Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  I moved closer to the painting as though studying it, then closer until I was too near the wall for the eye to see me.

  I glanced up at the balcony again, then I pulled my little lint roller out of my jacket, peeled the paper off, and dropped it on the carpet and rolled it with my foot. Then I retrieved it and put it back in my pocket. If that stupid dog was around, I’d have lint-rolled him, too.

  I like forensic evidence when other people collect it, analyze it, and report the results to me. But sometimes you have to do this stuff yourself. I didn’t think there was much time left to wait for forensics tests, but maybe someone would find the lint roller in my pocket if I wound up having a hunting accident.

  I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Carl coming down the staircase. We made eye contact, and I couldn’t tell if he’d seen me lint-rolling the rug.

  Carl stopped on the last step, stared at me, and asked, “Are you here to see Mr. Madox?”

  “I’m not here to see you, Carl.”

  He didn’t respond to that. “You need to be escorted to the lodge, and into the lodge.”

  “Yeah. I know. Insurance. Should I try again?”

  I don’t think he liked me, and he was probably still pissed off about having to make me café au lait.

  He said, “Fortunately, Mr. Madox is receiving.”

  “Receiving what? Cosmic messages?”

  “Receiving visitors.”

  I looked at Carl, who, as I’d noticed on my earlier visit, was a big fellow. He was no kid, but he looked fit, and what he lacked in youth, I was sure he more than made up for in experience. In fact, I could picture him twisting the binocular strap around Harry’s neck and holding him upright on his knees while his boss put a bullet through Harry’s spine.

  I’ve known a number of tough old combat veterans, and you’d expect them to still be tough, and probably they are, someplace inside. But most of them that I’ve known have a sort of gentleness about them, as if to say, “I’ve killed. But I don’t want to kill again.”

  Carl, on the other hand, gave me the impression that he’d add a P.S. to that. “Unless ordered to kill.”

  He said, “Mr. Madox is in his office. Follow me.”

  I followed him up the sweeping staircase to a foyer that overlooked the lobby below.

  Carl led me to a paneled door and said, “Mr. Madox has fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll give him longer than that.” Unless I kill him before my time is up.

  Carl knocked, opened the door, and announced, “Colonel, Mr. Corey to see you.”

  Colonel? I said to Carl, “Detective Corey. Try again.”

  He looked really pissed, and I thought about asking him for a mocha freezie, but he announced, “Detective Corey to see you, sir.”

  Colonel Madox said, “Thank you, Carl.”

  I entered the office, and the door shut behind me. I expected to see Colonel Madox all decked out in his beribboned dress uniform, but he was standing behind his desk, wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and a blue blazer. He said to me, “This is an unexpected pleasure . . . detective.”

  I replied, “I had the impression at the gate that I had an open invitation.”

  He smiled and said, “Yes, actually, I did mention to the security staff that you might drop by again in connection with the missing person—which, I understand, has become moot.”

  I didn’t comment on that, so Madox extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “Welcome.”

  He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk, and I sat, wondering if Harry had ever been here.

  Madox asked me, “Where is Ms. Mayfield?”

  “She’s at a yodeling class.”

  He grinned. “So, are you both enjoying your room at The Point?”

  I didn’t reply.

  He said, “I’ve actually stayed there a few times for a change of pace. I like the lake, which I don’t have here. It’s a good property, but I find the food too . . . well, Continental for my taste. I prefer simple American food.”

  I didn’t respond, and he asked me, “Do they still have that French chef there? Henri?”

  “They do.”

  “He’s a real prima donna, like all of them. But if you talk to him, he’ll make you a simple beefsteak, sans mystery sauce, and a baked potato.”

  Was this asshole trying to tell me something? I knew not to mention that Kate and I were married, but I had broken one of the other cardinal rules when I told him where we were staying, and now he was possibly playing a head game with me.

  He seemed to be in a chatty mood, the way a lot of suspects are when the fuzz is talking to them, and he said, “Speaking of the French, what is their problem?”

  “They’re French.”

  He laughed. “That’s it.” He tapped the newspaper on his desk, which I saw was the New York Times, and asked me, “Did you see this front-page article? Our loyal French allies are hinting that we’re on our own in Iraq.”

  “I saw that.”

  “I have a theory that they lost an important part of their gene pool in World War I. A million brave soldiers dead in the trenches. So, who was left to procreate? The mentally and physically unfit, the cowards and the sissies. What do you think?”

  I thought he was out of his fucking mind, but I replied, “Genetics are not my strong point.”

  “Well, it’s just my theory. On the other hand, I actually had two former French soldiers in my battalion. One was a Foreign Legionnaire, the other a paratrooper. They joined the American Army to fight, and fight they did. They loved to kill Commies. Great balls.”

  “There goes your theory.”

  “No. France doesn’t produce enough men like that. But maybe they do, and their feminized society shuns them. They don’t respect the warrior ethos any longer. But we do.” He said emphatically, “This war in Iraq will be over in less than thirty days.”

