Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  Also, Luther was gurgling, and I recognized that sound. There wasn’t much I could do for him, but I thought maybe I should try, so I looked around for a landline phone to call state police headquarters to get an ambulance, not to mention some state troopers to arrest Derek, and whoever else needed to be arrested, and get us the hell out of there.

  Kate kept staring at the three television sets, and glancing at a clock on the wall. “I really think it’s okay.”

  “Yeah.” I couldn’t find a phone, and I thought about trying another room, and that reminded me of the room with the closed door where I’d heard a television.

  I mean, I was still a little punchy from the BearBangers, but I should have been more alert.

  Also, my hearing had not fully returned, and neither had Kate’s, so we never heard anyone coming down the corridor, and the first I knew that we weren’t alone was when I heard a voice say, “Well, I didn’t expect this.”

  I spun around, and standing by the door was the ghost of Ted Nash. I was speechless.

  Kate, too, stood across the room, staring, and her mouth actually dropped open.

  Finally, I said, “You’re dead.”

  He replied, “Actually, I’m feeling fine. Sorry to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset. I’m disappointed.”

  “Be nice, John.” He looked at Kate and asked her, “So, how are you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I knew I saw the hand of the CIA in this, but in my worst nightmare, I never thought I’d see Ted Nash again. Or, maybe I did.

  Nash scanned the room, but didn’t comment on the destruction, the blood splattered all over, Luther dying a few feet from him, or Carl lying dead in the middle of the floor. Ted was a cool guy. He did, however, look at Bain Madox and said, “That’s a real shame.”

  Apparently, we had different opinions of the deceased.

  Nash said, not to us but to himself, “Well, there are going to be a lot of disappointed people in Washington.”

  Neither Kate nor I responded, but I thought about getting the M16 unslung from my shoulder and into the firing position.

  I wasn’t being totally paranoid because Ted Nash is probably a killer, and for sure not a big fan of John Corey. Plus, he was wearing a sport jacket, and he had his right hand stuck inside, like the pretty-boy fashion models in the catalogs. This was the nonchalant, gun-in-my-pocket look.

  Kate finally spoke. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m working.”

  “You . . . you were in the North Tower . . .”

  “Actually, like you, John, and other people, I was late.” He said philosophically, “Isn’t it funny how fate works?”

  I replied, “Yeah. Fate is a barrel of laughs. What’s the deal, Ted? Are you going to tell me you’re here to stop Madox, but once again you were a few minutes late?”

  He smiled and replied, “I’m not here to stop Madox.” He glanced again at the late Mr. Madox. “But apparently you were.”

  “I was just here for dinner.”

  Then, before we could engage in any more witty repartee, he pulled his pistol, which was a Glock similar to my own, and said, “You guys really fucked things up.”

  “No, Ted. We just saved San Francisco and Los Angeles.” I said, to be sure he understood, “We’re heroes. The bad guys are dead.”

  He was getting a little pissed, the way he always does with me, and now that he had his gun out, and we all knew where he stood on this issue, he said, “You have no idea how you’ve fucked things up.” He stared at me, and glanced at Kate. “The world as we know it was about to be forever changed. Do you understand that? Do you?”

  He was getting himself all worked up, so I didn’t answer his stupid question.

  He went on, “This was the best, most ingenious, most daring and courageous plan we have ever come up with. In one fucking day—one day, John—one fucking day, we could have wiped out a major threat to America. And you—you and this bitch, here, fucked it up.”

  “Hey, I’m really sorry.”

  Kate took a deep breath and said sharply, “First of all, Ted, I’m not a bitch. Second, if this government wants to destroy Islam with atomic weapons, or threaten to destroy them, then they should have the balls to do that without faking a fucking terrorist attack on two American cities, and killing millions of Americans—”

  “Shut the fuck up! Who gives a shit about Los Angeles and San Francisco? Not me. Not you, either. Don’t take the moral high ground with me, Kate. We had a chance here to bring this Muslim shit to a happy conclusion, but you and this fucking clown you’re married to—” He glanced at me, and for the first time noticed the sling on my shoulder, and the black muzzle of the M16 peeking up from behind my back. He pointed the Glock at me. “Get that fucking rifle off your shoulder. Don’t touch it. Don’t touch anything. Let it slide to the floor. Now!”

