Wild Fire

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Two hours and fifteen minutes after we’d left the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, we flew over the upstate town of Saranac Lake. A few minutes later, three long runways forming a triangle came into view, surrounded by forest. I thought I saw bears lurking at the edge of the clearing.

As we descended, I could see some snazzy corporate jets parked on the ramp, though only one of them sported a corporate logo on the tail. In the case of corporate jets, it did not pay to advertise, partly for security reasons, and partly because it pissed off the stockholders. Nevertheless, I looked for a jet that was marked GOCO, but didn’t see any identifying markings as we hovered lower.

The pilot spoke to someone on the radio, then put the chopper down on the pavement behind a long, wood-shingled building that looked like an Adirondack lodge. This building seemed a little incongruous for an airport, but I knew from my infrequent trips into these mountains that the locals took their faux rustic stuff seriously, and I was surprised that the hangars didn’t look like log cabins.

Anyway, the pilot shut down the helicopter’s engine, and the noise level dropped dramatically.

The co-pilot jumped out of the cockpit, swung open the door of the cabin, and took Kate’s hand as she jumped down. I followed without taking the fellow’s hand, and said to him over the sound of the slowing rotor blades, “Did you see any bears?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Are you staying?”

“No. We’ll fuel up, then head back to New York.” As he spoke, I spotted a fuel truck coming in our direction, which is quicker service than I get at my gas station. It must have something to do with the FBI markings on the chopper.

I turned and looked around the mostly empty tarmac. The corporate jets were parked in a row on a blacktop ramp in the distance, and beyond them was a scattering of smaller light airplanes. There was no activity to speak of.

It was much colder up here, and I could see my breath, which is not what I wanted to see at 1:30 in the afternoon on a sunny day in early October.

Kate said, “Smell that air.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

“The mountain air, John. And look at those trees, and those mountains.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“In God’s country.”

“Good. I have a few questions to ask him.”

Apparently the Adirondack lodge building was the main passenger terminal, and we walked around to the front entrance, which had a covered veranda surrounded by a rustic railing. There was a picnic table and Pepsi machine on the veranda, and a security guy was sitting there smoking a cigarette. No one would mistake this place for JFK International Airport.

Kate said to me, “I’ll call Tom.”

“Why?”

“Maybe someone is supposed to meet us here.”

“Well, I don’t see how they can miss us.” In fact, there wasn’t another soul around, and there were hardly more than a dozen vehicles in the parking lot, half of which were probably abandoned by people who had one-way tickets out of this godforsaken wilderness.

We entered the terminal, which was much warmer than the frozen alpine valley outside. The terminal interior was small, functional, and quiet.

As small and isolated as this place was, there was a security checkpoint, complete with a walk-through metal detector and a baggage scanner. There were no security people at the checkpoint, and no passengers for that matter, so I assumed there was no imminent departure.

Kate scanned the empty terminal and said, “I don’t see anyone who might be here to meet us.”

“How can you tell in this crowd?”

She ignored that and observed, “There are the car-rental counters… there’s a restaurant, and there are the restrooms. Where do you want to start?”

“Over here.” I turned toward the sole airline ticket counter, whose logo said: CONTINENTAL COMMUTAIR.

Kate asked, “What are you doing?”

“Let’s see what Harry was supposed to find here.”

“That’s not what Tom-”

“Fuck Tom.”

She considered that and agreed, “Yeah, fuck him.”

I approached the small ticket counter, where an imposing middle-aged woman and a young man sat on stools, watching us. They looked like brother and sister, and unfortunately, I think their parents were, too. The lady, whose name tag said BETTY, greeted us. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

I replied, “I need a ticket to Paris.”

“Would you like to go through Albany or Boston?”

“How about neither?”

Betty informed me, “Sir, there are no direct flights to anywhere from here, except to Albany and Boston.”

“You’re kidding? How about arriving flights?”

“Same. Albany and Boston. Continental CommutAir. Two flights a day. You just missed the last flight to Boston.” She cocked her thumb at the arrival and departure schedules on the wall behind her and informed us, “We go to Albany at three P.M.”

One airline, two cities, two flights to each city. That made my job a little easier and quicker. I said to her, “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

“You’re speaking to her.”

“I thought you were the ticket agent.”

“I am.”

“I hope you’re not also the pilot.”

Kate seemed impatient with my silliness and pulled out her creds. “FBI, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Mayfield and this is Detective Corey, my assistant. May we speak to you in private?”

Betty looked at us and said, “Oh… you’re the people who just landed in the helicopter.”

I guess big news traveled fast here. “Yes, ma’am. Where can we go to check out passenger manifests?”

She slid off her stool, told her assistant, Randy, to hold down the fort, then said to us, “Follow me.”

We went around the counter and through an open door into a small, empty office with desks, computers, faxes, and other electronic things.

She sat at one of the desks and asked Kate-I don’t think she liked me-“What do you need?”

Kate replied, “I need a list of passengers who arrived here on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and today. Also, departing passengers for those days, plus tomorrow.”

“Okay…”

I asked her, “Has anyone else been here, or called you in the last few days to ask about passenger manifests?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“If someone had called or been here when you weren’t here, would you know about it?”

She nodded. “Sure. Jake, Harriet, or Randy would have told me.”

Maybe Kate was right, and I should do what a lot of my colleagues have done and get a job as chief of police in a small town where everybody knows everybody else’s business. Kate could get a job as a school crossing guard, I’d spend all my time at the local tavern, and she’d have an affair with a forest ranger.

I said to Betty, “Okay, can you print out those passenger lists?”

Betty swiveled around and banged away at the keyboard.

As the printer started grinding out paper, I looked at a few pages and said, “Not too many people on these flights.”

Betty replied as she hit the keys, “These are commuter aircraft. Eighteen passengers maximum.”

That was good news. I asked her, “And these are all the arriving and departing passengers for the days in question?”

“As of right now. I can’t tell you who’s actually going to depart on the three o’clock Albany flight, or any flights tomorrow, but I’m getting you the reservation lists for those flights.”

“Good. Do you have a record of incoming and departing private aircraft?” I asked her.

“No, this is an airline. Private aircraft is general aviation, and the ramp operations office takes care of that.”

“Of course. What was I thinking? So, where’s the ramp operations office?”

“The other end of the terminal.”

Before I could say this place wasn’t big enough to have another end, Betty added, “They’d have a record of incoming or departing aircraft only if they spent the night or bought fuel.”

That’s what I like about this job-you learn something new every day about something you’ll never use for the rest of your life.

Kate asked, “Can you get us those records?”

“I’ll send Randy to get a copy for you.”

She picked up the phone and said to her assistant, “Do me a favor, sweetie, and go down to ramp operations.” She explained what she needed, hung up, and said to both of us, “Can I ask why you need these passenger lists?”

Kate replied, “We’re not at liberty to say, and I need to ask you not to mention this to anyone.”

I added, “Not even Jake, Harriet, or Randy.”

Betty nodded absently while making a mental list of all the people she was going to tell about her visit from the FBI.

In a few minutes, Randy appeared and handed a few papers to Betty, who then handed them over to Kate. We both looked at the sheets. There were a couple dozen private aircraft that had been registered at the airport on the days in question, but the only information on the printout was the make, model, and tail number of the aircraft. I asked Betty, “Do you know if there’s any information about who owns these aircraft?”

“No, but you can find out from the tail numbers.”

“Right. Can I find out who was on board?”

“No. With general aviation-private flights-there is no record of who was on board. That’s why it’s called private.”

“Right. God bless America.” Meanwhile, Osama bin Laden could be on board a private jet, and no one would know it. And now, a year after 9/11, security for general aviation was still non-existent, while commercial aviation passengers, including babies, flight crew, and little old ladies, got patted down and wanded, even on small commuter aircraft. Go figure.

Kate gathered up the printouts and put them in her briefcase.

I asked Betty the standard question. “You notice anything unusual this weekend?”

She swiveled her chair toward us. “Like what?”

Why do they always ask that? “Unusual,” I said. “Like, not usual.”

She shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”

“More people arriving than usual?”

“Well, yeah, you get a lot of people on holiday weekends. Summer and winter are real big up here. But fall is getting big with the leaf watchers. Then, hunting begins, and then you got Thanksgiving weekend, and then Christmas, skiing, and-”

I stopped her before we got to Groundhog Day, and asked, “Did any of the passengers look unusual?”

“No. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Some big shot flew in from Washington.”

“Was he lost?”

She looked at Kate as if to say, Who is this asshole you’re with?

Kate picked up the ball. “Who was he?”

“I don’t remember. Secretary of something. His name should be on the passenger manifest.”

“How did he arrive?”

“CommutAir from Boston. I think it was Saturday. Yes, Saturday. He came in on the eleven o’clock flight, and one of our security guards recognized him.”

Kate inquired, “Did he rent a vehicle?”

“No. I remember he was met by a guy from the Custer Hill Club-that’s a private club about thirty miles from here. There were three other guys on that flight, and they seemed to be together.”

“How,” I asked, “did you know that the guy who met the secretary of something was from this club?”

“The driver had a uniform on that’s from the Custer Hill Club. They come here now and then to pick up passengers.” She added, “All four passengers got their luggage and went outside, where a van from the club was waiting for them.”

I nodded. Very little escaped notice in small places. “Did this van from the Custer Hill Club pick up any more arriving passengers from other flights?”

“I don’t know. I might have been off-duty.”

“Did the van drop off any departing passengers?”

“I don’t know. I can’t always see what’s going on at curbside.”

“Right.” I didn’t want to show any further interest in the Custer Hill Club so I switched gears to a cover story and said, “What we need to know is if you or anyone else saw someone who looked… how can I put this without sounding like I’m engaging in racial profiling…? Anyone who looked, well, like their country of origin may have been someplace where there are lots of camels?”

She nodded in acknowledgment, thought a second, then replied, “No, I think that kind of person would stand out.”

I’ll bet they would. “Can you do us a favor and ask around later?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I sure can. You want me to call you?”

“I’ll call you, or stop in.”

“Okay. I’ll ask around.” She stood, and stared at us. “What’s this about? Is something going to happen?”

I moved closer to Betty and said in a low tone, “This has to do with the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid. Keep that to yourself.”

Betty processed that for a few seconds, then said, “The Winter Olympics were in 1980.”

I looked at Kate and said, “Damn! We’re too late.” I asked Betty, “Hey, did anything happen?”

Kate gave me a mean look, then said to Betty, “That’s Detective Corey’s way of saying we’re not at liberty to discuss this. But we could use your help.”

Normally, this is when you give the good citizen your card, but we were doing a smoke screen now, and Kate was on top of it, so she asked Betty for her card. “We’ll call you. Thanks for your help.”

“Anything I can do, just ask.” She added, “If those people try anything around here, we know how to handle them.”

I replied in my John Wayne accent, “That’s our job, ma’am. Don’t take the law into your own hands.”

She made a little snorting sound, then said to us, “While you’re here, you might want to look into that Custer Hill Club.”

“Why?”

“Strange things going on up there.”

I felt like I was in a B movie, where the guy from the city gets warned by a local about the creepy place on the hill, then ignores the advice, which was actually what I was going to do in Act II. I responded, noncommittally, “Thanks. How’s the food at the restaurant?”

“Pretty good, but a little pricey. Try the double bacon cheeseburger.”

Betty looked as if she’d tried several.

She showed us out, and I said to Kate in a foreboding tone, “Whatever you do, miss, do not go to the Custer Hill Club.”

She smiled and said, “Do not order the double bacon cheeseburger.”

In fact, that was the first risky thing I was going to do today before going to the Custer Hill Club.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Out in the termInal area, I said to Kate, “I’m going to hit the men’s room.”

“You should. You’re full of shit.”

“Right. I’ll meet you at the car-rental counter.”

We parted company, and I freshened up and was at the car-rental area within four minutes. Women take a bit longer.

There were two car-rental counters-Enterprise and Hertz-one behind the other in a small area off to the side of the terminal. The young guy behind the Enterprise counter was sitting down, reading a book. Standing behind the Hertz counter was a young lady playing with her computer. Her big breast tag read MAX, which I assumed was her name and not her cup size. I said, “Hi, Max. I have a reservation under the name of Corey.”

“Yes, sir.” She found my reservation, and we went through the paperwork, which took only a few minutes. She handed me the keys to a Ford Taurus, and told me how to find the rental lot, then asked me, “Do you need any directions?”

“Do you mean in life?”

She giggled. “No. Driving directions. You want a map?”

“Sure.” I took the map and said, “Actually, I need a place to stay.”

She replied, “There’s a rack of pamphlets over there. Lodging, restaurants, sights, and stuff.”

“Great. What’s the best place around?”

“The Point.”

“What’s The Point?”

She smiled, “I don’t know, John. What’s the point?” She laughed. “I get people with that every time.”

“I’ll bet. Got me. So, where would you recommend to stay?”

“The Point.”

“Okay…”

“It’s, like, really expensive though.”

“Like what? A hundred bucks?”

“No, like a thousand dollars.”

“A year?”

“A night.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, for real. It’s, like, really exclusive.”

“Really.” I didn’t think this was going to get past the accounting office, but I was in a reckless mood. “How do I get to The Point?”

“Stop beating around the bush.” She laughed hard and slapped the counter. “Got ya.”

“Hey, you’re good.” What did I do to deserve this?

Max got herself under control. “Hey, you really going there?”

“Why not? I have a rich uncle.”

“You must. You rich?”

“I’m John.”

She giggled politely. “Good one.”

Max handed me a map, which I noticed had lots of thin, winding roads that ran through open spaces, with very few towns. I thought of Harry, who liked the Adirondacks, and I asked God to do the right thing this time.

Max put an X on the map. “The Point is on Upper Saranac Lake, about there. You should call for directions. Also, you have to call for reservations. They’re, like, always booked.”

“At a thousand bucks a night?”

“Yeah. Can you believe?” She pulled a phone book from under the counter, found the number of The Point, and wrote it on the map, saying to me, “You won’t find a brochure on this place in the wire rack.”

“Really.”

I put the map in my pocket, and Max said to me, “So, you’re from New York City?”

“I am.”

“I love New York. So, what brings you up here?”

“A helicopter.”

She started to smile, then a little light went off in her head, and she said, “Oh, you’re the guy who flew in on the FBI helicopter.”

“Right. Fuller Brush Incorporated.”

She laughed. “No… FBI. Like Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Kate appeared, carrying two containers of coffee, and asked me, “You having a good time here?”

“I’m renting a car.”

“I could hear you laughing from the restaurant. What’s the joke?”

“What’s the point?”

Max laughed. Kate did not. I said, “It’s a long story.”

“Shorten it.”

“Okay, there’s this place… a hotel or something-”

“A resort,” said Max helpfully.

“Right. A resort called The Point. So, Max-that’s this young lady-no, first I asked, ‘Is there a good place to stay?’ so she says, ‘What’s the point-?’”

“No,” interrupted Max, “I said, ‘The Point,’ and you said, ‘What’s The Point?’ and I said-”

“All right,” Kate interrupted, “I get it.” She put my coffee on the counter. “At what point are we now?”

I replied, professionally, “I was just about to identify myself as a Federal agent.”

Kate beat me to it and showed her credentials. She said to Max, “I need photocopies of all car-rental contracts from Thursday to now, including vehicles that have been returned. See if you can do that in ten minutes. We’ll be in the restaurant.” Kate went to the next counter, Enterprise Rent-A-Car, and spoke to the young man there.

I said to Max, “That’s my wife.”

“Gee, I never would’ve guessed.”

I took the coffee and went into the restaurant, which was actually just a small café. The walls and ceilings were painted a horrid sky blue, complete with white clouds unlike any I’ve ever seen on this planet. Plastic models of biplanes hung from the ceiling, and photos of various aircraft added to the motif. There was a four-stool lunch counter, which was empty, and a dozen empty tables from which I could choose. I sat at a table near a picture window where I could see the runway.

An attractive waitress came over with a menu and asked, “And how are you this afternoon?”

“Great. I’m happily married. Can I have another menu? My wife will be here in a few minutes.”

“Sure…” She put the menu down and moved off to get another one.

My cell phone rang, and the caller ID said “Private,” which 90 percent of the time is the office, so I let it go into voice mail.

Kate came into the café and said, “My cell phone just rang.”

“Probably Bergdorf’s looking for you.”

She sat down and listened to her voice mail. “Tom Walsh-wants me to call.”

“Wait a few minutes.”

“All right.” She took the sheaf of CommutAir printouts from her briefcase and laid them on the table. I took half and started flipping through them while dialing my cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“The Point.”

A man named Charles answered, and I said, “I’d like to make a reservation for this evening.”

“Yes, sir. We have some availability.”

“Do you also have rooms?”

“Yes, sir. We have the Mohawk Room in the Main Lodge, the Lookout in the Eagle’s Nest, the Weatherwatch in the Guest House-”

“Slow down, Charles. What can I get for a thousand bucks?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Not even a cot in the kitchen?”

He quoted me some rates on the available rooms, and I got scalped by the Mohawk for twelve hundred bucks, which was the cheapest room available. I asked him, “Does this place have heat and electricity?”

“Yes, sir. How many nights will you be staying with us?”

“I’m not sure, Charles. Let’s start with two.”

“Yes, sir.” He added, “If you’re with us on Wednesday evening, black tie is requested for dinner.”

“Are you telling me I need a tuxedo to eat dinner in the woods?”

“Yes, sir.” He explained, “William Avery Rockefeller, who owned this property, would dine with his guests each evening in black tie. We try to re-create the experience on Wednesday and Saturday evenings.”

“I might need to miss that experience. Can I get room service in my underwear?”

“Yes, sir. How would you like to secure the reservation?”

I gave him my name and government credit card, we ironed out a few other details, and I asked him, “You have any bears there?”

“Yes, sir. We have a bar in the-”

“Bears, Charles, bears. You know. Ursus terribilis.”

“Uh… we… there are bears in the area, but-”

“Feed the bears tonight, Charles. See you later.” I hung up.

Kate said, “Did I hear you correctly?”

“Yeah, fucking bears.”

“The room rate.”

“Yeah, we’re in the Mohawk Room. The Weatherwatch at two thousand dollars a night seemed a little extravagant.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Why do you ask? Hey, after two nights in that B and B hovel you booked, we deserve a nice place.”

