Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  He smiled and replied, “Bet on fifty dollars a barrel as we get closer to the war in Iraq.” He added, “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He seemed to want to talk, which was fine with me, and he drew our attention to a wall where about two dozen bronze plaques were mounted, each bearing a name and a date.

  He said, “These are some of the men I served with and their dates of death. The earlier dates are those who died in Vietnam, the later ones died in one war or another since then, and some died natural deaths.” He moved closer to the plaques and said, “I built this place partly as a memorial to them, partly as a reminder of our beginnings at the Custer Hill Officers Club, and partly as a place to gather on Veterans Day and Memorial Day for those of us still around.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Kate said, “That’s very nice.”

  Bain Madox continued to stare at the names, then turned to us. “Also, when I built this place, it was the height of the Cold War, and you might remember that the news media was trying to whip the country into a state of hysteria about Reagan leading us to nuclear Armageddon.”

  I said, “Yeah, I remember that. They had me going for a while. I was buying canned chili and beer by the case.”

  Madox smiled politely and continued, “Well, I never thought we were going to have a nuclear exchange—not with Mutually Assured Destruction—but the idiots in the media and Hollywood had us all dead and buried.” He added, “Basically, they’re a bunch of old ladies.”

  “That’s an insult to old ladies.”

  He went on, “Anyway, I suppose that was on my mind when I decided to build this place. I know it was on my wife’s mind.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Is she a Democrat or something?”

  “She’s a card-carrying consumer.”

  “So,” I asked, “you have a fallout shelter here?”

  “I do. A totally useless expense, but that’s what she wanted.”

  “Well,” I said, “fallout is tricky stuff.”

  “Fallout is overrated.”

  I’d never heard radioactive fallout described in quite that way, and for a moment I thought I was speaking to Dr. Strangelove.

  Madox glanced at a Black Forest cuckoo clock on the wall and said to us, “I’d show you around, but I’m sure you have other stops to make.”

  I reminded him, “We’ll be back tomorrow at first light.”

  He nodded and moved toward the door.

  I said, “Great painting of the Little Bighorn.”

  “Thank you. It’s very old, artist unknown, and I don’t think it’s an accurate representation of the final moments of that battle.”

  “Who would know? They all died.”

  “The Indians didn’t all die.”

  I wanted to tell him my joke, but I could feel Kate’s eyes on me. “Well, they were foolhardy, but brave.”

  “More foolhardy than brave, I’m afraid.” He added, “I was in the Seventh Cavalry. Custer’s regiment.”

  “You don’t look that old, or—” I nodded toward the painting.

  “In Vietnam, Mr. Corey. The regiment still exists.”

  “Oh . . . right.”

  He stood by the door, and there was a moment of almost awkward silence. This is where I usually spring something on the suspect, leaving him or her to a bad night’s sleep. But in truth, I had no more arrows in my quiver, to use an apt metaphor, and I was really unsure if Bain Madox had anything to do with Harry’s disappearance, so I said to him, “Thank you for your time and help.”

  “I’ll send my men out immediately,” he replied. “Meanwhile, if the air search comes up with anything, have the state police call that security guard number, and I’ll get some people on the ground where the helicopters have lit up the area. If we’re lucky, we may find this man tonight.”

  “I think some prayers might help, too.”

  Madox commented, “As long as it’s above freezing, a person can survive in the woods for weeks if he’s not badly hurt.”

  He opened the door, and we all went out onto the veranda. I noticed that the Enterprise rental car that had been there was gone.

  I said to him, “I want to thank you for your service to our country.”

  He nodded.

  Kate said, “Yes, thank you.”

  Madox replied, “And you’re both serving in a different way, in a different war. I thank you for that. This may be the toughest fight we’ve ever had. Stay with it. We will prevail.”

  “We will,” Kate said.

  “We will,” Mr. Madox agreed, and added, “I hope I live long enough to see a permanent condition Green.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We got into our Taurus and followed the black Jeep downhill toward the gate.

  We didn’t speak while we were inside the property in case there were directional listening devices, but we did turn on our cell phones and beepers, which indicated that Kate had two messages, and I had none.

  The dashboard clock said it was 4:58 P.M., so Tom Walsh should still be in his office defending Western Civilization for another two minutes.

  At the guardhouse, the Jeep pulled to the side, and the gate slid open. As we exited the property, I could see two guards through a window of the house, and one of them was videotaping us. I leaned toward Kate’s window and saluted with my middle finger.

  McCuen Pond Road lay in shadow, and I turned on my headlights so I could spot the bears sooner. I asked Kate, “Well, what are your thoughts?”

  She stayed silent awhile, then replied, “He’s charming in a spooky sort of way.”

  One of the more interesting things in life is hearing a woman’s thoughts on a man you’ve both met. Men that I find ugly, she finds good-looking; men I find slimy, she finds sociable; and so forth. In this case, however, I sort of agreed with Kate.

  She said, “I think he liked you.” She added, “Don’t take this wrong, but he sort of reminded me of you.”

  “How’s that, darling?”

