“Kate, I don’t think we have enough information yet to buy a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“I think we do.”
“No, I think there are people in Washington who know at least as much as we do right now.”
“Then why did they send Harry to do surveillance on the Custer Hill Club?”
Good question. And several answers came to mind. “Well, maybe it had to do with this weekend gathering. But beyond that, I don’t know.”
“John, I think Harry accomplished his assignment. I think they wanted him to get caught.”
So did I, and now, so did Kate. I said, “Seems that way.”
“But why would they want him to get caught?”
“That’s the big question. A possible answer is to signal to Bain Madox that he is under the eye. They certainly didn’t expect Madox to murder the surveillance person he’d caught.”
“Why would the Justice Department and the FBI want Madox to know he was under surveillance?”
“Sometimes, in police work, you use surveillance to shake up a suspect. Sometimes, with rich and powerful people, you use it as a courtesy, or a warning. You know, like, cease and desist before you put us all in a bad situation.”
Kate stood and came closer to me. She said, “It could have been you.”
Actually, I hope I would have had the brains to scrub the assignment as soon as I got a close look at the situation. Harry, on the other hand, was a simple soul who always put too much trust in the bosses, and who followed orders.
She asked me, “If you’re right, do you think this surveillance has frightened Madox into abandoning whatever he’s up to?”
“I think a man like Madox doesn’t frighten very easily. He’s a man with a mission, and he’s already committed at least one murder on his way to completing that mission.”
“One that we know of.”
“Right. And I’m fairly sure that what happened this weekend had the opposite effect of what Washington hoped for. In fact, Bain Madox’s timeline has been shortened to about twenty-four hours, give or take a few hours.”
“It may just be that he knows the game is up and he’s planning to flee the country. That’s what most people would do.”
“I’m really convinced he’s not like most people. But check out where his jets are.”
She nodded and said, “Okay, but if you really think he’s going ahead with whatever he’s planned, and if you don’t want to go back to the city, then we need to get to the closest Federal attorney and ask for a search warrant for the Custer Hill Club.”
“Sweetheart, I think the only warrant you’re going to find at a Federal courthouse is an arrest warrant for Kate Mayfield and John Corey.”
“Then let’s go to Schaeffer and see if he can get the local D.A. to get a search warrant.”
“Kate, no one is going to issue any warrant with Bain Madox’s name on it based on what you or I tell them. We need to get more evidence.”
“Such as?”
“Well, obviously some hair and fibers from the Custer Hill lodge that will match what was found on Harry’s body and clothes. That’s the connecting forensic evidence that’s required to link Madox’s lodge to Harry, and Harry to Madox, who was at the lodge.”
“All right . . . but how do you get fibers from the Custer Hill Club without a search warrant?”
“The same way I’d do it if I was investigating the murder of John Doe, who I believed was last seen alive at the house of Joe Smith.”
“What do you mean . . . ?”
“I’m going to the Custer Hill Club to pay a visit to Mr. Madox.”
“I don’t want you to go there.”
“Why not? This is what I’d do at this stage of any other homicide investigation. We’re running out of clues and leads at this point, so I need to go back to the prime suspect and talk to him.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Actually, you’re not. I need you here to work the details that we’ll need to build the case . . . the stuff we’ll need to get a search warrant.” Actually, the time was running out for that, but it sounded good.
“No,” she said firmly. “You are not going there alone.” She looked at me. “It could be dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous. This is not Dracula’s Castle. I’m a Federal agent making some inquiries.”
“He’s already killed one Federal agent.”
Good point. But I replied, “And he probably regrets it. If he doesn’t, he will later.” I walked back into the sitting area and put on my leather jacket.
Kate followed and also put on her jacket.
This was one of those moments that called for just the right combination of firmness and tenderness. I took her in my arms and said, “I need you here. We’re a little short on manpower today. I can really handle this myself.”
“No.”
“I think I have a better chance of getting in to see him if I’m alone.”
“No.”
“I’ll check in with Schaeffer’s surveillance team at the intersection. Okay? I’ll tell them to give me an hour, and if I’m not out by then, they should send in the cavalry. Okay?”
That seemed to do the trick, and she appeared less insistent that she go with me.
I concluded with, “Keep in touch with Schaeffer. Also, call The Point and see who’s looking for us. Tell them we’re shopping in Lake Placid, and if Mr. Griffith calls, he should meet us downtown. And remind Jim that Sonny DeMott was going to loan me a tie and jacket for dinner.”
“He was?”
“I’m sure he would. Just bullshit them.” I added, “Pretend you’re me.”
She smiled, then said, “I want you to turn on your cell phone.”
“Kate, no cell phones. You turn that thing on, and Liam Griffith will be at this door within an hour.”
“John . . . this is not the way we work.”
“Now and then, sweetheart, you have to stretch the rules a little.”
“Now and then? You did this on the last case.”
“I did? Well, it turned out okay. Meanwhile, see if you can get a pizza delivered.”
We went to the door, and Kate said, “Be careful.”
“No anchovies.”
We smooched, and off I went to Dracula’s Castle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ifound a convenience store on the outskirts of Canton. Or maybe it was downtown Canton. Hard to tell.
