Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  I warned him, “No one is to touch this car. If I discover that anyone has added an unwanted feature to this car, he’s going to jail. Understood?”

  He didn’t reply, but he understood.

  We climbed a few steps to the covered veranda, where a row of Adirondack chairs and rockers faced out toward the sweeping view down the hill. Aside from the security goons, this was a very pleasant and homey place. I noticed now that the yellow pennant had the number 7 on it.

  The security guy said, “Please wait here,” and disappeared into the lodge.

  Kate and I stood on the porch, and I speculated, “Maybe this place is for sale. Comes with a small army.”

  She didn’t respond to that and instead said to me, “I should check my messages.”

  “No.”

  “John, what if—?”

  “No. This is one of those rare times when I don’t want any new information. We’re going to see Bain Madox.”

  She looked at me and nodded.

  The door opened, and the security guy said, “Come in.”

  We entered the Custer Hill Club.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  We walked into a large atrium lobby with a balcony above and a massive chandelier made of deer antlers. The room was paneled in yellow pine and decorated in a rustic style with hooked rugs, hunting and fishing prints, and a few pieces of furniture made of tree branches. I had the feeling that Mrs. Madox, if there was one, had nothing to do with this lodge. I said to Kate, “Nice place.”

  She replied, “I’m sure there’s a moose head around here somewhere.”

  We heard footsteps coming from a passageway to the left, and a different security guy, this one a middle-aged man dressed in blue, entered the lobby. This must have been one of the palace guards, and he introduced himself to us as Carl. He asked, “May I take your coats?”

  We said we’d keep them, and then he addressed Kate. “May I put your briefcase in the coatroom?”

  “I’ll carry it.”

  He said to her, “For security reasons, I’ll need to look in your briefcase.”

  “Forget it.”

  This seemed to put him off, and he asked us, “What is the nature of your business with Mr. Madox?”

  I said, “Look, Carl, we’re Federal agents, and we don’t submit to searches, and we’re not checking anything, including our guns, and we don’t answer questions, we ask them. You can either take us to see Bain Madox now or we’ll be back with a search warrant, ten more Federal agents, and the state police. How do you want to do this?”

  Carl seemed unsure, so he said, “Let me find out.” He left.

  Kate whispered in my ear, “Ten bucks says we get in to see the wizard.”

  “No, you’re not getting your money back after I bullied him into one choice.”

  I took my cell phone out of my pocket, unhooked the beeper from my belt, and turned them both off. I said to Kate, “These things sometimes spook a suspect, or break up an interview at a critical moment.” I informed her, “This is one of the times we’re allowed to kill the beeper.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, but . . .” Reluctantly, she turned off her phone and beeper.

  I noticed a large oil painting on the far wall. It was a scene of the Battle of the Little Bighorn, General George Armstrong Custer and his men, surrounded by painted Indians on horseback, and it looked like the Indians were still winning.

  I said to Kate, “Did you ever see that painting of Custer’s Last Stand in the Museum of Modern Art?”

  “No, did you?”

  “I did. It’s sort of abstract, and reminds me of Magritte or Dali.”

  She didn’t reply, wondering, I’m sure, how I knew Magritte or Dali, or when I was ever in a museum.

  I continued, “The painting shows this fish with a big eye and a halo, floating in air, and underneath the fish are all these Native Americans having sex.”

  “What? What does that have to do with Custer’s Last Stand?”

  “Well, the painting is titled, Holy Mackerel, Look at All Those Fucking Indians.”

  No response.

  “Get it? Fish, big eye, halo, holy mackerel, look at—”

  “That is the stupidest joke I’ve ever heard.”

  Carl reappeared and said to us, “Please follow me.”

  We followed him down a hallway into what looked like a library, then continued down a few steps into a huge, cathedral-ceilinged room.

  At the far end of the room was a big stone fireplace, logs blazing away, and a big moose head over the mantel. I said to Kate, “Hey, there’s your moose head. How did you know?”