  “Well, the self-confidence and the . . . for want of a better expression, the male macho bullshit.”

  “Good expression. More important, does he know more about Harry than he’s telling us?”

  “I don’t know . . . His whole demeanor seemed almost nonchalant.”

  I replied, “The sign of a sociopath and narcissist.”

  “Yes, but sometimes the sign of a person who has nothing to hide.”

  “He has something to hide, even if it’s only oil-price rigging. That’s why the Justice Department is interested in him.”

  “True, but—”

  “And yet,” I said, “he invites us in without his lawyer present.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “He wants to know what we know, and he can learn that by the questions we ask him.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “And how about that story of the Custer Hill Club?”

  She nodded. “What a story. It’s really amazing if you think about it . . . I mean, these young officers, staying in touch, some of them getting rich and powerful . . . and Bain Madox building that lodge.”

  “Yeah. What’s more amazing is that he actually admitted to us that this group is or was some sort of secret society that somehow influenced events on the world stage during the Cold War. Including engaging in illegal activities.”

  She thought a moment, then replied, “He wants to sound important and powerful . . . guys do that . . . but if any of that is true, then it puts a whole different light on the Custer Hill Club.” She pointed out, “He raised some suspicions he didn’t need to raise.”

  “He may have thought we already knew about the history of the club.”

  “Or,” Kate said, “it’s past history and he’s proud of it, like he’s proud of his Vietnam service. I don’t know . . . but then he said he was a little involved with the war on terrorism.”

  “Right. Th
at’s like being a little pregnant.” I said, “As I suspected, there’s more to this group than meets the eye. There’s a political element here, and in today’s world, Mr. Madox’s oil mixes well with politics.”

  “It always did.”

  I changed the subject back to our immediate concern. “So, did Madox have anything to do with Harry’s disappearance?”

  She stayed quiet, then said, “The one thing that bothered me was his stalling . . . like he was waiting for Harry to . . . turn up.”

  I nodded and said, “That would take the heat off him.” I added, “I have this bad feeling that Harry is going to turn up soon, and not on Bain Madox’s property.”

  Kate nodded silently, then said, “I need to check my phone messages.” She listened to them and said to me, “Tom, twice. He says I need to call him ASAP.”

  I wondered why Walsh had called her and not me, too.

  She checked her beeper and said, “Tom, twice.”

  “He’s a persistent little shit, isn’t he?”

  “He’s not . . . What is your problem with authority?”

  “My problem is with supervisors who bullshit me and expect loyalty in return. The essence of loyalty is reciprocity. If you’re loyal to me, I’ll be loyal to you. Bullshit me, and I’ll bullshit you. That’s the contract.”

  “Thank you for sharing that. Now, I’ll call our supervisor while you give your undivided attention to the road. Drive slowly so we don’t run out of cell-phone coverage.”

  I eased up on the gas and said, “Put it on speakerphone.”

  She dialed, and Walsh’s voice came through her phone. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

  Kate replied, without bullshit, “We interviewed Bain Madox at the Custer Hill Club.”

  “What? I specifically told you—was this your idiot husband’s idea?”

  I cut in. “Hi, Tom. Idiot husband here.”

  Silence, followed by, “Corey, you have really screwed up this time.”

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  He was not a happy man and almost shouted, “You totally disobeyed my orders. You’re history, mister.”

  Kate seemed a little ruffled, and said, “Tom, we’ve gotten permission from Madox to conduct a search on his land at first light. Meanwhile, he promised to begin a search with his security staff immediately.”

  No reply, and I thought the call was dropped or Tom was having a seizure or something. I said to Kate, “Do you want some of these Cheez-Its?”

  Kate asked, “Tom? Are you there?”

  His voice came through the phone, and he said, “I’m afraid we don’t need to continue the search.”

  Neither of us responded, and I felt my stomach tighten. I already knew what he was going to say, but I didn’t want to hear it.

  Tom Walsh informed us, “The state police have found the body of a man that they’ve tentatively identified by the contents of his wallet and photo ID as Harry Muller.”

  Again, neither of us said anything, then Tom Walsh said, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  I pulled off to the side of the road, took a deep breath, and asked Walsh, “What are the details?”

  “Well, about three-fifteen this afternoon, the state police regional headquarters in Ray Brook . . . where you are supposed to be . . . got an anonymous call from a man who said he was hiking in the woods and saw a body lying on a trail. He said he approached the body, determined that the man was dead, apparently from a gunshot wound, then ran back to his vehicle, drove to a park emergency phone, and called the police.” He added, “The man would not give his name.”

  I thought about that, and I thought I knew the man’s name. I was an expert rifleman in the Army.

  Walsh went on, “This man gave a fairly accurate description of the location, and within half an hour, the state and local police, using search dogs, found the body. A further search discovered Harry’s camper about three miles south of where the body was found, so it appears that Harry was heading toward the Custer Hill Club, about three miles further north of the trail.”

  I said, “That doesn’t comport with Harry’s phone call to his girlfriend.”