Anyway, I went in and bought what I needed for my mission, which was a package of Drake’s Ring Dings with cream inside, and one of those little sticky lint rollers.
The checkout guy gave me a shortcut back to Colton, a distance of about thirty miles. I also asked him where the sporting-goods store was, and he gave me directions.
I got back in the car and thought about my next move. It was a little after 1:00 P.M., which meant I should be at the Custer Hill gatehouse before 2:00 if I didn’t stop to pick up a box of 9mm rounds and a few extra magazines. I mean, if I was going to blow Madox’s brains out, I had more than enough ammo in my fifteen-round magazine, plus one in the chamber.
On the other hand, if I needed to shoot my way out of there, I was possibly a few rounds short. Bottom line with ammunition is that it’s always better to have more than you need, because if you have less than you need, things didn’t usually work out well.
Also, I probably shouldn’t have done an ammo check with Kate, who may have been wondering if I was planning an assault on the Custer Hill Club. I wasn’t sure about that myself, but it was an option.
Anyway, I decided that my first order of business should be to get to the Custer Hill Club and see what, if anything, Madox was up to. If I needed more ammo, I knew Madox had plenty of guns lying around.
I began driving, and I turned on the radio and listened to a talk show in French, live from Quebec.
I had no idea what they were saying, but everyone seemed really worked up about something, and I could pick out the words “Iraq,” “Amer
ica,” “Bush,” and “Hussein.”
The melodious French language was giving me a headache, so I scanned the channels, trying to find a news channel that might mention the hunting accident, but all I got were DJs and local commercials. I locked in to a country-western station, and Hank Williams was wailing “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Why I like this music is a mystery to me and a secret I don’t share with many people.
The weather was still good, and the country road was decent and lightly traveled, so I was making good time.
I opened the Ring Dings and sharked the first one, then savored the second. Truly an exploration of chocolate.
I noodled while I drove and listened to Hank singing “Hey, Good Lookin’.”
First, Kate was safe enough back in Wilma’s B&B if she didn’t get an attack of duty, honor, and country, and call Walsh or Griffith.
Ms. Mayfield is a bit more savvy than she seems, and I hoped that she was in her post-9/11 mind-set, and understood that something very odd was going on in New York and Washington, and that she shouldn’t be calling anyone about that.
Second, the last time I checked with Major Schaeffer, he was on our side. But that could change very quickly. Or maybe he never really was on our side. If a state trooper pulled me over in my Enterprise rental car, I’d have the answer to that before I got to the Custer Hill Club.
Third, Tom Walsh. He really wasn’t clued in to whatever was going on, and now he was probably in trouble for sending the absolutely most wrong agents up here to work the case of the missing Harry Muller. Well, if he was in deep shit, he got what he deserved. On the other hand, he’d originally wanted me here in place of Harry. What was that all about?
Fourth, Liam Griffith, the Enforcer. I recalled that he was a friend of my enemy, the happily departed Ted Nash, CIA officer, so, as the Arabs would say, Any friend of my enemy is my enemy. Especially if they’re both assholes. I needed to avoid this guy until I had the power to take him down.
And last but not least, Mr. Bain Madox, who had apparently once tried to start a thermonuclear war to see how it turned out. I mean, this was so far off the chart that I had trouble grasping it. But all the little pieces that I’d seen for myself, including meeting the gentleman, seemed to point in that direction. I thought maybe Madox had watched too many James Bond movies during his formative years, and related too well to the sicko villains.
Bain Madox, however, was not some movie bad guy with a foreign accent; he was an all-American boy, a war hero, and a success story. Sort of like Horatio Alger with a thermonuclear death wish.
But as my therapist would say, if I had one, “John, the thermonuclear-war thing is in the past, and we need to move on.” Right. The problem now was to figure out what Bain was doing in that big house to turn his past failure into success.
I got off the back road at Colton, headed south on 56, and entered the sleepy hamlet of South Colton. And there was Ratso Rudy chewing the fat with some guy in a pickup truck.
I couldn’t resist, so I pulled into the station. “Hey, Rudy!”
He saw me and ambled over to the car. I said, “I’m lost again.”
“Yeah? Hey, how you doin’?” He observed, “You got a new car.”
“No, this is the same one.”
“You sure? You had a Taurus yesterday.”
“I did? Hey, did you see Mr. Madox last night?”
“Well, yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. He didn’t want to see me.”
“He told me he did.”
“You sure?”
“That’s what he said.” I added, “Sorry about telling him you said I should get the money up front.”
“Yeah . . . I tried to explain that to him, but he thought that was funny for some reason.”
“Yeah? What else did he say?”
“Well . . . he said you was pulling my leg. He said you was a wise guy. And a troublemaker.”
“Me? Is that the thanks I get for fixing his ice maker?”
“He said there was nothing wrong with his ice maker.”
“Who are you going to believe? Me or him?”
“Well . . . it don’t matter.”
“The truth matters.” I asked, “Does he still have houseguests?”
Rudy shrugged. “Didn’t see nobody. But there was a car out front of his house, and I thought it was you. Blue Taurus.”
