Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  I nodded. Interesting observation. I guess if you’re a billionaire looking for security and privacy, you might want to promote the idea that this was a secret government installation disguised to look like a private club. That was as good as sixteen miles of fence. I said, “But now, I assume, everyone understands that this is a private hunting and fishing club.”

  “There are still a few people who think it’s a secret government installation.”

  I could see the advantage to Madox of keeping the mystique alive.

  Major Schaeffer continued, “Look, it’s not illegal to surround your property with a fence and security devices, or to hire private guards, or even to hold a Roman orgy. Rich guys do weirder things than that. Paranoia and weirdness are not illegal.”

  I informed Major Schaeffer, “Paranoia and weirdness are never the endgame.”

  “I agree. But if Bain Madox is involved in some kind of criminal activity, I don’t know about it.” He stared at me. “If you know more than you’re telling me, now’s the time to tell me.”

  “All I was told is that it has to do with oil-price rigging.”

  He considered that for a moment, and I could see he was having the same problems with that bullshit that I’d had when I heard it from Walsh. “So,” he said, “you think Bain Madox, an oil billionaire, murdered a Federal agent who was doing a routine surveillance of arriving guests who might be involved in an oil-price-rigging conspiracy?” He pointed out, “That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah . . . well, if you put it that way—”

  “What other way is there? And what’s the national security angle?”

  I was happy to see that he was paying attention, but I was not happy with that question. This guy was hungry and he needed something to chew on, but I certainly wasn’t going to offer up nuclear tidbits, so I dissembled a bit and said, “Look, Major, oil is more than black sticky stuff. I mean, Bain Madox is not in the garment business, you know? When oil is involved, anything and everything is possible. Including murder.”

  He didn’t reply but kept looking at me.

  I said, “Let’s concentrate on the homicide investigation. If we can implicate Madox, that might lead us to some other things.”

  “All right. Anything else? I need to get to work on this.”

  I glanced at my watch and said, “I’d like to go out to the crime scene now.”

  “It’s too dark. I’ll take you out in the morning.”

  “Can we light it up tonight?”

  “I have the scene secured, and there aren’t any CSI people there, and there’s no rain or snow in the forecast. Call me here at seven A.M., and we’ll work out a visit.”

  “Maybe just a quick look—”

  “You’re on overdrive, Detective. Go take your wife to dinner. You got a place to stay?”

  “Yeah. The Point.”

  “You’re staying at The Point?”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “You guys having trouble spending Federal money? All I got out of Washington were some new radios and a bomb-sniffing dog with allergies.”

  I smiled. “Well, I don’t think terrorism is a big issue here.”

  “Maybe not Arab terrorism, but we have a few homegrown nuts up here.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Is that what your friend was doing here? Checking out right-wing weirdos?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Schaeffer took that as a yes and belatedly informed me, “About ten years ago, when I first got assigned here, some FBI guys came around asking about Bain Madox.”

  That was interesting. “What did they want to know?”

  “They said they were doing a background investigation because Mr. Madox might be appointed to a government job.”

  That was standard bullshit when you were investigating someone for criminal activity, but it could also be true. In the case of Mr. Bain Madox, I could believe he was being considered for a government appointment, and just as easily believe he was being investigated for criminal activity. These days, one did not necessarily preclude the other. I asked Schaeffer, “Did he get the job?”

  “Not that I know of. I think they had something else on their minds.” He asked, “So, what’s this guy up to?”

  “I think he’s looking for a presidential appointment to the U.N. commission on global warming.”

  “Is he for it or against it?”

  I smiled politely and said, “Whatever is good for Bain Madox is good for the planet.”

  Major Schaeffer stood and suggested, “Let’s go find your wife.”

  I stood, and we left the cafeteria and walked toward the lobby. I had a thought and asked him, “Regarding these old rumors, did anyone ever say exactly what kind of secret government facility was being built there?”

  “Are we back to the Custer Hill Club?”

  “Just for a moment.”

  “And this will help with the murder investigation?”

  “Possibly. You never know.”

  He went along. “Well, there were lots of wild guesses about what the government was building.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, let me think—survival training camp, safe house, missile silo, plus a commo school or listening station.” He added, “That’s because of all the electronics and antennas.”

  “Do you get a lot of electronic interference around there?”

  “Nope. Not a squawk. I think the electronics are dead or never used, or on a frequency that we can’t pick up.”

  I wondered if the National Security Agency ever did an electronic scan on the Custer Hill Club. They should have if the Justice Department was suspicious of something.

  Kate was sitting in the lobby, talking on her cell phone, and before we got to her, Schaeffer said, “I’m remembering now that there was a Navy veteran who lived around here, and he was telling everyone that he knew what was going on at the Custer Hill Club, but he wasn’t allowed to say.”

  This sounded like baloney, but I inquired, “Do you remember this guy’s name?”

