Wild Fire (26 page)

“Do you get a lot of electronic interference around there?”

“Nope. Not a squawk. I think the electronics are dead or never used, or on a frequency that we can’t pick up.”

I wondered if the National Security Agency ever did an electronic scan on the Custer Hill Club. They should have if the Justice Department was suspicious of something.

Kate was sitting in the lobby, talking on her cell phone, and before we got to her, Schaeffer said, “I’m remembering now that there was a Navy veteran who lived around here, and he was telling everyone that he knew what was going on at the Custer Hill Club, but he wasn’t allowed to say.”

This sounded like baloney, but I inquired, “Do you remember this guy’s name?”

“No . . . but I’ll try to find out. Someone will remember.”

“Let me know.”

“Yeah . . . I think his name was Fred. Yeah, Fred. And he was saying that what was going on there had to do with submarines.”

“Submarines? Exactly how deep are these lakes around here?”

“I’m just telling you what I remember. Sounds like some old sea dog pumping himself up.”

Kate got off the phone and stood. “Sorry. I was waiting for that call.”

There were people in the lobby, including the desk sergeant, so Schaeffer said for public consumption, “Sorry again about Detective Muller. Please be assured we’re doing everything possible to get to the bottom of this tragedy.”

“We appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You need directions to The Point?”

“That would be good.”

He gave us directions and asked, “How long will you be there?”

“Until we’re fired.”

“That won’t be long at a thousand bucks a night.” He offered, “If there’s any local stuff I can help you with, let me know.”

“As a matter of fact . . . do you have any problems with bears around here?”

Kate rolled her eyes.

Major Schaeffer informed me, “The Adirondack region is home to the largest black bear population in the East. You are very likely to encounter a bear in the woods.”

“Yeah? Then what?”

“Black bears aren’t overly aggressive. They’re curious, though, and intelligent, and they may approach.” He added, “The problem is that the bears equate people with food.”

“I’m sure they do, when they’re eating you.”

“I mean that people—campers and hikers—carry food with them, and the bears know that. But they’d rather eat your lunch than eat you. And don’t go near their cubs. The females are very protective of their cubs.”

“How do I know if I’m near their cubs?”

“You’ll know. Also, bears become very active after five P.M.”

“How do they know what time it is?”

“I don’t know. Just take extra precautions after five P.M. That’s when they’re foraging.”

“Right. The question is, Will my 9mm Glock stop a bear?”

“Don’t shoot the bears, Detective.” Major Schaeffer noted, “You have intruded into
their
territory. Be nice to the bears. Enjoy the bears.”

Kate said, “Excellent advice.”

I didn’t think so.

Schaeffer concluded his bear talk with, “I haven’t had to deal with a fatal bear attack in years—just a few maulings.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Schaeffer told us, “There is a pamphlet about bears on that table over there. You should read it.”

If the fucking bears were so intelligent and curious, they should read it, too.

Kate found the pamphlet, then handed Major Schaeffer her card. “That’s my cell number.”

We all shook hands, and Kate and I left the building and walked through the lit parking lot.

Kate said to me, “I don’t want to hear anything more about bears. Ever.”

“Just read me the pamphlet.”

“
You
read the pamphlet.” She shoved it in my coat pocket. “Did Schaeffer say anything interesting?”

“Yeah . . . the Custer Hill Club is a secret naval submarine facility.”

“
Submarine?
Is that what Schaeffer said?”

“No. That’s what Fred said.”

“Who’s Fred?”

“I don’t know. But Fred knows more than we do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

W
e got to the car, and I slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out to the road.

As I drove through Ray Brook, Kate asked, “Tell me what Major Schaeffer said.”

“I will. But now I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“About something that Schaeffer said.”

“What?”

“That’s what I’m trying to remember . . . it was something that made me think of something else—”

“What?”

“I can’t remember. Here’s an intersection.”

“Bear—turn left. Do you want me to drive while you think?”

“No, stop bugging me. I shouldn’t have said anything. You always do this.”

“No, I don’t. If you tell me everything that you and Schaeffer discussed, it will come to you.”

“All right.” I turned onto Route 86, which was dark and empty, and as I drove, I related my conversation with Schaeffer. Kate is a good listener, and I’m a good reporter of the facts when I want to be. But facts and logic are not the same thing, and I couldn’t recall the word associations that had illuminated something in my brain.

When I finished, Kate asked me, “Did it come to you?”

“No. Change the subject.”

“Okay. Maybe that will help. Do you think the Custer Hill Club is or ever was a government facility?”

“No. This is Bain Madox’s show from beginning to end. Think Dr. No.”

