"Right. You can be Max's date." I smiled. "Thanks for stopping by."

She drove around the circle, but instead of heading down the driveway, she came tearing around again to the front door, jammed on her brakes, and said, almost breathlessly, "John! You said the Gordons were digging for buried treasure. Like an important archaeological find-on Plum Island-government land-they had to steal it from Plum Island and bury it on their own land-the Wiley property. Right?"

I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, then turned and went inside.

The phone was ringing, and I answered it. It was Beth. She asked, "What did they dig up?"

"The phone is not secure."

"John, when can I meet you? Where?"

She sounded excited, as well she should.

I said, "I'll get in touch with you."

"Promise."

"Sure. Meanwhile, you'd be well advised to keep that to yourself."

"I understand."

"Bye-"

"John."

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

I hung up. "You're welcome."

I went out the back kitchen door and walked out to the end of the dock. I've found that this is a good place to think.

A morning mist hung over the water, and I saw a small skiff making its way through the gray vapor. A cabin cruiser was going to cross its path, and the man in the skiff picked something up, then I heard a loud horn, a foghorn, and I recalled seeing these aerosol cans that emitted a foghorn sound, a sort of poor man's version of an electric foghorn or a brass bell. It was a common enough sound on the water, so much so that you'd never notice it, probably not even if you heard it on a clear sunny day because I recalled the big boats also used it to signal for a tender to pick up the crew after they moored in the deep water. And if you heard it close by, you might not hear the sound of two gunshots in quick succession. A poor man's silencer. Very clever, actually.

It was, indeed, all coming together now, even the tiny details. I was satisfied that I had the motive for murder-Captain Kidd's treasure. But I couldn't quite connect Tobin, Stevens, or anybody else to the murders. In fact, in my more paranoid moments, I thought that Max and Emma could also be in on it.

Given the milieu out here, it really could be a wide-ranging conspiracy. But who actually pulled the trigger? I tried to picture Max, Emma, Tobin, and Stevens, and maybe even Zollner, all on the back deck of the Gordons' house… Or maybe someone else, someone I hadn't even met or thought about. You have to be very careful and damned sure before you start calling someone a murderer.

What I also needed to do-not because I gave a damn about it, but everyone else would-was to find the treasure. Little Johnny goes treasure hunting. But he must outwit some evil pirates and get the treasure and turn it over to the government. Now there's a depressing thought.

I wondered if a few million in gold and jewels would make me happy. Saint-seducing gold. Before I got too deep into that one, I thought about all the people who'd died because of that gold-presumably the men whose ship it was on when Kidd attacked them then some of Kidd's own men, then Kidd himself when they hanged him at the execution dock, then who knew how many men and women died or were ruined over the last three centuries looking for Captain Kidd's fabled treasure. Then, finally, Tom and Judy Gordon. I had an uneasy premonition that the chain of death wasn't going to stop there.

CHAPTER 27

At about noon, I stopped by Whitestone Florist and delivered the chamber pot. I hadn't had breakfast so I asked Emma to lunch, but she said she was busy. Fridays in flowerland were busy days-parties, dinners, and so forth. Plus, there were three funerals, which by their nature are unscheduled events. And, she had a standing order from Tobin Vineyards for flowers every weekend for their restaurant and lobby. And, of course, there was Fredric's big soiree the next evening. I said, "Does he pay his bills?"

"No. That's why I get it up front with him. Cash or credit card. No checks. And I cut off his house charge."

She said it in a way that suggested she'd like to cut off more than that. I asked, "Can I bring you a sandwich?"

"No, thanks. I really have to get back to work."

"See you tomorrow."

I left and took a walk on Main Street. Somehow the nature of our short relationship had changed. She was definitely a little cool. Women have a way of frosting you, and if you try to thaw them, they just turn the temperature lower. It's a game that takes two to play, and the deck is already stacked, so I always choose not to play.

I bought a sandwich and a beer in a deli, got in my Jeep, and drove to Tom and Judy's acre on the bluff. I sat on the rock and had my lunch. Captain Kidd's Ledge. Incredible. And I had no doubt that the numbers 44106818, which were known history, would be made to fit the eroded spot on the face of this bluff where the treasure was going to be found-forty-four paces or forty-four degrees, ten paces or ten degrees, or whatever. You could play with numbers and their meaning and work backwards toward a spot of your own choosing. "Nice going, you two. I wish the hell you'd confided in me. You wouldn't be dead."

A bird chirped somewhere, as if in reply.

I stood on the rock and with my binocs, I looked south, scanning the farms and vineyards until I spotted the Tower of Tobin the Terrible, rising above the flat glacial plain, the tallest thing out there: Lord Freddie's penis substitute. I said aloud, "You little shit."

I decided I wanted to get away-away from my telephone, my house, Beth, Max, Emma, the FBI, the CIA, my bosses, and even my buds in the city. As I looked across the Sound at Connecticut, I had the idea to go to Foxwoods Resort Casino.

I went down the bluff, got into my Jeep, and drove to the Orient ferry. It was a calm crossing, a nice day on the Sound, and in one hour and twenty minutes, my Jeep and I were in New London, Connecticut.

I drove to Foxwoods, this sprawling gambling casino and hotel in the middle of nowhere-actually on the land of the Mashantucket Pequot tribe-a sort of Fuck-You-White-Man-We're-Getting-Even kind of place. I checked in, bought some toiletries, went to my room, unpacked my toothbrush, then went down to the cavernous casino to meet my fate.

I was very lucky with blackjack, broke even on the slots, lost a little at craps, and got taken a wee bit at the roulette wheel. By eight p.m., I was down only about two thousand dollars. What fun I was having.

I tried to put myself in Freddie Tobin's light shoes-babe on my arm, down about ten Gs a weekend, winery pumping out the juice, but not quick enough. Everything that is my world is about to come crashing down. Still, I'm holding on and even becoming more reckless with my gambling and spending because I'm about to hit the jackpot. Not this jackpot at Foxwoods; the jackpot that has been buried for three hundred years, and I know where it is, and it's tantalizingly close-I can probably see where it's buried as I go past Plum Island on my boat. But I can't grasp this treasure without the help of Tom and Judy Gordon, whom I've taken into my confidence and recruited to be my partners. And I, Fredric Tobin, have picked well. Of all the Plum Island scientists, staff, and workers I've ever met, Tom and Judy are the ones I want to recruit-they're young, they're bright, they're stable, they have a little flair, and most of all, they've shown a taste for the good life.

I assumed that Tobin recruited the Gordons not long after they'd come here, as evidenced by the fact that within four months the Gordons had moved from their inland house near the ferry to their present house on the water. That had been Tobin's suggestion, and so had the boat.

Obviously, Fredric Tobin had been actively on the prowl for his Plum Island connection and had probably rejected a number of candidates. For all I knew, he'd once had another Plum Island partner, and something had gone wrong, and that person or persons were now dead. I'd have to check and see if any Plum Island employees had met an untimely death two or three years ago.