  “No . . . but I’ll try to find out. Someone will remember.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Yeah . . . I think his name was Fred. Yeah, Fred. And he was saying that what was going on there had to do with submarines.”

  “Submarines? Exactly how deep are these lakes around here?”

  “I’m just telling you what I remember. Sounds like some old sea dog pumping himself up.”

  Kate got off the phone and stood. “Sorry. I was waiting for that call.”

  There were people in the lobby, including the desk sergeant, so Schaeffer said for public consumption, “Sorry again about Detective Muller. Please be assured we’re doing everything possible to get to the bottom of this tragedy.”

  “We appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “You need directions to The Point?”

  “That would be good.”

  He gave us directions and asked, “How long will you be there?”

  “Until we’re fired.”

  “That won’t be long at a thousand bucks a night.” He offered, “If there’s any local stuff I can help you with, let me know.”

  “As a matter of fact . . . do you have any problems with bears around here?”

  Kate rolled her eyes.

  Major Schaeffer informed me, “The Adirondack region is home to the largest black bear population in the East. You are very likely to encounter a bear in the woods.”

  “Yeah? Then what?”

  “Black bears aren’t overly aggressive. They’re curious, though, and intelligent, and they may approach.” He added, “The problem is that the bears equate people with food.”

  “I’m sure they do, when they’re eating you.”

  “I mean that people—campers and hikers—carry food with them, and the bears know that. But they’d rather eat your lunch than eat you. And don’t go near their cubs. The females are very protective of the
ir cubs.”

  “How do I know if I’m near their cubs?”

  “You’ll know. Also, bears become very active after five P.M.”

  “How do they know what time it is?”

  “I don’t know. Just take extra precautions after five P.M. That’s when they’re foraging.”

  “Right. The question is, Will my 9mm Glock stop a bear?”

  “Don’t shoot the bears, Detective.” Major Schaeffer noted, “You have intruded into their territory. Be nice to the bears. Enjoy the bears.”

  Kate said, “Excellent advice.”

  I didn’t think so.

  Schaeffer concluded his bear talk with, “I haven’t had to deal with a fatal bear attack in years—just a few maulings.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  Schaeffer told us, “There is a pamphlet about bears on that table over there. You should read it.”

  If the fucking bears were so intelligent and curious, they should read it, too.

  Kate found the pamphlet, then handed Major Schaeffer her card. “That’s my cell number.”

  We all shook hands, and Kate and I left the building and walked through the lit parking lot.

  Kate said to me, “I don’t want to hear anything more about bears. Ever.”

  “Just read me the pamphlet.”

  “You read the pamphlet.” She shoved it in my coat pocket. “Did Schaeffer say anything interesting?”

  “Yeah . . . the Custer Hill Club is a secret naval submarine facility.”

  “Submarine? Is that what Schaeffer said?”

  “No. That’s what Fred said.”

  “Who’s Fred?”

  “I don’t know. But Fred knows more than we do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  We got to the car, and I slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out to the road.

  As I drove through Ray Brook, Kate asked, “Tell me what Major Schaeffer said.”

  “I will. But now I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About something that Schaeffer said.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to remember . . . it was something that made me think of something else—”

  “What?”

  “I can’t remember. Here’s an intersection.”

  “Bear—turn left. Do you want me to drive while you think?”

  “No, stop bugging me. I shouldn’t have said anything. You always do this.”

  “No, I don’t. If you tell me everything that you and Schaeffer discussed, it will come to you.”

  “All right.” I turned onto Route 86, which was dark and empty, and as I drove, I related my conversation with Schaeffer. Kate is a good listener, and I’m a good reporter of the facts when I want to be. But facts and logic are not the same thing, and I couldn’t recall the word associations that had illuminated something in my brain.

  When I finished, Kate asked me, “Did it come to you?”

  “No. Change the subject.”

  “Okay. Maybe that will help. Do you think the Custer Hill Club is or ever was a government facility?”

  “No. This is Bain Madox’s show from beginning to end. Think Dr. No.”

  “Okay, Mr. Bond, so you think this is more than a hunting lodge, and even more than a place where possible conspirators meet?”

  “Yeah . . . there seems to be a whole . . . like, technological level there that is not consistent with the stated purpose of the place. Unless maybe, as Madox said to us, his wife meant it to be a refuge in case of an atomic war.”

  “I think that was just part of his smoke screen—a logical explanation for what he knew we would eventually hear about the construction of that place twenty years ago.” She added, “He’s very sharp.”

  “And you seem especially sharp and bright this evening.”

  “Thank you, John. And you seem unusually dull and dim.”

  “This mountain air is clouding my brain.”

  “Apparently. You should have pressed Major Schaeffer more on some of these points.”

  I responded with a little edge in my voice, “I was doing the best I could to get his voluntary cooperation. But it’s not easy questioning another cop.”

  “Well, when you sent me out of the room, I just assumed you guys would bond and spill your guts to each other.”