“I think we get an allowance of a hundred dollars per diem in the Albany area.” She reminded me, “We… you have to make up the difference.”

“We’ll see.”

Kate’s beeper went off, and she looked at it. “Tom.”

“Give it a few more minutes.”

“Maybe they’ve found Harry.”

“That would be nice.” I flipped through the printouts, trying to see if anything stuck out.

Kate, too, went through the printouts and said, “Here is the eleven A.M. CommutAir from Boston on Saturday… wow.”

“Wow, what?”

“Edward Wolffer. You know who he is?”

“Yeah, he played center field for the-”

“He’s the deputy secretary of defense. Very hawkish guy, pushing for the war in Iraq. Very close to the president. He’s on TV a lot.”

“That’s probably the guy who someone here recognized.”

“Yes, and here’s another one on the same flight-Paul Dunn. He’s a presidential adviser-”

“On matters of national security, and a member of the National Security Council.”

“Right. How did you know that?”

“It’s always a Jeopardy question.”

“Why do you like to play stupid?”

“It’s a good cover for when I really am stupid.” I said, “So, Wolffer and Dunn arrived Saturday, plus two other guys, according to Betty, and they all got into the van to the Custer Hill Club.”

Kate looked again at the passenger manifest for the 11:00 A.M. Saturday flight from Boston and said, “There were nine other men on that flight, but none of these other names ring a bell, so we don’t know who these other two guys were who got into the van.”

“Right.” I continued flipping through the passenger lists. “Wolffer and Dunn left on the first Boston flight yesterday, connecting to Washington.”

She nodded thoughtfully, then asked me, “Does this mean anything?”

“Well, on the surface, it doesn’t mean much. A lot of rich and powerful guys got together on a three-day weekend at a mountain lodge owned by an oil billionaire. It’s like one of those Renaissance weekends, or a gathering of the Carlyle Group, where some people, and the media, speculate that all kinds of devious things are going on-oil-price rigging, financial and political deals, conspiracies to take over the planet, and that kind of thing. But sometimes, it’s just a bunch of rich guys getting together to relax, play cards, talk about women, and tell dirty jokes.”

Kate thought about that. “Sometimes it is,” she said. “But someone in the Justice Department ordered a surveillance of this gathering.”

“That’s the point.”

She went on, “And it’s not every day that the Justice Department wants to keep an eye on the deputy secretary of defense, a presidential adviser, and who knows who else in this club.”

I commented, “This is getting good.” I scanned the passenger manifests. “We need to do a background check of everyone who arrived here by commercial aircraft in the last few days, and see what, if any, connection they have to one another-then try to find out what Harry was supposed to find out on his surveillance: who went from here to the Custer Hill Club.”

Kate replied, “I don’t think that’s our job. Tom didn’t mention that.”

“It’s good to show initiative. Tom appreciates that, and by the way, fuck Tom.”

The waitress came by, and one of us ordered a double bacon cheeseburger, and the other ordered a Cobb salad, whatever the hell that is.

My beeper went off, and I looked at the number. Not surprisingly, it was Tom Walsh. “I’ll call him.”

“No, I’ll call him,” Kate said.

“Let me handle this. He likes and respects me.” I dialed Tom’s cell phone, and he answered. I asked, “Did you page me?”

“Yes, I paged you, and Kate, and I called you both. You were supposed to call me when you landed.”

“We just got in. Headwinds.”

“According to the pilot, you’ve been there almost an hour.”

“There was a long line at the car rental. More important, what’s the word on Harry?”

“Nothing yet.” He briefed me on nothing, then said, “I want you to drive to the regional headquarters of the state police in Ray Brook. That’s a few miles from Saranac Lake. Make contact with a Major Hank Schaeffer, commander of B Troop, and coordinate the search operation with him. You can offer your services and expertise, such as they are, and offer to participate in the search.”

“Okay. That’s it?”

“For now. Meanwhile, we’re going through channels to see if we can get a few hundred troops from Fort Drum to participate in the search. That will speed it up considerably. Tell Schaeffer we’re still working on that.”

“Will do.”

“Call me when you’ve spoken to Schaeffer.”

“Will do.”

“Okay, is Kate there?”

“She’s in the ladies’ room.”

“Tell her to call me.”

“Will do.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Waiting for a double bacon cheeseburger.”

“Okay… don’t hang around the airport too long, and don’t ask anyone there any questions.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just get over to the state trooper headquarters ASAP. And don’t even think about going to the Custer-”

“I understand.”

“All right. Nothing further.”

I hung up, and Kate asked me, “What did he say?”

I sipped my coffee and went back to the printouts. “He wants us to go to the Custer Hill Club and see if Bain Madox is there, and talk to him, and see who else is there.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Did he want me to call him?”

“At your convenience.”

She was getting a little impatient with me and said, “John, what the fuck did he-?”

“Here’s the deal. Nothing new on Harry, Walsh wants us to make contact with the state police, help in the search, and not snoop around the airport.” I noted, “Too late for that.”

“I didn’t hear anything about going to the Custer Hill Club.”

“Why don’t you go see the state police? I’ll go to the Custer Hill Club.”

She didn’t reply.

I said to her, “Kate, we were sent here as a pro forma response to the disappearance of one of our guys from the Task Force. We’re here to get the bad news, or the good news, if and when Harry is found. This is just protocol. You know that. The question for you is, Do you want to take a reactive, or pro-active, role here?”

“You have a way of putting things… let me think about it.”

“Do that.”

The food came, and the double bacon cheeseburger looked like it could give you a heart attack if you touched it. The Freedom Fries had a little American flag stuck in them.

Kate asked, “Do you want some of this salad?”

“I found a slug in a salad once.”

“Thanks.”

Before I could get my minimum daily requirement of fat, the guy from Enterprise came into the café and handed Kate a stack of photostated car-rental contracts. He said to her, “I get off-duty at four, if you want me to show you around. Maybe we can have dinner. I put my cell-phone number on my card.”

“Thanks, Larry. I’ll call you later.”

He left.

I said, “You put him up to that.”

“What are you talking about?”

I didn’t reply and called for the check so we could get moving as soon as Max showed up.

I took another bite of my cheeseburger, and Max came into the café, spotted us, and came over. She said to Kate, “Here’s all the contracts from Thursday to tomorrow, including returns. There’s, like, twenty-six. It’s a big weekend.”

Kate replied, “Thank you. And please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Sure.” She looked at me and said, “You’re a lucky guy to have a wife like this.”

My mouth was full of burger, and I grunted.

Max left, and I swallowed. “You put her up to that.”

“What are you talking about?”

I shoved some Freedom Fries in my mouth, stood, and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Kate put the papers in her briefcase, I put twenty bucks on the table, and we left the café. I said, “If you’re not coming with me, go to Hertz and get yourself another car. The state police headquarters is in someplace called Ray Brook, not far from here. Ask for Major Schaeffer. I’ll call you later.”

She stood there, wavering between following Walsh’s orders and her recently expressed opinion to him that the world had changed.

Finally, she said, “I’ll go with you to the Custer Hill Club. Then, we go to the state police headquarters.”

We exited the terminal, walked to the car-rental lot, and found the blue Taurus. I drove to the side of the terminal building where the general aviation operations were and parked the car. “I want to see if GOCO has a corporate jet and if they use this airport.” I handed her the road map and said, “Call the county police and see if you can get directions to the Custer Hill Club.”

I went into the building, where a guy sat at a desk behind the counter playing with his computer.

I asked him, “Can I get a ticket to Paris here?”

He looked up from his computer and replied, “You can go anywhere you want if you own, lease, or charter a plane big enough. And you don’t even need a ticket.”

“I think I’m in the right place.” I held up my credentials and said, “John Corey, Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I need to ask you a few questions.”

He stood, came to the counter, and checked out the creds. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Who am I talking to?”

“I’m Chad Rickman, operations officer.”

“Okay, Chad, I need to know if there’s a private jet that uses this airport, registered to the Global Oil Corporation. GOCO.”

“Yeah, two Cessna Citations, new models. Any problem?”

“Are either of the jets here?”

“No… in fact they both came in yesterday morning, about an hour apart, fueled up, then a few hours later they took off.”

“How many passengers got off?”

“I don’t think there were any. We usually send a car out to the aircraft, and I’m pretty sure it was just the flight crew.”

“Did any passengers get on after they refueled?”

“I don’t think so. They came in, topped off, and a few hours later they flew out.”

“All right… where did they go?”

“They don’t have to tell me where they’re going-they have to tell the FAA.”

“Okay… how do they tell the FAA? Radio?”

“No, phone. From here. Actually, I overheard both pilots filing a flight plan to Kansas City, departing thirty minutes apart.”

I thought about that, then asked, “Why would they be going to Kansas City with no one on board?”

“Maybe they only had cargo,” Chad replied. “I remember two Jeeps met them here and put some stuff on board.”

“What did they put on board?”

“I didn’t see.”

“These are passenger planes, right? Not cargo?”

“Right. But they’ll hold a little cargo in the cabin.”

“I still don’t understand why two jets flew in empty and flew out with a few pieces of cargo, both of them going to the same place.”

“Hey, this guy who owns the planes-Bain Madox-owns the fucking oil wells. He can burn all the jet fuel he wants.”

“This is true.” I asked, “Was Kansas City their final destination?”

“I don’t know. That’s the flight plan I heard them file on the telephone. That’s probably about their cruising range, so maybe they’re going on from there. Or maybe they’re coming back here.”

“I see… so I can call the FAA to get their flight plans?”

“Yeah, if you’re authorized, and if you have their tail registration numbers.”

“Well, I’m authorized, Chad.” I pulled out the sheet of paper that Randy had fetched from this office and put it on the desk. “Which are the GOCO aircraft?”

He studied the sheet and checked off two numbers: N2730G and N2731G. Chad informed me, “Sequential registration numbers. A lot of companies that fly their own airplanes do that.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Typical tax crap. The rich are different from you and me.”

“No kidding?”

“Okay, thanks, Chad. Think more about this. Ask around for me and see if anyone else remembers anything. You got a cell-phone number?”

“Sure.” He wrote it on his business card and asked me, “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I told you-tax evasion. Bags of money.” I said to him, “Don’t mention anything to anyone about a Federal investigation.”

“Mum’s the word.”

I left the operations office and got back in the car. I said to Kate, “There are two GOCO corporate jets that use this airport.” I filled her in as I drove toward the airport exit and told her that we’d have to call the FAA office in Washington to find out what continuing flight plans had been filed for those two jets.

Kate asked me, “Why do we want to know that?”

“I don’t know yet. This guy Madox interests me, and you never know what’s important until you piece it together with something else. In detective work, there’s no such thing as TMI-too much information.”

“Should I be taking notes?”

“No, I’ll give you one of my taped lectures that I gave at John Jay.”

“Thank you.”

At the airport exit, I asked Kate, “Did you get directions?”

“Sort of. The desk sergeant said take Route 3 west, to 56 north, then ask around.”

“Real men don’t ask directions.” I asked, “Which way is Route 3?”

“Well, if you’re asking, turn left.”

Within a few minutes, we were on Route 3, designated a scenic highway, heading west into the wilderness. I said to Kate, “Keep an eye out for bears. Hey, do you think a 9mm Glock will stop a bear?”

“I don’t think so, but I hope to God you get to find out.”

“That’s not very loving.”

She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Every minute that goes by without word about Harry makes me think he’s not alive.”

I didn’t reply.

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “It could have been you.”

It could have been, but if it were me out in the woods around the Custer Hill Club, things may have turned out differently. Then again, maybe not.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We continued west on Route 3, a road that seemed to have no reason to exist, except to look at trees while you went from nowhere to nowhere.

Kate had picked up a few brochures from the airport and was perusing them. She does this wherever we go so she can enhance her experience; then, she regurgitates this stuff back to me, like a tour guide.

She informed me that Saranac Lake, the town and the airport and this road, was actually within the boundaries of Adirondack State Park.

She also informed me that this area was known as the North Country, a name she found romantic.

I commented, “You could freeze to death here in April.”

She went on, “Large parts of the park have been designated as forever wild.”

“That’s pretty depressing.”

“The area designated as parkland is as big as the state of New Hampshire.”

“What’s New Hampshire?”

“Much of it is uninhabited.”

“That’s fairly obvious.”

And so forth. Actually, I could see now how someone could be lost in here for days or weeks, or the rest of their lives, but I also realized that someone could survive if they had some experience in the woods.

Route 3 was actually a decent two-lane road that occasionally passed through a small town, but there were stretches of wilderness that aroused my agoraphobia and zoophobia. I could see why this guy Bain Madox would have a lodge up here if he were up to no good.

Kate said, “This is so beautiful.”

“It is.” It sucked.

There were yellow signs with black silhouettes of jumping deer, which I guess were to warn the deer to jump out of the way of cars on the road.

Around a turn was a big sign that had a black painting of a bear and the word CAUTION. I said, “Did you see that? Did you see that bear sign?”

“Yes. That means there are bears in the area.”

“Holy shit. Are the doors locked?”

“John, stop being an idiot. Bears won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“Famous last words. How do you know what bothers a bear?”

“Stop with the fucking bears.”

We continued on. There wasn’t much traffic going our way, and only a few vehicles passed us going back toward Saranac Lake.

Kate said, “Tell me why we’re going to the Custer Hill Club.”

“Standard police procedure. You go to the place where you last heard from the missing subject.”

“This is a little more complex than a missing-person case.”

“Actually, it isn’t. The problem with the FBI and the CIA is that they make things more complicated than they need to be.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I need to remind you that we don’t want to alert Madox or anyone there that a Federal agent was on his property.”

“I think we’ve discussed this. If you were on the Custer Hill property with a broken leg, no cell-phone service, and a bear nibbling on your toes, would you want me to follow orders and wait for a search warrant to look for you?”

She considered that, then said, “I know that a cop will risk his life and his career to help another cop, and I know you’d do the same for me-though you may be conflicted about my dual role as your wife and as an FBI agent-”

“Interesting point.”

“But I think you have another agenda, which is to see what the Custer Hill Club is all about.”

“What was your first clue?”

“Well, the stack of airline passenger lists and car-rental contracts in my briefcase, for one. And you inquiring about Global Oil Corporation aircraft, for another.”

“I just can’t seem to fool you.”

“John, I agree that we need to push the search for Harry, but beyond that, you’re getting into something that may be a lot bigger than you realize.” She reminded me, “The Justice Department is interested in this man and this club and his guests. Do not screw up their investigation.”

“Are you speaking as my colleague, my wife, or my lawyer?”

“All of the above.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Okay, I’ve said my piece because I had to say it and because I really worry about you sometimes. You’re a loose cannon.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re also extremely bright and clever, and I trust your judgment and your instincts.”

“Really?”

“Really. So, even though I’m technically your superior, I’ll follow your lead on this.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“You’d better not. And I also want to remind you that nothing succeeds like success. If you… we… go beyond our orders, then we’d better have something to show for it.”

“Kate, if I didn’t think there was more to this than oil-price rigging, we’d be sitting around the state trooper headquarters now, drinking coffee.”

She took my hand, and we drove on.

About forty minutes after we’d left the airport, I saw a sign for Route 56 north, and Kate said, “Bear right.”

I hit the brakes and reached for my Glock. “Where?”

“Here. Bear right. Go.”

“Bear… oh… bear right. Don’t use that word.”

“Turn fucking right. Here.”

I turned onto Route 56 north, and we continued on. This stretch of road was real wilderness, and I said to Kate, “This looks like Indian Country. What’s it say in the brochure about Indians? Friendly?”

“It says that the peace treaty with the Native American population expires on Columbus Day 2002.”

“Funny.”

We drove for about twenty miles, and a brown sign informed us that we were leaving Adirondack State Park.

Kate said, “The desk sergeant said the Custer Hill Club is on private land inside the park, so we passed it.” She glanced at the Hertz map. “There’s a town called South Colton a few miles up ahead. We’ll stop and ask for directions.”

I continued on, and a small group of buildings appeared. A sign said: SOUTH COLTON-A SMALL TOWN WITH A BIG CHIP ON ITS SHOULDER, or words to that effect.

There was a gas station at the edge of the small bump-in-the-road town, and I pulled in and parked. I said to Kate, “You go ask for directions.”

“John, get off your ass and go ask for directions.”

“All right… you come with me.”

We got out, stretched, and went inside the small, rustic office.

A wizened old guy from Central Casting wearing jeans and a plaid shirt sat at a beat-up desk, smoking a cigarette and watching a fly-fishing show on a TV that was on the counter. Reception seemed to be less than optimum, so I moved the rabbit ears for him, and he said, “Right there. That’s good.”

As soon as I took my hands off the rabbit ears, he lost reception again. One of my jobs as a kid used to be to act as an antenna for the family television, but I was beyond that now, and I said to him, “We need some directions.”

“I need to get a satellite dish.”

“Not a bad idea. You can speak directly to the mother ship. We’re looking for-”

“Where you comin’ from?”

“Saranac Lake.”

“Yeah?” He looked us over for the first time, checked out the Taurus outside, and asked, “Where you from?”

“Earth. Look, we’re running late-”

“Need gas?”

“Sure. But first-”

“Lady need the restroom?”

Kate answered, “Thank you. We’re headed for the Custer Hill Club.”

He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Yeah?”

“Do you know where that is?”

“Sure do. They gas up here. Don’t do no car work for them. They take their cars up to the dealer in Potsdam. Hell, I forgot more about car repair than those idiots at the dealers ever knew.” He went on, “But if they get stuck in the snow or mud, who do you think they call? The dealer? Hell, no. They call Rudy. That’s me. Why, just last January, or maybe it was February… yeah, it was that big snow in mid-month. You remember that?”

I replied, “I may have been in Barbados. Look, Rudy-”

“I got a snack machine over there and a Coke machine. You need change?”

I surrendered. “Yes, please.”

So we got change, bought some petrified snacks from the machine, plus two Cokes, used the restroom, and got a few gallons of gas.

Back in the tiny office, I paid for the gas with one of my government MasterCards. Agents carry two credit cards, one for food, lodging, and miscellaneous, and one specifically for gasoline. My gasoline card said CORPORATE, and R AND I ASSOCIATES, which meant nothing, but nosy Rudy asked, “What’s R and I Associates?”

