Authors: Nelson DeMille
Wild Fire (35 page)
I
found a convenience store on the outskirts of Canton. Or maybe it was downtown Canton. Hard to tell.
Anyway, I went in and bought what I needed for my mission, which was a package of Drake’s Ring Dings with cream inside, and one of those little sticky lint rollers.
The checkout guy gave me a shortcut back to Colton, a distance of about thirty miles. I also asked him where the sporting-goods store was, and he gave me directions.
I got back in the car and thought about my next move. It was a little after 1:00 P.M., which meant I should be at the Custer Hill gatehouse before 2:00 if I didn’t stop to pick up a box of 9mm rounds and a few extra magazines. I mean, if I was going to blow Madox’s brains out, I had more than enough ammo in my fifteen-round magazine, plus one in the chamber.
On the other hand, if I needed to shoot my way out of there, I was possibly a few rounds short. Bottom line with ammunition is that it’s always better to have more than you need, because if you have less than you need, things didn’t usually work out well.
Also, I probably shouldn’t have done an ammo check with Kate, who may have been wondering if I was planning an assault on the Custer Hill Club. I wasn’t sure about that myself, but it was an option.
Anyway, I decided that my first order of business should be to get to the Custer Hill Club and see what, if anything, Madox was up to. If I needed more ammo, I knew Madox had plenty of guns lying around.
I began driving, and I turned on the radio and listened to a talk show in French, live from Quebec.
I had no idea what they were saying, but everyone seemed really worked up about something, and I could pick out the words “Iraq,” “America,” “Bush,” and “Hussein.”
The melodious French language was giving me a headache, so I scanned the channels, trying to find a news channel that might mention the hunting accident, but all I got were DJs and local commercials. I locked in to a country-western station, and Hank Williams was wailing “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Why I like this music is a mystery to me and a secret I don’t share with many people.
The weather was still good, and the country road was decent and lightly traveled, so I was making good time.
I opened the Ring Dings and sharked the first one, then savored the second. Truly an exploration of chocolate.
I noodled while I drove and listened to Hank singing “Hey, Good Lookin’.”
First, Kate was safe enough back in Wilma’s B&B if she didn’t get an attack of duty, honor, and country, and call Walsh or Griffith.
Ms. Mayfield is a bit more savvy than she seems, and I hoped that she was in her post-9/11 mind-set, and understood that something very odd was going on in New York and Washington, and that she shouldn’t be calling anyone about that.
Second, the last time I checked with Major Schaeffer, he was on our side. But that could change very quickly. Or maybe he never really was on our side. If a state trooper pulled me over in my Enterprise rental car, I’d have the answer to that before I got to the Custer Hill Club.
Third, Tom Walsh. He really wasn’t clued in to whatever was going on, and now he was probably in trouble for sending the absolutely most wrong agents up here to work the case of the missing Harry Muller. Well, if he was in deep shit, he got what he deserved. On the other hand, he’d originally wanted
me
here in place of Harry. What was
that
all about?
Fourth, Liam Griffith, the Enforcer. I recalled that he was a friend of my enemy, the happily departed Ted Nash, CIA officer, so, as the Arabs would say, Any friend of my enemy is my enemy. Especially if they’re both assholes. I needed to avoid this guy until I had the power to take him down.
And last but not least, Mr. Bain Madox, who had apparently once tried to start a thermonuclear war to see how it turned out. I mean, this was so far off the chart that I had trouble grasping it. But all the little pieces that I’d seen for myself, including meeting the gentleman, seemed to point in that direction. I thought maybe Madox had watched too many James Bond movies during his formative years, and related too well to the sicko villains.
Bain Madox, however, was not some movie bad guy with a foreign accent; he was an all-American boy, a war hero, and a success story. Sort of like Horatio Alger with a thermonuclear death wish.
But as my therapist would say, if I had one, “John, the thermonuclear-war thing is in the past, and we need to move on.” Right. The problem now was to figure out what Bain was doing in that big house to turn his past failure into success.
I got off the back road at Colton, headed south on 56, and entered the sleepy hamlet of South Colton. And there was Ratso Rudy chewing the fat with some guy in a pickup truck.
I couldn’t resist, so I pulled into the station. “Hey, Rudy!”
He saw me and ambled over to the car. I said, “I’m lost again.”
“Yeah? Hey, how you doin’?” He observed, “You got a new car.”
“No, this is the same one.”
“You sure? You had a Taurus yesterday.”
“I did? Hey, did you see Mr. Madox last night?”
“Well, yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. He didn’t want to see me.”
“He told me he did.”
“You sure?”
“That’s what he said.” I added, “Sorry about telling him you said I should get the money up front.”
“Yeah . . . I tried to explain that to him, but he thought that was funny for some reason.”
“Yeah? What else did he say?”
