I pulled into the driveway of Uncle Harry's house. My tires crunched over the seashells. The house was dark, and when I shut off my headlights, the entire world fell into darkness. How do rural people live in the dark?

I tucked my T-shirt in so as to free the butt of my.38. I didn't even know if my piece had been tampered with-anyone who would tamper with a guy's shorts would certainly tamper with his revolver. I should have checked before.

Anyway, keys in my left hand, I opened the front door, my right hand ready to go for the gun. The gun should have been in my right hand, but men, even when completely alone, have to show balls. I mean, who's looking? I guess I'm looking. You have balls, Corey. You're a real man. The real man had a sudden urge to go tinkle, which I did in the bathroom off the kitchen.

Without turning on any lights, I checked the answering machine in the den and saw I had ten messages; quite a lot for a fellow who had none the whole preceding week.

Assuming that none of these messages would be particularly pleasant or rewarding, I poured a big, fat brandy from Uncle's crystal decanter into Uncle's crystal glass.

I sat in Uncle's recliner and sipped, vacillating between the message button, my bed, or another brandy. Another brandy won a few more times, and I postponed coming to grips with the electronic horror of the telephone answering machine until I had a little buzz on.

Finally, I hit the message button.

"You have ten messages," said the voice, agreeing with the message counter.

The first message came at seven a.m. and was from Uncle Harry, who'd seen me on TV the night before but didn't want to call so late, though he had no problem calling so early. Thankfully, I was already on my way to Plum Island at seven a.m.

There were four similar messages: one from my parents in Florida, who hadn't seen me on TV but had heard I was on TV; one from a lady named Cobi who I see now and then, and who may have wanted to be Cobi Corey for some reason; and then a call each from my siblings, Jim and Lynne, who are good about staying in touch. There would probably have been more calls about my brief TV appearance, but very few people had my number, and not everyone would recognize me since I had lost so much weight and looked terrible.

There was no call from my ex-wife, who despite no longer loving me, wants me to know that she likes me as a person, which is odd because I'm not that likable. Lovable, yes; likable, no.

Then there was my partner, Dom Fanelli, who called at nine a.m. and said, "Hey, you hump, I saw your mug on the morning news. What the hell are you doing out there? You got two Pedros looking for your ass, and you show up on TV, and now everyone knows you're out east. Why don't you put your poster in the Colombian post office? Jesus, John, I'm trying to find these guys before they find you again. Anyway, more good news-the boss is wondering what the hell you're doing at a crime scene. What's going on out there? Who iced those two? Hey, she was a looker. You need help? Give a call. Keep your pee-pee in the teepee. Ciao."

I smiled. Good old Dom. A guy I could count on. I still remember him standing over me as I lay bleeding in the street. He had a half-eaten donut in one hand and his piece in the other. He took another bite of the donut and said to me, "I'll get them, John. I swear to God, I'll get the bastards who killed you."

I remember informing him I wasn't dead, and he said he knew that, but I probably would be. He had tears in his eyes, which made me feel terrible, and he was trying to talk to me while chewing the donut, and I couldn't understand him, then the pounding started in my ears and I blacked out.

Anyway, the next call came at nine-thirty a.m. and was from the New York Times, and I wondered how they knew who I was and where I was staying. Then the voice said, "You can have the paper delivered to your door daily and Sunday as a new subscriber for only $3.60 weekly for thirteen weeks. Please call us at 1-800-631-2500, and we'll begin service immediately."

"I get it at the office. Next."

Max's voice came over the speaker and said, "John, for the record, you're no longer employed by the Southold Township PD. Thanks for your help. I owe you a buck, but I'd like to buy you a drink instead. Call me."

"Screw you, Max."

The next call was from Mr. Ted Nash, CIA super-spook. He said, "I just want to remind you that a murderer or murderers are on the loose, and you may be a target. I thoroughly enjoyed working with you, and I know we'll meet again. Take care of yourself."

"Fuck you, Ted." I mean, if you're going to threaten me, at least have the balls to come out and say it, even if it is being recorded.

There was one more message on the machine, but I hit the stop button before it played, then I dialed the Soundview and asked for Ted Nash. The clerk, a young man, said there was no one there registered by that name. I asked, "How about George Foster?"

"No, sir."

"Beth Penrose?"

"She just checked out."

I described Nash and Foster to the clerk, and he said, "Yes, there are two gentlemen here that fit that description."

"They still there?"

"Yes."

"Tell the bigger guy, the one with the curly black hair, that Mr. Corey got his message and that he should heed his own warning. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Also, tell him I said he should go fuck himself."

"Yes, sir."

I hung up and yawned. I felt like crap. I probably had gotten three hours sleep in the last forty-eight. I yawned again.

I hit the play button, and the final message came on. Beth's voice said, "Hi, I'm calling from the car… I just wanted to say thanks for your help today. I don't know if I said that… Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you, and if somehow we don't get together tomorrow-I may not get out that way-lots of office stuff and reports-well, I'll call either way. Thanks again."

The machine said, "End of messages."

I played the last one again. The call had come not ten minutes after I'd left her, and her voice sounded distinctly formal and distant. In fact, it was a brush-off. I had this totally paranoid thought that Beth and Nash had become lovers and were at that moment in his room having wild, passionate sex. Get a grip, Corey. Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make horny.

I mean, what else could go wrong? I spend the day in biocontainment, and I'm probably infected with bubonic plague, I'm probably in trouble back on the job, Pedro and Juan know where I am, Max, my bud, fires me, then a CIA guy threatens my life for no reason… well, he may have had an imagined reason-and then my true love takes a powder, and I'm picturing her with her legs wrapped around bozo boy. Plus, Tom and Judy, who liked me, are dead. And it was only nine p.m.

The idea of a monastery suddenly popped into my head. Or better yet, a month in the Caribbean, following my big friend Peter Johnson from island to island.

Or, I could stay here and tough it. Revenge, vindication, victory, and glory. That's what John Corey was about. Furthermore, I had something no one else had-I had a half-assed idea of what this was about.

I sat in the dark, quiet den and for the first time all day, I was able to think without interruption. My mind had a whole bunch of things on hold, and now I started to put them together.

As I stared out the dark window, those little pings in my head were making white dots on the black screen, and the image was starting to take shape. I was far from seeing the complete picture let alone any of the details, but I could make a good guess about this thing's size, shape, and direction. I needed a few more points of light, a half dozen little pings, and then I would have the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon were murdered.