The person-a man by the size and voice-didn't reply.

I guess I felt a little foolish having been caught dancing around in the rain, making whooping sounds. But I had the strong sense that this was the least of my problems at the moment. "Who the hell are you?"

Again, no reply. But now I saw that the person was holding something across his chest. A standard Grim Reaper scythe? I hoped so. I could deal with a scythe. But, no such luck. The guy had a rifle. Shit.

I considered my options. I was at the bottom of a circular, five-foot-deep hole and someone with a rifle was standing on the wall near the exit ramp. Basically, I was in a deep, round, tight spot. I was profoundly rucked.

The guy just stood there staring down at me from about thirty feet away-an easy shot with the rifle. He was too close to the exit ramp for me to consider that way out. My only chance was the hole I'd just come out of, but that meant a fifteen-foot run toward him, a dive over the barbed wire fence, and a blind plunge into the elevator opening. That would take about four seconds, and the guy with the rifle could aim and fire twice in four seconds. But maybe the fellow meant me no harm. Maybe it was a Red Cross worker with brandy. Right. I said, "So, friend, what brings you out on a night like this?"

"You."

"Moi?"

"Yes, you. You and Fredric Tobin."

I recognized the voice now and I said, "Well, Paul, I was just leaving."

"Yes," Mr. Stevens replied, "you are leaving."

I didn't like the way he said that. I assumed he was still pissed off about me cold-cocking him on his back lawn, not to mention all the abuse I'd heaped on him. And here he was with a rifle. Life is funny sometimes.

He said again, "You will be gone soon."

"Good. I was just passing through, and-"

"Where's Tobin?"

"Right behind you."

Stevens actually glanced quickly behind him, then faced me again. He said, "Two boats were spotted from the lighthouse-a Chris-Craft and a speedboat. The Chris-Craft turned back in the Gut, the speedboat made it through."

"Yeah, that was me in the speedboat. Just out for a spin." I asked, "How did you know the Christ-Craft was Tobin?"

"I know his boat. I've been expecting him."

"Why?"

"You know why." He added, "My motion sensors and microphones picked up at least two people at Fort Terry, plus a vehicle. I checked it out and here I am." He said, "Someone murdered two firemen. You?"

"Not me." I said, "Hey, Paul, my neck is getting stiff looking up at you and I'm cold. I'm coming up that ramp, and we're going back to the lab for some coffee-"

Paul Stevens raised his rifle and pointed it at me. He said, "If you move one fucking inch, I'll kill you."

"Understood."

He reminded me, "I owe you for what you did to me."

"You have to try to work through your anger in a constructive-"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Right." In some instinctive way, I knew that Paul Stevens was more dangerous than Fredric Tobin. Tobin was a cowardly killer, and if he sensed danger, he'd run. Stevens, I was sure, was a more natural killer, the kind of man who'd face off with you, mano a mano. I said, "Do you know why Tobin and I are here?"

Still aiming the rifle at me, he said, "Of course, I do. Captain Kidd's treasure."

I said, "I can help you find the treasure."

"No, you can't. I have the treasure."

Oh, my. I said, "How did you-?"

"Do you think I'm stupid? The Gordons thought I was stupid. I knew exactly what was going on with all this idiotic archaeological digging. I followed every move they made. I wasn't sure who their partner was until August when Tobin arrived as a representative of the Peconic Historical Society."

"Good detective work. I'll see to it that you get a government efficiency award-"

"Shut your fucking mouth."

"Yes, sir. By the way, shouldn't you be wearing a mask or something?"

"Why?"

"Why? Isn't that the biohazard warning siren?"

"It is. It's a test. I ordered a test. Everyone who has hurricane duty on the island is in the lab wearing biohazard gear, going through the drill of biocontainment."

"In other words, we're not all going to die?"

"No. Only you are going to die."

I was afraid he was going to say that. I informed him, in an official tone, "Whatever you may have done is not as serious as committing murder."

"Actually, I haven't committed a single crime, and killing you is going to be a pleasure."

"Killing a policeman is-"

"You're a trespasser, and for all I know, a saboteur, a terrorist, and a murderer. Sorry I didn't recognize you."

I tensed my body, ready to make the dash for the hole, knowing it was a useless try, but I had to give it a shot.

Stevens continued, "You knocked out two of my teeth and split my lip. Plus you know too damned much." He added, "I'm rich, and you're dead. Bye-bye, bozo."

I said to him, "Fuck you, asshole." I charged toward the hole, looking not at the barbed wire, but at him as I ran. He steadied the rifle and drew a bead on me. He really couldn't miss.

A shot rang out, but there was no muzzle flash from his rifle and no searing pain shooting through my body. As I reached the fence and was about to vault over the barbed wire and plunge headfirst into the hole, I saw Stevens jumping down into the pit to finish me off. At least that's what I thought. But in fact, he was falling forward and he landed facedown on the concrete pavement. I collided with the barbed wire and came to a halt.

I stood there a moment, frozen, watching him. He twitched around awhile, like he'd been hit in the spinal column, so he was basically a goner. I heard that unmistakable pre-lights-out gurgle. Finally, the twitching and gurgling stopped. I looked up at the top of the wall. Beth Penrose was staring down at Paul Stevens, her pistol trained on him.

I said, "How'd you get here?"

"Walked."

"I mean-"

"I came looking for you. I spotted him and followed."

"Lucky for me."

"Not so for him," she replied.

I said, "Say, 'Freeze, police!' "

She replied, "Fuck that."

"I'm with you." I added, "He was about to kill me."

"I know that."

"You could have fired a little sooner."

"I hope you're not critiquing my performance."

"No, ma'am. Good shooting."

She asked me, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. How about you?"

"I'm just fine. Where's Tobin?"

"He's… not here."

She glanced down at Stevens again and asked me, "What's with him?"

"Just a scavenger."

"Did you find the treasure?"

"No, but Stevens did."

"Do you know where it is?"

"I was about to ask him."

"No, John, he was about to put a bullet in you."

"Thank you for saving my life."

"You owe me a small favor for that."

"Right. So, that's it-case closed," I said.

"Except for the treasure. And Tobin. Where is he?"

"Oh, he's around here somewhere."

"Is he armed? Is he dangerous?"

"No," I replied, "he has no guts."

We sheltered from the storm in a concrete bunker. We huddled for warmth, but we were so cold, neither of us slept. We talked into the night, rubbing each other's arms and legs to ward off hypothermia.

Beth bugged me about Tobin's whereabouts, and I gave her an edited version of the confrontation in the ammunition storage room, saying that I'd stabbed him and he was mortally wounded.

She said, "Shouldn't we get him medical attention?"

I replied, "Of course. First thing in the morning."

She didn't reply for a few seconds, then said, simply, "Good."

Before dawn, we made our way back to the beach.

The storm had passed and before the helicopter or boat patrols came out, we replaced the shear pin and took the Whaler out to the Chris-Craft. I pulled the self-bailing plug in the Whaler and let the small craft sink. Then we took Tobin's cabin cruiser to Greenport where we called Max. He met us at the dock and drove us to police headquarters where we showered and got into sweatsuits and warm socks. A local doc checked us over and suggested antibiotics and bacon and eggs, which sounded fine.