“Well . . . he said you was pulling my leg. He said you was a wise guy. And a troublemaker.”
“Me? Is that the thanks I get for fixing his ice maker?”
“He said there was nothing wrong with his ice maker.”
“Who are you going to believe? Me or him?”
“Well . . . it don’t matter.”
“The truth matters.” I asked, “Does he still have houseguests?”
Rudy shrugged. “Didn’t see nobody. But there was a car out front of his house, and I thought it was you. Blue Taurus.”
“I have a white Hyundai.”
“Yeah,
now
you do. But yesterday you had a blue Taurus.”
“Right. Hey, did anybody from Madox’s place stop in for gas today?”
“Nope. You need gas?”
“No, this thing burns rice wine. Did anybody stop here and ask you for directions to his place?”
“Nope . . . Well, a guy came in from Potsdam, and wanted to check my map.”
“Why?”
“He had these directions to the Custer Hill place, and he wanted to check them out. I told him he wasn’t going to find it on my wall map, so I checked his directions and gave him some landmarks to look for.”
There are different ways to ask nosy questions, and I inquired, “Was he a tall, thin guy with a handlebar mustache, driving a red Corvette?”
“No, he was a repair guy from Potsdam Diesel.”
This caught me by surprise, and I was nearly at a loss for words. “Oh . . . right. Charlie from Potsdam Diesel. The generator guy.”
“Yeah. But I think his name was Al . . . Yeah. This is the time of year you need to get the generator checked. Last November . . . maybe December, we got this ice storm out of nowhere. Lines down all over the—”
“Right . . . so, is Al still there?”
“Don’t know. That was maybe a hour ago. Didn’t see him go by. Why? You lookin’ for this guy?”
“No . . . just . . .”
“Where you headin’?”
“Huh?”
“You said you was lost.”
“No . . .” I asked Rudy, “Did you give Mr. Madox my message? The one about me being a good shot?”
Rudy looked a little uncomfortable. “Yeah . . . he didn’t think that was so funny.”
“Yeah? What did he say?”
“Not much. Just asked me to say it again.”
“Okay . . . good. So . . . I’ll see you later.”
I got back on the road and headed toward the Custer Hill Club.
Potsdam Diesel
.
The generators were about to be fired up, and soon the transmitter would be warming up and the antenna would be humming, sending ELF waves deep into the bowels of the Earth. And someplace on this screwed-up planet was a receiver that was going to pick up those signals.
Holy shit.
I
was driving too fast for the logging road, and the Hyundai went airborne a few times.
Up ahead, I could see where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill gatehouse, but I didn’t see anyone leaning on his shovel nor did I see any freshly filled potholes.
I stopped at the T-intersection and looked farther up the logging road, then McCuen Pond Road.
I seemed to be the only one there.
This was like that scene in
The Godfather
where Michael goes to the hospital to see how Pop is doing and discovers that someone pulled the police guard off the job, and the hit men were on the way.
Mama mia
.
I sat there for a minute, waiting for a surveillance guy to pop out of a bush. But I was definitely alone. So, what’s up with Schaeffer? Hank? Buddy? Hello?
Well . . . time was wasting, so I turned onto McCuen Pond Road and headed for the gatehouse.
I slowed down, as per the sign, then stopped at the speed bump and pulled my Glock and stuck it in my jacket pocket.
The gate slid open, and a guy in camouflage fatigues walked toward me. As he got closer, I saw he was the same storm trooper I’d dealt with the last time, which was good. Or maybe not. I tried to remember if I’d pissed him off. Kate always remembers who I pissed off, and she briefs me.
I rolled down my window, and the guy seemed to recognize me, notwithstanding my new car. He had the same line as last time: “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Madox.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Look, Junior, let’s not go through all this shit again. You know who I am, and you know he’s not expecting me. Open the fucking gate.”
He definitely seemed to remember me now—maybe because I was wearing the same clothes, but more likely because I’m an arrogant prick. He said to me, unexpectedly, “Proceed to the gatehouse.” He added, “He
is
expecting you.” Then he smiled.
Well, that was nice. But it wasn’t really a
nice
smile. I drove toward the gate, and in my side-view mirror, I saw Junior Rambo on his walkie-talkie.
The gate slid open, and as I drove through, another guy in the gatehouse stepped out and put up his hand. I returned his greeting with an Italian salute, and accelerated up the winding road toward the lodge.
I noticed again the telephone poles and the three heavy wires running between them—and what had looked a little odd yesterday now looked suspiciously like an ELF antenna. Unless, of course, I was totally wrong. I needed a dose of Bain Madox to give me confidence in my suspicions and conclusions.
Coming toward me was a black Jeep, and the driver was waving to me, which was nice, so I waved back and honked my horn as he veered off into the drainage ditch.
