Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  The other trooper said to his boss, “I’m okay with that.”

  The man in charge opened an evidence bag that was sitting on the counter, removed the shield from the cred case, and slid it toward me.

  I said, “Thanks,” and pocketed Harry’s shield.

  The second trooper asked me, “You think this was a homicide?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well,” he replied, “I saw the body on the trail before they put it in the ambulance, and the only way this guy—your friend—could have been shot square in the back in those thick woods is if the shooter was standing directly behind him on the trail. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, this was no accident—unless maybe it happened at night, and the shooter thought he saw a deer on the trail . . . I have to tell you, your friend should have been wearing something reflective or orange. You know?”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s not hunting season.”

  “Yeah, but still . . . some locals don’t wait for the season to open.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yeah. Well, sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  The other trooper also offered his condolences, as did the two nurses behind the counter. I guess they felt badly about the off-season hunting accident, or worse about the possibility of a tourist getting murdered in their nice little corner of the world.

  Kate and I walked into the lobby just as two guys in suits were coming through the door. I made them as law enforcement types—FBI or SBI—and they went directly to the information desk and flashed their creds.

  The info lady noticed Kate and I leaving as the two guys were talking to her. She seemed to want to draw the guys’ attention to their departing colleagues, but we reached the door before the introductions could be made.

  We moved quickly to our car, I slid behind the wheel, and we got the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We headed back toward the center of town, then followed the signs for Route 56 south. The word “Nuke” was very much on my mind.

  Kate said to me, “Whenever I work a case with you, I feel like I’m one step ahead of the law instead of being the law.”

  I replied philosophically, “Sometimes the law gets in the way of truth and justice.”

  “Do you teach that in your class at John Jay?”

  “For your information, since 9/11, a lot of people in law enforcement have adopted the Corey Method, meaning the ends justify the means.”

  “Post-9/11, we’ve all done a little of that. But this case has nothing to do with Islamic terrorism.”

  “How could you know that at this point?”

  “Come on, John. I don’t see any connection.”

  “Well, think about this—Madox has a self-proclaimed history of fighting America’s enemies as a private enterprise. Right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Communism is gone; now, enter Islam. He told us he’s not too involved in the war on terrorism, which means he’s involved. Correct?”

  She stayed silent for a while, then answered, “Yes.”

  “Right. And, of course, you have the oil thing, which is a connection to all of the above.”

  “What is the connection?”

  “I’m not sure.” But a picture was starting to form in my mind, and it had to do with Bain Madox, nuclear weapons, and terrorism—not a good combination. Kate, however, was not quite ready to deal with that information, so I said to her, “Well, Harry thought someone would understand, so when we think about it, we’ll know.”

  She nodded, then changed the subject. “One thing I’m sure of now is that Madox murdered Harry—or had him murdered.”

  “He did it himself. Maybe with Carl.”

  “That may not be easy to prove in a court of law.”

  Cop killers don’t always get to a court of law, but I didn’t say that.

  Kate read my mind anyway and said, “Please don’t do anything stupid. The ends do not justify the means.”

  I didn’t respond.

  We left Potsdam and headed south on Route 56. It was 6:01 P.M., and the road was getting dark. The windows of the scattered houses were lit, and I could see smoke rising from chimneys. The Columbus Day holiday was coming to an end; dinner was on the stove. Tomorrow was a workday and a school day. Normal people were gathered around the television, or the fireplace, or wherever normal people gathered.

  Kate seemed to know what I was thinking and said, “We could buy a weekend house that would eventually become our retirement home.”

  “Most people don’t retire to the snow and ice.”

  “We could learn to ski and ice-skate. You could learn to hunt and shoot bears.”

  I smiled, and we held hands.

  Her cell phone rang, and she looked at it. “Private. Probably Walsh.”

  “Take it.”

  She answered, listened, then said, “We’re on our way there, Tom.” She listened again, then responded, “We went to the hospital and made a positive ID on Harry.”

  Whatever Walsh said, it wasn’t nice, and Kate held the phone away from her ear in a theatrical gesture. I could hear Walsh fulminating.

  I don’t like it when someone screams at my wife, so I took the phone from Kate and heard Walsh conclude, “You’re his supervisor, so you are responsible for him not following my orders. I kept you on this case against my better judgment, and I told you to go directly to the state police headquarters, and I meant it. Are you an FBI agent or are you a nice dutiful wife?”

  I replied, “Hi, Tom. Kate’s husband here.”

  “Oh . . . do you take your wife’s calls, too? I’m speaking to Kate.”

  “No, you’re speaking to me. If you ever raise your voice to my wife again, I’ll take you apart. Understand?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, then said, “You’re going down, pal.”

  “Then you’re going with me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do. And by the way, I scrolled through Harry’s cell phone, and you forgot to tell us you called him Sunday night, and the duty officer was calling all through the night.”

  This kept him quiet for a second. Then he asked, “So what?”

