Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “Okay . . . but we need some time to perfect this.”

  “Well, all right . . . let’s say by this time tomorrow night, we go to Tom Walsh with whatever we have. Agreed?”

  I didn’t trust Walsh any longer, so I thought I might have to bend the rules and go directly to my NYPD boss on the Task Force, Captain Paresi.

  “John?”

  “We have a week,” I reminded her.

  “John, we don’t know if the planet has a week.”

  Interesting point. I said, “Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was less than twenty miles to The Point, but the place was so secluded that, despite Schaeffer’s directions and Max’s map, Kate had to call the resort to guide us to the unmarked road.

  I put on my brights and proceeded slowly along a narrow, tree-covered lane that looked like a slightly improved Indian trail.

  Kate said, “This is so pretty.”

  All I could see was a tunnel of trees in my headlights, but to be upbeat—and because I’d booked the place—I said, “I feel close to nature.” About four feet on each side of the car to be precise.

  We reached a rustic gate with an arch made of branches that had been twisted into letters that spelled THE POINT.

  The gate was closed, but there was a speakerphone beside it. I lowered my window and pressed the button, and a distorted voice came out of the speaker like at Jack in the Box. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like a double bacon cheeseburger, large fries, and a Diet Coke.”

  “Sir?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Corey, registered guests.”

  “Yes, sir. Welcome to The Point.”

  The electric gates began to open, and the voice said, “Please proceed to the first building on your left.”

  I drove through the gates, and Kate observed, “That was a little more friendly than the Custer Hill Club.”

  “It better be, for twelve hundred bucks a night.”

  “This was not my idea.”

  “Right.”

  Up ahead was a big wooden structure, and I pulled off the road. We got out, and as we walked up the path, the door opened and a young man waved to us and said, “Welcome. Did you have a good journey?”

  Kate replied, “Yes, thank you.”

  We climbed the steps to the rustic building, and the casually dressed young man said, “I’m Jim.” We all shook hands, setting the tone for our stay in this place, which I guessed was friendly, homey, and probably silly. Jim said, “Come on in.”

  We entered the building, which was the resort office and also a gift shop selling Adirondack artwork and some pricey-looking apparel, which caught Kate’s attention.

  Women, I’ve noticed, are easily distracted by clothing stores, and I was certain that the ladies on the Titanic stopped at the ship’s apparel shop for the Half-Price Sinking Sale on their way to the lifeboats.

  Anyway, we got past the clothing, and we all sat in comfortable chairs around a table. Jim opened our file and said, “Here’s a message for both of you.” He handed me a card on which was written in pen, “Call.” From, “Mr. Walsh.” Time: 7:17 P.M.

  Since I didn’t recall either Kate or I telling Tom Walsh where we were staying, I reasoned that Walsh must have recently learned this from Major Schaeffer. No big deal, but I needed to remind myself that Walsh and Schaeffer were in touch.

  I gave the card to Kate, then glanced at my cell phone and saw there was no service. I asked Jim, “Are you totally out of the cell service area?”

  “It comes and goes. The best service is when you stand in the middle of the croquet field.” He thought that was funny and chuckled, informing me, “Sometimes you get service if you stand at the point.”

  I couldn’t resist and inquired, “What’s the point, Jim?”

  He cleared things up by answering, “Whitney Point on Upper Saranac Lake. It’s here on the property.” Jim cautioned us, “Actually, we discourage the use of cell phones on the property.”

  “Why is that, Jim?”

  “It detracts from the ambience.”

  “Figures. Are there phones in the room?”

  “There are, but you can’t get an outside line.”

  “Why are they there, Jim?”

  “To communicate within the property.”

  “Am I cut off from the world?”

  “No, sir. There is an outside phone in this office, and one in the kitchen of the Main Lodge, which you may use. If anyone calls here—as Mr. Walsh did—we’ll get a message to you.”

  “How? Smoke signals?”

  “By note, or on your room phone.”

  “Okay.” This had an unexpected upside, as well as a downside considering all the calls we needed to make in the next day or two.

  Jim continued with the check-in and said, “Two nights. Correct?”

  “Correct. Where’s the bar?”

  “I’ll get to all that in a moment.” He went through his rap, pushing printed information toward us, along with a souvenir picture book of The Point, a map of the property, and so forth.

  Jim asked me, “How will you be settling your account?”

  “How about a duel?”

  “Sir?”

  Kate said to Jim, “Credit card.” She said to me, “John, why don’t you use your personal card, rather than the corporate card?”

  “My credit card was stolen.”

  “When?”

  “About four years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you replace it?”

  “Because the thief was spending less than my ex-wife.”

  No one else seemed to think this was funny. I gave Jim my government R and I Associates corporate card, and he took an imprint.

  He marked our map with a highlighter, saying, “If you follow this road, past the warming hut and the croquet field, you’ll come to the Main Lodge. Charles will be waiting for you there.”

  “Where’s the bar?”

  “Right across from the Main Lodge, in the Eagle’s Nest. Right here—” He put a big X on the spot. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

  “You, too.”