“Refrigerators and Ice Makers.”

“Yeah?”

I changed the subject and asked him, “You got a local map?”

“Nope. But I can draw you one.”

“For free?”

He laughed and rummaged through a stack of junk mail and found a flyer advertising a moose-wrestling contest or something, and began writing on the back with a pencil. He said, “So, you got to look for Stark Road first, and make a left, but there’s no signs, then you get to Joe Indian Road-”

“Excuse me?”

“Joe Indian.” He went through it again in case I was stupid, then concluded, “You hit this here loggin’ road with no name, and stay on for about ten mile. Now, you’re looking for McCuen Pond Road on the left, and that takes you right up to the Custer Hill property. Can’t miss it, ’cause you get stopped.”

“Stopped by who?”

“The guards. They got a house there and a gate. The whole property got a fence around it.”

“Okay, thanks, Rudy.”

“Why you headin’ up there?”

“We’re doing a service call for the refrigerator. Problem with the ice maker.”

“Yeah?” He looked at us. “They expectin’ you?”

“They sure are. They can’t make a cocktail until we fix the ice problem.”

“They didn’t give you no directions?”

“They did, but my dog ate them. Okay, thanks-”

“Hey, you want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“I gotta warn you, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Okay.”

“Get your money up front. They’s slow payin’. That’s the way the rich are. Slow payin’ the workin’ people.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

We left, and I said to Kate, “We’re on Candid Camera. Right?”

“I’m starting to think so.”

We got in the car and doubled back on Route 56, entered the park, and kept an eye out for Stark Road.

I found it and turned onto this narrow road, which ran through a tunnel of trees. “You want some beef jerky?”

“No, thank you. And don’t litter.”

I was hungry enough to eat a bear, but I settled for the beef jerky, which was gross. I threw the cellophane wrappers in the rear seat, my contribution to ecology.

We were close to the Custer Hill Club, and according to Walsh, an air-and-land search was supposed to be under way around the club property, but I didn’t hear any helicopters or fixed-wing aircraft, and I didn’t see any police search vehicles around. This was not a good sign, or it was a very good sign.

Kate checked her cell phone and said, “I have service now, and I also have a message.”

She started to retrieve the message, but I said, “We’re out of contact. No messages, no calls.”

“What if they’ve found Harry?”

“I don’t want to know either way. We’re going to see Bain Madox.”

She put her cell phone back in her pocket, then her beeper went off, and so did mine a minute later.

We followed Rudy’s directions, and within twenty minutes, we turned onto McCuen Pond Road, which was narrow but well paved.

There was a big sign up ahead that stretched above the road, fixed to two ten-foot poles with floodlights attached. The sign said: THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY-NO TRESPASSING-STOP AT GATE AHEAD OR TURN AROUND.

We passed under the sign, and ahead I could see a clearing where a rustic log house stood behind a closed steel security gate.

Two men in camouflage fatigues exited the house as though they knew we were coming long before we got to the gate, and I said to Kate, “Motion or sound detectors. Maybe TV cameras, too.”

“Not to mention those guys are wearing holsters, and one of them is looking at us with binoculars.”

“God, how I hate private-security guys. Give them a gun and some power, and-”

“That sign says slow down to five miles an hour.”

I slowed down and approached the closed gate. Ten feet from the gate was a speed bump and a sign that said: STOP HERE. I stopped.

The gate, which was electric, slid open a few feet, and one of the guys walked toward our car. I lowered the window, and he came up to me and asked, “How can I help you?”

The guy was in his thirties, all decked out in military cammies, hat, boots, and gun. He also wore an expression suggesting he was very cool and possibly dangerous if provoked. All he needed to complete the look were sunglasses and a swastika. I said to him, “I’m Federal Agent John Corey, and this is Federal Agent Kate Mayfield. We’re here to see Mr. Bain Madox.”

This seemed to crack his stone face, and he asked, “Is he expecting you?”

“If he was, you’d know about it, wouldn’t you?”

“I… Can I see some identification?”

I wanted to show him my Glock first so he knew he wasn’t the only person carrying, but to be nice, I handed him my credentials and so did Kate.

He studied both sets of credentials, and I had the feeling he either recognized them as legitimate or was pretending he was well versed in credential recognition.

I interrupted his perusal of the creds. “I’ll take those back.”

He hesitated, then handed them to us. I reiterated, “We’re here to see Mr. Madox on official business.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

“Are you Mr. Madox?”

“No… but-”

“Look, fella, you’ve got about ten seconds to do something brilliant. Call ahead if you need to, then open the fucking gates.”

He looked a little pissed, but kept his cool and said, “Hold on.”

He went back to the gate, slipped through the opening, and spoke to the other guy. Then they both disappeared into the log gatehouse.

Kate asked me, “Why do you always need to be confrontational?”

“Confrontational is when I pull my gun. Argumentative is when I pull the trigger.”

“Federal agents are trained to be polite.”

“I missed that class.”

“What if they don’t let us in? They can refuse us access to private property if we don’t have a search warrant.”

“Where’s it say that?”

“It’s actually in the Constitution.”

“Ten bucks says we get in.”

“You’re on.”

The neo-fascist came back to our car and said, “I’m going to ask you to pull up through the gate, and park your car to the right. A Jeep will take you up to the lodge.”

“Why can’t I take my own car?”

“It’s for your own safety and security, sir, and because of our insurance policy.”

“Well, we don’t want to mess with your insurance company. Hey, you have bears on the property?”

“Yes, sir. Please proceed through the gate and remain in your vehicle until the Jeep arrives.”

Did this idiot think I was getting out with bears around?

He signaled to the guy at the gatehouse, and the steel gate slid open.

I drove into the property and turned onto a gravel patch. The gate slid closed behind us, and I said to Kate, “Welcome to the Custer Hill Club. You owe me ten bucks.”

She joked, “Twenty says we don’t get out of here alive.”

A black Jeep with tinted windows approached. It stopped, and two guys wearing holsters and camouflage fatigues got out and came toward us.

I said, “I need odds.”

One guy came up to my window and said, “Please exit, and follow me.”

This seemed like the kind of place where someone would put a tracking device or a bug in your car, so I had no intention of leaving the car there. I said, “I have a better idea. You lead, I’ll follow.”

He hesitated, then replied, “Follow me closely and stay on the road.”

“If you stay on the road, I’ll stay on the road.”

He went back to the Jeep and turned around, and I followed him up a hill through a cleared field with big rock outcroppings.

Kate said, “I assume you didn’t want them installing unwanted options in the car.”

“When you see this level of security, you need to be as paranoid as they are.”

“You always know how to handle a bad situation that you’ve gotten us into.”

“Thank you… I think.”

The road was lined with pole lights and I also noticed a series of utility poles running from the tree line across the open field and into the next tree line. The poles carried five wires, and as we passed beneath them, I saw that three of the wires were actually thick cables that must have been major power lines.

About halfway up the hill, I could see a huge lodge, the size of a small hotel. In the front of the lodge was a tall pole flying the American flag, and below the flag flew a yellow pennant of some sort.

Beyond the lodge at the top of the hill, I saw a tall tower that looked like a cellular relay tower, which explained why we had reception here, and why Harry should have reception if he was alive and well. I wondered if this tower belonged to the phone company, or to Bain Madox.

We reached the lodge, in front of which was a gravel parking space where another black Jeep was parked, along with a blue Ford Taurus, like the one I was driving. But this Taurus had an “e” sticker on the rear bumper, which I knew meant it was an Enterprise rental car. So maybe some weekend guests were still here. Also parked was a dark blue van-probably the same one that Betty had mentioned.

We stopped under the big columned portico, and both guys got out and opened our doors. Kate and I exited, she carrying her briefcase stuffed with airline manifests and car-rental agreements. I made a mental note of the plate number on the Enterprise car, then locked our doors and looked around.

The area surrounding the lodge was clear for about a half mile on all sides, which made for good views and very good security. Harry would have had a tough time getting close enough to this parking field to photograph plates and people, even if he used the rock formations for cover.

Also, I’d counted four security guys so far, and I had a feeling there were more. This place was tight, and I was fairly sure now that Harry had walked into a bad situation.

The Jeep driver said to us, “Please follow me.”

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.”

Mr. Madox informed me, “There are no such requirements or exclusions, but our membership is filled at the moment.”

Kate asked, “Do you accept women?”

He smiled. “Personally, I do. But club membership is restricted to men.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that’s the way I want it.”

Carl appeared carrying a tray, which he set down on the coffee table. He said to me, “Is a café au lait all right?”

“Terrific.”

He indicated a small silver coffeepot for Ms. Mayfield, then asked us, “Will that be all?”

We nodded, and Carl disappeared.

Mr. Madox went to the sideboard to refresh his scotch, and I said, “I’ll have a small one.”

He replied over his shoulder, “You’ll have to take it neat.” He poured two glasses, turned around, and remarked, “I seem to be having trouble with my ice maker.” He smiled.

Rudy, you old shit, I’m going to shove those rabbit ears up your ass.

More important, Madox knew someone was on the way to see him, yet he’d made no attempt to avoid his unknown visitors, even after the gatehouse goons told him we were Federal agents. Obviously, he’d made the decision to check us out while we checked him out.

Madox handed me a crystal glass and said, “Happy Columbus Day.” We touched glasses, then he sat, crossed his legs, sipped, and stared at the fire.

Kaiser Wilhelm woke up and snuggled next to his master’s chair to get his ears scratched. The stupid dog stared at me, and I stared back. He looked away first, so I won.

Kate sipped her coffee, then broke the silence. “You said you had sixteen guests this weekend.”

“That’s correct.” Madox again glanced at his watch. “I believe they’re all gone by now.”

Kate informed him, “We may need to speak to them, so I’ll need their names and contact information.”

Madox didn’t see that coming and was momentarily speechless, which I guessed was not usual for him. “Why…?”

“In the event they saw or heard something related to Mr. Muller’s disappearance.” She added, “Standard procedure.”

He didn’t seem to like this standard procedure. “That seems totally unnecessary. No one saw or heard anything. Also, please understand this is a private club whose members wish to remain private.”

Kate replied, “I can insure their privacy, and it’s up to us to determine if anyone saw or heard anything.”

He took a bigger sip of scotch and said to Kate, “I’m not an attorney, as you are, but it’s my understanding that unless this is a criminal matter, which it is not, or a civil case, which it is not, then I don’t need to give you the names of my houseguests any more than you need to give me the names of your houseguests.”

I couldn’t resist and said, “I had my aunt and uncle, Joe and Agnes O’Leary, over last weekend. Who’d you have?”

He looked at me, and I couldn’t tell if he appreciated me or not. Oddly, I liked the guy-man’s man and all that-and I think we could have been pals under other circumstances. Maybe if this whole thing was a misunderstanding, and Harry was found in a motel or something, Mr. Madox would invite me up for a weekend with the boys. Maybe not.

Kate said to him, “You’re correct that you have no legal obligation to reveal the names of your guests-at least at this point in time-but we’d like your voluntary cooperation now, while a man’s life may be in danger.”

Mr. Madox considered that. “I’ll need to contact my attorney.”

Kate reminded him, “You don’t like attorneys.”

He smiled tightly and replied, “I don’t, but neither do I like my proctologist.” He continued, “I’ll contact the men who were here and see if they’ll agree to have their names released.”

“Please do that quickly. And while you’re at it, I need the names and contact information of your staff.” She added, “Call me tonight. Mr. Corey and I are staying at The Point.”

His eyebrows rose. “Are you having trouble spending the anti-terrorist budget?”

Good one. I really liked this guy. I said, “We’re sharing a room to save taxpayer money.”

He raised his eyebrows again and said, “I won’t touch that one.” He looked at his watch a third time, and said, “Well, if I’m going to make some calls-”

“By the way,” I said, “I noticed that we had good cell-phone reception here, and I saw that tower on the hill. Is that a cell-phone tower?”

“It is.”

“You must have some pull.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, the population of this area is probably less than the population of Central Park on a Sunday, and I don’t think a lot of these people have cell phones, yet you have a big, expensive tower right on your property.”

“You’d be surprised how many rural people own cell phones,” Madox said. “Actually, I had that built.”

“For yourself?”

“For anyone who has a cell phone. My neighbors appreciate it.”

“I didn’t see any neighbors.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, the point is, Agent Muller had a cell phone, made and received some calls from this area, and now he’s not calling or receiving. This is why we’re concerned that he may be injured or worse.”

Mr. Madox replied, “Sometimes, because of the distance to surrounding relay towers, service is lost. Sometimes people lose or damage their phones. Sometimes a particular phone company has bad service in an area, sometimes the cell phone is faulty, and sometimes the battery goes dead. I don’t make too much of a non-responsive cell phone. If I did, I’d think my children were kidnapped by Martians.”

I smiled. “Right. We’re not making too much of it.”

“Good.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Anything further?”

“Yeah, what kind of scotch is this?”

“Private label, single malt. Would you like a bottle on your way out?”

“That’s very generous of you, but I can’t accept a gift. I can, however, drink a bottle here and not commit an ethics-code violation.”

“Would you like one for the road?”

I answered, “With these roads, I think I’d have trouble finding The Point sober.” I suggested, “Ms. Mayfield and I would like to join your security people in the search. Then, maybe we could stay here tonight. Is that possible?”

“No. It’s against club regulations. Also, the house staff are all leaving for a well-deserved rest after the three-day weekend.”

“I don’t need much staff, and Miss Mayfield and I can share a room.”

He surprised me by saying, “You’re funny. Sorry, I can’t extend you an overnight invitation. But if you’d like to stay in a local motel, I’ll have one of my staff lead you to South Colton. You may have already been there on your way here.”

“Yeah, I think so.” I guessed that the scotch had loosened him up a bit, which was why he found me amusing, so I said to him, “I don’t want to keep you from making all those calls, but if you’ve got a minute, I’m curious about this club.”

He didn’t respond.

“Nothing to do with this disappearance, but this is a really great-looking place. How did it get started? What do you do here? Hunt, fish?”

Bain Madox lit another cigarette, sat back, and crossed his legs again. “Well,” he said, “first the name. In 1968 I was commissioned a second lieutenant in the United States Army, and stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, prior to shipping out to Vietnam. There were a number of officer club annexes at Benning-smaller satellite clubs where junior officers could get together, away from the brass at the Main Club.”

“Great idea. I was a cop before joining the ATTF, and I can tell you, I never went to the same bars where the brass hung out.”

“Precisely. Well, there was this one club, located in the woods at a place called Custer Hill, and called the Custer Hill Officers Club. The building was a bit basic, and resembled a lodge.”

“Ah. I see where this is going.”

“Yes. So, several nights a week, a few dozen young officers would get together to drink beer and eat bad pizza, and discuss life, the war, women, and, now and then, politics.”

Mr. Madox seemed to leave the room and go back to that place and time. It was quiet except for the crackling fire, which was dying.

He came back and continued, “It was a very bad time for the country and the Army. Discipline had gone to hell, the nation was badly divided, there were riots in the cities, assassinations, bad news from the front, and… classmates, people we knew, were dying in Vietnam, or coming home terribly wounded… physically, mentally, and spiritually… and this is what we talked about.”

He finished his scotch and lit yet another cigarette, saying, “We felt… betrayed. We felt that our sacrifices, our patriotism, our service, and our beliefs had become irrelevant and detested by much of the country.” He looked at us and said, “This is nothing new in the history of the world, but it was something new for America.”

Neither Kate nor I commented.

Bain Maddox continued, “Well, we became bitter, then radical, I suppose you’d say, and we took a vow that… that if we lived, we’d dedicate our lives to righting many wrongs.”

I didn’t think that was the exact nature of the vow. The word “revenge” came to mind.

Madox went on, “So, most of us shipped out, some of us returned, and we stayed in touch. Some of us, like myself, stayed in the Army, but most got out when their obligation was completed. Many of us became successful, and we often helped those who didn’t, or who needed a career boost, or a job referral. A classic old-boys network, but this one was born in the cauldron of turbulent times, hardened by blood and war, and tested by years of wandering through the wilderness that America had become. And then, as we grew older and more successful, and as our… influence grew, and as America began to regain her strength and find her way again, we saw that we counted.”

Again he fell silent and glanced around, as though he were thinking about how he’d gotten here in this big lodge, so far from the small officers club in the woods of Georgia. He said, “I built this lodge as a gathering place about twenty years ago.”

I said, “So, you guys didn’t come up here just for the hunting and fishing. I mean, there’s a business angle here, and maybe a little political stuff, too.”

He considered his response. “We were… engaged in the war against Communism, and I can say truthfully and with some pride that many members of this club were instrumental in the final victory over that sick ideology, and the ending of the Cold War.” He regarded us and said, “And now… well, we have a new enemy. There will always be a new enemy.”

“And?” I asked, “Are you involved?”

He shrugged. “Not to the extent we were involved in the Cold War. We’re all older now, we fought the good fight, and we deserve a peaceful retirement.” He looked at Kate and me and said, “It’s up to people your age to fight this one.”

I asked him, “So, the members of this club are all Army veterans from the original Custer Hill Club?”

“No, not really. Some of us have passed on, and some have dropped out. We’ve added new members over the years, men who share our beliefs and who lived through those times. We’ve made them honorary members of the original Custer Hill Officers Club, Fort Benning, Georgia, 1968.”

I thought about that, and about rich men, and powerful men meeting on a long weekend in a remote lodge, and I thought that maybe there was nothing to this, and maybe the Justice Department was going through one of its many moments of paranoia.

On the other hand…

I said to him, “Well, thank you for sharing that with us. It’s really interesting, and maybe you should all write your memoirs.”

He smiled and said, “We’d all go to jail.”

“Excuse me?”

“For some of our Cold War activities. We pushed it a bit.”

“Yeah?”

“But all’s well that ends well. Don’t you agree that to fight monsters, you must sometimes become a monster?”

I replied, “No, I don’t.”

Kate seconded that. “We need to fight the good fight in a good way. That’s what makes us different from them.”

“Well,” replied Bain Madox, “when someone is aiming a nuclear missile at you, you’re perfectly justified in kicking them in the balls.”

I could see his point, but arguments like this could go on for days and nights, and I think he’d already had these arguments and resolved these questions many years ago, over beer and pizza.

