Wild Fire (36 page)

“I’m a big fan of redundancy.”

“Redundancy.”

“Yes. And so is God. That’s why we have two balls.”

“But only one dick. What’s that about?”

“I’ve often asked myself that very question.”

“Me, too.” He was now supposed to ask me why I was asking all these questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Well, thank you for stopping by. Again, sorry about . . . I’m sorry—what was his name?”

“Harry Muller.”

“Yes. People need to be careful in the woods.”

“I see that.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I just need a few more minutes of your time.”

He smiled politely and reminded me, “That’s what you said the last time, and you stayed awhile.”

I ignored that and moved away from the window, then looked around the office. It was a big room, paneled in light pine with oak furniture. On the floor was an oriental rug.

Above Madox’s desk was a framed photograph of an oil tanker with the words GOCO BASRA on the bow. Another framed photograph showed a burning oil field.

Madox said to me, “The Gulf War. Or, should I say, Gulf War One?” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

I didn’t reply.

Usually, my routine of short questions and shorter responses shakes up a suspect, but this guy was cool as a cadaver on ice. I did sense, however, a little uneasiness in his manner. In fact, he lit a cigarette but blew no smoke rings this time.

Neither of us spoke, then I moved toward a wall filled with framed certificates and photographs.

They were all military—awards, citations, an honorable discharge, his commission as a second lieutenant, his promotions, and so forth, plus a number of photographs, mostly of Madox in various uniforms, about a half dozen taken in Vietnam.

I looked at one that showed his face close-up. His skin was painted in camouflage, plus it was dirty, and there was a fresh cut over his right eye from which ran a trickle of blood. His whole face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes peered out from his blackened features, looking more hawk-like and piercing.

He said to me, “These photographs remind me of how lucky I am to be here.”

Well
, I thought,
let’s see how lucky you are
. “I see three Purple Hearts.”

“Yes. Two minor wounds, but the third Purple Heart was nearly posthumous.”

I didn’t ask for any details, and he didn’t offer any, except “An AK-47 round, through my chest.”

Obviously, it hadn’t hit any vital organs but may have caused blood loss to his brain.

He said, “I was on my third tour of duty, and I was pushing my luck.”

“Right.” Harry hadn’t been so lucky.

“But you know what? I’d do the same thing again.”

I thought I should remind him that the definition of crazy was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

The odd thing, of course, was that, as Ms. Mayfield suggested, Bain and I had connected, and if he hadn’t apparently killed a friend of mine, and if he wasn’t trying to take over or fuck up the planet, I’d probably like him. In fact, he seemed to like me, despite my nosy questions. But then, I hadn’t killed any of
his
friends, and I hadn’t yet messed up his plans to nuke the planet, or whatever he was working on. So he had no reason not to think I was an okay guy.

As I studied the remainder of his photos, he asked me, “Have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”

“I have.”

“Military or police?”

“Police.”

He informed me, “As you know, then, it’s traumatic. It’s so far removed from your normal, everyday experience that you can’t quite grasp what happened.”

“I think I got it.”

“What I mean is, if you’re in combat—or doing police work—you expect you may be wounded—or killed—and you think you’re prepared for it. But when it actually happens, you can’t believe it’s really happened to
you
.” He asked me, “Wasn’t that your reaction?”

“I really think I got what happened.”

“Did you? Well, maybe people react differently.” He expanded on his subject and said, “Then, after you comprehend what’s happened, you go into another state of mind.” He explained, “To paraphrase Winston Churchill, There’s nothing as satisfying as getting shot and surviving.”

“Right. The alternative is getting shot and dying.”

“That’s the point. It’s a near-death experience, and if you survive, you’re never the same again. But I mean that in a positive way. You feel very . . . euphoric . . . powerful. Almost immortal. Was that your experience?”

I recalled lying in the gutter on West 102nd Street after two Hispanic gentlemen popped off what sounded like a dozen rounds at me, managing an unimpressive three hits at twenty feet, and I remembered seeing my blood running into a storm drain in front of my face.