  “When’s it starting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you might have friends in high places.”

  “Well . . . actually, I do.” He hesitated, then said, “Bet on mid-March. Around St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “I say end of January.”

  “Will you put a hundred dollars on that?”

  “Sure.”

  We actually shook on it, and he said, “When you lose, I’ll come looking for you.”

  “Twenty-six Federal Plaza.” We made eye contact and I said, “If you lose, I’ll come looking for you.”

  “Call my New York office. It’s not far from 26 Fed. Duane Street. GOCO.” He mentioned, “I was actually in my office when the planes hit . . . I’ll never forget that sight . . .” He asked me, “Were you in your office? Did you see it?”

  “I was about to walk into the North Tower.”

  “My goodness . . .”

  “Let’s change that subject.”

  “All right.” He asked me, “So, will Ms. Mayfield be joining us?”

  Odd question, considering I said she was at a yodeling class, plus I had only fifteen minutes with His Majesty. Maybe he liked her looks, or maybe he wanted to know if this was a bust. “It’s just me today.”

  “All right . . . so, I’ve been running off at the mouth, and I never asked you the purpose of your visit.”

  The purpose of my visit was a homicide investigation, but I didn’t want to jump right into that. That’s usually a showstopper, and you might be asked to leave. So I said, “I just thought I’d stop by and thank you for offering your assistance with the missing person.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Sorry to hear the bad news.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” At this point, we’d talk a bit about that, and I’d thank him again for being a good citizen, and I’d leave. But I left that subject alone for now and asked him, “Mind if I take a look at your view?” I nodded toward the window.

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “If you wish.”

  I stood and went over to the window. The view directly behind the lodge was of the conti
nuing slope of the hill, at the top of which was his relay tower, which sprouted all sorts of electronic arms, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his ELF antenna.

  In the distance, I could make out several telephone poles, and I saw birds landing and taking off from the three big cables. They didn’t seem to be glowing, smoking, or flying backward, so I took that as a good sign.

  Off in the distance, I saw a big prefab barn. Its doors were open, and inside I could see a few vehicles—a black Jeep, a blue van, and a lawn tractor. Outside the barn were parked a few all-terrain vehicles, which I assumed were used to patrol the property. I expected to see that Colonel Madox also had a few Abrams tanks, but there was no sign of tread marks.

  To the right, about a hundred yards from the lodge, I saw two long buildings. From Harry’s map, which I had in my jacket pocket, I identified the white wooden structure as the barracks, and it looked like it could hold about twenty men. The other structure was the size of a house, and it was built of solid bedrock, with a sheet-metal roof and steel shutters closed over the windows. Three chimneys belched black smoke, and near the open door of the building was a step van whose painted sign said POTSDAM DIESEL.

  Madox came up beside me and said, “Not a spectacular view. The view out the front is better.”

  “I think this is interesting.” I asked him, “Why do you have all these telephone poles and cables running around your property?”

  We made eye contact, and he didn’t flinch. “Those poles and wires were installed to connect the call stations around the property.”

  “Really?”

  “You remember when you were a cop on the beat, and you had police call boxes?”

  “Right. We also had two-way car radios since the 1950s, which are a lot cheaper than a few hundred telephone poles in the bedrock.”

  Mr. Madox did not respond. In fact, he was probably thinking hard right now, wondering if these were just idle questions, or leading questions.

  He said to me, “As I discovered in combat, radios are not reliable. In any case, the call boxes are rarely used now that we have cell phones and high-quality walkie-talkies. He informed me, “The poles are also used to mount and power the security lights.”

  “Right.” And the listening devices and video cameras. “Hey, what’s that white building?”

  “The barracks.”

  “Oh, right. For your army. And I see your motor pool out there. This is a hell of a place.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And that stone building?”

  “That’s where my electrical generator is.”

  “I see three chimneys blowing smoke.”

  “Yes, three generators.”

  “Do you sell power to Potsdam?” I asked.

  “I’m a big fan of redundancy.”

  “Redundancy.”

  “Yes. And so is God. That’s why we have two balls.”

  “But only one dick. What’s that about?”

  “I’ve often asked myself that very question.”

  “Me, too.” He was now supposed to ask me why I was asking all these questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Well, thank you for stopping by. Again, sorry about . . . I’m sorry—what was his name?”

  “Harry Muller.”

  “Yes. People need to be careful in the woods.”

  “I see that.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “I just need a few more minutes of your time.”

  He smiled politely and reminded me, “That’s what you said the last time, and you stayed awhile.”

  I ignored that and moved away from the window, then looked around the office. It was a big room, paneled in light pine with oak furniture. On the floor was an oriental rug.

  Above Madox’s desk was a framed photograph of an oil tanker with the words GOCO BASRA on the bow. Another framed photograph showed a burning oil field.

  Madox said to me, “The Gulf War. Or, should I say, Gulf War One?” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Usually, my routine of short questions and shorter responses shakes up a suspect, but this guy was cool as a cadaver on ice. I did sense, however, a little uneasiness in his manner. In fact, he lit a cigarette but blew no smoke rings this time.