  Anyway, sitting in a winged chair near the fire was a man. He stood and crossed the big room, and I saw he was wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, and a green plaid shirt.

  We met halfway, and he extended his hand to Kate, who took it. He said, “I’m Bain Madox, president and owner of this club, and you must be Ms. Mayfield. Welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to me, extended his hand, and said, “And you are Mr. Corey.” We shook, and he asked me, “So, how can I help you?”

  I remembered my politeness class, and replied, “First, I’d like to thank you for seeing us without an appointment.”

  He smiled tightly. “What were my choices?”

  “Pretty limited, actually.”

  I took stock of Mr. Bain Madox. He was maybe mid-fifties, tall, fit, and not bad-looking. He sported long gray hair swept back from a smooth forehead, and he had a prominent hooked nose and steely gray eyes that hardly blinked. He sort of reminded me of a hawk, or an eagle, and in fact his head jerked now and then like a bird’s.

  He also had a cultured voice, as you’d expect, and beyond the outward appearances, I sensed a very cool and confident man.

  We looked at each other, trying, I’m sure, to determine who was the real alpha male with the biggest dick.

  I said to him, “We need about ten minutes of your time.” Maybe a bit more, but you always say ten. I nodded toward the chairs by the fire.

  He hesitated, then said, “Well, you must have had a long journey. Come, have a seat.”

  We followed him back across the room, and Carl tagged along.

  I could see lots of dead-animal heads on the walls and stuffed birds, which is not politically correct these days, but I was sure that Bain Madox didn’t give a shit. I half expected to see a stuffed Democrat on the wall.

  I also noticed a big wooden gun cabinet with glass doors, through which I could see about a dozen rifles and shotguns.

  Madox motioned us to two leather wing-back chairs facing him across a coffee table, and we all sat.

  Bain Madox, now feeling compelled to be a good host, asked us, “Can I have Carl bring you something? Coffee? Tea?” He motioned toward a glass of amber liquid on the table. “Something stronger?”

  Kate, following the procedure for keeping someone sitting longer than they may have wanted to sit and chat, said, “Coffee, please.”

  I wanted a scotch, and I could actually smell Madox’s scotch in his glass, which he was drinking straight up; so maybe there really was a problem with the ice maker.

  “Mr. Corey?”

  “You know, I’m really dying for a latte. Can you do that?”

  “Uh . . .” He looked at Carl and said, “Ask in the kitchen if we can get a latte.”

  “Or a cappuccino,” I said. “Even an Americano will do. Maybe a mocha freezie.”

  I don’t drink this shit, of course, but we needed some time with Mr. Madox.

  Carl left, and I now noticed a dog lying on its side between Madox’s chair and the hearth, sleeping or dead.

  Madox informed me, “That’s Kaiser Wilhelm.”

  “Looks like a dog.”

  He smiled. “It’s a Doberman. Very smart, loyal, strong, and fast.”

  “Hard to believe.” I mean, the stupid dog was just lying there, slobbering on the rug, snoring and farting.

  Kate said, “He’s a
beautiful animal.”

  Oh, and it had a boner. I wondered what he was dreaming about. Also, Ms. Mayfield doesn’t think I’m so beautiful when I’m snoring, slobbering, or farting.

  “So,” asked Mr. Madox, “what can I do for you?”

  Normally, Kate and I would have already discussed who was going to lead, and what we were after. However, what we were after—Harry Muller—would tip off Mr. Madox that he was under surveillance, so this limited our questions to the weather and the World Series. On the other hand, maybe Madox already knew he was under surveillance.

  “Mr. Corey? Ms. Mayfield?”

  I made the decision to follow the example of General Custer and charge ahead, hopefully with better results. I told him, “We’re acting on information that a Federal agent by the name of Harry Muller disappeared in the vicinity of this club, and we believe he may be lost on your property or hurt.” I searched his face for a reaction, but his only expression seemed to be one of concern.