I’d always thought that people of that generation who came of age in the ’60s were somehow different, and maybe scarred, and maybe still carrying one grudge or another. But I don’t get paid to think about things like this, or to offer free counseling.

Nevertheless, I said to Mr. Madox, “So, you do have comrades who would come looking for you if you disappeared.”

He looked at, or through, me for a while, then said, “Do I? I did. When I was young and wore the uniform… I think they’re all gone now… except for Carl… He served under me in Vietnam.” He added, “Carl and Kaiser Wilhelm are loyal.”

Well, if there was a sled named Rosebud lying around, I would have thrown it in the fireplace and faded to black. Instead, I stood and said, “Thank you for your time.”

Kate, too, stood and picked up her briefcase.

He seemed almost surprised that he was getting rid of us, and for a moment I thought he looked disappointed. He asked us, “Are you going to join my staff in the search?”

I didn’t think that Kate and I would accomplish anything by riding around these sixteen thousand acres with Madox’s security staff until nightfall.

“Mr. Corey?”

On the other hand, I wouldn’t have minded taking a look around the property. But Kate and I weren’t even supposed to be here, and we were already late for our meeting with Major Schaeffer at state police headquarters. I glanced at Kate, then answered, “We’ll leave it to your staff to conduct the search. But we’ll be back in the morning with search parties.”

He nodded and said, “Fine. I’ll have my staff begin the search immediately. I’ll also make sure tomorrow’s search party has terrain maps and the use of my vehicles and staff.”

Kate asked, “Didn’t you say your staff is going on holiday?”

“The house staff is off. The security staff will be here.”

“May I ask why you have so many security people here?”

Madox replied, “It’s really not that many if you consider they work in shifts to cover a seven-day week, twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.”

“But why do you need that kind of security?”

He answered, “A house like this attracts unwanted attention. Besides, the local police are stretched thin and the state police are some distance away. I rely on my own security.”

She didn’t pursue that, and Bain Madox said, “I’ll show you out.”

We walked toward the door, and on the way, I asked him, “Will you be here tomorrow?”

“I may be.” He paused. “My plans are up in the air.”

And so were his two jets. I asked him, “Where do you live full-time?”

“New York City.”

“Any other homes?”

“A few.”

“How do you get out of here? Car? Plane?”

He replied, “Usually someone drives me to the regional airport in Saranac Lake. Why do you ask?”

“I just want to be sure we can reach you tomorrow. Do you have a cell phone?”

“I don’t give that number out, but if you’ll call the security guard number here, someone is on twenty-four hours a day, and they’ll locate me. If we discover anything, we’ll call you at The Point.” He gave me the security number. “But I’ll probably see you in the morning.”

“You will. Do you have a private plane?”

He hesitated, then replied, “I do. Why do you ask?”

“Can you be reached on the plane?”

“Usually. Why-?”

“Are you planning any flights in or out of the country?”

“I go when and where business takes me. I’m not sure why you need to know this.”

“I just need to know that I can contact you if there’s any misunderstandings or problems with your security people, who seem very protective and not particularly easy to deal with.”

“That’s what they get paid for, but I’ll make sure they understand that you and Ms. Mayfield can reach me, and that the search teams can traverse the property freely in the morning.”

“Great. That’s all we need.”

We passed through the library into the lobby, and I said, “So, you built this place.”

“Yes. In 1982.” He added, “As a kid, I always admired the grand lodges up here, and also what were called the Great Camps, built by millionaires at the turn of the last century. In fact, The Point, where you’re staying, was a Rockefeller Great Camp.”

“Yeah, I know. You have a tux I can borrow?”

He smiled. “I’d opt for room service.”

“Me, too. So, why didn’t you buy one of these old places which are probably for sale all over?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “Well, I looked at a few, but this private parcel was available in the park, and I bought it for three hundred thousand dollars. Less than twenty dollars an acre. Best investment I ever made.”

“Better than oil?”

We made eye contact, and he said, “I suppose you know who I am.”

“Well, you’re not exactly unknown.”

“I try to keep a low profile. But that’s not always possible. Thus, the security here.”

“Right. Good idea. Nobody’s going to get you here.”

“I don’t think anyone is actually after me.”

“You never know.” He ignored that, and I asked him, “Hey, what’s with the price of oil? Up or down?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“That’s pretty scary.”

He smiled and replied, “Bet on fifty dollars a barrel as we get closer to the war in Iraq.” He added, “You didn’t hear that from me.”

“Gotcha.”

He seemed to want to talk, which was fine with me, and he drew our attention to a wall where about two dozen bronze plaques were mounted, each bearing a name and a date.

He said, “These are some of the men I served with and their dates of death. The earlier dates are those who died in Vietnam, the later ones died in one war or another since then, and some died natural deaths.” He moved closer to the plaques and said, “I built this place partly as a memorial to them, partly as a reminder of our beginnings at the Custer Hill Officers Club, and partly as a place to gather on Veterans Day and Memorial Day for those of us still around.”

After a few seconds of silence, Kate said, “That’s very nice.”

Bain Madox continued to stare at the names, then turned to us. “Also, when I built this place, it was the height of the Cold War, and you might remember that the news media was trying to whip the country into a state of hysteria about Reagan leading us to nuclear Armageddon.”

I said, “Yeah, I remember that. They had me going for a while. I was buying canned chili and beer by the case.”

Madox smiled politely and continued, “Well, I never thought we were going to have a nuclear exchange-not with Mutually Assured Destruction-but the idiots in the media and Hollywood had us all dead and buried.” He added, “Basically, they’re a bunch of old ladies.”

“That’s an insult to old ladies.”

He went on, “Anyway, I suppose that was on my mind when I decided to build this place. I know it was on my wife’s mind.”

“You’re married?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is she a Democrat or something?”

“She’s a card-carrying consumer.”

“So,” I asked, “you have a fallout shelter here?”

“I do. A totally useless expense, but that’s what she wanted.”

“Well,” I said, “fallout is tricky stuff.”

“Fallout is overrated.”

I’d never heard radioactive fallout described in quite that way, and for a moment I thought I was speaking to Dr. Strangelove.

Madox glanced at a Black Forest cuckoo clock on the wall and said to us, “I’d show you around, but I’m sure you have other stops to make.”

I reminded him, “We’ll be back tomorrow at first light.”

He nodded and moved toward the door.

I said, “Great painting of the Little Bighorn.”

“Thank you. It’s very old, artist unknown, and I don’t think it’s an accurate representation of the final moments of that battle.”

“Who would know? They all died.”

“The Indians didn’t all die.”

I wanted to tell him my joke, but I could feel Kate’s eyes on me. “Well, they were foolhardy, but brave.”

“More foolhardy than brave, I’m afraid.” He added, “I was in the Seventh Cavalry. Custer’s regiment.”

“You don’t look that old, or-” I nodded toward the painting.

“In Vietnam, Mr. Corey. The regiment still exists.”

“Oh… right.”

He stood by the door, and there was a moment of almost awkward silence. This is where I usually spring something on the suspect, leaving him or her to a bad night’s sleep. But in truth, I had no more arrows in my quiver, to use an apt metaphor, and I was really unsure if Bain Madox had anything to do with Harry’s disappearance, so I said to him, “Thank you for your time and help.”

“I’ll send my men out immediately,” he replied. “Meanwhile, if the air search comes up with anything, have the state police call that security guard number, and I’ll get some people on the ground where the helicopters have lit up the area. If we’re lucky, we may find this man tonight.”

“I think some prayers might help, too.”

Madox commented, “As long as it’s above freezing, a person can survive in the woods for weeks if he’s not badly hurt.”

He opened the door, and we all went out onto the veranda. I noticed that the Enterprise rental car that had been there was gone.

I said to him, “I want to thank you for your service to our country.”

He nodded.

Kate said, “Yes, thank you.”

Madox replied, “And you’re both serving in a different way, in a different war. I thank you for that. This may be the toughest fight we’ve ever had. Stay with it. We will prevail.”

“We will,” Kate said.

“We will,” Mr. Madox agreed, and added, “I hope I live long enough to see a permanent condition Green.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We got into our Taurus and followed the black Jeep downhill toward the gate.

We didn’t speak while we were inside the property in case there were directional listening devices, but we did turn on our cell phones and beepers, which indicated that Kate had two messages, and I had none.

The dashboard clock said it was 4:58 P.M., so Tom Walsh should still be in his office defending Western Civilization for another two minutes.

At the guardhouse, the Jeep pulled to the side, and the gate slid open. As we exited the property, I could see two guards through a window of the house, and one of them was videotaping us. I leaned toward Kate’s window and saluted with my middle finger.

McCuen Pond Road lay in shadow, and I turned on my headlights so I could spot the bears sooner. I asked Kate, “Well, what are your thoughts?”

She stayed silent awhile, then replied, “He’s charming in a spooky sort of way.”

One of the more interesting things in life is hearing a woman’s thoughts on a man you’ve both met. Men that I find ugly, she finds good-looking; men I find slimy, she finds sociable; and so forth. In this case, however, I sort of agreed with Kate.

She said, “I think he liked you.” She added, “Don’t take this wrong, but he sort of reminded me of you.”

“How’s that, darling?”

“Well, the self-confidence and the… for want of a better expression, the male macho bullshit.”

“Good expression. More important, does he know more about Harry than he’s telling us?”

“I don’t know… His whole demeanor seemed almost nonchalant.”

I replied, “The sign of a sociopath and narcissist.”

“Yes, but sometimes the sign of a person who has nothing to hide.”

“He has something to hide, even if it’s only oil-price rigging. That’s why the Justice Department is interested in him.”

“True, but-”

“And yet,” I said, “he invites us in without his lawyer present.”

“What’s your point?”

“He wants to know what we know, and he can learn that by the questions we ask him.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“And how about that story of the Custer Hill Club?”

She nodded. “What a story. It’s really amazing if you think about it… I mean, these young officers, staying in touch, some of them getting rich and powerful… and Bain Madox building that lodge.”

“Yeah. What’s more amazing is that he actually admitted to us that this group is or was some sort of secret society that somehow influenced events on the world stage during the Cold War. Including engaging in illegal activities.”

She thought a moment, then replied, “He wants to sound important and powerful… guys do that… but if any of that is true, then it puts a whole different light on the Custer Hill Club.” She pointed out, “He raised some suspicions he didn’t need to raise.”

“He may have thought we already knew about the history of the club.”

“Or,” Kate said, “it’s past history and he’s proud of it, like he’s proud of his Vietnam service. I don’t know… but then he said he was a little involved with the war on terrorism.”

“Right. That’s like being a little pregnant.” I said, “As I suspected, there’s more to this group than meets the eye. There’s a political element here, and in today’s world, Mr. Madox’s oil mixes well with politics.”

“It always did.”

I changed the subject back to our immediate concern. “So, did Madox have anything to do with Harry’s disappearance?”

She stayed quiet, then said, “The one thing that bothered me was his stalling… like he was waiting for Harry to… turn up.”

I nodded and said, “That would take the heat off him.” I added, “I have this bad feeling that Harry is going to turn up soon, and not on Bain Madox’s property.”

Kate nodded silently, then said, “I need to check my phone messages.” She listened to them and said to me, “Tom, twice. He says I need to call him ASAP.”

I wondered why Walsh had called her and not me, too.

She checked her beeper and said, “Tom, twice.”

“He’s a persistent little shit, isn’t he?”

“He’s not… What is your problem with authority?”

“My problem is with supervisors who bullshit me and expect loyalty in return. The essence of loyalty is reciprocity. If you’re loyal to me, I’ll be loyal to you. Bullshit me, and I’ll bullshit you. That’s the contract.”

“Thank you for sharing that. Now, I’ll call our supervisor while you give your undivided attention to the road. Drive slowly so we don’t run out of cell-phone coverage.”

I eased up on the gas and said, “Put it on speakerphone.”

She dialed, and Walsh’s voice came through her phone. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

Kate replied, without bullshit, “We interviewed Bain Madox at the Custer Hill Club.”

“What? I specifically told you-was this your idiot husband’s idea?”

I cut in. “Hi, Tom. Idiot husband here.”

Silence, followed by, “Corey, you have really screwed up this time.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

He was not a happy man and almost shouted, “You totally disobeyed my orders. You’re history, mister.”

Kate seemed a little ruffled, and said, “Tom, we’ve gotten permission from Madox to conduct a search on his land at first light. Meanwhile, he promised to begin a search with his security staff immediately.”

No reply, and I thought the call was dropped or Tom was having a seizure or something. I said to Kate, “Do you want some of these Cheez-Its?”

Kate asked, “Tom? Are you there?”

His voice came through the phone, and he said, “I’m afraid we don’t need to continue the search.”

Neither of us responded, and I felt my stomach tighten. I already knew what he was going to say, but I didn’t want to hear it.

Tom Walsh informed us, “The state police have found the body of a man that they’ve tentatively identified by the contents of his wallet and photo ID as Harry Muller.”

Again, neither of us said anything, then Tom Walsh said, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

I pulled off to the side of the road, took a deep breath, and asked Walsh, “What are the details?”

“Well, about three-fifteen this afternoon, the state police regional headquarters in Ray Brook… where you are supposed to be… got an anonymous call from a man who said he was hiking in the woods and saw a body lying on a trail. He said he approached the body, determined that the man was dead, apparently from a gunshot wound, then ran back to his vehicle, drove to a park emergency phone, and called the police.” He added, “The man would not give his name.”

I thought about that, and I thought I knew the man’s name. I was an expert rifleman in the Army.

Walsh went on, “This man gave a fairly accurate description of the location, and within half an hour, the state and local police, using search dogs, found the body. A further search discovered Harry’s camper about three miles south of where the body was found, so it appears that Harry was heading toward the Custer Hill Club, about three miles further north of the trail.”

I said, “That doesn’t comport with Harry’s phone call to his girlfriend.”

“Well, I played that message again, and Harry said, quote, ‘I’m on-duty, near the right-wing loony lodge.’” Walsh said, “You can’t take that to mean he was within sight of or very near the Custer Hill property.”

This man was obviously not a detective. “Tom,” I said, “it doesn’t make sense that he’d park his camper six miles away, then call his girlfriend at seven forty-eight A.M., then begin hoofing it through the woods. It would take him almost two hours just to get to the fence, and I assume he was supposed to be at or near Custer Hill at first light. But if we believe this scenario, then he wouldn’t have arrived until almost ten A.M. You following me on this, Tom?”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “Yes, but-”

“Good. And while you’re at it, get a triangulation on Harry’s cell-phone call to his girlfriend. That will tell you where he was when he called.”

“Thank you, I know that. The phone company is working on it. But other than the cell tower at the Custer Hill Club, there may not be any other towers close enough to get a triangulation.”

“How did you know about that cell tower on the Custer Hill property?”

There were a few seconds of silence, then he said, “I just got that from the phone company. We should know more in an hour or so, but I have to tell you, even if he was near the Custer Hill property when he called his girlfriend, it doesn’t mean he entered the property. He may have gotten spooked by something and was headed back toward his camper when he was shot. You know, there’s always two or more ways to look at evidence.”

“Really? I’ll have to remember that. And by the way, sometimes a little common sense goes a long way.”

“Federal prosecutors don’t care about common sense. They want the evidence to speak for itself. This evidence does not.”

“Well, then, we need more evidence. Tell me about the gunshot wound.”

“The gunshot wound entered his upper torso from the rear, and I’m told it probably severed his spinal column, and exited through his heart. No bullet recovered yet. Death was probably instantaneous… I spoke to Major Schaeffer, and he assures me there was no indication that Harry lingered… he apparently died where he fell.” He added, “There was cash in his wallet, and he had his watch, gun, credentials, video camera, digital camera, and so forth, so according to the state police, it appears to have been a hunting accident.”

I can still drop a deer at two hundred yards. I replied, “That’s what it’s supposed to look like.”

Walsh didn’t comment.

I said, “Obviously we need to look at what’s on his cameras.”

“Already done. There’s nothing on the videotape or the digital disk.”

I said, “Get the tape and disks to our lab and see if anything was erased.”

“That’s being done.”

Kate asked him, “How soon can we get an autopsy report?”

“The body is being transported to the county morgue in Potsdam for a positive identification using photo and fingerprints on file from FBI Headquarters. I have instructed that the autopsy not be done there-this is too important to leave to a local medical examiner. I’m having the body flown here to Bellevue tonight or tomorrow.”

“Good move. Fax me a copy of the autopsy and toxicology report.”

“Toxicology could take four to six days.”

“Two or three, on an expedited basis. Also, get word to Bellevue to look for signs of foul play. Drugging, bruises, signs of rope or handcuff marks on the skin, and trauma other than the gunshot wound. Also, the time of death is very important.”

“You may find this difficult to believe, but the New York City medical examiner, the state police, and the FBI do this for a living.”

I ignored that and continued, “Also, have a state police investigator at the morgue ASAP to witness the removal of the clothing and personal effects. He or she needs to look for signs that the clothing or personal effects were tampered with in any way.”

“There’s someone from the State Bureau of Investigation on their way to the morgue. Plus we have two agents coming from Albany. We’re going to get involved with this investigation because it was a Federal agent on assignment who was killed.”

“Good. And also make sure the state police and the FBI do a complete crime-scene investigation and look for witnesses. You need to assume a homicide was committed.”

“I understand, but it could also be what it appears to be-an accident. This happens all the time up there. Meanwhile, if you were where you were supposed to be, you’d be where you need to be to give your expert advice on how to conduct this autopsy and investigation.”

“Tom, fuck you.”

“I know you’re upset, so I’ll ignore that-once.”

“Fuck you.”

He ignored it a second time and asked, “Where are you now?”

Kate replied, “We’ve just left the Custer Hill Club.”

Walsh said, “Well, not only did you waste your time there but you also tipped off Bain Madox that he is under surveillance.”

Kate came to my defense. “John handled it very well. If Madox didn’t know he was under surveillance, he still doesn’t know. If he already knew, then it’s a moot point.”

Walsh said, “The real point is, you weren’t supposed to be there under any circumstances. What good did you do by going there? John?”

I replied, “I was on a mission of mercy, Tom. I got what I wanted-permission to conduct a search. Okay, we don’t need a search anymore, though I’m ready to do it anyway just to mess with Bain Madox.”

