I yawned.

"Anyway," Stevens continued, "there was no permanent settlement on this island. So, you might ask, how did the settlers pasture cattle on an island that was uninhabited? According to records, the Gut between Orient and Plum was so shallow in the sixteen and seventeen hundreds, that cattle could cross at low tide. A hurricane around the late seventeen hundreds deepened the Gut and that ended the island's usefulness as pasture. However, from the beginning of the English presence, the island was visited by a succession of pirates and privateers who found the island's isolation very convenient."

I felt a sudden panic attack coming on. Here I was trapped in a small bus with this monotonal, monochromatic moron who was starting with Genesis, and we were only up to about 1700 or something with three centuries to go, and the friggin' bus wasn't even moving, and I couldn't leave unless I shot my way out. What did I do to deserve this? Aunt June was looking down on me from heaven and laughing her butt off. I could hear her, "Now, Johnny, if you can tell me what I said yesterday about the Montauk Indians, I'll buy you an ice cream cone." No, no, no! STOP!

Stevens went on, "During the Revolution, American patriots from Connecticut used the island to stage raids on the Tory strongholds in Southold. Then, George Washington, who'd visited the North Fork -"

I put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear a low hum.

Finally, I raised my hand and asked him, "Are you a member of the Peconic Historical Society?"

"No, but they helped me compile this history."

"Is there, like, a brochure or something that we can read later, and you can save this for a congressman?"

Beth Penrose said, "I find this fascinating."

Messrs. Nash and Foster made some seconding noises.

Max laughed and said, "You're outvoted, John."

Stevens smiled at me again. Why did I think he wanted to pull his.45 and empty his magazine in me? He said, "Bear with me, Detective. We have some time to kill anyway." He continued, but I noticed that he sped up his words. "So, on the eve of the Spanish-American War, the government purchased 130 acres of the island for coastal defenses, and Fort Terry was established. We'll see the abandoned Fort Terry later."

I glanced at Beth and saw she was staring intently at Paul Stevens, apparently absorbed in his narrative. As I stared at Beth Penrose staring at Paul Stevens, she turned toward me, and we made eye contact. She seemed embarrassed that I'd caught her looking at me, and she smiled quickly and turned back to Stevens. My heart skipped a beat. I was in love. Again.

Mr. Stevens was going on, "I should point out that there are over three hundred years of historical artifacts here on the island, and that if it weren't for the restricted access to this island, there would be a good number of archaeologists digging in what are mostly untouched sites. We're currently negotiating with the Peconic Historical Society to see if we can come to some arrangement about an experimental dig. In fact," he added, "the Gordons were members of the Peconic Historical Society, and they were the liaisons between the Department of Agriculture, the historical society, and some archaeologists at Stony Brook State University. The Gordons and I had identified some good sites that we felt wouldn't compromise or interfere with safety and security."

All of a sudden, I was interested. Sometimes a word or phrase or name comes up in an investigation, and then it comes up again, and it becomes something to think about. Such was the Peconic Historical Society. I mean, my aunt belonged to it, and you see flyers and bulletins around from this bunch, and they do cocktail parties, fund-raisers, lectures, and all that stuff, and that's pretty normal. Then the Gordons, who don't know Plymouth Rock from a scotch on the rocks, join up, and now Oberführer Stevens drops it into his spiel. Interesting.

Mr. Stevens prattled on, "In 1929, there was a devastating outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in the United States, and the Department of Agriculture opened its first station on the island. This begins the modern history of the island in respect to its present mission. Any questions?"

I had a few questions about the Gordons snooping around the island away from where they were supposed to be working in the laboratory. These were clever people, I concluded. The speedboat, then the Peconic Historical Society, then the cover of the archaeological digs so they could recon the island. It was possible that none of this was related, and it was all coincidence. But I don't believe in coincidence. I don't believe that underpaid scientists from the Midwest often get involved in an expensive power-boating hobby and archaeology and local historical societies. These things are not consistent with the resources, the personalities, the temperaments, or the past interests of Tom and Judy Gordon. Unfortunately, the questions I had for Mr. Stevens couldn't be asked without giving away more than I was likely to get.

Mr. Stevens was going on about the Department of Agriculture, and I was able to safely tune out and do some noodling. I realized that before Stevens had mentioned the archaeological interest of the Gordons, he'd said something else that had pinged in my brain. I mean, think of a sonar wave moving through the water-the wave hits something and sends a ping back to the earphones. Ping. Something that Stevens said had pinged, but I was so bored senseless when he'd said it, I missed it and now I wanted to go back, but I couldn't remember what it was that caused the ping.

Stevens announced, "All right, we'll drive around the island a bit."

The driver woke up and threw the mini-bus into gear. The road, I noticed, was well paved, but there were no other vehicles to be seen, and no other people.

We drove around the area of the huge main building, and Mr. Stevens pointed out the water tower, the sewage decontamination plant, the power station, machine shops, and steam plants. The place seemed to be self-contained and self-sufficient, making me think again of a Bondian villain's lair where a madman plotted the destruction of the planet. All in all, this was some operation, and we hadn't even seen the inside of the main research building yet.

Now and then we passed a building that Mr. Stevens failed to identify, and if any of us asked him about the building, he'd say, "Paint Storage," or "Feed Storage," or something. And well they may have been, but the man didn't inspire credibility. In fact, I had the distinct feeling he enjoyed the secrecy crap and got his jollies by pulling our chains a little.

Nearly all the buildings, except for the new main research building, were former military structures, most made of red brick or reinforced concrete, and the vast majority of the buildings were deserted. All in all, this had once been a substantial military installation, one in a string of fortresses that guarded New York City against a hostile navy that never showed up.

We came to a grouping of concrete buildings with grass growing through the cement pavement. Stevens said, "The big building is called 257, after the old Army designation. It was the main laboratory some years ago. After we moved out, we decontaminated it with poison gas, then sealed it forever, just in case anything in there is still alive."

No one spoke for a few seconds, then Max asked, "Isn't this where there was a biocontainment leak once?"

"That was before my time," Stevens said. He looked at me and smiled his waxy smile, "If you'd like to take a look inside, Detective, I can get you the key."

I smiled back and asked, "Can I go alone?"

"That's the only way you can go into 257. No one will go in there with you."

Nash and Foster chuckled. Boy, I haven't had so much fun since I tripped on some slime and landed on a ten-day-old corpse. I said, "Hey, Paul, I'll go if you go."