Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “I’m not sure.” He gave me some advice. “Don’t eat anything you can’t pronounce, and never eat anything whose name has an accent mark over any of the letters.”

  “Great advice.”

  “Again, sorry about Detective Muller. I hope to God it had nothing to do with any of my staff, but if it did, you can be assured of my complete cooperation.” He added, “I’ll see about the information you asked for.”

  “Thanks. Meanwhile, mum’s the word. We don’t want to spook anyone.”

  “I understand.”

  We shook, I left his office, and there was Carl standing a few feet from the door. He said to me, “I’ll show you out.”

  “Thanks. You could get lost in this place.”

  “That’s why I’m showing you out.”

  “Right.” Asshole.

  We descended the stairs, and I asked Carl, “Where’s the restroom?”

  He motioned to a door off the hallway. I went in and took the hand towel from a ring and wiped some surfaces, collecting hair, skin cells, and whatever other DNA the forensic people liked to play around with. I wished I could have gotten Madox’s cigarette, but short of asking him if I could keep his butt for a souvenir, that wasn’t possible.

  I stuffed the hand towel in the small of my back and exited.

  Carl showed me to the front door.

  I said to him, “See you at six.”

  “Seven.”

  Not too bright. But loyal. And dangerous.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Up ahead, the steel gate wasn’t opening as I approached the gatehouse, and I started honking.

  The gate began to slide open, and as I reached the gatehouse, the two storm troopers gave me mean stares as they stood there with their thumbs hooked into their gun belts. If that was the best they could do, I wouldn’t bother to flip them the bird, but I did accelerate, veer close to them, then cut the wheel, and squeezed the Hyundai through the half-opened gate.

  In my side-view mirror, I saw them kicking the gravel and stomping the ground. I think they were pissed off.

  Maybe I didn’t have to be such a prick. But you need to establish who the alpha male is right up front. People like knowing their place in the pecking order.

  Also, I had no doubt that one or both of these guys had grabbed Harry on the property. And if not them, then some guys wearing the same uniform. Right, Bain?

  There was still no surveillance team visible, and I wondered what the hell Schaeffer was up to.

  I drove out to Route 56 and headed north.

  I replayed my conversation with Bain Madox, which made for some interesting side thoughts. Bottom line on that, Bain and John knew that Bain and John were playing head chess with each other.

  Anyway, Madox asked me to dinner, and, of course, Ms. Mayfield was invited. And Madox deduced from my unchanged clothes that Ms. Mayfield and I had come here on short notice. So he went out of his way to make sure Ms. Mayfield would feel comfortable at the club in whatever she was wearing. That was very thoughtful of him—not to mention observant. Bain Madox would make a good detective.

  I knew Kate was worried about me, and you can get away with a three-minute cell-phone call before it’s traced, so I turned on my phone and dialed the Pond House number. Kate answered, “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Thank God. I was starting to worry—”

  “I’m fine. I can only talk for a minute. I need to run some errands, and I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  “Okay. How did it go?”

  “Good. I’ll fill you in when I get back. Did you get some of those things accomplished?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Did you speak to Schaeffer?”

  “I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Okay . . . hey, did you get a pizza?”

  “No. You can pick up something.”

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “Famished.”

  “Good. I swung an invitation for us for dinner at the Custer Hill Club.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I see you.” I informed her, “Dress is casual.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. It’s casual. Seven for cocktails.”

  “I mean—”

  “I have to hang up, see you later.”

  “John—”

  “Bye. Love you.” I hung up and shut off my phone. Did I say we were going to dinner at the Custer Hill Club? Am I crazy?

  Anyway, I was approaching Rudy’s gas station, and there was Rudy, talking to another self-service customer. I pulled in and called out, “Rudy!”

  He saw me, ambled over, and said, “You back?”

  “From where?”

  “From . . . ? I don’t know. Where’d you go?”

  “I tried to smooth things over for you with Mr. Madox.”

  “Yeah . . . ? I told you, I talked to him. He’s okay.”

  “No, he was still pissed at you. Well, I got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

  “Uh . . . the good news.”

  “The good news is that he’s not pissed at you anymore. The bad news is that he’s opening a GOCO gas station across the street.”

  “Huh? He’s what? Oh, jeez. He can’t do that.”

  “He can and he is.”

  Rudy looked across the street at the empty field, and I’m sure he could picture it: eight gleaming new pumps, clean restrooms, and maps of the park.

  I said to him, “Competition is good. It’s American.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Hey, I need a favor. Rudy?”

  “Huh . . . ?”

  “I gotta go pick up a deer carcass. You got something bigger I could swap for this Korean lawn mower?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just for tonight. And I’ll throw in a hundred bucks for your trouble.”

  “Huh?”

  “And I’ll fill your tank.”

  “You need gas?”

  I drove the Hyundai around the back of his station, out of view, and within five minutes I did a deal with Rudy, who was still acting like he’d been kicked in the head by a mule. In fact, he didn’t notice that the Hyundai keys were not in the ignition as I said they were.

  My parting words to him were, “Don’t call Madox about this. That’ll make it worse. I’ll talk to him.”