  “Here? On this property?”

  “Possibly.”

  He seemed truly surprised, or he was a good actor. He said to me, “But . . . as you saw, it’s not easy to get onto this property.”

  “He was on foot.”

  “Oh? But this property is posted, and surrounded by a security fence.”

  It was my turn to feign surprise, and I replied, “A fence? Really? Well, maybe he got through the fence.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Good question. “He’s a fanatical bird-watcher.”

  “I see . . . so, you think he may have gotten through the fence and wound up on this property.”

  “Possibly.”

  Madox’s demeanor remained concerned and perplexed. “But why do you think that? There are millions of acres of wilderness surrounding this property. I have only about sixteen thousand acres.”

  “Is that all? Look, Mr. Madox, we’re acting on specific information, which we need to check out. My question to you is, Have you or your staff seen or encountered anyone on the property?”

  He shook his head and replied, “I would have been told.” He asked me, “How long has this man been missing?”

  “Since Saturday. But it has just come to our attention.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of his scotch. “Well,” he said, “I had about sixteen houseguests this weekend, many of whom were hiking or bird-hunting, plus I have security staff, so it’s unlikely that this person could have been lost on my property without someone coming across him.”

  Kate spoke for the first time and pointed out, “Sixteen people divided into sixteen thousand acres is one person per thousand acres. You could hide an army in there.”

  Mr. Madox thought about the arithmetic and replied, “I suppose if he were hurt and unable to move, it may be possible that he wouldn’t have been discovered.”

  Kate said, “Very possible.”

  Madox lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. “What,” he asked, “would you like me to do? How can I help?”

  I regarded Bain Madox, smoking, drinking, sitting in his leather chair in his big lodge. He looked more at ease than the average suspect. Actually, he looked innocent.

  I had the feeling, however, that even if he had something to do with Harry’s disappearance, this man would keep his cool. He could easily have told his flunkies to tell us he wasn’t in or wasn’t available; instead, he’d chosen to meet us face-to-face.

  My brief forays into criminal psychology, and my years on the street, taught me about sociopaths and narcissists—incredibly egotistical and arrogant people who thought they could get away with murder by bullshitting.

  It was quite possible that Bain Madox had something to hide, and he thought he could hide it under my nose. That wasn’t going to happen.

  He repeated, “How can I help?”

  I replied, “We’d like your permission to conduct a search on your property.”

  He seemed prepared for that and said, “I can conduct my own search, now that I know there may be someone lost on the property. I have about fifteen staff available, plus all-terrain vehicles and six Jeeps.”

  I pointed out, “It would take you a month to cover this property. I’m talking about state and local police, Federal agents, and maybe troops from Fort Drum.”

  He didn’t seem to like that idea, but he was boxed in, so he asked me, “Tell me again why you think this man is on my property, and not out in the surrounding wilderness?”

  That was a really good question, and I had a standard law enforcement answer. “We are acting on information and belief, and that’s all I can say.” I pointed out, “With the information we have, we could get a search warrant, but that takes time. We’d rather have your voluntary cooperation. Is there a problem with that?”

  “No, no problem, but I suggest you begin with an aerial search, which can do the same job more quickly and just as effectively.”

  Kate said, “Thank you, we know that. We have begun the air search. We’re here to get your permission to enter this property with search teams.”

  “I certainly won’t stand in the way of a search for a missing person.” He paused. “But I’ll need a liability waiver.”

  Kate was becoming annoyed and said, “We’ll have one faxed to you ASAP.”

  “Thank you. I don’t want to sound like a bad citizen, but unfortunately, we live in litigious times.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, and I said to him, “The country is going to hell. Too many lawyers.”

  He nodded and offered his opinion, saying, “Lawyers are ruining the country. Ruining trust, frightening people who want to be good Samaritans, promoting a culture of victimization, and engaging in legalized extortion.”