  I felt that our professional relationship was deteriorating, and that he was contemplating how best to involve me in an involuntary career event, i.e., having me fired. I said to him, “Despite your best efforts, I will get to the bottom of this.”

  He surprised me by saying, “If you do, let me know what you find.”

  I guess this meant that Washington was not being totally straight with him, which may or may not have been true. In any case, Walsh was following orders, and I was not, which was causing Special Agent in Charge Thomas Walsh some problems. I said, “Eventually, you’ll thank me for my extraordinary initiative.”

  “Your fucking initiative looks a lot like insubordination and failure to follow orders. Also, you’re spending a lot of time and energy investigating the Bureau instead of doing your job.”

  “What’s my job?”

  “Your job was to find Harry. He’s found. You can come home.”

  “No, now I need to find his killer.”

  “You need to find his killer? You? Why is it always you?”

  “Because I don’t trust you. Or the people you work for.”

  “Then resign.”

  “Tell you what—if I come up empty on this case, you’ll have my resignation on your desk.”

  “When?”

  “A week.”

  “That’s a deal. Saves me the trouble of filling out the paperwork to fire you.”

  “And I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about us being taken off this case.”

  “One week.”

  I handed the phone back to Kate, who said, “Tom, please call Major Schaeffer and tell him we are the designated investigating agents on this case, and to extend to us all the requisite courtesies and so forth.”

  Walsh said somethi
ng, and Kate replied, “No, we don’t have any new information or leads, but if we do, we’ll certainly share them with you.”

  I guess she forgot about finding that writing in Harry’s pocket, and us speaking to the medical examiner. Selective memory is part of the Corey Method of dealing with the bosses.

  She listened for a while, then said, “I understand.”

  Kate started to say something else, then realized the phone was dead. She shut it off.

  I asked, “Understand what?”

  “Understand that we have seven days to perform a miracle, and if we don’t, we’re history.”

  “No problem.”

  “And it better be a big miracle. Nothing small like finding a dumb hunter who admits to killing Harry by accident.”

  “Okay. That’s reasonable.”

  “And if we’re going after Mr. Bain Madox for murder, and we fail, Walsh will see to it that we both wind up as security guards at Kmart.”

  “This is getting challenging.”

  “Right. Well, you opened your big mouth.”

  “Thank you for reminding me. What else?”

  “Well . . . he said our investigation is limited to a possible homicide. Not to anything else that concerns Madox. That’s for the Justice Department to handle.”

  “Of course. I understand that.”

  She glanced at me to see if I was being sarcastic. She could have saved herself the analysis. She said, “You were a little rough with him. Again.”

  “He pisses me off.”

  “Don’t take it personally, and don’t fight my battles. I can do that myself at a time and place of my choosing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She took my hand again. “But thank you.” She added, “You forgot to tell him to go fuck himself.”

  “That was implied.”

  “John, I think he’s frightened.”

  I thought about that and replied, “I think you’re right. And you forgot to tell him what we found at the morgue.”

  She said, “I was just about to when he hung up on me. Fuck him.”

  We drove in silence awhile, south on Route 56.

  My mind kept flashing back to Harry lying dead and naked in the morgue, and I felt sick to my stomach. A good life snuffed out, just like that, because he saw or heard something he wasn’t supposed to see or hear.

  I was beyond angry—I was filled with homicidal rage against whoever did this to Harry. But I had to keep my cool and work the case until I was sure I had the killer. Then, payback.

  We passed through Colton, then South Colton. Rudy’s gas station was closed, and I hoped he was on his way to his master’s mansion, peeing his pants en route.

  I saw the sign welcoming us to Adirondack State Park, and very quickly the trees got bigger and thicker, and the road got darker.

  After a few minutes, I said to Kate, “Murder is what we see. But there’s something else going on that we don’t see.”

  She didn’t reply for a while, then asked, “Such as?”

  “The only thing Madox accomplished by staging a hunting accident away from his property was to buy time.”

  “Time to hide evidence.”

  “No. Eventually, everything points back to Madox anyway. If buying a little time is what he accomplished, then that’s all he wanted.”

  “Okay, but why?”

  I explained, “Bain Madox does not engage in stupid or reckless acts. The only way it makes sense for him to kill a Federal agent whom the FBI knows was on or near his property is if the murder and the subsequent investigation did not concern him. And the only way that makes sense is if something else is going to happen soon which is a lot more important to Bain Madox than being a murder suspect.” I glanced at her. “So what could that be?”

  “All right . . . I get it . . .”

  “I know you do. Say it.”

  “Nuke.”

  “Yeah. I think this guy has a nuclear weapon. That’s what Harry was saying. That’s what I believe.”

  “But . . . why? What . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s going to nuke Baghdad. Damascus. Tehran.”

  “I think that’s a stretch, John. We need more information. More evidence.”

  “Right. We might get that sooner than we think.”

  She didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was dark when we reached the hamlet of Ray Brook, which was close to the airport where we’d landed that morning.