“I have a white Hyundai.”
“Yeah, now you do. But yesterday you had a blue Taurus.”
“Right. Hey, did anybody from Madox’s place stop in for gas today?”
“Nope. You need gas?”
“No, this thing burns rice wine. Did anybody stop here and ask you for directions to his place?”
“Nope . . . Well, a guy came in from Potsdam, and wanted to check my map.”
“Why?”
“He had these directions to the Custer Hill place, and he wanted to check them out. I told him he wasn’t going to find it on my wall map, so I checked his directions and gave him some landmarks to look for.”
There are different ways to ask nosy questions, and I inquired, “Was he a tall, thin guy with a handlebar mustache, driving a red Corvette?”
“No, he was a repair guy from Potsdam Diesel.”
This caught me by surprise, and I was nearly at a loss for words. “Oh . . . right. Charlie from Potsdam Diesel. The generator guy.”
“Yeah. But I think his name was Al . . . Yeah. This is the time of year you need to get the generator checked. Last November . . . maybe December, we got this ice storm out of nowhere. Lines down all over the—”
“Right . . . so, is Al still there?”
“Don’t know. That was maybe a hour ago. Didn’t see him go by. Why? You lookin’ for this guy?”
“No . . . just . . .”
“Where you headin’?”
“Huh?”
“You said you was lost.”
“No . . .” I asked Rudy, “Did you give Mr. Madox my message? The one about me being a good shot?”
Rudy looked a little uncomfortable. “Yeah . . . he didn’t think that was so funny.”
“Yeah? What did he say?”
“Not much. Just asked me to say it again.”
“Okay . . . good. So . . . I’ll see you later.”
I got back on the road and headed toward the Custer Hill Club.
Potsdam Diesel.
The generators were about to be fired up, and soon the transmitter would be warming up and the antenna would be humming, sending ELF waves deep into the bowels of the Earth. And someplace on this screwed-up planet was a receiver that was going to pick up those signals.
Holy shit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Iwas driving too fast for the logging road, and the Hyundai went airborne a few times.
Up ahead, I could see where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill gatehouse, but I didn’t see anyone leaning on his shovel nor did I see any freshly filled potholes.
I stopped at the T-intersection and looked farther up the logging road, then McCuen Pond Road.
I seemed to be the only one there.
This was like that scene in The Godfather where Michael goes to the hospital to see how Pop is doing and discovers that someone pulled the police guard off the job, and the hit men were on the way. Mama mia.
I sat there for a minute, waiting for a surveillance guy to pop out of a bush. But I was definitely alone. So, what’s up with Schaeffer? Hank? Buddy? Hello?
Well . . . time was wasting, so I turned onto McCuen Pond Road and headed for the gatehouse.
I slowed down, as per the sign, then stopped at the speed bump and pulled my Glock and stuck it in my jacket pocket.
The gate slid open, and a guy in camouflage fatigues walked toward me. As he got closer, I saw he was the same storm trooper I’d dealt with the last time, which was good. Or maybe not. I tried to remember if I’d pissed him off. Kate always remembers who I pissed off, and she briefs me.
I rolled down my window,
and the guy seemed to recognize me, notwithstanding my new car. He had the same line as last time: “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Madox.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Look, Junior, let’s not go through all this shit again. You know who I am, and you know he’s not expecting me. Open the fucking gate.”
He definitely seemed to remember me now—maybe because I was wearing the same clothes, but more likely because I’m an arrogant prick. He said to me, unexpectedly, “Proceed to the gatehouse.” He added, “He is expecting you.” Then he smiled.
Well, that was nice. But it wasn’t really a nice smile. I drove toward the gate, and in my side-view mirror, I saw Junior Rambo on his walkie-talkie.
The gate slid open, and as I drove through, another guy in the gatehouse stepped out and put up his hand. I returned his greeting with an Italian salute, and accelerated up the winding road toward the lodge.
I noticed again the telephone poles and the three heavy wires running between them—and what had looked a little odd yesterday now looked suspiciously like an ELF antenna. Unless, of course, I was totally wrong. I needed a dose of Bain Madox to give me confidence in my suspicions and conclusions.
Coming toward me was a black Jeep, and the driver was waving to me, which was nice, so I waved back and honked my horn as he veered off into the drainage ditch.
Up ahead was the flagpole, flying the Stars and Stripes with the yellow Seventh Cavalry pennant below. I knew, from something I’d read, that the pennant meant the commander was on the premises, so El Supremo was definitely in.
I went around the flagpole, stopped under the portico, got out, locked my car, then stepped up to the porch. The front door was unlocked, and I went into the atrium foyer and glanced up at the balcony.
There was no one around, and I recalled that the house staff was on a break after the three-day weekend, which showed Mr. Madox to be an enlightened employer, or a man who wanted to be alone.
On the wall, General Custer was still making his last stand, and I noticed now, on the paneling above the painting, a fiber-optic fish eye that could see the whole room. In fact, I may have subconsciously noticed it the first time, and maybe that’s where my stupid Holy Mackerel joke had come from. Maybe not.
Wild Fire Page 36