  I leaned left so that the sling started to slide off my shoulder and down my arm, while trying to figure out how to get a grip on the rifle, click off the safety, aim from the hip, and get off one good shot.

  Apparently, Mr. Nash was tired of my slow response and said, “Don’t bother. Just stand there and die.” He aimed his Glock at my chest. “Just so you know, I pulled some strings to get you sent here, and hopefully killed, instead of poor Harry Muller, who you will be joining in about three seconds. Also”—he nodded toward Kate—“I did screw her—”

  I heard a loud blast but didn’t see his muzzle flash. He did, however, toss his gun into the air. Or so it seemed. His body went straight back, as though he’d been kicked in the chest, and he slammed into the wall next to Luther. As he was sliding to the floor, Kate emptied Carl’s Colt .45 into Ted Nash’s body, which jerked violently each time another bullet hit him.

  I watched her get off the last three shots, and there was nothing hysterical or frenzied about the way she was shooting. She was holding the big automatic with both hands in the correct grip, knees bent, arms straight, aim centered, squeeze, fire, breathe, hold it, squeeze, and so forth. Until the slide locked in the empty position.

  I went over to her to take the pistol, but she threw it aside.

  I said, “Thanks.”

  She kept staring at Nash’s body, covered now with blood and gore from a head wound.

  She said, “Not a bitch, Ted.”

  I’d have to remember not to use that word when we argued.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Ifound a landline phone and called Major Schaeffer, who, as it turned out, was totally clueless about where we were or what was going on.

  I gave him a very edited, need-to-know briefing, mentioning murder and mayhem, and requesting troopers, an ambulance, a CSI team, and his presence.

  Kate and I, carrying Luther’s fully loaded M16 and Nash’s thankfully fully loaded Glock, explored and secured the other rooms in the subterranean living quarters, which could have been featured in Better Homes and Fallout Shelters.

  We found the canvas bag with our stuff in it, and got ourselves back together.

  There’s nothing interesting or educational about being a helpless prisoner, especially if your jailers are psychotic and homicidal, so I never quite understood the Stockholm syndrome thing where the prisoner starts to identify with his or her captor and begins to sympathize with whatever bullshit the captor is using as an excuse for his bad behavior.

  Now and then, however, what the psycho is doing or saying actually does appeal to what the prisoner already believes, or has thought about himself in the dark parts of his mind.

  But enough about that.

  Kate and I found Mr. Madox’s barroom, which was actually a smaller version of the one upstairs, and she liberated a bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage 1978, which she opened and drank from a water tumbler.

  I found some warm bottles of Carlstadt beer, which doesn’t improve with age, and, in fact, had gotten a little cloudy since 1984. But it hit the spot.

  Regarding Mr. Ted Nash, this was his second and ho
pefully last time back from the dead. I counted seven—count ’em, seven—holes in him, which was not bad for eight shots. In fact, I felt silly feeling for a pulse, and Kate asked me what the hell I was doing. But I needed to be really sure.

  Also regarding Ted Nash, in less than three minutes, he’d managed to totally piss me off. First, I’m not a clown, Ted, and my wife is not a bitch. As for the other thing . . . well, it happened. Even Kate can make a mistake with men. I’m sure not all of her boyfriends were John Coreys.

  She must have guessed what I was thinking about, and she finished another glass of champagne and said, “It never happened. He was lying.”

  Well, I couldn’t ask Dead Ted, so I let it go. “CIA guys lie,” I said.

  “Believe me.”

  She had Ted’s Glock, so I said, “I believe you, sweetheart.”

  Being a lawyer and an FBI agent, she informed me, “I can explain the first and second shot as self-defense. I can’t explain the other six shots.”