  We left the office and Kate inquired, “Why do you have to be such a boor?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. Are we going to call Walsh?”

  “Sure. Where’s the croquet field?”

  We got in the car and proceeded down the road, passing the warming hut, whatever the hell that is, then drawing abreast of the croquet field, at which point I asked, “Do you want me to run out there and call Walsh?”

  “No. Charles is waiting.”

  At the end of the road was a big log structure with a front porch—the Main Lodge—from which another young gentleman, dressed in a tie and jacket, was waving to us. I pulled up, and we got out.

  The young fellow bounded down the steps, greeted us, and introduced himself as Charles, adding, “I believe I spoke to Mr. Corey earlier.”

  “You did.”

  He made a joke and said, “We’ve fed the bears.”

  “Great. Can you feed us?”

  I think Charles wanted to feed me to the bears, but he said, “In fact, dinner is being served now, and we’ve set two places for you.” He looked at me and said, “Jacket and tie are required for dinner.”

  “I don’t have either, Charles.”

  “Oh . . . goodness . . . we can loan you a jacket and tie.”

  Funny that Kate’s black jeans passed muster, but I needed a tie and jacket. I said to Charles, “That won’t be necessary. Where’s the bar?”

  He pointed to yet another rustic building about a hundred feet away, and said, “The Pub is right there, sir. There are a number of self-service bars on the property, and all the staff are bartenders, but if you don’t see any staff at any of the bars, please help yourself.”

  “I might like this place.”

  “Please follow me.”

  We followed him up the porch steps and into a rotunda-shaped room, all done up
in Adirondack style, which was starting to get on my nerves.

  Charles said, “This is the entrance foyer to the Main Lodge, which was the home of William Avery Rockefeller.”

  A nanosecond before I could get off a good one, Kate said, “This is a beautiful room.”

  Charles smiled. “It’s all original.”

  Clearly Charles enjoyed the finer things in life. In the middle of the room was a round table, on which sat an urn of flowers and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, with three fluted glasses. Charles popped the cork, poured, and handed us each a glass, then raised his own. “Welcome.”

  I really don’t drink this stuff, but to be polite—and because I needed the alcohol—I clinked and we all drank.

  Charles indicated a small room off the rotunda and said, “Here is a complimentary self-service bar which is open all day and night for your convenience.”

  It was convenient right now, but Charles continued, “And here”—he motioned toward an arched opening in the rotunda—“is the Great Hall.”

  I peeked into the Great Hall, which reminded me of the great hall where we’d sat with Bain Madox. Except in this Great Hall, at the far end, were two large, round dining tables in front of a big roaring fireplace. At each table were about ten ladies and gentlemen, eating and drinking, and though I couldn’t hear them, I was certain they were engaged in witty conversations that bordered on the banal.

  Charles said, “You can access your room, the Mohawk—which by the way was William Avery Rockefeller’s master bedroom—through the Great Hall, but since dinner is being served, you may want to go around to your outside entrance, which I’ll show you in a moment.”

  I suggested, “I think we need a drink first.”

  He nodded. “Of course. If you leave me your keys, we’ll take care of your car and put your luggage in your room.”

  Kate replied, “We don’t have luggage,” and, apparently concerned that Charles was thinking she and I had just met at a truck stop or something, added, “This trip was sudden, and our luggage will be following tomorrow. In the meantime, can you provide us with some sundries? Toothbrushes, a razor, and so forth?”

  “Of course. I’ll have some items delivered to your room.”

  Women are very practical, not to mention concerned about what total strangers think, so, to be a good, loyal husband, I said to Charles, “We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary, and we were so excited, we packed the Bentley, then took the Ford by mistake.”

  Charles processed that, then offered us another champagne, which I declined for both of us. “We’ll be in the Pub,” I said. “Can you get some food over there?”

  “Certainly. If there’s anything else you need, just ask anyone on staff.”

  “How about a room key?”

  “There are no keys.”

  “How do I get in the room?”

  “There are no locks.”

  “How do I keep the bears out?”

  “The doors have inside bolts.”

  “Can a bear—?”

  “John. Let’s get a drink.”

  “Right.” I said to Charles, “My car has a key. Here it is. I need a wake-up call at six A.M.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like breakfast in your room, or in the Great Hall?”

  Kate replied, “I’d like breakfast in the room.”

  We always have this disagreement about room service: I don’t like to eat where I sleep, but women, I’ve noticed, love room service.

  Charles asked us, “Would you like to schedule a massage in your room?”

  I asked, “During breakfast?”

  Kate said, “We’ll see what our schedule looks like tomorrow.”

  “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

  Kate replied, “Not at the moment. Thank you, Charles, you’ve been very helpful.”

  I asked him, “Do you have pigs-in-the-blanket?”

  “Sir?”

  “For the bar.”

  “I’ll . . . ask the chef.”

  “With mustard. I like the crust a little brown.”

  “Yes . . . I’ll let him know.”

  “Ciao.”