“Okay, Mr. Bond, so you think this is more than a hunting lodge, and even more than a place where possible conspirators meet?”

“Yeah . . . there seems to be a whole . . . like, technological level there that is not consistent with the stated purpose of the place. Unless maybe, as Madox said to us, his wife meant it to be a refuge in case of an atomic war.”

“I think that was just part of his smoke screen—a logical explanation for what he knew we would eventually hear about the construction of that place twenty years ago.” She added, “He’s very sharp.”

“And you seem especially sharp and bright this evening.”

“Thank you, John. And you seem unusually dull and dim.”

“This mountain air is clouding my brain.”

“Apparently. You should have pressed Major Schaeffer more on some of these points.”

I responded with a little edge in my voice, “I was doing the best I could to get his voluntary cooperation. But it’s not easy questioning another cop.”

“Well, when you sent me out of the room, I just assumed you guys would bond and spill your guts to each other.”

The words “fuck you” popped into my mind, but that’s how fights start. I said, “You and I will press him a little more tomorrow, darling.”

“Maybe you should have told him what we found written in Harry’s pocket.”

“Why?”

“Well, first, it’s the right thing to do, and second, he may know what elf means.”

“I doubt it.”

“When are we going to share this information?”

“We don’t need to. Your FBI colleagues are so fucking brilliant, they’ll find it themselves. If they don’t, the state police will. If they don’t, well then, we’ll just ask Bain Madox what mad, nuk, and elf mean.”

“Maybe we should. He knows.”

“Indeed, he does . . . Wait! I got it!”

She turned in her seat. “What? You know what it means?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. The other words—mad and nuk—were obviously abbreviations for Madox and nuclear. But elf is an acronym.”

“For what?”

“For what Harry thought about Bain Madox—Evil Little Fuck.”

She settled back in her seat and said, “Asshole.”

We drove on in silence, each of us deep in our own thoughts.

Finally, Kate said, “There
is
that group called Earth Liberation Front. ELF.”

“Yeah?”

“Our domestic section deals with them.”

“Yeah?”

“ELF has been responsible for what we call eco-terrorism. They’ve burned construction projects to save the land, they’ve put steel spikes in trees to destroy chain saws, and they’ve even planted bombs on the hulls of oil tankers.”

“Right. So, you think Madox is going to plant a nuclear device at the next ELF meeting?”

“I don’t know . . . but there may be some connection there . . . ELF . . . oil . . . Madox . . .”

“You forgot nuke.”

“I know . . . I’m just trying to make a connection, John. Help me with this.”

“I don’t think Mr. Bain Madox, who claims he helped defeat the Soviet Empire, is now reduced to battling a handful of tree huggers and women with hairy legs.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Well, that’s better than Evil Little Fuck.”

“Not much.”

Scattered clouds scudded past a bright orange half-moon, and leaves swirled in the headlight beams.

We were still within the boundaries of the state park preserve, but this area seemed to be a mixture of public and private land, and there were houses scattered along the highway. I noticed a lot of seasonal displays on the front lawns—cornstalks, pumpkins, and so forth. There were also some Halloween displays—witches, skeletons, vampires, and other assorted creepy stuff. Autumn was starkly beautiful and deliciously grim.

I asked Kate, “Do you like autumn?”

“No. Autumn is darkness and death. I like spring.”

“I like autumn. Do I need help?”

“Yes, but you know that.”

“Right. Hey, I learned a poem in high school. Want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

“Okay . . .” I cleared my throat and recited from memory, “‘Now it is autumn and the falling fruit/and the long journey towards oblivion . . . Have you built your ship of death, O have you?’”

She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “That’s morbid.”

“I like it.”

“See someone when we get back.”

We drove in silence, then Kate turned on the radio, which was set to a country-western station. Some cowgirl with a twang was singing, “How can I miss you if you don’t leave?”

I said, “Do you mind turning that off? I’m trying to think.”

She didn’t reply.

“Kate? Darling? Hello?”

“John . . . radio communication.”

“Say what?”

“There’s UHF—ultra high frequency, VLF—very low frequency . . . and so forth. Isn’t there an extremely low frequency? ELF?”

“Holy shit.” I glanced at her. “That’s it—that’s what I was trying to remember. Radio antennas at Custer Hill . . .”

“Do you think this means that Madox is communicating with someone on an ELF frequency?”

“Yeah . . . I think Harry was saying, Tune in to ELF.”

“But why ELF? Who uses the ELF band? Military? Aviation?”

“I really don’t know. But whoever uses it, it can be monitored.”

She pointed out, “I’m sure if Madox is receiving or transmitting, it’s not in the clear. It’s voice scrambled or encrypted.”