  I suggested, “Let’s say Ted challenged you to hit him eight times.” I added, “Actually, I’d be happy to take the rap—or the credit—for killing him.”

  “Thanks, but . . . I’ll handle it.”

  We moved back into the ELF room to check the security monitors, and we saw Schaeffer’s guys arriving in marked and unmarked cars, with an ambulance, all lined up on McCuen Pond Road behind the closed gate.

  Oddly, the gate wasn’t opening, and the lead car smashed through it.

  Then, two uniformed troopers went into the gatehouse, and a few minutes later, two EMS guys from the ambulance carried a body on a stretcher out of the gatehouse and back toward the ambulance.

  Kate asked me, “What’s that about?”

  “I’m pretty sure Derek is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah. Madox needed him to tidy up the lodge and get rid of the van I borrowed from Rudy. But Madox didn’t want Derek talking about that, or talking about where everyone was in the fallout shelter . . . so he got someone to get rid of Derek.”

  Kate commented, “Bain Madox seems to think of everything.”

  “Not everything, and not anymore.”

  We gave it fifteen minutes to be sure that the right people were in charge upstairs, then made our way to the spiral staircase, found the hydraulic switch to raise the card table, and ascended into the card room, where the air was fresh.

  We had our creds out, and we were passed from one state trooper to another, until we found ourselves in the great room, where Major Schaeffer had set up his command post with a radio and a few troopers. Kaiser Wilhelm was sleeping and farting near the hearth.

  Schaeffer asked us, “What in the name of God is going on here?”

  I replied, “The murder of Harry Muller is solved. Bain Madox and Carl the butler did it.”

  “Yeah? Where’s Madox?”

  “In the fallout shelter.”

  “We searched the whole basement.”

  I explained how to find the fallout shelter and added, “You got three dead down there, and one seriously wounded.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Madox, Carl, and some other guy.”

  “Madox is dead? How did he die?”

  I answered, evasively, “Get your CSI team there and let them get to work. Also, the wounded guy needs help fast.”

  Schaeffer picked up his radiophone and gave instructions regarding the fallout shelter.

  I also advised Schaeffer, “You should disarm and restrain the security guards.”

  “They’re disarmed and confined to their barracks under guard.”

  “Good.”

  “What do we have on them?”

  “Accessories or witnesses to Harry’s murder. Tell them the boss is dead, and see if they’ll start talking.”

  He nodded, then said to us, “Those three diesel engines and generators were running at full capacity and we shut them down. Do you know anything about that?”

  I replied, “Well, as it turned out, Fred was right. Submarines.”

  “What . . . ?”

  Kate said, “Sorry, Major, this comes under the category of national security.”

  “Yeah?”

  I changed the subject back to homicide and informed Schaeffer, “Don’t bother looking for Putyov here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, according to the late Mr. Madox, he murdered his houseguest Dr. Putyov, then put the body through the wood chipper.”

  “What?”

  “If it matters, Putyov got what he deserved. But I can’t get into that.” I suggested, “You may want the CSI guys to pay special attention to the wood chipper. If they don’t find anything there, you might think about collecting some bear shit and see if you can find a little of Dr. Putyov’s DNA there.”

  Schaeffer said, “I’m not quite following—”

  “Hey,” I asked, “what happened to the guy in the gatehouse?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Derek. Right?”

  “That’s what his name tag said.” He informed us, “The EMS guys thought it looked like poisoning. Maybe a neurotoxin. The guy was twitching like an epileptic before he died.”

  I said to Kate, “Jeez, I hope it wasn’t the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

  Schaeffer replied, “We didn’t find any pigs-in-the-blanket, but there was a fresh pot of coffee in the guardhouse, and this guy had a spilled coffee mug on his desk. So, we’re thinking the coffee. We’ll test it and do the toxicology.”

  Kate said to me, “Madox does plan ahead.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Kate asked Schaeffer, “Are the FBI here?”

  “Oh, yeah. They set up their own command post.” He jerked his head upward and said, “In Madox’s office. Your buddy Griffith is there, and he’s still looking for you.”