  “Well, I played that message again, and Harry said, quote, ‘I’m on-duty, near the right-wing loony lodge.’” Walsh said, “You can’t take that to mean he was within sight of or very near the Custer Hill property.”

  This man was obviously not a detective. “Tom,” I said, “it doesn’t make sense that he’d park his camper six miles away, then call his girlfriend at seven forty-eight A.M., then begin hoofing it through the woods. It would take him almost two hours just to get to the fence, and I assume he was supposed to be at or near Custer Hill at first light. But if we believe this scenario, then he wouldn’t have arrived until almost ten A.M. You following me on this, Tom?”

  He didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “Yes, but—”

  “Good. And while you’re at it, get a triangulation on Harry’s cell-phone call to his girlfriend. That will tell you where he was when he called.”

  “Thank you, I know that. The phone company is working on it. But other than the cell tower at the Custer Hill Club, there may not be any other towers close enough to get a triangulation.”

  “How did you know about that cell tower on the Custer Hill property?”

  There were a few seconds of silence, then he said, “I just got that from the phone company. We should know more in an hour or so, but I have to tell you, even if he was near the Custer Hill property when he called his girlfriend, it doesn’t mean he entered the property. He may have gotten spooked by something and was headed back toward his camper when he was shot. You know, there’s always two or more ways to look at evidence.”

  “Really? I’ll have to remember that. And by the way, sometimes a little common sense goes a long way.”

  “Federal prosecutors don’t care about common sense. They want the evidence to speak for itself. This evidence does not.”

  “Well, then, we need more evidence. Tell me about the gunshot wound.”

  “The gunshot wound entered his upper torso from the rear, and I’m told it probably severed his spinal column, and exited through his heart. No bullet recovered yet. Death was probably instantaneous . . . I spoke to Major Schaeffer, and he assures me there was no indication that Harry lingered . . . he apparently died where he fell.” He added, “There was cash in his wallet, and he had his watch, gun, credentials, video camera, digital camera, and so forth, so according to the state police, it appears to have been a hunting accident.”

  I can still drop a deer at two hundred yards. I replied, “That’s what it’s supposed to look like.”

  Walsh didn’t comment.

  I said, “Obviously we need to look at what’s on his cameras.”

  “Already done. There’s nothing on the videotape or the digital disk.”

  I said, “Get the tape and disks to our lab and see if anything was erased.”

  “That’s being done.”

  Kate asked him, “How soon can we get an autopsy report?”

  “The body is being transported to the county morgue in Potsdam for a positive identification using photo and fingerprints on file from FBI Headquarters. I have instructed that the autopsy not be done there—this is too important to leave to a local medical examiner. I’m having the body flown here to Bellevue tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Good move. Fax me a copy of the autopsy and toxicology report.”

  “Toxicology could take four to six days.”

  “Two or three, on an expedited basis. Also, get word to Bellevue to look for signs of foul play. Drugging, bruises, signs of rope or handcuff marks on the skin, and trauma other than the gunshot wound. Also, the time of death is very important.”

  “You may find this difficult to believe, but the New York City medical examiner, the state police, and the FBI do this for a living.”

  I ignored that and continued, “Also, have a state police investiga
tor at the morgue ASAP to witness the removal of the clothing and personal effects. He or she needs to look for signs that the clothing or personal effects were tampered with in any way.”

  “There’s someone from the State Bureau of Investigation on their way to the morgue. Plus we have two agents coming from Albany. We’re going to get involved with this investigation because it was a Federal agent on assignment who was killed.”

  “Good. And also make sure the state police and the FBI do a complete crime-scene investigation and look for witnesses. You need to assume a homicide was committed.”

  “I understand, but it could also be what it appears to be—an accident. This happens all the time up there. Meanwhile, if you were where you were supposed to be, you’d be where you need to be to give your expert advice on how to conduct this autopsy and investigation.”

  “Tom, fuck you.”

  “I know you’re upset, so I’ll ignore that—once.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He ignored it a second time and asked, “Where are you now?”

  Kate replied, “We’ve just left the Custer Hill Club.”

  Walsh said, “Well, not only did you waste your time there but you also tipped off Bain Madox that he is under surveillance.”

  Kate came to my defense. “John handled it very well. If Madox didn’t know he was under surveillance, he still doesn’t know. If he already knew, then it’s a moot point.”

  Walsh said, “The real point is, you weren’t supposed to be there under any circumstances. What good did you do by going there? John?”

  I replied, “I was on a mission of mercy, Tom. I got what I wanted—permission to conduct a search. Okay, we don’t need a search anymore, though I’m ready to do it anyway just to mess with Bain Madox.”

  “That’s not going to happen. Now that you’ve paid him a visit, we are obligated by law to inform him that the person in question has been found off his property.”

  “Don’t be too quick with that information.”

  “John, I’m not messing around with this timeline. This guy is not your average Joe Citizen. He’ll be brought up-to-date by a phone call by a state or local law enforcement officer within the hour.”

  “Let me discuss that with Major Schaeffer first.”