  Neither of us spoke, then I moved toward a wall filled with framed certificates and photographs.

  They were all military—awards, citations, an honorable discharge, his commission as a second lieutenant, his promotions, and so forth, plus a number of photographs, mostly of Madox in various uniforms, about a half dozen taken in Vietnam.

  I looked at one that showed his face close-up. His skin was painted in camouflage, plus it was dirty, and there was a fresh cut over his right eye from which ran a trickle of blood. His whole face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes peered out from his blackened features, looking more hawk-like and piercing.

  He said to me, “These photographs remind me of how lucky I am to be here.”

  Well, I thought, let’s see how lucky you are. “I see three Purple Hearts.”

  “Yes. Two minor wounds, but the third Purple Heart was nearly posthumous.”

  I didn’t ask for any details, and he didn’t offer any, except “An AK-47 round, through my chest.”

  Obviously, it hadn’t hit any vital organs but may have caused blood loss to his brain.

  He said, “I was on my third tour of duty, and I was pushing my luck.”

  “Right.” Harry hadn’t been so lucky.

  “But you know what? I’d do the same thing again.”

  I thought I should remind him that the definition of crazy was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

  The odd thing, of course, was that, as Ms. Mayfield suggested, Bain and I had connected, and if he hadn’t apparently killed a friend of mine, and if he wasn’t trying to take over or fuck up the planet, I’d probably like him. In fact, he seemed to like me, despite my nosy questions. But then, I hadn’t killed any of his friends, and I hadn’t yet messed up his plans to nuke the planet, or whatever he was working on. So he had no reason not to think I was an okay guy.

  As I studied the remainder of his photos, he asked me, “Have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”

  “I have.”

  “Military or police?”

  “Police.”

  He informed me, “As you know, then, it’s traumatic. It’s so far removed from your normal, everyday experience that you can’t quite grasp what happened.”

  “I think I got it.”

  “What I mean is, if you’re in combat—or doing police work—you expect you may be wounded—or killed—and you think you’re prepared for it. But when it actually happens, you can’t believe it’s really happened to you.” He asked me, “Wasn’t that your reaction?”

  “I really think I got what happened.”

  “Did you? Well, maybe people react differently.” He expanded on his subject and said, “Then, after you comprehend what’s happened, you go into another state of mind.” He explained, “To paraphrase Winston Churchill, There’s nothing as satisfying as getting shot and surviving.”

  “Right. The alternative is getting shot and dying.”

  “That’s the point. It’s a near-death experience, and if you survive, you’re never the same again. But I mean that in a positive way. You feel very . . . euphoric . . . powerful. Almost immortal. Was that your experience?”

  I recalled lying in the gutter on West 102nd Street after two Hispanic gentlemen popped off what sounded like a dozen rounds at me, managing an unimpressive three hits at twenty feet, and I remembered seeing my blood running into a storm drain in front of my face.

  “How did you feel?” he asked.

  “I think I felt fucked up for a few months.”

  “But afterward. Didn’t it change your life?”

  “Yeah. It ended my career.”

  “Well
,” he said, “that’s a big change. But I mean, did it change how you looked at life? How you felt about the future? Like, God had something big planned for you.”

  “Like what? Getting shot again?”

  “No . . . I mean—”

  “Because I got shot again.”

  “Really? In the line of duty?”

  “Well, yeah. I wasn’t on vacation.”

  “I thought your career was ended.”

  “I’m on career number two.” I added, “Libyan guy. I’m still looking for him.”

  “I see.” He seemed stuck on this subject. “Apparently, you take these attacks on you personally.”

  You let the suspect talk because he may be headed somewhere. And even if he’s not revealing something about the crime, he’s revealing something about himself. I replied, “When people shoot at me, I tend to take it personally, even if it they don’t know me.”

  He nodded and said, “That’s interesting because, in combat, you never take it personally, and you never think about finding the actual person who was shooting at you. That’s the last thing on your mind.”

  “So, you weren’t pissed at the little guy who plugged you?”

  “Not at all. He was just earning his pay. Same as I was earning mine.”

  “That’s very forgiving. And you don’t strike me as the forgiving type.”

  He let that slide and continued, “What I mean is, soldiers don’t see the enemy as individuals. The enemy is one big amorphous threat. So, it doesn’t matter who individually is trying to kill you, or whom you kill in return, as long as the guy you kill is wearing the same uniform as the guy who tried to kill you.” He explained, “You’re shooting at the uniform, not at the man. Understand?”

  “Well . . . I never saw the Libyan, but the two Hispanic guys who tried to kill me were wearing tight black chinos, purple T-shirts, and pointy shoes.”

  He smiled and said, “I guess you can’t go around shooting everyone who’s dressed like that. But I could shoot anyone who looked like the enemy.”

  “That’s a treat.”

  He informed me, “Revenge is very healthy, but it doesn’t have to be personal revenge. Any enemy combatant will do.”

  “That may not be as healthy as you think.”