Up ahead was the flagpole, flying the Stars and Stripes with the yellow Seventh Cavalry pennant below. I knew, from something I’d read, that the pennant meant the commander was on the premises, so El Supremo was definitely in.
I went around the flagpole, stopped under the portico, got out, locked my car, then stepped up to the porch. The front door was unlocked, and I went into the atrium foyer and glanced up at the balcony.
There was no one around, and I recalled that the house staff was on a break after the three-day weekend, which showed Mr. Madox to be an enlightened employer, or a man who wanted to be alone.
On the wall, General Custer was still making his last stand, and I noticed now, on the paneling above the painting, a fiber-optic fish eye that could see the whole room. In fact, I may have subconsciously noticed it the first time, and maybe that’s where my stupid Holy Mackerel joke had come from. Maybe not.
I moved closer to the painting as though studying it, then closer until I was too near the wall for the eye to see me.
I glanced up at the balcony again, then I pulled my little lint roller out of my jacket, peeled the paper off, and dropped it on the carpet and rolled it with my foot. Then I retrieved it and put it back in my pocket. If that stupid dog was around, I’d have lint-rolled him, too.
I like forensic evidence when other people collect it, analyze it, and report the results to me. But sometimes you have to do this stuff yourself. I didn’t think there was much time left to wait for forensics tests, but maybe someone would find the lint roller in my pocket if I wound up having a hunting accident.
I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Carl coming down the staircase. We made eye contact, and I couldn’t tell if he’d seen me lint-rolling the rug.
Carl stopped on the last step, stared at me, and asked, “Are you here to see Mr. Madox?”
“I’m not here to see you, Carl.”
He didn’t respond to that. “You need to be escorted
to
the lodge, and
into
the lodge.”
“Yeah. I know. Insurance. Should I try again?”
I don’t think he liked me, and he was probably still pissed off about having to make me café au lait.
He said, “Fortunately, Mr. Madox is receiving.”
“Receiving what? Cosmic messages?”
“Receiving visitors.”
I looked at Carl, who, as I’d noticed on my earlier visit, was a big fellow. He was no kid, but he looked fit, and what he lacked in youth, I was sure he more than made up for in experience. In fact, I could picture him twisting the binocular strap around Harry’s neck and holding him upright on his knees while his boss put a bullet through Harry’s spine.
I’ve known a number of tough old combat veterans, and you’d expect them to still be tough, and probably they are, someplace inside. But most of them that I’ve known have a sort of gentleness about them, as if to say, “I’ve killed. But I don’t want to kill again.”
Carl, on the other hand, gave me the impression that he’d add a P.S. to that. “Unless ordered to kill.”
He said, “Mr. Madox is in his office. Follow me.”
I followed him up the sweeping staircase to a foyer that overlooked the lobby below.
Carl led me to a paneled door and said, “Mr. Madox has fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll give him longer than that.” Unless I kill him before my time is up.
Carl knocked, opened the door, and announced, “Colonel, Mr. Corey to see you.”
Colonel
?
I said to Carl, “
Detective
Corey. Try again.”
He looked really pissed, and I thought about asking him for a mocha freezie, but he announced, “
Detective
Corey to see you, sir.”
Colonel Madox said, “Thank you, Carl.”
I entered the office, and the door shut behind me. I expected to see Colonel Madox all decked out in his beribboned dress uniform, but he was standing behind his desk, wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and a blue blazer. He said to me, “This is an unexpected pleasure . . . detective.”
I replied, “I had the impression at the gate that I had an open invitation.”
He smiled and said, “Yes, actually, I did mention to the security staff that you might drop by again in connection with the missing person—which, I understand, has become moot.”
I didn’t comment on that, so Madox extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “Welcome.”
He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk, and I sat, wondering if Harry had ever been here.
Madox asked me, “Where is Ms. Mayfield?”
“She’s at a yodeling class.”
He grinned. “So, are you both enjoying your room at The Point?”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “I’ve actually stayed there a few times for a change of pace. I like the lake, which I don’t have here. It’s a good property, but I find the food too . . . well, Continental for my taste. I prefer simple American food.”
I didn’t respond, and he asked me, “Do they still have that French chef there? Henri?”
“They do.”
“He’s a real prima donna, like all of them. But if you talk to him, he’ll make you a simple beefsteak, sans mystery sauce, and a baked potato.”
Was this asshole trying to tell me something? I knew not to mention that Kate and I were married, but I had broken one of the other cardinal rules when I told him where we were staying, and now he was possibly playing a head game with me.
He seemed to be in a chatty mood, the way a lot of suspects are when the fuzz is talking to them, and he said, “Speaking of the French, what is their problem?”
“They’re French.”
He laughed. “That’s it.” He tapped the newspaper on his desk, which I saw was the
New York Times
, and asked me, “Did you see this front-page article? Our loyal French allies are hinting that we’re on our own in Iraq.”