“Right. But the NSA should be able to crack any encryption.”

“Who would he be communicating with and why?”

“I don’t know. Meanwhile, we need to find out about ELF radio waves. Hey, maybe that’s why everyone around here seems so weird. ELF waves. There are voices in my head. Someone is telling me to kill Tom Walsh.”

“Not funny, John.”

We drove on through the dark night, then I said, “Bain Madox, nuclear, extremely low frequency. I think everything we need to know is contained in those words.”

“I hope so. We don’t have much else.”

I suggested, “Why don’t we go to the Custer Hill Club and torture the information out of Madox?”

“I’m not sure the FBI director would approve of that.”

“I’m serious. What if this asshole is planning a nuclear event? Wouldn’t that justify me beating the shit out of him until he talks?”

“It’s the ‘What if’ that bothers me. And even if we knew with ninety-nine-percent certainty . . . we just don’t do things like that. We don’t
do
that.”

“We will. The next time we’re attacked again—especially if it’s nuclear—we
will
start beating the shit out of suspects.”

“God, I hope not.” She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, “We need to report everything we’ve heard, learned, and guessed at. Let the Bureau take it from there.” She added, “We don’t need to carry this ourselves.”

“Okay . . . but we need some time to perfect this.”

“Well, all right . . . let’s say by this time tomorrow night, we go to Tom Walsh with whatever we have. Agreed?”

I didn’t trust Walsh any longer, so I thought I might have to bend the rules and go directly to my NYPD boss on the Task Force, Captain Paresi.

“John?”

“We have a week,” I reminded her.

“John, we don’t know if the
planet
has a week.”

Interesting point. I said, “Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I
t was less than twenty miles to The Point, but the place was so secluded that, despite Schaeffer’s directions and Max’s map, Kate had to call the resort to guide us to the unmarked road.

I put on my brights and proceeded slowly along a narrow, tree-covered lane that looked like a slightly improved Indian trail.

Kate said, “This is so pretty.”

All I could see was a tunnel of trees in my headlights, but to be upbeat—and because I’d booked the place—I said, “I feel close to nature.” About four feet on each side of the car to be precise.

We reached a rustic gate with an arch made of branches that had been twisted into letters that spelled THE POINT.

The gate was closed, but there was a speakerphone beside it. I lowered my window and pressed the button, and a distorted voice came out of the speaker like at Jack in the Box. “May I help you?”

“I’d like a double bacon cheeseburger, large fries, and a Diet Coke.”

“Sir?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Corey, registered guests.”

“Yes, sir. Welcome to The Point.”

The electric gates began to open, and the voice said, “Please proceed to the first building on your left.”

I drove through the gates, and Kate observed, “That was a little more friendly than the Custer Hill Club.”

“It better be, for twelve hundred bucks a night.”

“This was not my idea.”

“Right.”

Up ahead was a big wooden structure, and I pulled off the road. We got out, and as we walked up the path, the door opened and a young man waved to us and said, “Welcome. Did you have a good journey?”

Kate replied, “Yes, thank you.”

We climbed the steps to the rustic building, and the casually dressed young man said, “I’m Jim.” We all shook hands, setting the tone for our stay in this place, which I guessed was friendly, homey, and probably silly. Jim said, “Come on in.”

We entered the building, which was the resort office and also a gift shop selling Adirondack artwork and some pricey-looking apparel, which caught Kate’s attention.

Women, I’ve noticed, are easily distracted by clothing stores, and I was certain that the ladies on the
Titanic
stopped at the ship’s apparel shop for the Half-Price Sinking Sale on their way to the lifeboats.

Anyway, we got past the clothing, and we all sat in comfortable chairs around a table. Jim opened our file and said, “Here’s a message for both of you.” He handed me a card on which was written in pen, “Call.” From, “Mr. Walsh.” Time: 7:17 P.M.

Since I didn’t recall either Kate or I telling Tom Walsh where we were staying, I reasoned that Walsh must have recently learned this from Major Schaeffer. No big deal, but I needed to remind myself that Walsh and Schaeffer were in touch.

I gave the card to Kate, then glanced at my cell phone and saw there was no service. I asked Jim, “Are you totally out of the cell service area?”

“It comes and goes. The best service is when you stand in the middle of the croquet field.” He thought that was funny and chuckled, informing me, “Sometimes you get service if you stand at the point.”

I couldn’t resist and inquired, “What’s the point, Jim?”

He cleared things up by answering, “Whitney Point on Upper Saranac Lake. It’s here on the property.” Jim cautioned us, “Actually, we discourage the use of cell phones on the property.”

