Wild Fire (49 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I
found a landline phone and called Major Schaeffer, who, as it turned out, was totally clueless about where we were or what was going on.

I gave him a very edited, need-to-know briefing, mentioning murder and mayhem, and requesting troopers, an ambulance, a CSI team, and his presence.

Kate and I, carrying Luther’s fully loaded M16 and Nash’s thankfully fully loaded Glock, explored and secured the other rooms in the subterranean living quarters, which could have been featured in
Better Homes and Fallout Shelters.

We found the canvas bag with our stuff in it, and got ourselves back together.

There’s nothing interesting or educational about being a helpless prisoner, especially if your jailers are psychotic and homicidal, so I never quite understood the Stockholm syndrome thing where the prisoner starts to identify with his or her captor and begins to sympathize with whatever bullshit the captor is using as an excuse for his bad behavior.

Now and then, however, what the psycho is doing or saying actually does appeal to what the prisoner already believes, or has thought about himself in the dark parts of his mind.

But enough about that.

Kate and I found Mr. Madox’s barroom, which was actually a smaller version of the one upstairs, and she liberated a bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage 1978, which she opened and drank from a water tumbler.

I found some warm bottles of Carlstadt beer, which doesn’t improve with age, and, in fact, had gotten a little cloudy since 1984. But it hit the spot.

Regarding Mr. Ted Nash, this was his second and hopefully last time back from the dead. I counted seven—count ’em, seven—holes in him, which was not bad for eight shots. In fact, I felt silly feeling for a pulse, and Kate asked me what the hell I was doing. But I needed to be really sure.

Also regarding Ted Nash, in less than three minutes, he’d managed to totally piss me off. First, I’m not a clown, Ted, and my wife is not a bitch. As for the other thing . . . well, it happened. Even Kate can make a mistake with men. I’m sure not all of her boyfriends were John Coreys.

She must have guessed what I was thinking about, and she finished another glass of champagne and said, “It never happened. He was lying.”

Well, I couldn’t ask Dead Ted, so I let it go. “CIA guys lie,” I said.

“Believe me.”

She had Ted’s Glock, so I said, “I believe you, sweetheart.”

Being a lawyer and an FBI agent, she informed me, “I can explain the first and second shot as self-defense. I can’t explain the other six shots.”

I suggested, “Let’s say Ted challenged you to hit him eight times.” I added, “Actually, I’d be happy to take the rap—or the credit—for killing him.”

“Thanks, but . . . I’ll handle it.”

We moved back into the ELF room to check the security monitors, and we saw Schaeffer’s guys arriving in marked and unmarked cars, with an ambulance, all lined up on McCuen Pond Road behind the closed gate.

Oddly, the gate wasn’t opening, and the lead car smashed through it.

Then, two uniformed troopers went into the gatehouse, and a few minutes later, two EMS guys from the ambulance carried a body on a stretcher out of the gatehouse and back toward the ambulance.

Kate asked me, “What’s that about?”

“I’m pretty sure Derek is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. Madox needed him to tidy up the lodge and get rid of the van I borrowed from Rudy. But Madox didn’t want Derek talking about that, or talking about where everyone was in the fallout shelter . . . so he got someone to get rid of Derek.”

Kate commented, “Bain Madox seems to think of everything.”

“Not everything, and not anymore.”

We gave it fifteen minutes to be sure that the right people were in charge upstairs, then made our way to the spiral staircase, found the hydraulic switch to raise the card table, and ascended into the card room, where the air was fresh.

We had our creds out, and we were passed from one state trooper to another, until we found ourselves in the great room, where Major Schaeffer had set up his command post with a radio and a few troopers. Kaiser Wilhelm was sleeping and farting near the hearth.

Schaeffer asked us, “What in the name of God is going on here?”

I replied, “The murder of Harry Muller is solved. Bain Madox and Carl the butler did it.”

“Yeah? Where’s Madox?”

“In the fallout shelter.”

“We searched the whole basement.”

I explained how to find the fallout shelter and added, “You got three dead down there, and one seriously wounded.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Madox, Carl, and some other guy.”

“Madox is dead? How did he die?”

I answered, evasively, “Get your CSI team there and let them get to work. Also, the wounded guy needs help fast.”