“I saw that.”
“I have a theory that they lost an important part of their gene pool in World War I. A million brave soldiers dead in the trenches. So, who was left to procreate? The mentally and physically unfit, the cowards and the sissies. What do you think?”
I thought he was out of his fucking mind, but I replied, “Genetics are not my strong point.”
“Well, it’s just my theory. On the other hand, I actually had two former French soldiers in my battalion. One was a Foreign Legionnaire, the other a paratrooper. They joined the American Army to fight, and fight they did. They loved to kill Commies. Great balls.”
“There goes your theory.”
“No. France doesn’t produce enough men like that. But maybe they do, and their feminized society shuns them. They don’t respect the warrior ethos any longer. But we do.” He said emphatically, “This war in Iraq will be over in less than thirty days.”
“When’s it starting?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you might have friends in high places.”
“Well . . . actually, I do.” He hesitated, then said, “Bet on mid-March. Around St. Patrick’s Day.”
“I say end of January.”
“Will you put a hundred dollars on that?”
“Sure.”
We actually shook on it, and he said, “When you lose, I’ll come looking for you.”
“Twenty-six Federal Plaza.” We made eye contact and I said, “If you lose, I’ll come looking for
you
.”
“Call my New York office. It’s not far from 26 Fed. Duane Street. GOCO.” He mentioned, “I was actually in my office when the planes hit . . . I’ll never forget that sight . . .” He asked me, “Were you in your office? Did you see it?”
“I was about to walk into the North Tower.”
“My goodness . . .”
“Let’s change that subject.”
“All right.” He asked me, “So, will Ms. Mayfield be joining us?”
Odd question, considering I said she was at a yodeling class, plus I had only fifteen minutes with His Majesty. Maybe he liked her looks, or maybe he wanted to know if this was a bust. “It’s just me today.”
“All right . . . so, I’ve been running off at the mouth, and I never asked you the purpose of your visit.”
The purpose of my visit was a homicide investigation, but I didn’t want to jump right into that. That’s usually a showstopper, and you might be asked to leave. So I said, “I just thought I’d stop by and thank you for offering your assistance with the missing person.”
“You’re quite welcome. Sorry to hear the bad news.”
“Yeah, me, too.” At this point, we’d talk a bit about that, and I’d thank him again for being a good citizen, and I’d leave. But I left that subject alone for now and asked him, “Mind if I take a look at your view?” I nodded toward the window.
He hesitated, then shrugged. “If you wish.”
I stood and went over to the window. The view directly behind the lodge was of the continuing slope of the hill, at the top of which was his relay tower, which sprouted all sorts of electronic arms, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his ELF antenna.
In the distance, I could make out several telephone poles, and I saw birds landing and taking off from the three big cables. They didn’t seem to be glowing, smoking, or flying backward, so I took that as a good sign.
Off in the distance, I saw a big prefab barn. Its doors were open, and inside I could see a few vehicles—a black Jeep, a blue van, and a lawn tractor. Outside the barn were parked a few all-terrain vehicles, which I assumed were used to patrol the property. I expected to see that Colonel Madox also had a few Abrams tanks, but there was no sign of tread marks.
To the right, about a hundred yards from the lodge, I saw two long buildings. From Harry’s map, which I had in my jacket pocket, I identified the white wooden structure as the barracks, and it looked like it could hold about twenty men. The other structure was the size of a house, and it was built of solid bedrock, with a sheet-metal roof and steel shutters closed over the windows. Three chimneys belched black smoke, and near the open door of the building was a step van whose painted sign said POTSDAM DIESEL.
Madox came up beside me and said, “Not a spectacular view. The view out the front is better.”
“I think this is interesting.” I asked him, “Why do you have all these telephone poles and cables running around your property?”
We made eye contact, and he didn’t flinch. “Those poles and wires were installed to connect the call stations around the property.”
“Really?”
“You remember when you were a cop on the beat, and you had police call boxes?”
“Right. We also had two-way car radios since the 1950s, which are a lot cheaper than a few hundred telephone poles in the bedrock.”
Mr. Madox did not respond. In fact, he was probably thinking hard right now, wondering if these were just idle questions, or leading questions.
He said to me, “As I discovered in combat, radios are not reliable. In any case, the call boxes are rarely used now that we have cell phones and high-quality walkie-talkies. He informed me, “The poles are also used to mount and power the security lights.”
“Right.” And the listening devices and video cameras. “Hey, what’s that white building?”
“The barracks.”
“Oh, right. For your army. And I see your motor pool out there. This is a hell of a place.”
“Thank you.”
“And that stone building?”
“That’s where my electrical generator is.”
“I see
three
chimneys blowing smoke.”
“Yes, three generators.”
“Do you sell power to Potsdam?” I asked.