  “He can’t do that. I’ll go to court.”

  Anyway, Rudy’s bigger vehicle turned out to be a beat-up Dodge van whose interior looked like it had suffered a fuel explosion during a food fight. But it ran like a champ.

  I continued on, and in Colton, I passed up the turn for Canton and took the long route, via Potsdam.

  When you’re running from the posse, you need to change horses often, shoot your last horse, and never ride the same trail twice.

  I reached Canton and found Scheinthal’s Sporting Goods, where I bought a box of .40-caliber rounds for Kate and a box of 9mm for myself. Everyone in law enforcement should be using the same caliber handgun, like in the military, but that’s another story. I also got us four spare Glock magazines. The proprietor, Ms. Leslie Scheinthal, needed ID for the ammo purchase, and I showed her my driver’s license, not my Fed creds.

  I needed to change my socks, which had recently become forensic evidence, so I bought a pair of wool socks that would be good for collecting more rug fibers and hairs in Mr. Madox’s dining room and library.

  Of course, all this investigative technique stuff would become moot if Madox slipped a Mickey Finn in our drinks, or shot us with a tranquilizer dart, and we woke up dead, like Harry. Also, there was the possibility of good, old-fashioned gunplay.

  On that subject, I had the thought that a situation could arise where Kate and I might be relieved of our weapons. I had no intention of letting that happen without a fight, but the fact was, we were walking into an armed camp, and it’s hard to argue with ten guys who have assault rifles pointed at you. I was sure that Harry had encountered a similar situ
ation.

  So I looked around the sporting-goods store for something that wouldn’t set off a metal detector and might pass a frisk, and at the same time would be more useful in a tight situation than, say, a pair of wool socks.

  Ms. Scheinthal, who was a pretty young lady—though I didn’t notice—asked me, “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Well . . . this is kind of a long story . . .” I mean, I really didn’t want to get into the whole thing about my dinner host and his private army holding me up at gunpoint and taking my pistols, then me needing a hidden weapon to kill them, and so forth. So I said, “I’m . . . I need some survival gear.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Leslie. What do you have?”

  She walked me to an aisle and said, “Well, here’s some stuff. But all camping gear is really survival gear.”

  “Not the way my ex-wife camped, with a house trailer and a cleaning lady.”

  Leslie smiled.

  I looked over the stuff and tried to figure out what the hell I could smuggle into the lodge that wouldn’t set off a metal detector. Stun grenades have almost no metal, so I asked her, “Do you have stun grenades?”

  She laughed. “No. Why would I carry stun grenades?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to fish. You know, like dynamite fishing.”

  She informed me, “That’s illegal.”

  “No kidding? I do it all the time in Central Park.”

  “Come on, John.”

  She seemed to want to help, but I wasn’t being very helpful myself. She said, “So, you’re camping out. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, do you have winter gear?”

  “What’s that?”

  She laughed. “It gets cold out there at night, John. This isn’t New York City.”

  “Right. That’s why I bought these wool socks.”

  She thought that was funny, then said, “Well, you need winter camping gear.”

  “I really don’t have a lot of cash, and my ex-wife stole my credit card.”

  “You got a rifle, at least?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you need to watch out for the bears. They’re unpredictable this time of year.”

  “So am I.”

  “And don’t think you’re safe with those peashooters you got. Last guy I knew who tried to drop a bear with a pistol is now a rug in a bear den.”

  “Right. Funny.”

  “Yeah. Not funny. Well, if a bear comes around your camp, looking for food, you have to bang pots and pans—”

  “I don’t have pots and pans. That’s why I need stun grenades.”

  “No. You know what you need?”

  “No, what?”

  “You need a compressed gas horn.”

  She took a tin canister off the shelf, and I asked her, “Is that a can of chili?”

  “No—”

  “Compressed gas. You know?”

  “John—jeez. No, this is like . . . an air horn.” She explained, “This usually scares them off, and you can also use it to signal you’re in trouble. Two longs and a short. Okay? Only six bucks.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And this . . .” She took a box off the shelf and said, “This is a BearBanger kit.”

  “Huh?”

  “This is like a signal flare launcher with cartridges. Okay? See, here, it says the flare fires one hundred thirty feet high and can be seen nine miles away during the day, and eighteen miles at night.”

  “Right . . .” A little flare went off in my head, and I said, “Yeah . . . that could do it.”

  “Right. Okay, when you fire this cartridge, it puts out a one-hundred-fifteen-decibel report. That’ll scare the you-know-what out of the bear.”

  “Right. So the bear will make doo-doo in the woods.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah. Here.” She handed me the box, and I opened it. It seemed to consist of a launcher, not much bigger than a penlight and similar in appearance, plus six BearBanger flares, the size of AA batteries. This little thing packed a wallop.

  Leslie said, “You just put the cartridge in here, then push the pen-like button, and the flare fires. Okay? But try not to point it at your face.” She laughed.

  Actually, it wasn’t my face that it was going to be pointed at if and when I needed to fire this thing.

  She continued, “And don’t point it at the bear. Okay? You could hurt the bear or start a forest fire. You don’t want to do that.”