“That’s not going to happen. Now that you’ve paid him a visit, we are obligated by law to inform him that the person in question has been found off his property.”

“Don’t be too quick with that information.”

“John, I’m not messing around with this timeline. This guy is not your average Joe Citizen. He’ll be brought up-to-date by a phone call by a state or local law enforcement officer within the hour.”

“Let me discuss that with Major Schaeffer first.”

“Why?”

“I just spent forty minutes with Madox, and I got some strange vibes from him-I think that sonofabitch had Harry at his place, grilled him, then murdered him.”

“That’s… that’s quite a statement. Think about what you’re saying.”

“You think about it.”

Walsh said, “Kate?”

She took a deep breath and said, “It’s possible. I mean, it is possible.”

“What would be Madox’s motive?” Walsh inquired.

I replied, “I don’t know, but I will find out.”

He stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “All right. We’ll certainly proceed as though it were a homicide. Meanwhile, I need to call Harry’s girlfriend, Lori, and Washington is on the other line, so-”

“Send someone-a cop from the Task Force-to see Lori Bahnik in person and have a police chaplain along. Also, Harry has kids and an ex-wife. You need to send someone whom the family knows to do the notifications, like his old squad commander or his former partner. Speak to Vince Paresi. He’ll know how to take care of it.”

“I understand. Meanwhile, drive now to the airport and wait for a helicopter to pick you up. A state trooper will meet you there with Harry’s cameras, which you will bring to 26 Fed-”

“Hold on,” I said. “We’re not leaving here until this investigation is complete.”

“You’re coming back to Manhattan, tonight. I’ll be here-”

“Tom, excuse me, you need your people on the scene.”

“Thank you. I know that. In fact, two people from this office will be on that helicopter. You, Detective Corey, are off this case, and so is Kate. Return immediately. Meanwhile, Headquarters is on hold, and I don’t have the time or patience to-”

“Neither do I. Let me give this to you straight, Tom. Number one, Harry Muller was my friend. Two, you wanted my ass on that assignment, and I could now be lying in that morgue instead of him. Three, I think he was murdered, and four, if you pull me off this case, I’m going to make a stink that they’ll smell in the Justice Department.”

“Are you threatening me with something?”

“Yes. Five, you sent that man into a fortified camp with no clue about what was there-hell, I just left this place, and a Delta Team couldn’t penetrate it, and you either knew that or should have known it. Six, Harry Muller went in there carrying his credentials and no plausible cover story. How long have you been doing this for a living?”

He was really hot and yelled, “Let me tell you something-”

“No, let me tell you something, Einstein. You totally fucked up. But you know what? I’ll go to bat for you when the shit hits the fan. Why? Because I like you? No, because you are right now going to tell me to stay here and stay on the case. If you don’t, my next stop after 26 Fed will be Washington. You understand?”

It took him about four seconds to understand, and he said, “You make a compelling argument for your continued work on the case. But so help me God, Corey, if you-”

“You were doing fine until ‘so help me God.’ Quit while you’re even.”

“I will get even.”

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get sent to Wichita.” I said, “I’ll let you and Kate have the last word.”

Kate was really shaken up and she said to Walsh, “I have to agree with John that Harry’s assignment was not well thought out, and not well handled.” She added, “That could have been my husband lying in the morgue.”

Walsh didn’t respond to that and said instead, “I need to speak to Headquarters. Anything further?”

Kate said, “No.”

He said, “Get over to the state police in Ray Brook, and call me from there.”

He hung up, and we both sat in silence for a while on the side of the road. I could hear birds in the woods, and the sound of the engine idling.

Finally, Kate said, “I was afraid we’d get that news.”

I didn’t reply, lost in my own thoughts about Harry Muller, who’d sat across from me for about three years; two former cops, working as strangers in a strange land called 26 Federal Plaza. Body shipped back to New York City for an autopsy, funeral home Thursday and Friday, and Mass and burial on Saturday.

Kate took my hand and said, “I just can’t believe this…”

For months after 9/11, I attended wakes, funerals, Masses, and memorial services, day and night, sometimes three in a day. Everyone I knew was on this insane, soul-numbing schedule, and as the weeks went by, I’d run into the same people at funeral homes, churches, synagogues, and cemeteries, and we’d all just look at one another with eyes that were beyond expression; the shock and trauma were fresh, but the funerals started to blur into one another, and the only difference was the grief-stricken family who never looked the same as the last grief-stricken family, and then the widows and kids would show up at some other cop’s funeral to pay their respects, and they became part of the crowd of mourners. It was a gut-wrenching and surreal time, black months, with black caskets and black shrouds, and black mourning bands on shiny badges, and black mornings after a night of too much drinking.

I can still remember the shrill of the bagpipe bands, the final salute, and the casket… more often than not containing not much more than a body part… being lowered into the grave.

Kate said, “John, let me drive.”

Harry and I had gone to some of the funerals together, and I recalled that at Dom Fanelli’s funeral Mass, out on the steps of the church, Harry had said to me, “When a cop thinks about getting killed on the job, he thinks about some dumb dirtbag who’s having a lucky day. Who would’ve thought something like this could happen right here?”

Kate asked, “John? Are you all right?”

I remembered, too, Dom’s mother, Marion Fanelli, conducting herself with great dignity, almost ignored in the crowd as everyone focused on Dom’s wife and kids, and Harry said to me, “Let’s go talk to her. She’s alone.”

And that reminded me that Harry’s mother was still alive, and I made a mental note to add her to the list of people who should be officially notified with a chaplain in attendance.

Kate had gotten out of the car and opened my door. She took my arm and said, “I’m driving.”

I got out and we changed places.

Kate put the car in gear, and we continued on in silence.

The sky above was still light, but the road was in deep shadow, and the forest on either side was black. Now and then, I could see glassy eyes shining in the dark woods, or a small animal scurrying across the road. Around a bend, a deer was trapped in our headlights, and he stood there, half petrified and half shaking in fear before bolting into the woods.

Kate said, “We should be at the state police headquarters in about an hour.”

After ten minutes, I said, “Harry’s assignment made no sense.”

“John, don’t think about it.”

“He could have seen and photographed cars on this road. One way in, one way out. He didn’t have to go onto the property.”

“Please don’t think about it. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“That’s why I have to think about it.”

She glanced at me and asked, “Do you really think it was Bain Madox?”

“The circumstantial evidence, and my instincts, say yes, but I need more than that before I kill him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We came to Route 56, which went south, back toward Saranac Lake and the state police headquarters in Ray Brook, or north toward Potsdam and the morgue where Harry should have arrived by now.

Kate started to turn for Ray Brook, but I said, “Turn right. Let’s go see Harry.”

She reminded me, “Tom said to go-”

“You can’t go too far wrong doing the opposite of what Tom Walsh says.”

She hesitated, then turned toward Potsdam.

Within ten minutes, we passed the brown sign that said we were leaving Adirondack State Park.

A few miles later, we were in South Colton, where I saw Rudy talking to someone who was pumping his own gas. I said to Kate, “Pull in here.”

She turned the car into the gas station. I leaned out the window and called, “Hey, Rudy!”

He came over to the car and asked me, “Hey, how’d you make out there?”

“The ice maker is fixed. I told Mr. Madox what you said about getting the money up front, and he paid me cash.”

“Uh… you wasn’t supposed to-”

“He’s very pissed at you, Rudy.”

“Ah, jeez, you wasn’t supposed to-”

“He wants to see you-tonight.”

“Oh, jeez…”

“I need to get to the county hospital in Potsdam.”

“Uh… yeah… well, you just follow 56 north.” He gave me directions to the hospital, and I said to him, “When you see Madox, tell him John Corey is also very good with a gun.”

“Okay…”

Kate pulled back onto the road, and we continued toward Potsdam. She said, “That sounded like a threat.”

“To a guilty man, it’s a threat. To an innocent man, it’s an odd statement.”

She didn’t reply.

The terrain had opened up, and I could see houses and small farms now. The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows over the rolling hills.

Neither Kate nor I said much; there’s something about the expectation of seeing a dead body that keeps the conversation subdued.

I kept thinking about Harry Muller, and it was hard for me to believe he was dead. I replayed my last conversation with him, and I wondered if I’d had a bad feeling about his assignment or if what happened since then made me think that. You never know. But I did know that whether or not I’d had this feeling of foreboding on Friday, I definitely had it now.

Within twenty minutes, we drove into the pleasant college town of Potsdam, where we found the Canton-Potsdam Hospital at the north end of town.

We parked in the lot and entered the small red-brick building through the front doors.

There was an information desk in the lobby, and I identified myself and asked the info lady where the morgue was located. She directed us to the surgical unit that she said doubled as the morgue. This did not speak well for the staff surgeons, and if I had been in a better mood, I’d have made a joke about that.

We turned down a few corridors and found the nurses’ station at the surgical unit.

There were two uniformed state troopers chatting up the nurses, and Kate and I showed our credentials. I said, “We’re here to ID Harry Muller. Are you with the body?”

One of the troopers replied, “Yes, sir. We accompanied the ambulance.”

“Anyone else here?”

“No, sir. You’re the first.”

“Who else are you expecting?”

“Well, some FBI guys from Albany, and some guys from the State Bureau of Investigation.”

We weren’t going to have much time alone with the body before we had company. I asked, “Is the medical examiner here?”

“Yes, sir. She did a preliminary examination of the body and cataloged the personal effects. She’s waiting for the state police and FBI.”

“Okay. We’d like to see the body.”

“I’ll need you both to sign in.”

I didn’t want to sign in, so I said, “We’re not here officially. The deceased was our colleague and friend. We’re paying our respects.”

“Oh… sorry… sure.”

He led us to a big steel door that was marked OR.

The body of a homicide victim is considered a crime scene that needs to be secured, and the chain of evidence needs to be maintained; thus, the presence of the two state troopers and the sign-in sheet, which led me to conclude that someone other than Kate and I thought this was not a hunting accident.

The trooper opened the door and said, “You first.”

I replied, “We’d like to be alone to pay our respects.”

The trooper hesitated. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I need to be-”

“I understand. Can you do me a favor and ask the medical examiner to meet us here? We’ll wait.”

“Sure.”

He disappeared around a corner, and I opened the door. We entered the makeshift morgue.

The big operating room was brightly lit, and in the middle of the room was a steel table on which a body lay covered with a blue shroud.

On either side of the table was a gurney. One held Harry’s clothes, laid out as they would be worn: boots, socks, thermal underwear, trousers, shirt, jacket, and knit cap.

On the other gurney were Harry’s personal effects, and I could see the cameras, binoculars, maps, cell phone, wallet, watch, a pair of wire cutters, and so forth. On his key chain were ignition keys for his government vehicle, a Pontiac Grand Am, and his private vehicle, a Toyota. But no key for whatever kind of camper he had been driving. I assumed that the camper key was with the state police or the CSI team so they could move his camper. His gun and credentials would be with the troopers outside.

The room smelled of disinfectant, formaldehyde, and other unpleasant things, so I went over to a cabinet and found a tube of Vicks, which is a standard item in a place where cadavers are cut up. I squeezed some of the mentholated jelly on Kate’s finger and said, “Smear this under your nose.”

She smeared it on her upper lip and took a deep breath. I don’t normally use the stuff, but it’d been a while since I’d been around a stiffening body, so I, too, put some under my nose.

I found a box of latex gloves, we each slipped on a pair, and I said to Kate, “Let’s take a look. Okay?”

She nodded.

I went to the table and pulled the blue sheet down from the face.

Harry Muller.

I said to myself, Sorry, pal.

His face was dirty because he’d fallen face-first on the trail, and his lips were slightly parted, but I saw no grimace, or any indication that he’d been in agony, so death had come quickly. We should all be so lucky when we’re that unlucky.

His eyes were wide open, so I pushed the lids closed.

I pulled the sheet down to his waist and saw a big gauze pad taped over his heart. There was very little blood on his body, so the bullet had stopped the heart almost immediately.

I noticed the lividity of his skin-the pooling of the blood on the front of his body, confirming he’d fallen face-first and died in that position.

I lifted his left arm. Rigor usually sets in within eight to twelve hours, and there was almost no flex in his muscles, but neither was his arm totally rigid. Also, from the appearance of the skin, and the general state of the body, I’d say death had occurred twelve to twenty-four hours ago. To take it a step further, if this was a premeditated murder, it had probably been done at night to minimize the chance of discovery during the commission of the crime. Therefore, it probably happened last night.

Assuming Madox did this, he probably waited for someone to find the body and report it to the police. When that didn’t happen by this afternoon, he or an accomplice phoned it in from a park phone, thereby taking the heat off himself before the search of his property began.

In fact, while Kate and I were sitting with him, he was probably wondering why his phone tip hadn’t turned up the body yet, and he was getting nervous.

I examined Harry’s wrist and thumb, and saw no evidence of restraints, though often there are no marks.

I took Harry’s left hand in mine and examined the palm, fingernails, and knuckles. The hands can sometimes tell you something that the coroner, who is usually more interested in organs and trauma, misses, but I saw nothing unusual, only dirt.

I glanced at Kate, who seemed to be holding up okay, then I came around the table and took Harry’s right hand and looked at it.

A female voice said, “Can I loan you my scalpel?”

Kate and I turned to see a woman at the door dressed in surgical scrubs. She was about thirty, petite, with short red hair. As she moved closer, I saw she had freckles and blue eyes. Actually, baggy blue scrubs aside, she was cute. She said, “I’m Patty Gleason, the county coroner. I assume you’re the FBI people.”

I pulled off my latex glove and extended my hand. “Detective John Corey, Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

We shook, and I introduced FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, remembering to add, “Kate is also Mrs. Corey.”

Kate further added, “I’m also Detective Corey’s supervisor.”

Dr. Gleason suggested, “Maybe you can tell him not to handle the body without a medical examiner present. Or maybe not handle it at all.”

I apologized but informed her, “I did this for twenty years in New York City.”

“You’re not in New York City.”

We were off on the wrong foot, but then Kate said, “The deceased was a friend of ours.”

Dr. Gleason softened. “I’m sorry.” She turned to Kate. “What does this have to do with terrorism?”

“Nothing. Harry was also a colleague on the Task Force, and he was up here hiking, and we’ve come to identify the body.”

“I see. And have you made a positive identification?”

“We have,” Kate answered. “What’s your preliminary finding?”

“Well, from what I can see from the external wounds, a bullet passed through his spinal column, then through his heart, and he died almost instantly. He probably felt nothing, and if he did, it was for only a second or two. He was basically dead before he hit the ground.”

I nodded and observed, “In all my years as a cop, I’ve never seen a perfect shot through the spine and heart that was an accident.”

Dr. Gleason didn’t comment for a few seconds, then said, “As a surgeon and coroner, I’ve seen about a hundred hunting-accident wounds, and I’ve never seen one quite like this either. But it can happen.” She asked, “You’re thinking it was homicide?”

I replied, “We’re not ruling it out.”

She nodded. “That’s what I hear.”

Some medical examiners like to play detective, like on TV, but most stick strictly to the facts. Not knowing Patty Gleason, I asked, “Did you find anything that would indicate a homicide?”

“I’ll show you what I found, and you can take it from there.”

She went over to the supply cabinet, snapped on a pair of gloves, then gave me a fresh glove and said, “I see you’ve already found the Vicks.”

She motioned toward the two gurneys. “I’ve removed and cataloged everything for placement into evidence bags by the FBI. Do you want to go over the inventory and sign for this stuff?”

Kate replied, “There are other agents on the way who need to list everything on what we call the green sheet.”

I said to Dr. Gleason, “Let’s look at the body.”

She moved beside the gurney and pulled the taped gauze off Harry’s chest, removing some hair and revealing a big, gaping hole. “As you can see, this is the exit wound. I used a lighted 7X magnifier and observed bits of bone, soft tissue, and blood, all in minute quantities and consistent with the passage of a high-velocity, large- or medium-caliber bullet through the vertebrae, heart, and sternum.”

She went on for a while, clinically describing the end of a human life. She concluded, “As you know, I’m not doing the autopsy, but I doubt there’s much more an autopsy is going to show in regard to the cause of death.”

I said to her, “We’re more interested in the events that led up to the moment of death.” I asked, “Did you notice anything unusual?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” She put her finger on Harry’s chest, an inch from the edge of the ragged exit wound, and said, “I noticed here… can you see that?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a small puncture wound. Obviously made before death. I probed it, and it’s deep into the muscle tissue. I also examined his shirt and thermal top, and there seem to be corresponding holes, and what appears to be a small bloodstain, so this object-possibly a hypodermic needle-was pushed hard through his clothing and into his pectoral muscle. I can’t say if anything was injected, but toxicology should be able to tell us.”

Dr. Gleason continued, “And here are two more puncture wounds on his right forearm. No blood or corresponding holes on his clothing. Nor did I find a hypodermic needle in his possession, and I assume he wasn’t medicating himself through his shirt.”

I asked her, “What do you make of those puncture wounds?”

“You’re the detective.”

“Right.” I thought that the first puncture wound was the one in the chest, through his clothing, which meant it was probably a sedative, administered while he was struggling, or maybe administered from an animal tranquilizer gun. If it’s off-season, we just tranquilize them and relocate them. The other two, through the bare skin, were hypodermics, given to keep him sedated. I also wondered if it was sodium pentathol, truth serum, but I kept my thoughts to myself, and said, “I’ll think about it.”

She continued, “I want to show you two more things that lead me to believe there may have been some other unusual events or incidents leading up to the time of death.”

We watched her move around the table toward Harry’s head. Little Patty Gleason put her hands under Harry’s shoulders and pushed his big torso forward into a sitting position, which caused some gas to escape. Kate drew a startled breath. Coroners, I’ve noticed, are not gentle with the deceased, and there’s no reason why they should be, though I’m always surprised at how they handle a body.

I could see the entry wound now, dead center through his spinal column and in line with his heart. I tried to picture how it happened: Harry was probably still drugged and positioned on the trail, standing or kneeling, by a person or persons while the shooter stood close enough to get a perfect shot, but not close enough for the muzzle blast to leave burns or powder fragments. Or, Harry had been lying down someplace else when he was shot and then moved to the trail. But that was too amateurish, and any CSI team would see that.

In any case, he’d been shot in the back, and all I could hope for was that he didn’t know it was coming.