Schaeffer picked up his radiophone and gave instructions regarding the fallout shelter.

I also advised Schaeffer, “You should disarm and restrain the security guards.”

“They’re disarmed and confined to their barracks under guard.”

“Good.”

“What do we have on them?”

“Accessories or witnesses to Harry’s murder. Tell them the boss is dead, and see if they’ll start talking.”

He nodded, then said to us, “Those three diesel engines and generators were running at full capacity and we shut them down. Do you know anything about that?”

I replied, “Well, as it turned out, Fred was right. Submarines.”

“What . . . ?”

Kate said, “Sorry, Major, this comes under the category of national security.”

“Yeah?”

I changed the subject back to homicide and informed Schaeffer, “Don’t bother looking for Putyov here.”

“Why not?”

“Well, according to the late Mr. Madox, he murdered his houseguest Dr. Putyov, then put the body through the wood chipper.”

“What?”

“If it matters, Putyov got what he deserved. But I can’t get into that.” I suggested, “You may want the CSI guys to pay special attention to the wood chipper. If they don’t find anything there, you might think about collecting some bear shit and see if you can find a little of Dr. Putyov’s DNA there.”

Schaeffer said, “I’m not quite following—”

“Hey,” I asked, “what happened to the guy in the gatehouse?”

“He’s dead.”

“Derek. Right?”

“That’s what his name tag said.” He informed us, “The EMS guys thought it looked like poisoning. Maybe a neurotoxin. The guy was twitching like an epileptic before he died.”

I said to Kate, “Jeez, I hope it wasn’t the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

Schaeffer replied, “We didn’t find any pigs-in-the-blanket, but there was a fresh pot of coffee in the guardhouse, and this guy had a spilled coffee mug on his desk. So, we’re thinking the coffee. We’ll test it and do the toxicology.”

Kate said to me, “Madox does plan ahead.”

“Not anymore.”

Kate asked Schaeffer, “Are the FBI here?”

“Oh, yeah. They set up their own command post.” He jerked his head upward and said, “In Madox’s office. Your buddy Griffith is there, and he’s still looking for you.”

Kate suggested, “Let’s go say hello.”

“Okay.” I said to Schaeffer, “See you later.”

He looked at us and said, “You smell like smoke, and you look like hell. What happened?”

I replied, “It’s like a really long and very weird story. Let me get back to you on that.”

He reminded us, “You must remain on the scene to assist with the investigation.”

“See you later.”

I took Kate’s arm, and we left the great room.

There were about a dozen uniformed state troopers going through the house, obviously without knowing what they were supposed to be doing. I flashed my creds and asked one of them, “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Kitchen? Oh . . . you just go down this hallway.”

“Thanks.” I headed for the kitchen, and Kate said to me, “We need to see Liam Griffith.”

“Schaeffer said he was in the kitchen.”

“In Madox’s
office
.”

I tapped my ear. “Come again?”

We found the kitchen, which was unoccupied. I noticed that there was no sign of dinner preparations, and I pointed this out to Kate, who replied, “I think dinner was a ruse, John.”

“Yeah? No steak and potatoes?”

“Why are we here?”

“Because I’m hungry.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee from the gatehouse?”

“Sure, and get one for yourself.” I opened the big, industrial-size refrigerator and found some cheese and cold cuts.

“How can you eat?” she asked me. “My stomach is churning.”

“I’m hungry.” I threw the cheese and cold cuts on the counter, then went to the kitchen sink and washed up. I think I had some of Madox on me.

As I was doing this, Mr. Liam Griffith entered the kitchen and asked us, “Where the hell have you two been?”

I looked up from the sink. “Could you hand me that dish towel?”

He hesitated, then handed it to me. “What are you doing here?”

I dried my face and replied, “We’ve been saving the planet from nuclear destruction.”

“Really? Then, what did you do for an encore?”

I handed the towel to Kate, who went to the sink to wash up.

I said to Griffith, “Well, then we killed a buddy of yours.” I unwrapped the cheddar cheese and said, “Ted Nash.”

Mr. Griffith did not reply, but I could see from his face that he wasn’t understanding me. Finally, he said, “Ted Nash is dead.”