  “No?”

  “No. Okay, you’ll get a bright light, equal to . . . what’s this say? About fifteen thousand candlepower.” She smiled. “If I see it, or hear it, I’ll come looking for you.” She added, “This is thirty bucks. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, take the air horn and take the BearBanger. Right?”

  “Right . . . actually, I’ll take two BearBangers.”

  “You got company?”

  “No, but this would make a nice birthday gift for my five-year-old nephew.”

  “No, John. No. This is not a toy. This is a big flash bang for adults only. In fact, you need to sign an ATF form to buy this.”

  “Adult-in-training form?”

  “No. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”

  “Really?” I took another BearBanger kit, and as we walked to the checkout counter, I silently thanked the fucking bears for helping me solve a problem.

  Leslie gave me a form from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, in which I stated that I hereby certified that the BearBangers were to be used for legitimate wildlife pest control purposes only.

  Well, that was very close to my intended use, so I signed the form.

  There was a box of energy bars on the counter, and I took one for Kate. I would have taken two, but I wanted to keep her hungry for dinner.

  Leslie asked me, “Is that it?”

  “Yup.”

  She rang up the ammunition, air horn, socks, energy bar, and two BearBanger kits.

  I paid her with the last of my cash, and I was two bucks short, so I was going to give up the energy bar, but Leslie said, “Owe it to me.” She gave me her business card and suggested, “Stop back tomorrow and let me know what else you need. I’ll take a check, or there’s a few ATMs in town.”

  “Thanks, Leslie, see you tomorrow.”

  “I hope.”

  Me, too.

  I got back in Rudy’s van and headed toward Wilma’s B&B.

  Bears. Madox. Nuke. ELF. Putyov. Griffith.

  Asad Khalil, the Libyan terrorist with a sniper rifle, was looking good right now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  At 4:54 P.M., I pulled into the long driveway to Wilma’s B&B. I could see a woman peering through the window of the main house, and it was undoubtedly Wilma, waiting for her UPS lover, and she was probably wondering who the guy was in the van.

  I stopped at Pond House, gathered my plastic shopping bags from Scheinthal’s Sporting Goods, got out, knocked on the door, and announced, “It’s your mountain man.”

  Kate opened the door, and I went inside. She asked me, “Where did you get that van?”

  “Rudy.” I explained, “It’s important to switch vehicles when you’re a fugitive.”

  She didn’t comment on that. “How did it go? What’s in those bags?”

  “It went well, though Bain still doesn’t have his meds right. Let me show you what I bought.”

  I emptied the contents of the two bags on the kitchen table. “Clean socks for me, some extra ammo and magazines for us—”

  “Why—?”

  “An air horn, and two BearBangers—”

  “Two what?”

  “Scares away the bears, and signals that you’re in trouble. Pretty neat, huh?”

  “John—”

  “Hey, you should have seen this sporting-goods store. I never knew so many things came in camouflage. Here’s an energy bar for you.”

  “Did you get anything to eat?”

  “I had a granola ba
r.” Or was that a Ring Ding?

  I sat on the kitchen chair and pulled off my shoes, then my socks, which I could see had rug fibers on the soles, and at least one long dark hair, which I hoped belonged to Bain Madox, Kaiser Wilhelm, or Harry Muller. I said, “This is from Madox’s office, and I have a hunch—really a hope—that Harry was sitting in the same chair that I sat in.”

  She nodded.

  I put the socks in a plastic bag, then took a page from my notebook and wrote a brief description of the time, date, method, and place of collection, signed it, and put it in the bag.

  I then took the lint roller out of my pocket, removed the protective paper, peeled off the first layer of sticky paper that was coated with fibers, and explained to Kate, “This was from the foyer carpet.”

  I carefully pressed the sticky paper to the inside of the plastic bag and said, “One time, I swiped a murder suspect’s ham sandwich from his kitchen”—I began writing up the lint-paper description and continued—“I got enough DNA to link him to the crime . . . but his lawyer argued that the evidence was improperly obtained—stolen, without a warrant—and therefore not admissible, and I had to swear that the suspect offered me the half-eaten sandwich . . .” I rolled the bag up and asked Kate, “Do you have any tape?”

  “No. But I’ll get some. So, what happened?”

  “To what? Oh, the evidence. So, the defense attorney grills me about why the accused would offer me a half-eaten ham sandwich, and I’m on the stand for twenty minutes, explaining how this happened, and why I shoved the sandwich in my pocket instead of eating it.” I smiled at the memory of that testimony. “The judge was impressed with my bullshit, and ruled the ham sandwich as admissible.” I added, “The defense attorney went bonkers and accused me of lying.”

  “Well . . . but it was a lie. Wasn’t it?”

  “It was a gray area.”

  She didn’t comment on that, but asked, “Did they get a conviction?”

  “Justice was done.”

  I found the hand towel in the bottom of the second bag and said to Kate, “This is from the downstairs pee-pee room, and I used this to wipe some surfaces.” As I wrote a note about the hand towel, I said, “This comes under the category of the ham sandwich. Was I offered the hand towel to keep, or did I take it without a search warrant? What would you say?”