Dr. Gleason was drawing our attention to something else. “Here. Look at this.” She put her finger on Harry’s right shoulder blade. “This is a discoloration on his skin, which is hard to identify. It’s not a contusion, or a chemical burn, and not quite a heat burn. It could be electrical.”

Kate and I got closer to the faintly discolored spot, about the size and shape of a half-dollar. It wasn’t made by a stun gun, but I’d seen something like this made by an electric cattle prod.

Dr. Gleason was looking at me as I stared at the mark on Harry’s shoulder. I said, “I don’t know what it is.”

She moved to the side of the table and unceremoniously pulled the blue sheet down to the end, exposing Harry’s naked body.

She started to say something, but I interrupted. “Would you mind lowering the body?”

“Oh. Sorry.” She pushed Harry’s stiffening torso down on the table while I held his legs. I mean, I’m used to dead bodies, but they should be lying down, not sitting up. Kate, I could see, was borderline holding it together.

Dr. Gleason made her way down the length of the gurney. “Well-nourished, well-muscled, middle-aged Caucasian male, normal skin, except as noted, and also noted is that he hadn’t bathed or shaved in a few days, which is consistent with some time in the outdoors and with his soiled clothing. Nothing I see here is remarkable until we get to his feet and ankles.”

The three of us stood at Harry’s bare feet, and Dr. Gleason said, “The soles of his feet are soiled, as though he’d been walking barefoot, but this is not outdoor soil or vegetation I see.”

I nodded.

She continued, “I found a few fibers that look like rug or carpet fibers, plus you can see what looks like fine dust or dirt that you’d find on a floor. I understand he had a camper, and you should see if he had a rug in there, and take fiber and dirt samples.”

I knew another place where I should take fiber and dirt samples, but the chance of getting a search warrant for the Custer Hill lodge was not good at this point.

I moved closer to Harry and said, “There are contusions on both ankles.”

“Yes, there are. Plus abrasions. These are very visible, as you can see, and the only thing I can think of was that he was wearing ankle restraints-metal, not tape, or rope, or anything pliable-and that he struggled against them, or tried to run in them. That’s why these contusions are so pronounced and so profuse.” She added, “The skin is broken in two places.” She noted, “I believe his boots and socks were put on after the ankle shackles were removed… I believe he was barefoot when he had the shackles on. Look at the location of the skin abrasions and contusions.”

Whatever happened to Harry in the hours before his death, it wasn’t pleasant. Knowing him as I did, I was sure he wasn’t a model prisoner, and thus the cattle prod, the apparent injections, and the ankle restraints. You did good, buddy.

Dr. Gleason said, “After I noticed these fibers on his feet, I looked over the rest of his body and found some fibers on his hair, and on his face. They could be from his knit cap, but that’s dark blue, and these fibers are multi-colored.”

I didn’t comment, but apparently Harry had been lying down on a rug or a blanket.

Dr. Gleason added, “Also, there are fibers on his trousers and shirt, and his thermal underwear, and they, too, appear to be foreign to anything he was wearing when he was brought here. And I found four black hairs, all about two inches long. One on his shirt, one on his trousers, and two on his thermal underwear. I taped them to the fabric where I found them.”

I nodded noncommittally. The less I said, the more Dr. Gleason thought she needed to explain to us, and she continued, “These were not the deceased’s hair. In fact, these hairs, under magnification, did not look human.”

Kate asked, “Dog hairs?”

“Maybe.”

Kaiser Wilhelm?

Dr. Gleason concluded, “That’s all that I found on the body that might be unusual.”

Kate asked her, “Can you estimate the time of death?”

“Based on what I see, feel, and smell, I believe death occurred about twenty-four hours ago. Maybe less.” She added, “The CSI team might find something that could narrow it down, and so might the medical examiner who does the autopsy.”

I asked, “Did you remove the clothing and personal effects?”

“I did, with an assistant.”

“Other than the animal hair and foreign fibers, did you notice anything else unusual?”

“Such as?”

“Well, unusual.”

“No… but if you sniff his clothes-especially his shirt-you might still detect a faint odor of smoke.”

“What kind of smoke?”

“Smells like tobacco smoke.” She noted, “I didn’t find any smoking materials among his personal effects.”

That’s a lost art.

It is an article of faith among homicide detectives, forensic specialists, and medical examiners that the body will give up its secrets. Fibers, hairs, semen, saliva, bite marks, rope burns, cigarette butts, cigarette smoke, ashes, DNA, fingerprints, and on and on. There is almost always a transference between murderer and victim, and victim and murderer. All you have to do is find it, analyze it, and match it to a suspect. The trick was finding the suspect.

I asked, “Anything else?”

“No. But I did only a cursory examination of the clothing and personal effects. I had an assistant present at all times, and I audiotaped my examination of the body and the personal effects. You’re welcome to the tape when it’s copied.”

“Thanks.” Apparently she knew this was a hot case.

“What’s this all about?”

“You really want to know?”

She thought a moment, then replied, “No.”

“Good answer,” I said. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, and we thank you for your time, Dr. Gleason.”

“Are you staying with the body?”

“We are.”

“Please don’t touch the body.” She glanced at Harry Muller and said, “If he was murdered, I hope you find who did it.”

“We will.”

Dr. Gleason bid us farewell and left.

Kate said to me, “Why would a young woman like that want to work in a morgue?”

“Maybe she’s looking for Mr. Right.” I said, “Let’s get to work.”

Kate and I moved over to the gurney where Harry’s personal effects were laid out, and, still wearing our latex gloves, we began to examine everything-his wallet, watch, pager, binoculars, video camera, digital camera, compass, wire cutters, bird-watcher’s guide, and a terrain map that showed the Custer Hill property outlined in red marker, plus the location of the lodge and a few other buildings that were added to the map. Even with latex gloves, we were careful how we handled the items so we wouldn’t compromise a fingerprint.

I examined the contents of Harry’s wallet and noticed that there was a spare house key in the change pouch, plus his Toyota key, and the Grand Am key for his government car-but no spare key for his camper. If there had been a spare camper key, someone had taken it, and not the state police, who already had his camper key from the key chain. Therefore, another party may have removed the key from his wallet in order to move the camper away from the Custer Hill property. And who could that be?

Kate said, “Nothing here that looks unusual, out of place, or tampered with, but I’ll bet there was something on the cameras that was erased.”

I replied, “More likely the disk, tape, and Memory Stick were removed and replaced with spares that Harry would be carrying.”

Kate nodded. “So the lab won’t be able to pull up any erased images.”

“I think not.”

I picked up Harry’s cell phone and turned it on, then scrolled through his recent incoming calls.

There was his girlfriend Lori Bahnik’s call at 9:16 A.M. Saturday in response to Harry’s call to her at 7:48 A.M., followed by ten more calls from Lori beginning on Saturday afternoon after she’d gotten his text message at 4:02 P.M., then all day Sunday, and even today, Monday.

Then there was the duty officer Ken Reilly’s call to Harry at 10:17 P.M. Sunday night in response to Lori’s call to the ATTF office.

The next incoming call to Harry’s phone was at 10:28 P.M. Sunday from a New Jersey number. I said to Kate, “Isn’t this Walsh’s home number?”

“It is.”

“But he said he didn’t call Harry until he got to the office this morning.”

“Apparently, he lied.”

“Right… and here’s Walsh’s call to Harry this morning… and before that, Ken Reilly was calling through the night from 26 Fed.”

She didn’t reply for a while, then said, “It would seem that there is a higher level of concern than Tom Walsh has led us to believe.”

“That’s an understatement.” I added, “The fact that Walsh has been bullshitting us leads me to conclude that this was not a routine surveillance.”

“I think we already know that.”

I looked again at Harry’s cell phone and saw my call to him on Sunday afternoon when I suggested we make hunter’s stew, then my final call at 9:45 this morning. After that, there were a few more calls from Lori.

Kate was staring at the cell phone. “This is so sad…”

I nodded. I didn’t have Harry’s password, so I couldn’t play any of his messages, but I knew the Tech people would be able to do that.

I scrolled through Harry’s recently dialed numbers and saw the call he made to Lori Bahnik at 7:48 A.M. on Saturday morning, then the text message on Saturday afternoon at 4:02 P.M., then nothing.

I was about to shut off the phone when it rang, startling both of us.

I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Lori Bahnik. I glanced at Kate, and I could tell she was upset.

I considered answering the call, but I wasn’t prepared to deliver the news with Harry’s body five feet away. I shut off the phone and put it back on the gurney.

I glanced at my watch. It wouldn’t be much longer before the state police and FBI agents arrived from Albany. Plus, the two guys from the Task Force must have landed at Saranac Lake airport by now. I wondered who Walsh had sent to replace us. Probably people who followed orders.

I said to Kate, “Let’s look at his clothing before the fuzz arrive.”

She went to the sink and washed the mentholated jelly off her lip while I took the opportunity to pocket the terrain map. Taking evidence from a crime scene is a felony, but I thought I might need the map and justified it by recalling Walsh’s lying to me, and by the fact that I, and not Harry, could have been on that slab.

Kate was at the second gurney now, sniffing at Harry’s shirt. She said, “I’m not sure… this could be tobacco smoke…”

I couldn’t smell anything except the menthol under my nose, but I said, “Who do we know who smokes?”

She nodded.

We went through the clothing, piece by piece, noticing the cellophane tape that Dr. Gleason had used to fix the four animal hairs. We weren’t exactly doing anything we weren’t allowed to do, but on the other hand, we weren’t supposed to be here; we were supposed to be at the state police headquarters in Ray Brook. Also, there’s the chain-of-evidence thing, and anyone who handles evidence needs to log in, which we hadn’t done. And then you had the FBI and state police investigators who might not take kindly to seeing us when they arrived. In other words, we were in a sort of gray area, which is where I spend a lot of my time. More important, we had a good jump on this, but now it was time to leave.

I said to Kate, “Let’s go.”

But she said, “Look at this.”

I moved closer to her. She was holding Harry’s camouflage pants, and she had pulled his right-side pocket inside out. “See this?”

I examined the white pocket lining and saw blue marks that appeared to have been made with a pen.

Kate said, “These could be letters.”

Indeed, they could be. As though Harry had written on the white fabric with his hand in his pocket. Or, if Harry was as careless as I was, maybe he’d just shoved an uncapped pen in there.

Kate put the pants on the gurney and we both bent closer, trying to decipher the blue marks, which were definitely ink and did not look random.

I said to her, “You go first.”

“Okay… there are three groupings of marks… the one that is most legible says, M-A-P… the next group looks like… an N… then maybe a U or a V… then an asterisk… no, a K… then the last group looks like… E-L-F…” She looked at me and said, “Elf?”

I stared at the ink marks. “M-A-P could be M-A-D. I mean, he’s writing this blind with his hand in his pocket. Right?”

“Probably…”

“Then, NUK… and here’s another mark almost hidden in the seam… so… maybe NUKE.”

We looked at each other, then Kate said, “Nuke? Like, nuclear?”

“I hope not.” I added, “This last one looks clear. ELF.”

“Yes… what was he trying to tell us? Madox? Nuclear? Elf? What is elf? Maybe he was trying to write HELP.”

“No. This is pretty clear. E-L-F.”

I glanced at my watch again, then at the door. “We need to get going.” I pushed the pocket liner back into the pants and said, “Let them work for this.”

We took off the latex gloves and put them in a covered trash can. Then I went to Harry’s body and looked at him. Kate came up beside me and took my arm. I’d be seeing Harry again soon at the funeral home, wearing his old uniform. I said to him, “Thanks for the clue, buddy. We’re on top of this.” I pulled the blue sheet over him and turned toward the door.

We left the OR and walked quickly down the hallway to the nurses’ station. I said to the state troopers, “Do you have the deceased’s gun and credentials?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need to take his NYPD shield to give to his family.”

The guy in charge hesitated, then said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You know… it’s-”

“It hasn’t been inventoried yet. Who’s going to know?”

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 something, 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.”

“Right. Me, too. You understand that beneath my Federal credentials, I’m just a cop at heart.”

“Yeah, but let me tell you, the NYPD I’ve worked with are no treat either.”

My loyal wife smiled and said, “John and I are actually married, so I’ll second that.”

Schaeffer almost smiled back. “So, tell me what Harry Muller was supposed to be doing on the Custer Hill property.”

I replied, “Surveillance. There was a gathering there this weekend, and he was supposed to photograph arriving guests and get plate numbers.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I can tell you that the Justice Department is interested in Mr. Madox and his friends. Didn’t anyone tell you any of this?”

“Not much. I got the national security baloney.”

Baloney ? Was that like “bullshit”? Maybe this guy didn’t swear. I made a mental note to watch my language. I said, “The Feds are full of baloney, and they’re great at snow jobs, but between you and me, there may actually be a national security angle here.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“I have no idea. And to be honest, this is what we call sensitive material, and unless you have a need to know, I can’t tell you.”

I wasn’t sure if he appreciated the honesty or not, so I blew a little snow at him and said, “I fully understand that your troop has a huge area to patrol-like eight thousand square miles-and that you’re pretty self-reliant and you need… minimum assistance from the outside-”

Kate kicked me under the table as I went on with my snow job, concluding, “We’re here to help if you need our help, which I don’t think you do. But we really need your help, your expertise, and your resources.”

I had more bullshit if I needed it, but Major Schaeffer seemed to sense that I was snowing him. Nevertheless, he said, “Okay. Coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

He motioned for us to stay seated and went off to the coffee bar.

Kate said to me, “You are so full of bs.”

“That’s not true. I speak from the heart.”

“You speak from a public-relations handout that I just read to you, and that you made fun of.”

“Oh… is that where I heard that?”

She rolled her eyes, then said to me, “He doesn’t seem to know much, and if he does, he’s not sharing.”

“He’s just a little irritated because the FBI is snowing him. And by the way, he doesn’t swear, so watch your language.”

“My language?”

“Maybe he doesn’t swear in front of women. I have an idea-he might open up more without a lady FBI agent present. Why don’t you excuse yourself?”

“Why don’t you excuse yourself?”

“Come on-”

Schaeffer returned to the table with a coffee tray and sat.

Kate stood reluctantly and said, “I need to make some calls. Be back in ten minutes.” She left.

Schaeffer poured two coffees from a steel pitcher into porcelain mugs. He said to me, “Okay, tell me why you think Bain Madox, a solid citizen with a billion bucks in the bank, and who is probably a registered Republican, killed a Federal agent.”

I sensed that Major Schaeffer did not share my suspicion. “Well, it’s just a hunch.”

“Can you do better than that?”

Not really. “I’m basing this suspicion on the fact that I believe Madox was the last person to see Harry alive.”

He informed me, “I was the last person to see my mother-in-law alive before she slipped on the ice and fractured her skull.”

I wanted to question him further about that, but I said, “I was a homicide detective, and you just develop a sense for these things.” I told him, “Kate and I went to the Custer Hill Club and spoke to this guy Madox.”

“Yeah? And?”

“He’s slick. Have you met him?”

“A few times. I actually went hunting with him once.”

“No kidding?”

“He wants to keep a good relationship with the state and local police. Like a lot of the rich people up here. Makes their lives easier and safer.”

“Right. But this guy’s got his own army.”

“Yeah. And he doesn’t hire any moonlighting or retired cops, which is what most of the rich do. His men are not local, and not involved in law enforcement, and this is a little unusual for somebody who wants to stay tight with the police.”

I nodded and said, “That whole place seems a little unusual.”

“Yeah… but they don’t cause us any problems and they keep to themselves. The local police get a few calls a year to pick up a trespasser or poacher who’s cut through the fence and been detained. But Madox has never pressed charges.”

“Nice guy.” Apropos of Harry, I said, “Maybe he kills people who see something they’re not supposed to see. Any missing persons? Suspicious accidents?”

“Are those serious questions?”

“Yeah.”

He considered his reply, then said, “Well, there are always missing persons, and hunting accidents that seem like they could have been something else… but nothing I know about to link to Madox or his club. I’ll have somebody check that.”

“Good.” I asked, “Did you get a search warrant for the Custer Hill property?”

“I did.”

“Let’s execute the warrant.”

“Not possible. The warrant was for a missing-person search. The missing person has been found off the subject property.”

“Does Madox know that?”

“How would he even know there was a warrant? Or that someone might be missing on his property?” He paused, then said, “I was about to call him and ask for his voluntary cooperation, but then that anonymous call came in that led us to the body. Did you tell him about the missing person?”

“I did. So let’s execute the warrant.”

Major Schaeffer reminded me, “The person has been found.”

I thought he might buy into my philosophy, so I said, “The law sometimes gets in the way of truth and justice.”

“Not under my command, Detective.” He added, “Now that you told him about the missing person, I’ll have someone call to inform him that the person has been found.”

I was sure this guy had once been an Eagle Scout, and I didn’t want to highlight the differences between a New York City cop and a state trooper, so I said, “Well, we need to think of something to take to a judge for a new search warrant.”

“What we need is a link between the body found in the state park and the Custer Hill Club. Without such a link, I can’t ask the D.A. to ask a judge for a search warrant.” He inquired, “Do you have any proof that Detective Muller had actually been on the property?”

“Uh… not conclusive-”

“Well, then, there’s no link.”

“Well, we have the anonymous phone call about the body. Anonymous is suspicious. Also, there’s strong circumstantial evidence that Harry was on the property.”

“Like what?”

“Like, that was his assignment.” I explained about the phone call at 7:48 A.M. on Saturday, Harry’s proximity to the property, the suspiciously distant location of his camper from the subject property, and other circumstances that I stretched a little.

Schaeffer listened, then shrugged. “Not enough to place Bain Madox under suspicion and not enough for me to ask for a search warrant.”

“Think about it.” I had no doubt that the FBI would eventually get a Federal judge to issue a warrant, but that might come too late. It appeared that I’d have to issue myself a Midnight Warrant, meaning breaking and entering. I hadn’t done that in a while, and it could be fun, except for Madox’s private army, electronic security, and guard dogs.

Schaeffer asked me, “What do you think you’d find on that property?”

“I don’t know.”

“Judges don’t like fishing expeditions. Think of something you’re looking for. Did you see anything on his property or in his house that I can take to the D.A.?”

“I saw more security than the president has at his ranch.”

“That’s not illegal.”

“Right. Well… I think we just need to work the case.” I suggested, “Why don’t you stake out the property?”