“How did you feel?” he asked.

“I think I felt fucked up for a few months.”

“But
afterward
. Didn’t it change your life?”

“Yeah. It ended my career.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a big change. But I mean, did it change how you
looked
at life? How you felt about the future? Like, God had something big planned for you.”

“Like what? Getting shot again?”

“No . . . I mean—”

“Because I got shot again.”

“Really? In the line of duty?”

“Well, yeah. I wasn’t on vacation.”

“I thought your career was ended.”

“I’m on career number two.” I added, “Libyan guy. I’m still looking for him.”

“I see.” He seemed stuck on this subject. “Apparently, you take these attacks on you personally.”

You let the suspect talk because he may be headed somewhere. And even if he’s not revealing something about the crime, he’s revealing something about himself. I replied, “When people shoot at me, I tend to take it personally, even if it they don’t know me.”

He nodded and said, “That’s interesting because, in combat, you never take it personally, and you never think about finding the actual person who was shooting at you. That’s the last thing on your mind.”

“So, you weren’t pissed at the little guy who plugged you?”

“Not at all. He was just earning his pay. Same as I was earning mine.”

“That’s very forgiving. And you don’t strike me as the forgiving type.”

He let that slide and continued, “What I mean is, soldiers don’t see the enemy as individuals. The enemy is one big amorphous threat. So, it doesn’t matter who individually is trying to kill you, or whom you kill in return, as long as the guy you kill is wearing the same uniform as the guy who tried to kill you.” He explained, “You’re shooting at the uniform, not at the man. Understand?”

“Well . . . I never saw the Libyan, but the two Hispanic guys who tried to kill me were wearing tight black chinos, purple T-shirts, and pointy shoes.”

He smiled and said, “I guess you can’t go around shooting everyone who’s dressed like that. But I could shoot anyone who looked like the enemy.”

“That’s a treat.”

He informed me, “Revenge is very healthy, but it doesn’t have to be personal revenge. Any enemy combatant will do.”

“That may not be as healthy as you think.”

“I beg to differ. Revenge brings closure.” He added, “Unfortunately, that war ended before I could return to duty and even the score.”

I had the sudden thought that if I could pin Harry’s murder on this guy, his lawyer would plead insanity, and the judge would say, “I agree, Counselor. Your client is out of his fucking mind.”

It occurred to me that this guy had probably been lost in limbo after the Soviets went belly-up, and there were no major-league enemies left that were worth his attention, or who needed to be killed so that Bain Madox could save the nation.

Then came September 11, 2001. And
that
, I was sure, was what this was all about.

He changed the subject abruptly and asked me, “Have you gotten into the woods at all?”

“A little this morning. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen any bears.”

“Not yet.”

“You should try to see a bear before you go back to the city.”

“Why?”

“It’s an experience. They’re fascinating to watch.”

“They don’t look that interesting on the National Geographic Channel.”

He smiled and said, “You can’t
smell
them on television. The thrill is being face-to-face with a wild animal that you know can kill you.”

“Right. That’s a thrill.”

“But if you’re armed, that’s cheating. The interesting thing about black bears is that you can actually interact with them. They’re dangerous, but they’re not dangerous. Follow?”

“I think I lost you after the first ‘dangerous.’”

“Well, think of a lion on one hand, and a lamb on the other. With those animals, you know exactly where you stand. Correct?”

“Right.”

“But a bear—a black bear—is more complex. They’re intelligent, they’re curious, and they will often approach a human. Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re just looking for a handout. But five percent of the time—and it’s hard to tell when that is—they’re looking to kill you.” He took a step closer to me and said, “
That
is what makes it interesting.”

“Right. That’s interesting.”

“You see my point? The
potential
for death is there, but the likelihood of death is low enough so that you are drawn into the encounter for the thrill. Your heart races, your adrenaline shoots out of your ears, and you’re stuck right there, between fright and flight. You see?”