  The words “fuck you” popped into my mind, but that’s how fights start. I said, “You and I will press him a little more tomorrow, darling.”

  “Maybe you should have told him what we found written in Harry’s pocket.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, first, it’s the right thing to do, and second, he may know what elf means.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “When are we going to share this information?”

  “We don’t need to. Your FBI colleagues are so fucking brilliant, they’ll find it themselves. If they don’t, the state police will. If they don’t, well then, we’ll just ask Bain Madox what mad, nuk, and elf mean.”

  “Maybe we should. He knows.”

  “Indeed, he does . . . Wait! I got it!”

  She turned in her seat. “What? You know what it means?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. The other words—mad and nuk—were obviously abbreviations for Madox and nuclear. But elf is an acronym.”

  “For what?”

  “For what Harry thought about Bain Madox—Evil Little Fuck.”

  She settled back in her seat and said, “Asshole.”

  We drove on in silence, each of us deep in our own thoughts.

  Finally, Kate said, “There is that group called Earth Liberation Front. ELF.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Our domestic section deals with them.”

  “Yeah?”

  “ELF has been responsible for what we call eco-terrorism. They’ve burned construction projects to save the land, they’ve put steel spikes in trees to destroy chain saws, and they’ve even planted bombs on the hulls of oil tankers.”

  “Right. So, you think Madox is going to plant a nuclear device at the next ELF meeting?”

  “I don’t know . . . but there may be some connection there . . . ELF . . . oil . . . Madox . . .”

  “You forgot nuke.”

  “I know . . . I’m just trying to make a connection, John. Help me with this.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Bain Madox, who claims he helped defeat the Soviet Empire, is now reduced to battling a handful of tree huggers and women with hairy legs.”

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Well, that’s better than Evil Little Fuck.”

  “Not much.”

  Scattered clouds scudded past a bright orange half-moon, and leaves swirled in the headlight beams.

  We were still within the boundaries of the state park preserve, but this area seemed to be a mixture of public and private land, and there were houses scattered along the highway. I noticed a lot of seasonal displays on the front lawns—cornstalks, pumpkins, and so forth. There were also some Halloween displays—witches, skeletons, vampires, and other assorted creepy stuff. Autumn was starkly beautiful and deliciously grim.

  I asked Kate, “Do you like autumn?”

  “No. Autumn is darkness and death. I like spring.”

  “I like autumn. Do I need help?”

  “Yes, but you know that.”

  “Right. Hey, I learned a poem in high school. Want to hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay . . .” I cleared my throat and recited from memory, “‘Now it is autumn and the falling fruit/and the long journey towards oblivion . . . Have you built your ship of death, O have you?’”

  She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “That’s morbid.”

  “I like it.”

  “See someone when we get back.”

  We drove in silence, then Kate turned on the radio, which was set to a country-western station. Some cowgirl with a twang was singing, “How can I miss you if you don’t leave?”

 
; I said, “Do you mind turning that off? I’m trying to think.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Kate? Darling? Hello?”

  “John . . . radio communication.”

  “Say what?”

  “There’s UHF—ultra high frequency, VLF—very low frequency . . . and so forth. Isn’t there an extremely low frequency? ELF?”

  “Holy shit.” I glanced at her. “That’s it—that’s what I was trying to remember. Radio antennas at Custer Hill . . .”

  “Do you think this means that Madox is communicating with someone on an ELF frequency?”

  “Yeah . . . I think Harry was saying, Tune in to ELF.”

  “But why ELF? Who uses the ELF band? Military? Aviation?”

  “I really don’t know. But whoever uses it, it can be monitored.”

  She pointed out, “I’m sure if Madox is receiving or transmitting, it’s not in the clear. It’s voice scrambled or encrypted.”

  “Right. But the NSA should be able to crack any encryption.”

  “Who would he be communicating with and why?”

  “I don’t know. Meanwhile, we need to find out about ELF radio waves. Hey, maybe that’s why everyone around here seems so weird. ELF waves. There are voices in my head. Someone is telling me to kill Tom Walsh.”

  “Not funny, John.”

  We drove on through the dark night, then I said, “Bain Madox, nuclear, extremely low frequency. I think everything we need to know is contained in those words.”

  “I hope so. We don’t have much else.”

  I suggested, “Why don’t we go to the Custer Hill Club and torture the information out of Madox?”

  “I’m not sure the FBI director would approve of that.”

  “I’m serious. What if this asshole is planning a nuclear event? Wouldn’t that justify me beating the shit out of him until he talks?”

  “It’s the ‘What if’ that bothers me. And even if we knew with ninety-nine-percent certainty . . . we just don’t do things like that. We don’t do that.”

  “We will. The next time we’re attacked again—especially if it’s nuclear—we will start beating the shit out of suspects.”

  “God, I hope not.” She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, “We need to report everything we’ve heard, learned, and guessed at. Let the Bureau take it from there.” She added, “We don’t need to carry this ourselves.”