Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “That’s pretty depressing.”

  “The area designated as parkland is as big as the state of New Hampshire.”

  “What’s New Hampshire?”

  “Much of it is uninhabited.”

  “That’s fairly obvious.”

  And so forth. Actually, I could see now how someone could be lost in here for days or weeks, or the rest of their lives, but I also realized that someone could survive if they had some experience in the woods.

  Route 3 was actually a decent two-lane road that occasionally passed through a small town, but there were stretches of wilderness that aroused my agoraphobia and zoophobia. I could see why this guy Bain Madox would have a lodge up here if he were up to no good.

  Kate said, “This is so beautiful.”

  “It is.” It sucked.

  There were yellow signs with black silhouettes of jumping deer, which I guess were to warn the deer to jump out of the way of cars on the road.

  Around a turn was a big sign that had a black painting of a bear and the word CAUTION. I said, “Did you see that? Did you see that bear sign?”

  “Yes. That means there are bears in the area.”

  “Holy shit. Are the doors locked?”

  “John, stop being an idiot. Bears won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

  “Famous last words. How do you know what bothers a bear?”

  “Stop with the fucking bears.”

  We continued on. There wasn’t much traffic going our way, and only a few vehicles passed us going back toward Saranac Lake.

  Kate said, “Tell me why we’re going to the Custer Hill Club.”

  “Standard police procedure. You go to the place where you last heard from the missing subject.”

  “This is a little more complex than a missing-person case.”

  “Actually, it isn’t. The problem with the FBI and the CIA is that they make things more complicated than they need to be.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I need to remind you that we don’t want to alert Madox or anyone there that a Federal agent was on his property.”

  “I think we’ve discussed this. If you were on the Custer Hill property with a broken leg, no cell-phone service, and a bear nibbling on your toes, would you want me to follow orders and wait for a search warrant to look for you?”

  She considered that, then said, “I know that a cop will risk his life and his career to help another cop, and I know you’d do the same for me—though you may be conflicted about my dual role as your wife and as an FBI agent—”

  “Interesting point.”

  “But I think you have another agenda, which is to see what the Custer Hill Club is all about.”

  “What was your first clue?”

  “Well, the stack of airline passenger lists and car-rental contracts in my briefcase, for one. And you inquiring about Global Oil Corporation aircraft, for another.”

  “I just can’t seem to fool you.”

  “John, I agree that we need to push the search for Harry, but beyond that, you’re getting into something that may be a lot bigger than you realize.” She reminded me, “The Justice Department is interested in this man and this club and his guests. Do not screw up their investigation.”

  “Are you speaking as my colleague, my wife, or my lawyer?”

  “All of the above.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Okay, I’ve said my piece because I had to say it and because I really worry about you sometimes. You’re a loose cannon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re also extremely bright and clever, and I trust your judgment and your instincts.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. So, even though I’m technically your superior, I’ll follow your lead on this.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “You’d better not. And I also want to remind you that nothing succeeds like success. If you . . . we . . . go beyond our orders, then we’d better have something to show for it.”

  “Kate, if I didn’t think there was more to this than oil-price rigging, we’d be sitting around the state trooper headquarters now, drinking coffee.”

  She took my hand, and we drove on.

  About forty minutes after we’d left the airport, I saw a sign for Route 56 north, and Kate said, “Bear right.”

  I hit the brakes and reached for my Glock. “Where?”

  “Here. Bear right. Go.”

  “Bear . . . oh . . . bear right. Don’t use that word.”

  “Turn fucking right. Here.”

  I turned onto Route 56 north, and we continued on. This stretch of road was real wilderness, and I said to Kate, “This looks like Indian Country. What’s it say in the brochure about Indians? Friendly?”

  “It says that the peace treaty with the Native American population expires on Columbus Day 2002.”

  “Funny.”

  We drove for about twenty miles, and a brown sign informed us that we were leaving Adirondack State Park.

  Kate said, “The desk sergeant said the Custer Hill Club is on private land inside the park, so we passed it.” She glanced at the Hertz map. “There’s a town called South Colton a few miles up ahead. We’ll stop and ask for directions.”

  I continued on, and a small group of buildings appeared. A sign said: SOUTH COLTON—A SMALL TOWN WITH A BIG CHIP ON ITS SHOULDER, or words to that effect.

  There was a gas station at the edge of the small bump-in-the-road town, and I pulled in and parked. I said to Kate, “You go ask for directions.”

  “John, get off your ass and go ask for directions.”

  “All right . . . you come with me.”

  We got out, stretched, and went inside the small, rustic office.

  A wizened old guy from Central Casting wearing jeans and a plaid shirt sat at a beat-up desk, smoking a cigarette and watching a fly-fishing show on a TV that was on the counter. Reception seemed to be less than optimum, so I moved the rabbit ears for him, and he said, “Right there. That’s good.”

  As soon as I took my hands off the rabbit ears, he lost reception again. One of my jobs as a kid used to be to act as an antenna for the family television, but I was beyond that now, and I said to him, “We need some directions.”