“What am I looking for?”

“People coming and going, including Madox.” I reminded him, “You don’t need permission to do a surveillance-only suspicion.”

“Thanks for the tip. Yeah, well, the only suspicion I have is what you’re telling me.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Do you want to spook this guy? I mean, you want an open surveillance or a clandestine surveillance?”

“Clandestine. Like tree cutters watching the road and the perimeter.”

“Okay… but I need to notify and coordinate that with the county police, and I have to tell you, I think Madox has friends in the sheriff’s office.”

I considered that, and it seemed as though Mr. Bain Madox, Lord of the Manor, had his tentacles out into the hinterlands, as witnessed by Rudy’s call to the Custer Hill Club. I asked Schaeffer, “Does Madox also have friends in this office?”

He replied without hesitation, “Not under my command.”

“Right.” But how would he know? “If you think someone in the sheriff’s office is too chummy with Madox, it seems to me that you could in good conscience run a surveillance without notifying the sheriff.”

“Nope. I need to solve the problem with the sheriff, not add to the problem.”

“You’re absolutely right.” We weren’t even on the same planet. Major Schaeffer ran a clean, tight ship, which was nice, but not convenient at the moment. “We really need that surveillance.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great.” I belatedly informed him, “Kate and I went to the morgue before we came here.”

He seemed surprised, then asked, “Did you discover anything new?”

“I spoke to the medical examiner-Dr. Gleason. You should talk to her.”

“I intend to. Meanwhile, what did she say?”

“Well, it appears that Detective Muller was subject to some physical abuse before death.”

He processed that, then asked me, “What sort of physical abuse?”

“I’m not an M.E.” I added, not quite truthfully, “I was just there to make the positive ID and say farewell.”

He nodded. “I’ll speak to her tonight.”

I told him, “She found what appears to be rug fibers and dog hairs.” I explained to him what Dr. Gleason had discovered, then said, “If they don’t match the rug in his camper, they may match a rug at the Custer Hill lodge. Harry didn’t own a dog.”

“All right. If we do get a search warrant, we’ll check that out.”

Major Schaeffer had long-range plans for what was going to be, for him, a short investigation, so I informed him, “You’re going to wind up sharing this case with the FBI, and they don’t like to share, and they don’t play well with others.”

He reminded me, “Murder, even of a Federal agent, is a state crime, not a Federal crime.”

“I know that, Major. And ultimately, there may be a state trial for murder. But the FBI will be investigating an assault on a Federal agent, which is a Federal crime. The net result is the same-they’re going to be all over this place and this case very soon.”

“It’s still my case,” Major Schaeffer said.

“Right.” This was like the local baron telling the invading army that they were trespassing on his land. I said, “For instance, Dr. Gleason is not doing the autopsy. The body is being transported to New York City.”

“They can’t do that.”

“Major, they can do whatever the hell they want. They have two magic words-national security. And when they use those magic words, the state and local police are turned into…” I was going to say puppy dogs, but that would piss him off, so I said, “Stone.”

He stared at me, then said, “We’ll see.”

“Right. Good luck.”

“What is your actual status on this case?” he asked.

“I have seven days to crack it.”

“How did you get a whole seven days?”

“I made a bet with Tom Walsh.”

“What’s the bet?”

“I bet my job.”

“And your wife?”

“No, I didn’t bet her.”

“I mean, did she bet her job?”

“No, she’s career FBI. She has to shoot a supervisor before her job is in jeopardy.”

He forced a smile. “I don’t think you’re going to crack this case in seven days, unless someone comes forward.”

“Probably not. Are you hiring?”

He smiled again, then said, “I think you’re past hiring age for the state police. But the local police are always looking for experienced people from the city.” He added, “You’d love it up here.”

“Oh, I know I would. I feel like a new man already.” I changed the subject. “Where’d you go hunting with Madox?”

“On his property.”

“See anything?”

“Yeah. Trees. We met at his house. Big place. Then we went out for deer. Six guys. Me, him, one of my sergeants, and three of his friends from the city.” He added, “Lunch was catered in the woods, drinks back at the lodge.”

“Did you see anything unusual?”

“No. Did you?”

“No,” I replied, “except all that security.” I asked him, “Did you see the perimeter fence?”

“Only got a glimpse of it. It’s surrounded with floodlights, like a prison camp, except these floods are on motion sensors. Also, Madox has his own cellular relay tower.”

“Why?”

“He’s rich.”

“Right. When was this hunting party?” I asked.

“Two seasons back.”

“Like, hunting seasons?”

“Yeah. Up here we have hunting season; ski season; mud, flood, and fly season; then fishing season.”

When I left the city, it was the opera and ballet season. “A guy could really keep busy up here.”

“Yeah, if you like the outdoors.”

“I love the outdoors. By the way, I saw a map of the Custer Hill property, and I saw some outbuildings away from the lodge. What are those buildings?”

He thought a moment, then said, “Well, I know one of them is a bunkhouse. You know, for the guards. There’s also a big barn-like building for all his vehicles. Then there’s a generator building.”

“Electric generator?”

“Yeah. Three diesel generators.”

“What’s that all about?”

“You can lose power in the ice storms. Most people have some sort of generator backup.”

“Right. You’ve seen these generators?”

“No. They’re in a stone building.” He informed me, “The guy in Potsdam who services the emergency generator here also services the ones at the Custer Hill Club.”

I recalled the three heavy cables I saw on the utility poles on Madox’s property. “Why would this lodge need all that juice?”

He thought about that, then replied, “I’m not sure how much power each generator puts out, and I assume one or two are backups if one fails. But you raise an interesting point. I’ll find out how many kilowatts they put out.”

“Okay.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Quite frankly, I don’t know.” But this generator thing led me to ask him, “What is the local gossip about the Custer Hill Club?”

He looked at me. “Are you investigating this homicide, or are you picking up where your friend left off?”

“I’m a homicide cop. But I’m also nosy. I like gossip.”

“Well, there’s the usual gossip. Everything from wild, drunken orgies to an eccentric billionaire sitting around watching his toenails grow.”

“Right. Does Madox ever go into town?”

“Almost never. But now and then you get a Madox sighting in Saranac Lake or Lake Placid.”

“Did anyone ever see the former Mrs. Madox?”

“I don’t know. She’s been out of the picture for a long time.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Boyfriends?”

“He impressed me as a refined gentleman, but he had a macho side to him. What did you think?”

“Same. I think he’s on our team.” I asked him, “Do you know how often he comes out to his club?”

“I have no idea. Usually the local or state police are notified when the residents of a big lodge, or a Great Camp, are away so the police can keep an eye on the place-but Madox has full-time, twenty-four/seven security guards. To the best of my knowledge, that place is never left unattended.”

I’d guessed that from what Madox himself had told me and Kate, and now it was confirmed. “Did anyone ever suggest that the Custer Hill Club was something other than a private hunting and fishing club?”

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then replied, “Well, when that place was being built, about twenty years ago-ten years before I got here-I heard that no local contractors were used. And the rumor was that whoever was building this place was putting in a fallout shelter and sixteen miles of fence, which was true, and radio antennas and perimeter security devices, which was also true. And I guess the diesel generators were installed then, too. The word was that strange people were coming and going, delivery trucks were arriving in the middle of the night, and so forth.” He added, “You know, rural people have a lot of time on their hands and good imaginations. But some of this stuff was for real.”

“Right. So, what did people think was going on there?”

“Well, I only got this secondhand… but this was during the Cold War, so a lot of people assumed this was a secret government facility.” He added, “I guess that was a logical assumption given the scale of the project, and what was on people’s minds back then.”

“I guess. But didn’t anyone ask?”

“As I understand it, there wasn’t anyone to ask. It was pretty self-contained there. And it wouldn’t have mattered much if anyone from the project absolutely denied that it was a government installation. The locals tend to be patriotic, so as long as they thought that place was a secret government facility, they overcame their nosiness and stayed away.”

I nodded. Interesting observation. I guess if you’re a billionaire looking for security and privacy, you might want to promote the idea that this was a secret government installation disguised to look like a private club. That was as good as sixteen miles of fence. I said, “But now, I assume, everyone understands that this is a private hunting and fishing club.”

“There are still a few people who think it’s a secret government installation.”

I could see the advantage to Madox of keeping the mystique alive.

Major Schaeffer continued, “Look, it’s not illegal to surround your property with a fence and security devices, or to hire private guards, or even to hold a Roman orgy. Rich guys do weirder things than that. Paranoia and weirdness are not illegal.”

I informed Major Schaeffer, “Paranoia and weirdness are never the endgame.”

“I agree. But if Bain Madox is involved in some kind of criminal activity, I don’t know about it.” He stared at me. “If you know more than you’re telling me, now’s the time to tell me.”

“All I was told is that it has to do with oil-price rigging.”

He considered that for a moment, and I could see he was having the same problems with that bullshit that I’d had when I heard it from Walsh. “So,” he said, “you think Bain Madox, an oil billionaire, murdered a Federal agent who was doing a routine surveillance of arriving guests who might be involved in an oil-price-rigging conspiracy?” He pointed out, “That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Yeah… well, if you put it that way-”

“What other way is there? And what’s the national security angle?”

I was happy to see that he was paying attention, but I was not happy with that question. This guy was hungry and he needed something to chew on, but I certainly wasn’t going to offer up nuclear tidbits, so I dissembled a bit and said, “Look, Major, oil is more than black sticky stuff. I mean, Bain Madox is not in the garment business, you know? When oil is involved, anything and everything is possible. Including murder.”

He didn’t reply but kept looking at me.

I said, “Let’s concentrate on the homicide investigation. If we can implicate Madox, that might lead us to some other things.”

“All right. Anything else? I need to get to work on this.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I’d like to go out to the crime scene now.”

“It’s too dark. I’ll take you out in the morning.”

“Can we light it up tonight?”

“I have the scene secured, and there aren’t any CSI people there, and there’s no rain or snow in the forecast. Call me here at seven A.M., and we’ll work out a visit.”

“Maybe just a quick look-”

“You’re on overdrive, Detective. Go take your wife to dinner. You got a place to stay?”

“Yeah. The Point.”

“You’re staying at The Point?”

“Well… yeah.”

“You guys having trouble spending Federal money? All I got out of Washington were some new radios and a bomb-sniffing dog with allergies.”

I smiled. “Well, I don’t think terrorism is a big issue here.”

“Maybe not Arab terrorism, but we have a few homegrown nuts up here.”

I didn’t respond.

“Is that what your friend was doing here? Checking out right-wing weirdos?”

“I can’t say.”

Schaeffer took that as a yes and belatedly informed me, “About ten years ago, when I first got assigned here, some FBI guys came around asking about Bain Madox.”

That was interesting. “What did they want to know?”

“They said they were doing a background investigation because Mr. Madox might be appointed to a government job.”

That was standard bullshit when you were investigating someone for criminal activity, but it could also be true. In the case of Mr. Bain Madox, I could believe he was being considered for a government appointment, and just as easily believe he was being investigated for criminal activity. These days, one did not necessarily preclude the other. I asked Schaeffer, “Did he get the job?”

“Not that I know of. I think they had something else on their minds.” He asked, “So, what’s this guy up to?”

“I think he’s looking for a presidential appointment to the U.N. commission on global warming.”

“Is he for it or against it?”

I smiled politely and said, “Whatever is good for Bain Madox is good for the planet.”

Major Schaeffer stood and suggested, “Let’s go find your wife.”

I stood, and we left the cafeteria and walked toward the lobby. I had a thought and asked him, “Regarding these old rumors, did anyone ever say exactly what kind of secret government facility was being built there?”

“Are we back to the Custer Hill Club?”

“Just for a moment.”

“And this will help with the murder investigation?”

“Possibly. You never know.”

He went along. “Well, there were lots of wild guesses about what the government was building.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let me think-survival training camp, safe house, missile silo, plus a commo school or listening station.” He added, “That’s because of all the electronics and antennas.”

“Do you get a lot of electronic interference around there?”

“Nope. Not a squawk. I think the electronics are dead or never used, or on a frequency that we can’t pick up.”

I wondered if the National Security Agency ever did an electronic scan on the Custer Hill Club. They should have if the Justice Department was suspicious of something.

Kate was sitting in the lobby, talking on her cell phone, and before we got to her, Schaeffer said, “I’m remembering now that there was a Navy veteran who lived around here, and he was telling everyone that he knew what was going on at the Custer Hill Club, but he wasn’t allowed to say.”

This sounded like baloney, but I inquired, “Do you remember this guy’s name?”

“No… but I’ll try to find out. Someone will remember.”

“Let me know.”

“Yeah… I think his name was Fred. Yeah, Fred. And he was saying that what was going on there had to do with submarines.”

“Submarines? Exactly how deep are these lakes around here?”

“I’m just telling you what I remember. Sounds like some old sea dog pumping himself up.”

Kate got off the phone and stood. “Sorry. I was waiting for that call.”

There were people in the lobby, including the desk sergeant, so Schaeffer said for public consumption, “Sorry again about Detective Muller. Please be assured we’re doing everything possible to get to the bottom of this tragedy.”

“We appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You need directions to The Point?”

“That would be good.”

He gave us directions and asked, “How long will you be there?”

“Until we’re fired.”

“That won’t be long at a thousand bucks a night.” He offered, “If there’s any local stuff I can help you with, let me know.”

“As a matter of fact… do you have any problems with bears around here?”

Kate rolled her eyes.

Major Schaeffer informed me, “The Adirondack region is home to the largest black bear population in the East. You are very likely to encounter a bear in the woods.”

“Yeah? Then what?”

“Black bears aren’t overly aggressive. They’re curious, though, and intelligent, and they may approach.” He added, “The problem is that the bears equate people with food.”

“I’m sure they do, when they’re eating you.”

“I mean that people-campers and hikers-carry food with them, and the bears know that. But they’d rather eat your lunch than eat you. And don’t go near their cubs. The females are very protective of their cubs.”

“How do I know if I’m near their cubs?”

“You’ll know. Also, bears become very active after five P.M.”

“How do they know what time it is?”

“I don’t know. Just take extra precautions after five P.M. That’s when they’re foraging.”

“Right. The question is, Will my 9mm Glock stop a bear?”

“Don’t shoot the bears, Detective.” Major Schaeffer noted, “You have intruded into their territory. Be nice to the bears. Enjoy the bears.”

Kate said, “Excellent advice.”

I didn’t think so.

Schaeffer concluded his bear talk with, “I haven’t had to deal with a fatal bear attack in years-just a few maulings.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Schaeffer told us, “There is a pamphlet about bears on that table over there. You should read it.”

If the fucking bears were so intelligent and curious, they should read it, too.

Kate found the pamphlet, then handed Major Schaeffer her card. “That’s my cell number.”

We all shook hands, and Kate and I left the building and walked through the lit parking lot.

Kate said to me, “I don’t want to hear anything more about bears. Ever.”

“Just read me the pamphlet.”

“You read the pamphlet.” She shoved it in my coat pocket. “Did Schaeffer say anything interesting?”

“Yeah… the Custer Hill Club is a secret naval submarine facility.”

“Submarine? Is that what Schaeffer said?”

“No. That’s what Fred said.”

“Who’s Fred?”

“I don’t know. But Fred knows more than we do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

We got to the car, and I slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled out to the road.

As I drove through Ray Brook, Kate asked, “Tell me what Major Schaeffer said.”

“I will. But now I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“About something that Schaeffer said.”

“What?”

“That’s what I’m trying to remember… it was something that made me think of something else-”

“What?”

“I can’t remember. Here’s an intersection.”

“Bear-turn left. Do you want me to drive while you think?”

“No, stop bugging me. I shouldn’t have said anything. You always do this.”

“No, I don’t. If you tell me everything that you and Schaeffer discussed, it will come to you.”

“All right.” I turned onto Route 86, which was dark and empty, and as I drove, I related my conversation with Schaeffer. Kate is a good listener, and I’m a good reporter of the facts when I want to be. But facts and logic are not the same thing, and I couldn’t recall the word associations that had illuminated something in my brain.

When I finished, Kate asked me, “Did it come to you?”

“No. Change the subject.”

“Okay. Maybe that will help. Do you think the Custer Hill Club is or ever was a government facility?”

“No. This is Bain Madox’s show from beginning to end. Think Dr. No.”

“Okay, Mr. Bond, so you think this is more than a hunting lodge, and even more than a place where possible conspirators meet?”

“Yeah… there seems to be a whole… like, technological level there that is not consistent with the stated purpose of the place. Unless maybe, as Madox said to us, his wife meant it to be a refuge in case of an atomic war.”

“I think that was just part of his smoke screen-a logical explanation for what he knew we would eventually hear about the construction of that place twenty years ago.” She added, “He’s very sharp.”

“And you seem especially sharp and bright this evening.”

“Thank you, John. And you seem unusually dull and dim.”

“This mountain air is clouding my brain.”

“Apparently. You should have pressed Major Schaeffer more on some of these points.”

I responded with a little edge in my voice, “I was doing the best I could to get his voluntary cooperation. But it’s not easy questioning another cop.”

“Well, when you sent me out of the room, I just assumed you guys would bond and spill your guts to each other.”

The words “fuck you” popped into my mind, but that’s how fights start. I said, “You and I will press him a little more tomorrow, darling.”

“Maybe you should have told him what we found written in Harry’s pocket.”

“Why?”

“Well, first, it’s the right thing to do, and second, he may know what elf means.”

“I doubt it.”

“When are we going to share this information?”

“We don’t need to. Your FBI colleagues are so fucking brilliant, they’ll find it themselves. If they don’t, the state police will. If they don’t, well then, we’ll just ask Bain Madox what mad, nuk, and elf mean.”

“Maybe we should. He knows.”

“Indeed, he does… Wait! I got it!”

She turned in her seat. “What? You know what it means?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. The other words-mad and nuk-were obviously abbreviations for Madox and nuclear. But elf is an acronym.”

“For what?”

“For what Harry thought about Bain Madox-Evil Little Fuck.”

She settled back in her seat and said, “Asshole.”

We drove on in silence, each of us deep in our own thoughts.

Finally, Kate said, “There is that group called Earth Liberation Front. ELF.”

“Yeah?”

“Our domestic section deals with them.”

“Yeah?”