I mean, I didn’t
smell
alcohol on his breath, but maybe he was drinking vodka, or snorting something, or he
was
nuts. Or maybe this was a parable, about John and Bain.

He concluded with, “Now, a brown bear or a polar bear is a different story. You know exactly what’s on their minds.”

“Right. What are those colors again? Brown is . . . ?”

“Bad. Grizzly.”

“So, black is—”

“Not bad.” He added, “The white ones are polar bears. They’ll rip you apart.” He informed me, “We only have black bears here.”

“Good. And they know they’re black?”

He thought that was funny, then looked at his watch. “Well, again, thank you for stopping by. If . . . well, if there’s some sort of . . . fund established for Mr. Miller . . . please let me know.”

I totally lost it, but I took a breath and got myself under control. I really wanted to gut-shoot him, and watch him die slowly as I explained that me shooting him was very personal, and not at all professional and not what I was paid to do.

He seemed to be waiting for me to say good-bye, but I just stood there, and he said to me, “By the way, a mutual friend of ours, Rudy, stopped by last night.”

Or maybe I could explain to him that I shot him for God and country. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I was fairly certain that he had to be stopped, and if I didn’t stop him right now, then whoever tried to stop him later might be too late. Bain Madox would understand that.

He said, “Rudy. From the gas station in South Colton.”

I put both my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and felt the butt of my Glock in my right hand.

Madox continued, “He seemed confused about something. He was under the impression I’d asked you to let him know that I wanted to see him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. Why did you tell him that?”

But if I shot him right here and now, only he would know why. And maybe that was enough.

But maybe I needed to know more. For sure, the police and the FBI would want to know more.

“Detective?”

And maybe, to be honest with myself, I couldn’t just pull my gun and shoot an unarmed man. And to be even more honest, Mr. Bain Madox intrigued me . . . no, he impressed me. And he’d already been shot—he’d survived a war, and he was, or believed he was, a patriot continuing to do his duty, and if I told him he was actually a psychopathic killer, he’d be shocked.

“Mr. Corey? Hello?”

We made eye contact, and I thought he guessed what was on my mind. In fact, his eyes focused on where my right hand was gripping the gun in my pocket.

Neither of us spoke, then he said to me, “Why did you tell him to tell me that you were a good shot?”

“Who?”

“Rudy.”

“Rudy?” I took another breath and brought my hand out of my pocket, empty. I said, “Rudy. Rudy, Rudy. How is Rudy?”

He seemed to sense a pivotal moment had passed, and he dropped the subject of Rudy. “I’ll have Carl show you out.” He walked to his desk, picked up a walkie-talkie, and was about to hit the Send button.

I said, “I’m here to investigate a homicide.”

He hesitated, then put down the walkie-talkie. He looked at me and asked, “What homicide?”

I moved closer to his desk and replied, “The murder of Harry Muller.”

He appeared appropriately surprised and confused. “Oh . . . I was told that it was an accident. The body had been found . . . I’m sorry, I should have expressed my condolences to you. He was a colleague of yours.”

“A friend.”

“Well, I am
very
sorry. But . . . I had a call from the sheriff’s office, and the person said this man’s body had been found in the woods and that it was ruled a hunting accident.”

“It hasn’t been ruled anything yet.”

“I see . . . so . . . there’s a possibility of foul play.”

“That’s right.”

“And . . . ?”

“I was hoping you could help me.”

“No . . . I’m sorry. What would I know about . . . ?”

I sat in the chair in front of his desk and motioned for him to have a seat.

He hesitated, aware that he didn’t have to sit and talk about this, and that he could ask me to get out of his chair, his house, and his life. But he wasn’t going to do that. He sat. Technically, I had no jurisdiction here to investigate a homicide—that was still the job of the state police. But Madox didn’t seem to know that, and I wasn’t about to give him a lesson in constitutional law.

We did the old eye-lock thing, and the guy never blinked. Amazing. How did he do that? Even guys with glass eyes blink.