  We left the rotunda of the Main Lodge, and I said to Kate, “Wasn’t I nice?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She opened the car and retrieved her briefcase, and we walked the thirty yards to the building called the Eagle’s Nest, in which was the place called the Pub.

  The Pub was yet another rustic room, and a rather nice one at that. It was cozy, with a small fire in the fireplace, and a game and card room that held a pool table, bookshelves, and a stereo system. I noticed there was no television. The pub half of the room had a long bar, behind which were shelves of beautiful liquor bottles, and no bartender. In fact, the place was empty, the guests being at dinner. This was like dying and going to heaven.

  I slid behind the bar and said to Kate, “Good evening, madam. May I offer you a cocktail?”

  She went along with my silliness. “I believe I’ll have a small sherry. No—make that a double Stoli, twist of lemon, two cubes.”

  “Excellent, madam.”

  I set two short glasses on the bar, found the ice, the fruit, the Dewar’s, and the Stoli and, with a bottle in each hand, filled the glasses to the brim.

  We touched glasses and Kate said, “To Harry.”

  “Rest in peace, buddy.”

  Neither of us said anything as we each decompressed from a long, eventful, and very sad day.

  Finally, Kate said, “Should we call Tom?”

  I checked my cell phone again, and there was actually service. “The use of cell phones is discouraged at The Point, madam.”

  “What if it’s important?”

  “Then he’ll call again.”

  I freshened our drinks and said, “If the alcohol is free, how do they expect to make any money on us at twelve hundred dollars a night?”

  She smiled. “Maybe they’re hoping you go to bed early. By the way, you should not have used your government credit card.”

  I replied, “Look at it this way—if the world is coming to an end, what difference does it make?”

  She thought about that but didn’t answer.

  I continued, “And if we save the world, do you think the government is going to make us reimburse them for this place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then what’s my incentive to save the planet?”

  “That’s your job this week.” She sipped her drink and stared into the fire. “Well, if the world is going to end, this is a good place to be.”

  “Right. So is the Custer Hill Club.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you play pool?” I asked.

  “I have played. But I don’t play well.”

  “Sounds like a hustle.” I came around the bar and went to the pool table, where the balls were already racked. I set down my drink, took off my leather jacket, pulled my shirttail out to hide my pancake holster, then I chose a pool stick. “Come on. Let’s play.”

  Kate slid off the bar stool, removed her suede jacket, and pulled her sweater over her holster. She rolled up her sleeves and chose a stick.

  I lifted the rack from the balls, and said to Kate, “Since you’re such a ball breaker, you break.” I actually didn’t say that. I said, “After you, madam.”

  She chalked up, bent over the table, and shot. Good break, but none of the balls went in.

  I ran three balls, then missed an easy shot. I think the scotch was starting to affect my hand-eye coordination. Or maybe I needed another scotch.

  Kate ran three balls, and I could see she’d played this game before.

  I missed another easy shot, and she said, “Are you drunk, or is this a hustle?”

  “I’m just not on my game tonight.”

  She ran another four balls, and I conceded the game and racked up. I said, “Let’s play for five bucks a ball.”

  “
We just did.”

  I smiled and asked her, “Where did you learn to play?”

  She grinned mischievously. “You don’t want to know.”

  The second game was closer because she was getting tipsy.

  I was actually having fun, playing pool with my wife, who looked good leaning over the table, and listening to the fire crackle in a nice, cozy room in the woods with a free bar.

  A young lady entered the Pub carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres, which I helped her set on the bar. She said, “Hi, I’m Amy. Welcome to The Point. Can I make you a drink?”

  “No,” I replied, “but make yourself one.”

  Amy declined my invitation and said, “Here’s a breakfast menu. Just pick what you want, and the time you want it delivered to your room, and call the kitchen.”

  I looked at the tray of sissy hors d’oeuvres and asked Amy, “Where are my pigs-in-the-blanket?”

  She seemed embarrassed as she replied, “The chef—he’s, like, French—says he’s never heard of that.” She added, “I don’t think we have any hot dogs.”

  “Amy, this is America. Tell Pierre—”

  Kate interrupted. “Amy, ask the chef to use breakfast sausage.” She explained helpfully, “Saucisses en croste. With mustard. Okay?”

  Amy repeated the French in an upstate accent, promised to return, and left.

  I said to Kate, “This country is going to hell.”

  “John, give it a rest. Try some of these.” She handed me a smoked salmon, which I refused.

  “I expected real food here. I mean, we’re in the woods. You know, like buffalo steaks, or hunter’s stew . . .” I recalled my phone message to Harry and poured myself another scotch.

  “I know this has been a very tough day for you, John. So, vent, drink, do whatever makes you feel better.”

  I didn’t reply, but I nodded.

  We took our drinks back into the game room. I sat at the card table and Kate sat across from me. I opened a fresh deck of cards and asked her, “Do you play poker?”

  “I have played. But not well.”

  I smiled. “Red chips are a buck. Blue are five bucks. You’re the bank.”

  I shuffled as she gave each of us two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.

  I put the deck in front of her. “Cut.” She did so, and I dealt five-card draw.