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Plum Island

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Overview

Wounded in the line of duty, NYPD's John Corey convalesces in the Long Island township of Southold, home to farmers, fisherman, and at least one murderer. Tom and Judy Gordon, a young couple Corey knows, have been found on their patio, each with a bullet in the head. At first it looks like a burglary gone wrong, but the Gordons were biologists at Plum Island, the offshore animal disease research site rumored to be involved with germ warfare ...

Editorial Reviews

Tom and Judy Gordon were bright, young, attractive scientists whom everyone seemed to like. So who would murder them and why? Could their deaths have something to do with Plum Island, supposedly an animal research facility but possibly a top-secret site for biological warfare experiments? Could it involve a pirate's treasure buried in the vicinity more than 300 years ago? Returning to the Long Island, N.Y., setting of The Gold Coast (1990), DeMille makes his finest showing since that enormously popular book. Important to his success here is the catchy, ironic voice of narrator John Corey, a freewheeling Manhattan detective who's at his uncle's house on the Island to recover from bullet wounds and who gets tapped by the locals to act as "consultant" on the case. Key to the novel's sway is its boisterous plot, as DeMille expertly melds medical mystery, police procedural and nautical adventure, adding assorted love interests and capping matters with a ferocious storm at sea. Atmospherics are strong and the novel acquires its own storm force as it moves toward a cataclysmic denoument. DeMille's research seems sound as well, rendering the inner workings of a science lab as believable and fascinating as the discovery of treasure maps. It's a smooth job from an old pro who knows what readers are looking for. $500,000 ad/promo; BOMC main selection; Doubleday Audio Book Club main selection; foreign rights sold in 10 countries; author tour; rights: Nicholas Ellison. (May) -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.

Author Information

Bio of Nelson DeMille

Nelson Richard DeMille was born in New York City on August 23, 1943 to Huron and Antonia (Panzera) DeMille. He moved as a child with his family to Long Island. In high school, he played football and ran track. DeMille spent three years at Hofstra University, then joined the Army and attended Officer Candidate School. He was a First Lieutenant in the United States Army (1966-69) and saw action as an infantry platoon leader with the First Cavalry Division in Vietnam. He was decorated with the Air Medal, Bronze Star, and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. DeMille returned to the States and went back to Hofstra University where he received his degree in Political Science and History. He has three children, Lauren, Alexander, and James, and still lives on Long Island. DeMille's earlier books were NYPD detective novels. His first major novel was By the Rivers of Babylon, published in 1978 and still in print, as are all his succeeding novels. He is a member of The Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, and American Mensa. He holds three honorary doctorates: Doctor of Humane Letters from Hofstra University, Doctor of Literature from Long Island University, and Doctor of Humane Letters from Dowling College. Nelson DeMille is the author of By the Rivers of Babylon, Cathedral, The Talbot Odyssey, Word of Honor, The Charm School, The Gold Coast, The General's Daughter, Spencerville, Plum Island, The Lion's Game, Up Country, Night Fall, and Wild Fire. He also co-authored Mayday with Thomas Block and has contributed short stories, book reviews, and articles to magazines and newspapers. His newest book, THE GATE HOUSE, is the much-awaited follow-up to his beloved novel The Gold Coast and will be released in October 2008.

Customer Reviews

  • 1 star out of 5ANOTHER HORRIBLE BOOK

    Posted January 01, 2009 by naseller, san diego

    Years ago I read the General's Daughter. I greatly enjoyed it even so far as to excuse Mr. Demille from his many instances of confusing the words 'infer' and 'imply'. I thought I would give him another try. Well, this book could have been written by a school kid. Another book of pages and pages of googled facts, copied and pasted, to fill space. I am 2/3 through and there still is no plot, or a hint to unraveling whatever the heck this book is about.

  • 5 stars out of 5Enjoyable romp

    Posted January 13, 2009 by Rebel66, Alberta, Canada

    Contrary to the other review I enjoyed this book tremendously. John Corey is a likable, and extremely funny hero, who thankfully reappears in future DeMille novels. The book is laugh out loud funny in spots and there actually is a plot, such as it is. Just enjoy the ride and don't expect more from the story than is warranted. This isn't Shakespeare but it's a fun little romp nevertheless.

Additional Info

Imprint

Hachette Book Group USA

Filesize

2.83 MB

Number of Pages

464

eBook ISBN

9780446402194

Excerpt from: Plum Island by Nelson DeMille

Chapter One
Through my binoculars, I could see this nice forty-something-foot cabin cruiser anchored a few hundred yards offshore. There were two thirtyish couples aboard, having a merry old time, sunbathing, banging down brews and whatever. The women had on teensey-weensey little bottoms and no tops, and one of the guys was standing on the bow, and he slipped off his trunks and stood there a minute hanging hog, then jumped in the bay and swam around the boat. What a great country. I put down my binoculars and popped a Budweiser.
It was late summer, not meaning late August, but meaning September, before the autumnal equinox. Labor Day weekend had gone, and Indian summer was coming, whatever that is.
I, John Corey by name, convalescing cop by profession, was sitting on my uncle's back porch, deep in a wicker chair with shallow thoughts running through my mind. It occurred to me that the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you're finished.
The porch is an old-fashioned wraparound, circling three sides of an 1890s Victorian farmhouse, all shingle and gingerbread, turrets, gables, the whole nine yards. From where I sat, I could see south across a sloping green lawn to the Great Peconic Bay. The sun was low on the western horizon, which was where it belonged at 6:45 p.m. I'm a city boy, but I was really getting into the country stuff, the sky and all that, and I finally found the Big Dipper a few weeks ago.
I was wearing a plain white T-shirt and cutoff jeans that used to fit before I lost too much weight. My bare feet were propped on the rail, and between my left and right big toes was framed the aforementioned cabin cruiser.
About this time of day you can start to hear crickets, locusts, and who knows what, but I'm not a big fan of nature noises so I had a portable tape player beside me on the end table with The Big Chill cranking, and the Bud in my left hand, the binocs in my lap, and lying on the floor near my right hand was my off-duty piece, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver with a two-inch barrel which fit nicely in my purse. Just kidding.
Somewhere in the two seconds of silence between "When a Man Loves a Woman" and "Dancing in the Street," I could hear or feel on the creaky old floorboards that someone was walking around the porch. Since I live alone and was expecting no one, I took the .38 in my right hand and rested it on my lap. So you don't think I'm a paranoid citizen, I should mention that I was convalescing, not from the mumps, but from three bullet wounds, two 9mm and one .44 caliber Magnum, not that the size of the holes matters. As with real estate, what matters with bullet holes is location, location, location. Obviously these holes were in the right locations because I was convalescing, not decomposing. I looked to my right where the porch turned around the west side of the house. A man appeared around the corner, then stopped about fifteen feet from me, searching the long shadows cast by the setting sun. In fact, the man cast a long shadow himself which passed over me, so he didn't seem to see me. But with the sun at his back, it was also difficult for me to see his face or to guess his intentions. I said, "Help you?"
He turned his head toward me. "Oh . . . hey, John. Didn't see you there."
"Have a seat, Chief." I slipped my revolver into my waistband under my T-shirt, then lowered the volume on "Dancing in the Street."
Sylvester Maxwell, aka Max, who is the law in these here parts, sauntered toward me and plopped his butt on the rail, facing me. He was wearing a blue blazer, white button-down shirt, tan cotton slacks, boating shoes, and no socks. I couldn't tell if he was on or off duty. I said, "There're some soft drinks in that cooler."
"Thanks." He reached down and rescued a Budweiser from the ice. Max likes to call beer a soft drink.