“Gee, I don’t know, Jason. What does it say in the Times?”
He persisted, “How real is the threat today?”
Kate replied, “The threat of terrorism in America is very real. However, without giving away any classified information, I can say that we have no specific information about an imminent attack.”
“Then why,” asked Jason, “are we in condition Orange, which means high risk of terrorist attack?”
Kate answered, “This is just a precaution because of the one-year anniversary of 9/11.”
“That’s past,” said Mark. “I think this is just a way of keeping the country in a state of fear so the administration can push its domestic security agenda, which is really a crackdown on civil liberties.” He looked at me and asked, “Would you agree with that, John?”
“Absolutely. In fact, Mark, Special Agent Mayfield and I are out here to report on anti-government subversives, and I need to warn you that anything you say may be held against you in a military tribunal.”
Mark managed a weak smile.
Alison said to me, “I think you’re being provocative again.”
“It must be my aftershave lotion.”
Alison actually giggled. I think she liked me. Also, I strongly suspected she was the Friday-night screamer.
The third woman, Pam, asked both of us, “Have you ever arrested a terrorist?”
It seemed like a normal question, but by Pam’s tone of voice, and the general context, it could be taken in another way, which is how Kate took it.
Kate responded, “If you mean an Islamic terrorist, no, but-” She stood and hiked up her pullover, exposing a long, white scar that began under her left rib cage and continued down to the top of her butt. She said, “A Libyan gentleman named Asad Khalil got me with a sniper rifle. He got John, too.”
My scar was along my right hip, and short of dropping my shorts, I didn’t see how I was going to show this in mixed company.
Kate pulled down her sweater and said, “So, no, I never arrested a terrorist, but I was shot by one. And I was at the Twin Towers when they were hit.”
The room got a little quiet, and I thought maybe everyone was waiting to see my scar. I did have the three bullet holes from the Hispanic gentlemen that ended my NYPD career. Two holes were indecently located, but I had one in my chest that I could say was from the Libyan, because I really wanted to unbutton my shirt to show Alison my wound.
“John?”
“Huh?”
“I said, I’m ready to go.”
“I smell sausage cooking.”
“I want to get an early start.”
“Right.” I stood and said to everyone, “We’re off to Plum Island. You know, the biological warfare research lab. There’s, like, eight liters of anthrax missing, and we have to try to figure out where it went.” I added, “That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards, or-” I coughed twice and said, “Excuse me. So, have a nice day.”
We left the quaint house and walked to my Jeep.
Kate said, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
“What?”
“You know what.” She laughed, which she wouldn’t have done before 9/11 or six months after. Now, as I said, she was a different woman, and she’d loosened up a lot and finally appreciated my rapier wit and sophisticated humor. She noted, “You are so fucking immature.”
That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking. We both got into the Jeep, and off we went.
She spoke in a deep bass voice, which I guess was an imitation of me. “There’s, like, eight liters of anthrax missing.”
“Do you have a cold?”
She continued, “That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards.” She coughed twice. “Excuse me. I think I have anthrax.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“I don’t know. It just pops into my head.”
“Scary.”
“Anthrax is very scary.”
“I mean, your head.”
“Right. So, where to?” I asked.
“I know a great antique store in Southold.”
“Let’s go to church. It’s cheaper.”
“Southold. Make a left here.”
So, we spent Sunday morning antiquing. I’m not a huge fan of antiques, which I think are mostly verminous chunks of rotten wood and unsanitary scraps of germ-infested fabric. I’d take my chances with anthrax before antiques.
Needless to say, we didn’t buy anything. In fact, Kate commented, “Why do I need to buy an antique? I’m married to one.”
We had lunch in a diner where I finally got my bagel, plus the sausages and eggs I’d missed at breakfast.
After lunch, we hit a few more wineries, where we picked up a dozen bottles of wine that we could have bought in Manhattan for the same price, and then we stopped at a farm stand.
We rarely eat at home-she can’t cook and neither can I, and I don’t eat fruit or vegetables-but we bought a ton of this stuff with leaves and dirt on it, plus a fifty-pound bag of Long Island potatoes. I asked, “What are we going to do with all this crap?”
“You run over a deer, and I’ll make hunter’s stew.”
That was actually funny. Why didn’t I think of it?
We collected our belongings from the B amp;B, settled the bill, and started back to the city.
She asked me, “Did you have a good weekend?”
“I did. Except for breakfast.”
“You need to talk to people with opposing views.”
“I do. I’m married.”
“Very funny.” She asked, “Why don’t we go upstate next weekend?”
“Good idea.” Which reminded me to ask her, “What do you know about the Custer Hill Club? I didn’t buy your last response.”
She considered the question and the statement, then replied, “I know that you almost spent this weekend there.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well… Tom Walsh asked me if I’d have an objection to him sending you there on a surveillance.”
“Really? And you said?”
“I said, yes, I would object.” She asked me, “How did you know about the Custer Hill Club?”
“From Harry Muller, who got the assignment.”
“What did he tell you?”
“I’m asking the questions. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Tom asked me not to. But I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“Now. On the trip home.”
“Yeah. Right. Why didn’t you want me to go?”
“I was looking forward to getting away with you this weekend.”
“I didn’t know about that either, until about four-thirty, Friday.”
“I’d been thinking about it.”
“You were actually scrambling to find a place to stay on short notice.” I informed her, “You’re talking to me, darling. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter who’s also a brilliant detective.”
She considered that. “Well… I just didn’t like the sound of the assignment… so I told Tom we had plans, and then I needed to make plans.”
I digested all of this and asked her, “What do you mean you didn’t like the sound of the assignment?”
“I don’t know… just instinct… something about Tom’s demeanor…”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No, I can’t… but thinking back on it, I may have read too much into what he was saying. Also, I didn’t want to be alone for the weekend.”
“Why didn’t you volunteer to come with me?”
“John, just drop it. I’m sorry I lied to you and sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Apology accepted, if you tell me what is the Custer Hill Club.”
“I’m not sure. But Tom said it was a social and recreational club composed of rich and powerful men.”
“I might have had a good time.”
“You were supposed to take photographs of-”
“I know all that. What I don’t know is why these men need watching.”
“I really don’t know. He wasn’t going to share that information with me.” She added, “You can assume they’re politically conservative, and maybe radically so.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“That’s all I know.”
I was on the Long Island Expressway now, heading west into the sinking sun. The Jeep smelled like a Korean produce market, and the wine was rattling around on the floor behind me.