“Why is that, Jim?”

“It detracts from the ambience.”

“Figures. Are there phones in the room?”

“There are, but you can’t get an outside line.”

“Why are they there, Jim?”

“To communicate within the property.”

“Am I cut off from the world?”

“No, sir. There is an outside phone in this office, and one in the kitchen of the Main Lodge, which you may use. If anyone calls here—as Mr. Walsh did—we’ll get a message to you.”

“How? Smoke signals?”

“By note, or on your room phone.”

“Okay.” This had an unexpected upside, as well as a downside considering all the calls we needed to make in the next day or two.

Jim continued with the check-in and said, “Two nights. Correct?”

“Correct. Where’s the bar?”

“I’ll get to all that in a moment.” He went through his rap, pushing printed information toward us, along with a souvenir picture book of The Point, a map of the property, and so forth.

Jim asked me, “How will you be settling your account?”

“How about a duel?”

“Sir?”

Kate said to Jim, “Credit card.” She said to me, “John, why don’t you use your personal card, rather than the corporate card?”

“My credit card was stolen.”

“When?”

“About four years ago.”

“Why didn’t you replace it?”

“Because the thief was spending less than my ex-wife.”

No one else seemed to think this was funny. I gave Jim my government R and I Associates corporate card, and he took an imprint.

He marked our map with a highlighter, saying, “If you follow this road, past the warming hut and the croquet field, you’ll come to the Main Lodge. Charles will be waiting for you there.”

“Where’s the bar?”

“Right across from the Main Lodge, in the Eagle’s Nest. Right
here
—” He put a big X on the spot. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

“You, too.”

We left the office and Kate inquired, “Why do you have to be such a boor?”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Are we going to call Walsh?”

“Sure. Where’s the croquet field?”

We got in the car and proceeded down the road, passing the warming hut, whatever the hell that is, then drawing abreast of the croquet field, at which point I asked, “Do you want me to run out there and call Walsh?”

“No. Charles is waiting.”

At the end of the road was a big log structure with a front porch—the Main Lodge—from which another young gentleman, dressed in a tie and jacket, was waving to us. I pulled up, and we got out.

The young fellow bounded down the steps, greeted us, and introduced himself as Charles, adding, “I believe I spoke to Mr. Corey earlier.”

“You did.”

He made a joke and said, “We’ve fed the bears.”

“Great. Can you feed us?”

I think Charles wanted to feed
me
to the bears, but he said, “In fact, dinner is being served now, and we’ve set two places for you.” He looked at me and said, “Jacket and tie are required for dinner.”

“I don’t have either, Charles.”

“Oh . . . goodness . . . we can loan you a jacket and tie.”

Funny that Kate’s black jeans passed muster, but I needed a tie and jacket. I said to Charles, “That won’t be necessary. Where’s the bar?”

He pointed to yet another rustic building about a hundred feet away, and said, “The Pub is right there, sir. There are a number of self-service bars on the property, and all the staff are bartenders, but if you don’t see any staff at any of the bars, please help yourself.”

“I might like this place.”

“Please follow me.”

We followed him up the porch steps and into a rotunda-shaped room, all done up in Adirondack style, which was starting to get on my nerves.

Charles said, “This is the entrance foyer to the Main Lodge, which was the home of William Avery Rockefeller.”

A nanosecond before I could get off a good one, Kate said, “This is a beautiful room.”

Charles smiled. “It’s all original.”

Clearly Charles enjoyed the finer things in life. In the middle of the room was a round table, on which sat an urn of flowers and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, with three fluted glasses. Charles popped the cork, poured, and handed us each a glass, then raised his own. “Welcome.”

I really don’t drink this stuff, but to be polite—and because I needed the alcohol—I clinked and we all drank.

Charles indicated a small room off the rotunda and said, “Here is a complimentary self-service bar which is open all day and night for your convenience.”

It was convenient right now, but Charles continued, “And here”—he motioned toward an arched opening in the rotunda—“is the Great Hall.”

I peeked into the Great Hall, which reminded me of the great hall where we’d sat with Bain Madox. Except in this Great Hall, at the far end, were two large, round dining tables in front of a big roaring fireplace. At each table were about ten ladies and gentlemen, eating and drinking, and though I couldn’t hear them, I was certain they were engaged in witty conversations that bordered on the banal.

Charles said, “You can access your room, the Mohawk—which by the way was William Avery Rockefeller’s master bedroom—through the Great Hall, but since dinner is being served, you may want to go around to your outside entrance, which I’ll show you in a moment.”

I suggested, “I think we need a drink first.”

He nodded. “Of course. If you leave me your keys, we’ll take care of your car and put your luggage in your room.”