  Kate suggested, “Let’s go say hello.”

  “Okay.” I said to Schaeffer, “See you later.”

  He looked at us and said, “You smell like smoke, and you look like hell. What happened?”

  I replied, “It’s like a really long and very weird story. Let me get back to you on that.”

  He reminded us, “You must remain on the scene to assist with the investigation.”

  “See you later.”

  I took Kate’s arm, and we left the great room.

  There were about a dozen uniformed state troopers going through the house, obviously without knowing what they were supposed to be doing. I flashed my creds and asked one of them, “Where’s the kitchen?”

  “Kitchen? Oh . . . you just go down this hallway.”

  “Thanks.” I headed for the kitchen, and Kate said to me, “We need to see Liam Griffith.”

  “Schaeffer said he was in the kitchen.”

  “In Madox’s office.”

  I tapped my ear. “Come again?”

  We found the kitchen, which was unoccupied. I noticed that there was no sign of dinner preparations, and I pointed this out to Kate, who replied, “I think dinner was a ruse, John.”

  “Yeah? No steak and potatoes?”

  “Why are we here?”

  “Because I’m hungry.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee from the gatehouse?”

  “Sure, and get one for yourself.” I opened the big, industrial-size refrigerator and found some cheese and cold cuts.

  “How can you eat?” she asked me. “My stomach is churning.”

  “I’m hungry.” I threw the cheese and cold cuts on the counter, then went to the kitchen sink and washed up. I think I had some of Madox on me.

  As I was doing this, Mr. Liam Griffith entered the kitchen and asked us, “Where the hell have you two been?”

  I looked up from the sink. “Could you hand me that dish towel?”

  He hesitated, then handed it to me. “What are you doing here?”

  I dried my face and replied, “We’ve been saving the planet from nuclear destruction.”

  “Really? Then, what did you do for an enc
ore?”

  I handed the towel to Kate, who went to the sink to wash up.

  I said to Griffith, “Well, then we killed a buddy of yours.” I unwrapped the cheddar cheese and said, “Ted Nash.”

  Mr. Griffith did not reply, but I could see from his face that he wasn’t understanding me. Finally, he said, “Ted Nash is dead.”

  “That’s what I said. Doesn’t that sound great?”

  He still wasn’t comprehending what I was saying, so I was pretty sure that Liam Griffith, prick though he was, had no clue about any of this.

  Kate dried her hands and face. “He didn’t die in the North Tower. But he’s dead now.” She added, “I killed him.”

  “What?”

  I said, “We will not say anything else on that subject at this time. Do you want some cheddar cheese?”

  “Huh? No.” Finally, he said to us, “As you know, you’re both in major trouble. I have orders to escort you back to the city as soon as I locate you, which I’ve done. I have the pleasure to inform you that you are both the subject of possible disciplinary action, and hopefully worse.”

  And on and on.

  I must have eaten a half pound of cheese and cold cuts while he was rambling on, and I looked at my watch a few times as a hint that he should wrap it up.

  When he was through, he asked us, “What exactly happened here?”

  I replied, “Kate and I found Harry Muller’s killer.”

  “Who is it?”

  Kate answered, “It was Bain Madox, the owner of this lodge.”

  “Where is he now?”

  I said, “In the fallout shelter. Dead.” I added, “I killed him.”

  No reply.

  “And that’s all you need to know, and all we’re saying.”

  “All right . . . then I need you to come with me.”

  “Where’re you going, Liam?”

  “I told you. Back to the city. There’s a helicopter waiting at the airport.”

  I informed him, “We really can’t leave a crime scene. Major Schaeffer—”

  “All right. The three of us will spend one hour here with the state police so you can explain what happened. Then, I need to insist that the police release you into my custody.”

  I looked at Kate, and she nodded. I said to Griffith, “Kate and I will confine our statements to the subject of Harry Muller’s murder. Everything else that you and the state police see here is a matter of national security, which will not be discussed until we’re back at 26 Fed. Understand?”