  “I need to get a satellite dish.”

  “Not a bad idea. You can speak directly to the mother ship. We’re looking for—”

  “Where you comin’ from?”

  “Saranac Lake.”

  “Yeah?” He looked us over for the first time, checked out the Taurus outside, and asked, “Where you from?”

  “Earth. Look, we’re running late—”

  “Need gas?”

  “Sure. But first—”

  “Lady need the restroom?”

  Kate answered, “Thank you. We’re headed for the Custer Hill Club.”

  He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Yeah?”

  “Do you know where that is?”

  “Sure do. They gas up here. Don’t do no car work for them. They take their cars up to the dealer in Potsdam. Hell, I forgot more about car repair than those idiots at the dealers ever knew.” He went on, “But if they get stuck in the snow or mud, who do you think they call? The dealer? Hell, no. They call Rudy. That’s me. Why, just last January, or maybe it was February . . . yeah, it was that big snow in mid-month. You remember that?”

  I replied, “I may have been in Barbados. Look, Rudy—”

  “I got a snack machine over there and a Coke machine. You need change?”

  I surrendered. “Yes, please.”

  So we got change, bought some petrified snacks from the machine, plus two Cokes, used the restroom, and got a few gallons of gas.

  Back in the tiny office, I paid for the gas with one of my government MasterCards. Agents carry two credit cards, one for food, lodging, and miscellaneous, and one specifically for gasoline. My gasoline card said CORPORATE, and R AND I ASSOCIATES, which meant nothing, but
nosy Rudy asked, “What’s R and I Associates?”

  “Refrigerators and Ice Makers.”

  “Yeah?”

  I changed the subject and asked him, “You got a local map?”

  “Nope. But I can draw you one.”

  “For free?”

  He laughed and rummaged through a stack of junk mail and found a flyer advertising a moose-wrestling contest or something, and began writing on the back with a pencil. He said, “So, you got to look for Stark Road first, and make a left, but there’s no signs, then you get to Joe Indian Road—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Joe Indian.” He went through it again in case I was stupid, then concluded, “You hit this here loggin’ road with no name, and stay on for about ten mile. Now, you’re looking for McCuen Pond Road on the left, and that takes you right up to the Custer Hill property. Can’t miss it, ’cause you get stopped.”

  “Stopped by who?”

  “The guards. They got a house there and a gate. The whole property got a fence around it.”

  “Okay, thanks, Rudy.”

  “Why you headin’ up there?”

  “We’re doing a service call for the refrigerator. Problem with the ice maker.”

  “Yeah?” He looked at us. “They expectin’ you?”

  “They sure are. They can’t make a cocktail until we fix the ice problem.”

  “They didn’t give you no directions?”

  “They did, but my dog ate them. Okay, thanks—”

  “Hey, you want some advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “I gotta warn you, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get your money up front. They’s slow payin’. That’s the way the rich are. Slow payin’ the workin’ people.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  We left, and I said to Kate, “We’re on Candid Camera. Right?”

  “I’m starting to think so.”

  We got in the car and doubled back on Route 56, entered the park, and kept an eye out for Stark Road.

  I found it and turned onto this narrow road, which ran through a tunnel of trees. “You want some beef jerky?”

  “No, thank you. And don’t litter.”

  I was hungry enough to eat a bear, but I settled for the beef jerky, which was gross. I threw the cellophane wrappers in the rear seat, my contribution to ecology.

  We were close to the Custer Hill Club, and according to Walsh, an air-and-land search was supposed to be under way around the club property, but I didn’t hear any helicopters or fixed-wing aircraft, and I didn’t see any police search vehicles around. This was not a good sign, or it was a very good sign.

  Kate checked her cell phone and said, “I have service now, and I also have a message.”

  She started to retrieve the message, but I said, “We’re out of contact. No messages, no calls.”

  “What if they’ve found Harry?”

  “I don’t want to know either way. We’re going to see Bain Madox.”

  She put her cell phone back in her pocket, then her beeper went off, and so did mine a minute later.

  We followed Rudy’s directions, and within twenty minutes, we turned onto McCuen Pond Road, which was narrow but well paved.

  There was a big sign up ahead that stretched above the road, fixed to two ten-foot poles with floodlights attached. The sign said: THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING—STOP AT GATE AHEAD OR TURN AROUND.

  We passed under the sign, and ahead I could see a clearing where a rustic log house stood behind a closed steel security gate.

  Two men in camouflage fatigues exited the house as though they knew we were coming long before we got to the gate, and I said to Kate, “Motion or sound detectors. Maybe TV cameras, too.”

  “Not to mention those guys are wearing holsters, and one of them is looking at us with binoculars.”

  “God, how I hate private-security guys. Give them a gun and some power, and—”

  “That sign says slow down to five miles an hour.”

  I slowed down and approached the closed gate. Ten feet from the gate was a speed bump and a sign that said: STOP HERE. I stopped.

  The gate, which was electric, slid open a few feet, and one of the guys walked toward our car. I lowered the window, and he came up to me and asked, “How can I help you?”