Kate replied, “We don’t have luggage,” and, apparently concerned that Charles was thinking she and I had just met at a truck stop or something, added, “This trip was sudden, and our luggage will be following tomorrow. In the meantime, can you provide us with some sundries? Toothbrushes, a razor, and so forth?”

“Of course. I’ll have some items delivered to your room.”

Women are very practical, not to mention concerned about what total strangers think, so, to be a good, loyal husband, I said to Charles, “We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary, and we were so excited, we packed the Bentley, then took the Ford by mistake.”

Charles processed that, then offered us another champagne, which I declined for both of us. “We’ll be in the Pub,” I said. “Can you get some food over there?”

“Certainly. If there’s anything else you need, just ask anyone on staff.”

“How about a room key?”

“There are no keys.”

“How do I get in the room?”

“There are no locks.”

“How do I keep the bears out?”

“The doors have inside bolts.”

“Can a bear—?”

“John. Let’s get a drink.”

“Right.” I said to Charles, “My car has a key. Here it is. I need a wake-up call at six A.M.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like breakfast in your room, or in the Great Hall?”

Kate replied, “I’d like breakfast in the room.”

We always have this disagreement about room service: I don’t like to eat where I sleep, but women, I’ve noticed, love room service.

Charles asked us, “Would you like to schedule a massage in your room?”

I asked, “During breakfast?”

Kate said, “We’ll see what our schedule looks like tomorrow.”

“Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

Kate replied, “Not at the moment. Thank you, Charles, you’ve been very helpful.”

I asked him, “Do you have pigs-in-the-blanket?”

“Sir?”

“For the bar.”

“I’ll . . . ask the chef.”

“With mustard. I like the crust a little brown.”

“Yes . . . I’ll let him know.”

“Ciao.”

We left the rotunda of the Main Lodge, and I said to Kate, “Wasn’t I nice?”

“Not exactly.”

She opened the car and retrieved her briefcase, and we walked the thirty yards to the building called the Eagle’s Nest, in which was the place called the Pub.

The Pub was yet another rustic room, and a rather nice one at that. It was cozy, with a small fire in the fireplace, and a game and card room that held a pool table, bookshelves, and a stereo system. I noticed there was no television. The pub half of the room had a long bar, behind which were shelves of beautiful liquor bottles, and no bartender. In fact, the place was empty, the guests being at dinner. This was like dying and going to heaven.

I slid behind the bar and said to Kate, “Good evening, madam. May I offer you a cocktail?”

She went along with my silliness. “I believe I’ll have a small sherry. No—make that a double Stoli, twist of lemon, two cubes.”

“Excellent, madam.”

I set two short glasses on the bar, found the ice, the fruit, the Dewar’s, and the Stoli and, with a bottle in each hand, filled the glasses to the brim.

We touched glasses and Kate said, “To Harry.”

“Rest in peace, buddy.”

Neither of us said anything as we each decompressed from a long, eventful, and very sad day.

Finally, Kate said, “Should we call Tom?”

I checked my cell phone again, and there was actually service. “The use of cell phones is discouraged at The Point, madam.”

“What if it’s important?”

“Then he’ll call again.”

I freshened our drinks and said, “If the alcohol is free, how do they expect to make any money on us at twelve hundred dollars a night?”

She smiled. “Maybe they’re hoping you go to bed early. By the way, you should not have used your government credit card.”

I replied, “Look at it this way—if the world is coming to an end, what difference does it make?”

She thought about that but didn’t answer.

I continued, “And if we save the world, do you think the government is going to make us reimburse them for this place?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Positive.”

“Then what’s my incentive to save the planet?”

“That’s your job this week.” She sipped her drink and stared into the fire. “Well, if the world is going to end, this is a good place to be.”

“Right. So is the Custer Hill Club.”

She nodded.

“Do you play pool?” I asked.

“I have played. But I don’t play well.”

“Sounds like a hustle.” I came around the bar and went to the pool table, where the balls were already racked. I set down my drink, took off my leather jacket, pulled my shirttail out to hide my pancake holster, then I chose a pool stick. “Come on. Let’s play.”

Kate slid off the bar stool, removed her suede jacket, and pulled her sweater over her holster. She rolled up her sleeves and chose a stick.

I lifted the rack from the balls, and said to Kate, “Since you’re such a ball breaker, you break.” I actually didn’t say that. I said, “After you, madam.”

She chalked up, bent over the table, and shot. Good break, but none of the balls went in.

I ran three balls, then missed an easy shot. I think the scotch was starting to affect my hand-eye coordination. Or maybe I needed another scotch.