  Close as it was, we’d taken the long way to get there and discovered things on our journey that were not even on our radar screen at 9:00 A.M. when we entered 26 Federal Plaza.

  And that was the way some days went in this business. Most days were uneventful; some days, like September 11, 2001, turned on a dime.

  Today, Columbus Day, I lost a friend, got into a pissing match with the boss, and met a nut job who might be planning a nuclear surprise.

  Next Columbus Day, if there is one, I’ll go to a Yankee play-off game.

  We found the regional state police headquarters and troop barracks at the edge of town, and I pulled into the parking lot. I asked Kate, “Are we official, visitor, or morally handicapped?”

  “Look for persona non grata.”

  I couldn’t find such a space, so I parked in official parking. We got out and walked toward the large, modern brick-and-cedar building. A sign over the front doors said TROOP “B” NEW YORK STATE TROOPERS.

  We entered the lobby and identified ourselves to the duty sergeant, who seemed to be expecting us; in fact, he’d probably been expecting us all day.

  He called Major Schaeffer on the intercom and asked us to wait.

  There were a few troopers coming and going, dressed in their gray military-style jackets, belted at the waist with a cross strap and holster, and wearing their Smokey the Bear hats. These outfits looked like they hadn’t changed since Teddy Roosevelt was governor of New York.

  I also noticed that all these guys, and even the women, were tall, and I asked Kate, “Do you think they breed them?”

  The place had all the spit and polish of the paramilitary organization that it was, and the only thing it had in common with an NYPD precinct house was a NO SMOKING sign.

  There was a stack of brochures on a side table, and Kate, who can’t resist informative brochures, took one and read aloud to me, “Troop B is the northernmost troop, and they patrol the largest geographic area of all the troops—eight thousand, ninety-one square miles—which includes the most sparsely populated counties in the state, marked by great distances and long winters.”

  “Are they bragging, or complaining?”

  She read on, “Patrolling the North Country fosters a special brand of self-reliance, and B Troopers are renowned for their ability to handle any situation with minimum assistance.”

  “The word is minimal. Minimal assistance. Does that mean we’re not welcome?”

  “Probably, if you’re going to correct their grammar.” She continued reading, “In addition to such typical tasks as investigating accidents and crimes, interstate patrol, and special Canadian border details, they often find themselves called on to search for lost hikers, evacuate injured campers, rescue storm-stranded travelers, investigate Fish and Wildlife law violations, and respond to domestic disputes and criminal complaints in remote locations.”

  “But can they walk a beat in the South Bronx?”

  Before she could think of a smart reply, a tall, rugged-looking guy in a gray civilian suit came into the lobby and introduced himself. “Hank Schaeffer.” We all shook hands, and he said, “Sorry about Detective Muller. I understand you were friends.”

  I replied, “We are.”

  “Well . . . really sorry.”

  He didn’t seem to have much else to say, and I noticed that Schaeffer hadn’t met us in his office. There’s always this problem of turf intrusion, jurisdiction, pecking order, and so forth, but Kate handled it well by saying, “Our instructions are to assist you in
any way possible. Is there anything we can do?”

  He informed us, “Your guy Walsh in New York seemed to think you were off the case.”

  I said, “FBI Special Agent in Charge Walsh has rethought that. He should have called you.” The prick. “So, you can call him, or you can believe me.”

  “Well, you guys work it out. If you’d like, I can have a trooper drive you to the morgue.”

  He didn’t seem to know that we’d been there, done that. I said to him, “Look, Major, I understand this is your show, and you’re not happy about having a dead Federal agent on your hands, and you’ve probably heard more than you want to hear from New York, Albany, and maybe Washington. We’re not here to make your life more difficult—we’re here to help. And to exchange information.” I added, “I have a dead friend lying in the morgue.”

  Schaeffer thought about that and said, “You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Follow me.”

  We went down a long hallway and entered a large cafeteria. There were a dozen or so uniformed and civilian-attired men and women scattered around, and Schaeffer found an empty table in a corner.

  We sat, and he said, “This is unofficial, in the open, coffee, courtesy, condolences, and no papers on the table.”

  “Understood.”

  Schaeffer seemed like a straight guy who would extend a professional courtesy, if for no other reason than to see what he could get in return.

  I got right to the point. “Looks like an accident, smells like a homicide.”

  He gave a slight nod, and asked me, “Who would want to kill this man?”

  “I’m thinking Bain Madox. You know him?”

  He looked appropriately shocked, then asked me, “Yeah . . . but why—?”

  “You know that Detective Muller was here on assignment at the Custer Hill Club.”

  “Yeah. I found out after he went missing and the Feds needed help finding him.” He advised both of us, “It would be nice if I knew about these things ahead of time. You know, sort of a courtesy. Like, this is my jurisdiction.”

  I replied, “I won’t argue with you about that.”

  “Look, you’re not the people I need to complain to. But every time I get mixed up with the FBI”—he glanced at Kate and continued—“I feel like I’m getting snowed.”