  The guy was in his thirties, all decked out in military cammies, hat, boots, and gun. He also wore an expression suggesting he was very cool and possibly dangerous if provoked. All he needed to complete the look were sunglasses and a swastika. I said to him, “I’m Federal Agent John Corey, and this is Federal Agent Kate Mayfield. We’re here to see Mr. Bain Madox.”

  This seemed to crack his stone face, and he asked, “Is he expecting you?”

  “If he was, you’d know about it, wouldn’t you?”

  “I . . . Can I see some identification?”

  I wanted to show him my Glock first so he knew he wasn’t the only person carrying, but to be nice, I handed him my credentials and so did Kate.

  He studied both sets of credentials, and I had the feeling he either recognized them as legitimate or was pretending he was well versed in credential recognition.

  I interrupted his perusal of the creds. “I’ll take those back.”

  He hesitated, then handed them to us. I reiterated, “We’re here to see Mr. Madox on official business.”

  “What is the nature of your business?”

  “Are you Mr. Madox?”

  “No . . . but—”

  “Look, fella, you’ve got about ten seconds to do something brilliant. Call ahead if you need to, then open the fucking gates.”

  He looked a little pissed, but kept his cool and said, “Hold on.”

  He went back to the gate, slipped through the opening, and spoke to the other guy. Then they both disappeared into the log gatehouse.

  Kate asked me, “Why do you always need to be confrontational?”

  “Confrontational is when I pull my gun. Argumentative is when I pull the trigger.”

  “Federal agents are trained to be polite.”

  “I missed that class.”

  “What if they don’t let us in? They can refuse us access to private property if we don’t have a search warrant.”

  “Where’s it say that?”

  “It’s actually in the Constitution.”

  “Ten bucks says we get in.”

  “You’re on.”

  The neo-fascist came back to our car and said, “I’m going to ask you to pull up through the gate, and park your car to the right. A Jeep will take you up to the lodge.”

  “Why can’t I take my own car?”

  “It’s for your own safety and security, sir, and because of our insurance policy.”

  “Well, we don’t want to mess with your insurance company. Hey, you have bears on the property?”

  “Yes, sir. Please proceed through the gate and remain in your vehicle until the Jeep arrives.”

  Did this idiot think I was getting out with bears around?

  He signaled to the guy at the gatehouse, and the steel gate slid open.

  I drove into the property and turned onto a gravel patch. The gate slid closed behind us, and I said to Kate, “Welcome to the Custer Hill Club. You owe me ten bucks.”

  She joked, “Twenty says we don’t get out of here alive.”

  A black Jeep with tinted windows approached. It stopped, and two guys wearing holsters and camouflage fatigues got out and came toward us.

  I said, “I need odds.”

  One guy came up to my window and said, “Please exit, and follow me.”

  This seemed like the kind of place where someone would put a tracking device or a bug in your car, so I had no intention of leaving the car there. I said, “I have a better idea. You lead, I’ll follow.”

  He hesitated, then replied, “Follow me closely and stay on the road.”

  “If you stay on the road, I’ll stay on the road.” />
  He went back to the Jeep and turned around, and I followed him up a hill through a cleared field with big rock outcroppings.

  Kate said, “I assume you didn’t want them installing unwanted options in the car.”

  “When you see this level of security, you need to be as paranoid as they are.”

  “You always know how to handle a bad situation that you’ve gotten us into.”

  “Thank you . . . I think.”

  The road was lined with pole lights and I also noticed a series of utility poles running from the tree line across the open field and into the next tree line. The poles carried five wires, and as we passed beneath them, I saw that three of the wires were actually thick cables that must have been major power lines.

  About halfway up the hill, I could see a huge lodge, the size of a small hotel. In the front of the lodge was a tall pole flying the American flag, and below the flag flew a yellow pennant of some sort.

  Beyond the lodge at the top of the hill, I saw a tall tower that looked like a cellular relay tower, which explained why we had reception here, and why Harry should have reception if he was alive and well. I wondered if this tower belonged to the phone company, or to Bain Madox.

  We reached the lodge, in front of which was a gravel parking space where another black Jeep was parked, along with a blue Ford Taurus, like the one I was driving. But this Taurus had an “e” sticker on the rear bumper, which I knew meant it was an Enterprise rental car. So maybe some weekend guests were still here. Also parked was a dark blue van—probably the same one that Betty had mentioned.

  We stopped under the big columned portico, and both guys got out and opened our doors. Kate and I exited, she carrying her briefcase stuffed with airline manifests and car-rental agreements. I made a mental note of the plate number on the Enterprise car, then locked our doors and looked around.

  The area surrounding the lodge was clear for about a half mile on all sides, which made for good views and very good security. Harry would have had a tough time getting close enough to this parking field to photograph plates and people, even if he used the rock formations for cover.

  Also, I’d counted four security guys so far, and I had a feeling there were more. This place was tight, and I was fairly sure now that Harry had walked into a bad situation.

  The Jeep driver said to us, “Please follow me.”