“That’s what I said. Doesn’t that sound great?”

He still wasn’t comprehending what I was saying, so I was pretty sure that Liam Griffith, prick though he was, had no clue about any of this.

Kate dried her hands and face. “He didn’t die in the North Tower. But he’s dead now.” She added, “I killed him.”

“What?”

I said, “We will not say anything else on that subject at this time. Do you want some cheddar cheese?”

“Huh? No.” Finally, he said to us, “As you know, you’re both in major trouble. I have orders to escort you back to the city as soon as I locate you, which I’ve done. I have the pleasure to inform you that you are both the subject of possible disciplinary action, and hopefully worse.”

And on and on.

I must have eaten a half pound of cheese and cold cuts while he was rambling on, and I looked at my watch a few times as a hint that he should wrap it up.

When he was through, he asked us, “What exactly happened here?”

I replied, “Kate and I found Harry Muller’s killer.”

“Who is it?”

Kate answered, “It was Bain Madox, the owner of this lodge.”

“Where is he now?”

I said, “In the fallout shelter. Dead.” I added, “I killed him.”

No reply.

“And that’s all you need to know, and all we’re saying.”

“All right . . . then I need you to come with me.”

“Where’re you going, Liam?”

“I told you. Back to the city. There’s a helicopter waiting at the airport.”

I informed him, “We really can’t leave a crime scene. Major Schaeffer—”

“All right. The three of us will spend one hour here with the state police so you can explain what happened. Then, I need to insist that the police release you into my custody.”

I looked at Kate, and she nodded. I said to Griffith, “Kate and I will confine our statements to the subject of Harry Muller’s murder. Everything else that you and the state police see here is a matter of national security, which will not be discussed until we’re back at 26 Fed. Understand?”

“Maybe you can give me a hint about how national security plays into Kate killing a CIA officer.”

Kate responded, “Liam, I don’t think your security clearance is high enough for me to tell you about that.”

He looked a little pissed, but got off a smart remark. “Ted always spoke highly of you, Kate.”

“Not the last time we spoke.”

Liam Griffith is no idiot, and said, “You’re both either in deep trouble or you’re going to get a commendation. So I’ll just shut up until I find out which it’s going to be.”

I commented, “Today must be your annual smart day.”

So we spent an hour with Major Schaeffer, the state detectives, and the crime scene investigators, during which Kate and I danced around the central issue of what the hell was going on in the Führerbunker. Then, after a pissing match between Schaeffer and Griffith, Kate and I got in Liam’s rental car and began our drive from the lodge, which took us past the flagpole where the American flag still flew, illuminated by the spotlight; and below the stars and stripes was Bain Madox’s Seventh Cavalry regiment pennant.

Yeah, I had mixed feelings about the guy, mostly negative, but . . . well, if he hadn’t killed Harry, and if he hadn’t been prepared to kill a few million other Americans, including Kate, me, and anyone else who got in his way, plus a couple hundred million innocent men, women, and children . . . well, he was a complex man, and it was going to take me a while to figure him out.

We also passed by the wood chipper, and that sort of brought me back to reality. The big things—like nuclear Armageddon—were a little abstract. It’s the small things, like the wood chipper, that make you understand evil.

Well, we helicoptered back to New York City, and by the time we got to 26 Federal Plaza, there were about a dozen people there from the office, including, of course, Tom Walsh, and another dozen from Washington, all waiting for us with open notebooks and tape recorders.

Tom Walsh greeted us warmly by saying, “What the fuck was I thinking when I sent you two up there?”

I replied, “What were you thinking when you sent Harry up there?”

He had no answer for that, so I asked him, “Whose idea was it to send
me
up there alone on that assignment?”

No response.

I informed him, “I’ll tell you. It was Ted Nash’s idea.”

“Nash is dead.”

“He is now, and I’m not.”

Kate said to Walsh, “But it could have easily gone the other way.”

Walsh looked at both of us, and I could see he was trying to figure out if he was supposed to be clueless, angry, or blameless. He couldn’t seem to decide, so he went to the men’s room.

I could see that there was still a lot of confusion about what had happened and what our status was—heroes or felons—but I also sensed that one or two guys from Washington knew exactly what this was all about, but kept it to themselves.