Free Plum Island by Nelson DeMille Page B

superman I used
     to be before the shooting.
    I leaned back and regarded the night awhile. On a small patch of lawn to the left of the Gordons’ dock was a tall, white flagpole
     with a crossbar, called a yardarm, from which ran two ropes or lines called halyards. Note how I have picked up some of the
     nautical lingo. Anyway, the Gordons had found a whole collection of flags and pennants in a locker in the garage, and they’d
     sometimes hang signal pennants from the halyards for fun—such as the pennant for “Prepare to be boarded” or “The captain is
     ashore.”
    I had noticed earlier that at the top of the mast, the Gordons had run up the Jolly Roger, and I thought it ironic that the
     last flag they had flown was the skull and crossbones.
    I noticed, too, that on each halyard was a signal pennant. I could barely make them out in the dark, but it didn’t matter
     because I was clueless about nautical signals.
    Beth Penrose sat down on the left end of the bench. She was wearing her jacket again, which was a disappointment, and her
     arms were crossed around her as if she were cold. Women are always cold. She didn’t say anything, but kicked off her shoes,
     rubbed her feet in the grass, and wiggled her toes. They also wear uncomfortable shoes.
    After a few minutes of companionable silence—or maybe frosty stillness—I chipped at the ice and said, “Maybe you’re right.
     It could have been a boat.”
    “Are you armed?”
    “No.”
    “Good. I’m going to blow your f-ing brains out.”
    “Now, Beth—”
    “Detective Penrose to you, buster.”
    “Lighten up.”
    “Why were you so nasty to Ted Nash?”
    “Which one is that?”
    “You know f-ing well which one is that. What is your problem?”
    “It’s a guy thing.”
    “You made a fool out of yourself, everyone thinks you’re an arrogant idiot, and a totally useless incompetent.
And
you’ve lost my respect.”
    “Then I suppose sex is out of the question.”
    “
Sex?
I don’t even want to breathe the same air you do.”
    “That hurts, Beth.”
    “Do
not
call me Beth.”
    “Ted Nash called you—”
    “You know, Corey, I got this case because I slapped on the knee pads and begged the chief of homicide for it. This is my first
     real murder case. Before this, all I got was crap— hopheads blasting away at each other, mommas and poppas settling domestic
     disputes with cutlery, crap like that. And not much of it. There’s a low homicide rate in this county.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “Yeah. You do this all the time, so you’re jaded, cynical, and smart-assed about it.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t—”
    “If you’re here to make me look bad, fuck off.” She stood.
    I stood, too. “Hold on. I’m here to help.”
    “Then help.”
    “Okay. Listen up. First, some advice. Don’t talk too much to Foster or your buddy Ted.”
    “I know that, and cut the ‘buddy Ted’ crap.”
    “Look … can I call you Beth?”
    “No.”
    “Look, Detective Penrose, I know you think I’m attracted to you and you probably think I’m coming on to you … and you think
     this could be awkward….”
    She turned her face away and looked out at the bay.
    I continued, “… this is really hard to say, but … well … you don’t have to worry about that … about me….” She turned back
     and looked at me.
    I sort of covered my face with my right hand and rubbed my forehead. I continued as best I could. “You see … one of those
     bullets that hit me…. God, how do I say this … ? Well, it hit me in a funny place, okay? Now you know. So we can be sort of
     like … friends, partners … brother and sister … I guess I mean sister and sister….” I glanced at her and saw she was staring
     out to sea again.
    Finally, she spoke. “I thought you said you were hit in the stomach.”
    “There, too.”
    “Max said you had a serious lung wound.”
    “That, too.”
    “Any brain damage?”
    “Maybe.”
    “And now you want me to believe