  I liked this guy and agreed, “In fact, they suck.”

  He smiled. “They suck.”

  I thought I should inform him, “Ms. Mayfield is a lawyer.”

  “Oh . . . well, I apologize if I—”

  She said, “I don’t practice law.”

  “Good,” he said, then joked, “You look too nice to be a lawyer.”

  Ms. Mayfield stared at Mr. Madox.

  Mr. Madox said, “I assume you’ll begin the search in the morning.” He pointed out, “It’s getting too dark now to send people into those woods.”

  Clearly Mr. Madox was stalling for time with all the bullshit about liability waivers and so forth. I said, “I think we have about three hours of daylight left.”

  “I’ll have my staff begin a search immediately. They know the terrain.”

  We looked at each other, and those freaky gray eyes never blinked.

  Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “Mr. Corey, please tell me why a Federal agent was on my property.”

  I already had the answer to that. “The fact that Mr. Muller is a Federal agent is actually irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant?”

  “Yes. He was on a camping trip. Not on-duty. Was I not clear about that?”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood.”

  “Perhaps.” I added, “And since he is a Federal agent, the Federal government is assisting in the search.”

  “I see. So, I shouldn’t make too much of you and Ms. Mayfield being with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?”

  “No, in fact, you shouldn’t make anything of it.” I added, “I should have also mentioned that Mr. Muller is a colleague, so we’re here out of personal concern as well as for professional reasons.”

  He thought a moment, then said, “I haven’t experienced that kind of camaraderie since I left the Army. If I were missing, I couldn’t think of a single person who would do much more than make a few phone calls to find me.”

  “Not even your mom?”

  He smiled. “Well, maybe her. And maybe my children in good time. Certainly the Internal Revenue would come looking for me after I missed a quarterly payment.”

  Neither Kate nor I commented on that.

  Madox lit another cigarette and blew more smoke rings, saying
, “That’s a lost art.” He asked us, “May I offer you a cigarette?”

  We refused his offer.

  I glanced around the room and noticed something in a dark corner staring at me with glassy eyes. It was, actually, a huge black bear, standing on its hind legs with its front legs and paws raised in a threatening gesture. I mean, I knew it was dead and stuffed, but it gave me a little jolt. I said to Madox, “Did you shoot that?”

  “I did.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, on my property. Sometimes they get through the fence.”

  “And you shoot them?”

  “Well, if it’s off-season, we just tranquilize them and relocate them. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t like bears.”

  “Have you had a bad experience?”

  “No, I’m trying to avoid a bad experience. Hey, do you think a 9mm Glock will stop a bear?”

  “I don’t think so, and I hope you don’t have to find out.”

  “Me, too. Do you have bear traps on the property?”

  “Definitely not. I have guests on the property, and I don’t want them caught in a bear trap.” He added, “Also, trespassers. I could get sued.” He glanced at his watch and said, “So, if—”

  “Just a few more questions while we wait for the latte.”

  He didn’t reply, and I asked him, “So, you’re a hunter?”

  “I hunt.”

  “These are all your trophies?”

  “Yes. I don’t buy them as some people do.”

  “So, you’re a pretty good shot?”

  “I was an expert rifleman in the Army, and I can still drop a deer at two hundred yards.”

  “That’s pretty good. How close was that bear?”

  “Close. I let the predators get close.” He looked at me, and I had the feeling he was being subtly unsubtle regarding yours truly. He said, “That’s what makes it exciting.” He asked me, “What does this have to do with Mr. Muller’s disappearance?”

  “Not a thing.”

  We stared at each other while he waited for me to explain my line of questioning. I said to him, “Just making conversation.” I then asked him, “So, this is a private club?”

  “It is.”

  “Could I join? I’m white. Irish and English. Catholic, like Christopher Columbus, but I could switch. I got married in a Methodist church.”