and certainly not discuss pirate treasure."

"Okay."

And so we had a pleasant dinner and then went to her place, a little cottage in a residential section of Cutchogue. She showed me her chamber pot collection, ten of them, all used as planters and placed in a big bay window. My gift was now filled with soil and held miniature roses.

She disappeared for a moment and returned with a wrapped gift for me. She said, "I got it at the historical society gift shop. I didn't lift it, but I took forty percent off for myself."

"You didn't have to — "

"Just open it."

And I did. It was a book titled The Story of Pirate Treasure .

She said, "Open to the flyleaf."

I opened it and read, "To John, my favorite buccaneer, Love, Emma." I smiled and said, "Thank you. This is what I've always wanted."

"Well, not always. But I thought you might want to look it over."

"I will."

Anyway, the cottage was cute, it was clean, there was no cat, she had scotch and beer, the mattress was firm, she liked the Beatles and the Bee Gees, and she had two pillows for me. What more could I ask? Well, whipped cream. She had that, too.

The next morning, Sunday, we went out for breakfast at the Cutchogue Diner, then without asking me, she drove to church, a nice clapboard Methodist church. She explained, "I'm not a fanatic about it, but it gives me a lift sometimes. It's not bad for business either."

So I attended church, ready to dive under the pew if the ceiling caved in.

After church, we retrieved my car in front of Mr. Tobin's mansion, and Emma followed me back to my mansion.

While Emma made tea for herself, I called Beth at her office. She wasn't in so I left a message with a guy who said he was working the Gordon case. I said to him, "Tell her I'll be out all day. I'll try to speak to her tonight. If not, she should come to my place tomorrow morning for coffee."

"Okay."

I called Beth's house and got her answering machine. I left the same message.

Feeling that I'd done what I could to keep my promise, I went into the kitchen and said, "Let's take a Sunday drive."

"Sounds good to me."

She drove her car home and I followed, then we went to Orient Point in my Jeep and took the New London ferry. We spent the day in Connecticut and Rhode Island, visiting the mansions in Newport, having dinner in Mystic, then taking the ferry back.

We stood on the deck of the ferry and watched the water and the stars.

The ferry passed through Plum Island Gut, and I could see the Orient Point Lighthouse on the right. To the left, the old stone Plum Island Lighthouse was dark and forbidding against the night sky.

The Gut was choppy, and Emma remarked, "That storm's tracking this way. The seas get rough long before the weather moves in." She added, "Also, the barometer drops. Can you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The falling air pressure."

"Uh…" I stuck my tongue out. "Not yet."

"I can feel it. I'm very weather sensitive."

"Is that good or bad?"'

"I think it's a good thing."

"So do I."

"Are you sure you can't feel it? Don't your wounds ache a little?"

I focused on my wounds and sure enough, they did ache a little. I said to Emma, "Thanks for bringing it to my attention."

"It's good to get in touch with your body, to understand the relationships between the elements and your body and mind."

"Absolutely."

"For instance, I get a little crazy during a full moon."

" Crazier ," I pointed out.

"Yes, crazier. How about you?"

"I get very horny."

"Really? During a full moon?"

"Full moon, half-moon, quarter-moon."

She laughed.

I glanced at Plum Island as we passed by. I could see a few channel lights and, on the horizon, a glow from where the main lab would be behind the trees. Otherwise, the island was as dark as it had been three hundred years ago, and if I squinted I could imagine William Kidd's sloop, the San Antonio , reconnoitering the island one July night in 1699. I could see a boat being lowered off the side with Kidd and maybe one or two others aboard, and I could see someone in the boat rowing toward the shore…

Emma interrupted my thoughts and asked me, "What are you thinking?"

"Just enjoying the night."

"You were staring at Plum Island."

"Yes… I was thinking about… the Gordons."

"You were thinking about Captain Kidd."

"You must be a witch."

"I'm a good Methodist and a bitch. But only once a month."

I smiled. "And you're weather sensitive."

"That's right." She asked me, "Are you going to tell me any more about this… this murder?"

"No, I'm not."

"All right. I understand. If you need anything from me, just ask. I'll do whatever I can to help."

"Thanks."

The ferry approached the slip, and she asked me, "Do you want to stay at my place tonight?"

"Well… I do, but… I should go home."

"I can stay at your place."

"Well… to tell you the truth, I was supposed to talk or to meet with Detective Penrose today, and I should see if I can sfill do that."

"All right."

And we left the matter there.

I dropped her off at her home. I said to her, "I'll see you tomorrow after work."

"Good. There's a nice restaurant on the water that I'd like to take you to."

"Looking forward to it." We kissed on her doorstep, and I got into my Jeep and drove home.

There were seven messages for me. I was in no mood for them and went to bed without playing them. They'd be there in the morning.

As I drifted off, I tried to figure out what to do about Fredric Tobin. There's sometimes this situation when you have your man, yet you don't have your man. There is a critical moment when you have to decide if you should keep stalking him, confront him, smoke him out, or pretend to lose interest in him.

I should have also been thinking that when you corner an animal or a man, he can become dangerous — that the game is played by both hunter and hunted, and that the hunted had a lot more to lose.