“ELF has been responsible for what we call eco-terrorism. They’ve burned construction projects to save the land, they’ve put steel spikes in trees to destroy chain saws, and they’ve even planted bombs on the hulls of oil tankers.”

“Right. So, you think Madox is going to plant a nuclear device at the next ELF meeting?”

“I don’t know… but there may be some connection there… ELF… oil… Madox…”

“You forgot nuke.”

“I know… I’m just trying to make a connection, John. Help me with this.”

“I don’t think Mr. Bain Madox, who claims he helped defeat the Soviet Empire, is now reduced to battling a handful of tree huggers and women with hairy legs.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Well, that’s better than Evil Little Fuck.”

“Not much.”

Scattered clouds scudded past a bright orange half-moon, and leaves swirled in the headlight beams.

We were still within the boundaries of the state park preserve, but this area seemed to be a mixture of public and private land, and there were houses scattered along the highway. I noticed a lot of seasonal displays on the front lawns-cornstalks, pumpkins, and so forth. There were also some Halloween displays-witches, skeletons, vampires, and other assorted creepy stuff. Autumn was starkly beautiful and deliciously grim.

I asked Kate, “Do you like autumn?”

“No. Autumn is darkness and death. I like spring.”

“I like autumn. Do I need help?”

“Yes, but you know that.”

“Right. Hey, I learned a poem in high school. Want to hear it?”

“Sure.”

“Okay…” I cleared my throat and recited from memory, “‘Now it is autumn and the falling fruit/and the long journey towards oblivion… Have you built your ship of death, O have you?’”

She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “That’s morbid.”

“I like it.”

“See someone when we get back.”

We drove in silence, then Kate turned on the radio, which was set to a country-western station. Some cowgirl with a twang was singing, “How can I miss you if you don’t leave?”

I said, “Do you mind turning that off? I’m trying to think.”

She didn’t reply.

“Kate? Darling? Hello?”

“John… radio communication.”

“Say what?”

“There’s UHF-ultra high frequency, VLF-very low frequency… and so forth. Isn’t there an extremely low frequency? ELF?”

“Holy shit.” I glanced at her. “That’s it-that’s what I was trying to remember. Radio antennas at Custer Hill…”

“Do you think this means that Madox is communicating with someone on an ELF frequency?”

“Yeah… I think Harry was saying, Tune in to ELF.”

“But why ELF? Who uses the ELF band? Military? Aviation?”

“I really don’t know. But whoever uses it, it can be monitored.”

She pointed out, “I’m sure if Madox is receiving or transmitting, it’s not in the clear. It’s voice scrambled or encrypted.”

“Right. But the NSA should be able to crack any encryption.”

“Who would he be communicating with and why?”

“I don’t know. Meanwhile, we need to find out about ELF radio waves. Hey, maybe that’s why everyone around here seems so weird. ELF waves. There are voices in my head. Someone is telling me to kill Tom Walsh.”

“Not funny, John.”

We drove on through the dark night, then I said, “Bain Madox, nuclear, extremely low frequency. I think everything we need to know is contained in those words.”

“I hope so. We don’t have much else.”

I suggested, “Why don’t we go to the Custer Hill Club and torture the information out of Madox?”

“I’m not sure the FBI director would approve of that.”

“I’m serious. What if this asshole is planning a nuclear event? Wouldn’t that justify me beating the shit out of him until he talks?”

“It’s the ‘What if’ that bothers me. And even if we knew with ninety-nine-percent certainty… we just don’t do things like that. We don’t do that.”

“We will. The next time we’re attacked again-especially if it’s nuclear-we will start beating the shit out of suspects.”

“God, I hope not.” She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, “We need to report everything we’ve heard, learned, and guessed at. Let the Bureau take it from there.” She added, “We don’t need to carry this ourselves.”

“Okay… but we need some time to perfect this.”

“Well, all right… let’s say by this time tomorrow night, we go to Tom Walsh with whatever we have. Agreed?”

I didn’t trust Walsh any longer, so I thought I might have to bend the rules and go directly to my NYPD boss on the Task Force, Captain Paresi.

“John?”

“We have a week,” I reminded her.

“John, we don’t know if the planet has a week.”

Interesting point. I said, “Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It was less than twenty miles to The Point, but the place was so secluded that, despite Schaeffer’s directions and Max’s map, Kate had to call the resort to guide us to the unmarked road.

I put on my brights and proceeded slowly along a narrow, tree-covered lane that looked like a slightly improved Indian trail.

Kate said, “This is so pretty.”

All I could see was a tunnel of trees in my headlights, but to be upbeat-and because I’d booked the place-I said, “I feel close to nature.” About four feet on each side of the car to be precise.

We reached a rustic gate with an arch made of branches that had been twisted into letters that spelled THE POINT.

The gate was closed, but there was a speakerphone beside it. I lowered my window and pressed the button, and a distorted voice came out of the speaker like at Jack in the Box. “May I help you?”

“I’d like a double bacon cheeseburger, large fries, and a Diet Coke.”

“Sir?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Corey, registered guests.”

“Yes, sir. Welcome to The Point.”

The electric gates began to open, and the voice said, “Please proceed to the first building on your left.”

I drove through the gates, and Kate observed, “That was a little more friendly than the Custer Hill Club.”

“It better be, for twelve hundred bucks a night.”

“This was not my idea.”

“Right.”

Up ahead was a big wooden structure, and I pulled off the road. We got out, and as we walked up the path, the door opened and a young man waved to us and said, “Welcome. Did you have a good journey?”

Kate replied, “Yes, thank you.”

We climbed the steps to the rustic building, and the casually dressed young man said, “I’m Jim.” We all shook hands, setting the tone for our stay in this place, which I guessed was friendly, homey, and probably silly. Jim said, “Come on in.”

We entered the building, which was the resort office and also a gift shop selling Adirondack artwork and some pricey-looking apparel, which caught Kate’s attention.

Women, I’ve noticed, are easily distracted by clothing stores, and I was certain that the ladies on the Titanic stopped at the ship’s apparel shop for the Half-Price Sinking Sale on their way to the lifeboats.

Anyway, we got past the clothing, and we all sat in comfortable chairs around a table. Jim opened our file and said, “Here’s a message for both of you.” He handed me a card on which was written in pen, “Call.” From, “Mr. Walsh.” Time: 7:17 P.M.

Since I didn’t recall either Kate or I telling Tom Walsh where we were staying, I reasoned that Walsh must have recently learned this from Major Schaeffer. No big deal, but I needed to remind myself that Walsh and Schaeffer were in touch.

I gave the card to Kate, then glanced at my cell phone and saw there was no service. I asked Jim, “Are you totally out of the cell service area?”

“It comes and goes. The best service is when you stand in the middle of the croquet field.” He thought that was funny and chuckled, informing me, “Sometimes you get service if you stand at the point.”

I couldn’t resist and inquired, “What’s the point, Jim?”

He cleared things up by answering, “Whitney Point on Upper Saranac Lake. It’s here on the property.” Jim cautioned us, “Actually, we discourage the use of cell phones on the property.”

“Why is that, Jim?”

“It detracts from the ambience.”

“Figures. Are there phones in the room?”

“There are, but you can’t get an outside line.”

“Why are they there, Jim?”

“To communicate within the property.”

“Am I cut off from the world?”

“No, sir. There is an outside phone in this office, and one in the kitchen of the Main Lodge, which you may use. If anyone calls here-as Mr. Walsh did-we’ll get a message to you.”

“How? Smoke signals?”

“By note, or on your room phone.”

“Okay.” This had an unexpected upside, as well as a downside considering all the calls we needed to make in the next day or two.

Jim continued with the check-in and said, “Two nights. Correct?”

“Correct. Where’s the bar?”

“I’ll get to all that in a moment.” He went through his rap, pushing printed information toward us, along with a souvenir picture book of The Point, a map of the property, and so forth.

Jim asked me, “How will you be settling your account?”

“How about a duel?”

“Sir?”

Kate said to Jim, “Credit card.” She said to me, “John, why don’t you use your personal card, rather than the corporate card?”

“My credit card was stolen.”

“When?”

“About four years ago.”

“Why didn’t you replace it?”

“Because the thief was spending less than my ex-wife.”

No one else seemed to think this was funny. I gave Jim my government R and I Associates corporate card, and he took an imprint.

He marked our map with a highlighter, saying, “If you follow this road, past the warming hut and the croquet field, you’ll come to the Main Lodge. Charles will be waiting for you there.”

“Where’s the bar?”

“Right across from the Main Lodge, in the Eagle’s Nest. Right here-” He put a big X on the spot. “Enjoy your stay with us.”

“You, too.”

We left the office and Kate inquired, “Why do you have to be such a boor?”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Are we going to call Walsh?”

“Sure. Where’s the croquet field?”

We got in the car and proceeded down the road, passing the warming hut, whatever the hell that is, then drawing abreast of the croquet field, at which point I asked, “Do you want me to run out there and call Walsh?”

“No. Charles is waiting.”

At the end of the road was a big log structure with a front porch-the Main Lodge-from which another young gentleman, dressed in a tie and jacket, was waving to us. I pulled up, and we got out.

The young fellow bounded down the steps, greeted us, and introduced himself as Charles, adding, “I believe I spoke to Mr. Corey earlier.”

“You did.”

He made a joke and said, “We’ve fed the bears.”

“Great. Can you feed us?”

I think Charles wanted to feed me to the bears, but he said, “In fact, dinner is being served now, and we’ve set two places for you.” He looked at me and said, “Jacket and tie are required for dinner.”

“I don’t have either, Charles.”

“Oh… goodness… we can loan you a jacket and tie.”

Funny that Kate’s black jeans passed muster, but I needed a tie and jacket. I said to Charles, “That won’t be necessary. Where’s the bar?”

He pointed to yet another rustic building about a hundred feet away, and said, “The Pub is right there, sir. There are a number of self-service bars on the property, and all the staff are bartenders, but if you don’t see any staff at any of the bars, please help yourself.”

“I might like this place.”

“Please follow me.”

We followed him up the porch steps and into a rotunda-shaped room, all done up in Adirondack style, which was starting to get on my nerves.

Charles said, “This is the entrance foyer to the Main Lodge, which was the home of William Avery Rockefeller.”

A nanosecond before I could get off a good one, Kate said, “This is a beautiful room.”

Charles smiled. “It’s all original.”

Clearly Charles enjoyed the finer things in life. In the middle of the room was a round table, on which sat an urn of flowers and a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, with three fluted glasses. Charles popped the cork, poured, and handed us each a glass, then raised his own. “Welcome.”

I really don’t drink this stuff, but to be polite-and because I needed the alcohol-I clinked and we all drank.

Charles indicated a small room off the rotunda and said, “Here is a complimentary self-service bar which is open all day and night for your convenience.”

It was convenient right now, but Charles continued, “And here”-he motioned toward an arched opening in the rotunda-“is the Great Hall.”

I peeked into the Great Hall, which reminded me of the great hall where we’d sat with Bain Madox. Except in this Great Hall, at the far end, were two large, round dining tables in front of a big roaring fireplace. At each table were about ten ladies and gentlemen, eating and drinking, and though I couldn’t hear them, I was certain they were engaged in witty conversations that bordered on the banal.

Charles said, “You can access your room, the Mohawk-which by the way was William Avery Rockefeller’s master bedroom-through the Great Hall, but since dinner is being served, you may want to go around to your outside entrance, which I’ll show you in a moment.”

I suggested, “I think we need a drink first.”

He nodded. “Of course. If you leave me your keys, we’ll take care of your car and put your luggage in your room.”

Kate replied, “We don’t have luggage,” and, apparently concerned that Charles was thinking she and I had just met at a truck stop or something, added, “This trip was sudden, and our luggage will be following tomorrow. In the meantime, can you provide us with some sundries? Toothbrushes, a razor, and so forth?”

“Of course. I’ll have some items delivered to your room.”

Women are very practical, not to mention concerned about what total strangers think, so, to be a good, loyal husband, I said to Charles, “We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary, and we were so excited, we packed the Bentley, then took the Ford by mistake.”

Charles processed that, then offered us another champagne, which I declined for both of us. “We’ll be in the Pub,” I said. “Can you get some food over there?”

“Certainly. If there’s anything else you need, just ask anyone on staff.”

“How about a room key?”

“There are no keys.”

“How do I get in the room?”

“There are no locks.”

“How do I keep the bears out?”

“The doors have inside bolts.”

“Can a bear-?”

“John. Let’s get a drink.”

“Right.” I said to Charles, “My car has a key. Here it is. I need a wake-up call at six A.M.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like breakfast in your room, or in the Great Hall?”

Kate replied, “I’d like breakfast in the room.”

We always have this disagreement about room service: I don’t like to eat where I sleep, but women, I’ve noticed, love room service.

Charles asked us, “Would you like to schedule a massage in your room?”

I asked, “During breakfast?”

Kate said, “We’ll see what our schedule looks like tomorrow.”

“Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

Kate replied, “Not at the moment. Thank you, Charles, you’ve been very helpful.”

I asked him, “Do you have pigs-in-the-blanket?”

“Sir?”

“For the bar.”

“I’ll… ask the chef.”

“With mustard. I like the crust a little brown.”

“Yes… I’ll let him know.”

“Ciao.”

We left the rotunda of the Main Lodge, and I said to Kate, “Wasn’t I nice?”

“Not exactly.”

She opened the car and retrieved her briefcase, and we walked the thirty yards to the building called the Eagle’s Nest, in which was the place called the Pub.

The Pub was yet another rustic room, and a rather nice one at that. It was cozy, with a small fire in the fireplace, and a game and card room that held a pool table, bookshelves, and a stereo system. I noticed there was no television. The pub half of the room had a long bar, behind which were shelves of beautiful liquor bottles, and no bartender. In fact, the place was empty, the guests being at dinner. This was like dying and going to heaven.

I slid behind the bar and said to Kate, “Good evening, madam. May I offer you a cocktail?”

She went along with my silliness. “I believe I’ll have a small sherry. No-make that a double Stoli, twist of lemon, two cubes.”

“Excellent, madam.”

I set two short glasses on the bar, found the ice, the fruit, the Dewar’s, and the Stoli and, with a bottle in each hand, filled the glasses to the brim.

We touched glasses and Kate said, “To Harry.”

“Rest in peace, buddy.”

Neither of us said anything as we each decompressed from a long, eventful, and very sad day.

Finally, Kate said, “Should we call Tom?”

I checked my cell phone again, and there was actually service. “The use of cell phones is discouraged at The Point, madam.”

“What if it’s important?”

“Then he’ll call again.”

I freshened our drinks and said, “If the alcohol is free, how do they expect to make any money on us at twelve hundred dollars a night?”

She smiled. “Maybe they’re hoping you go to bed early. By the way, you should not have used your government credit card.”

I replied, “Look at it this way-if the world is coming to an end, what difference does it make?”

She thought about that but didn’t answer.

I continued, “And if we save the world, do you think the government is going to make us reimburse them for this place?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Positive.”

“Then what’s my incentive to save the planet?”

“That’s your job this week.” She sipped her drink and stared into the fire. “Well, if the world is going to end, this is a good place to be.”

“Right. So is the Custer Hill Club.”

She nodded.

“Do you play pool?” I asked.

“I have played. But I don’t play well.”

“Sounds like a hustle.” I came around the bar and went to the pool table, where the balls were already racked. I set down my drink, took off my leather jacket, pulled my shirttail out to hide my pancake holster, then I chose a pool stick. “Come on. Let’s play.”

Kate slid off the bar stool, removed her suede jacket, and pulled her sweater over her holster. She rolled up her sleeves and chose a stick.

I lifted the rack from the balls, and said to Kate, “Since you’re such a ball breaker, you break.” I actually didn’t say that. I said, “After you, madam.”

She chalked up, bent over the table, and shot. Good break, but none of the balls went in.

I ran three balls, then missed an easy shot. I think the scotch was starting to affect my hand-eye coordination. Or maybe I needed another scotch.

Kate ran three balls, and I could see she’d played this game before.

I missed another easy shot, and she said, “Are you drunk, or is this a hustle?”

“I’m just not on my game tonight.”

She ran another four balls, and I conceded the game and racked up. I said, “Let’s play for five bucks a ball.”

“We just did.”

I smiled and asked her, “Where did you learn to play?”

She grinned mischievously. “You don’t want to know.”

The second game was closer because she was getting tipsy.

I was actually having fun, playing pool with my wife, who looked good leaning over the table, and listening to the fire crackle in a nice, cozy room in the woods with a free bar.

A young lady entered the Pub carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres, which I helped her set on the bar. She said, “Hi, I’m Amy. Welcome to The Point. Can I make you a drink?”

“No,” I replied, “but make yourself one.”

Amy declined my invitation and said, “Here’s a breakfast menu. Just pick what you want, and the time you want it delivered to your room, and call the kitchen.”

I looked at the tray of sissy hors d’oeuvres and asked Amy, “Where are my pigs-in-the-blanket?”

She seemed embarrassed as she replied, “The chef-he’s, like, French-says he’s never heard of that.” She added, “I don’t think we have any hot dogs.”

“Amy, this is America. Tell Pierre-”

Kate interrupted. “Amy, ask the chef to use breakfast sausage.” She explained helpfully, “Saucisses en croste. With mustard. Okay?”

Amy repeated the French in an upstate accent, promised to return, and left.

I said to Kate, “This country is going to hell.”

“John, give it a rest. Try some of these.” She handed me a smoked salmon, which I refused.

“I expected real food here. I mean, we’re in the woods. You know, like buffalo steaks, or hunter’s stew…” I recalled my phone message to Harry and poured myself another scotch.

“I know this has been a very tough day for you, John. So, vent, drink, do whatever makes you feel better.”

I didn’t reply, but I nodded.

We took our drinks back into the game room. I sat at the card table and Kate sat across from me. I opened a fresh deck of cards and asked her, “Do you play poker?”

“I have played. But not well.”

I smiled. “Red chips are a buck. Blue are five bucks. You’re the bank.”

I shuffled as she gave each of us two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.

I put the deck in front of her. “Cut.” She did so, and I dealt five-card draw.

We played a few hands, and I was doing better at cards than I’d done at pool. I may have lost my hand-eye coordination, but I could play poker in my sleep.

Kate glanced at her cell phone and said, “I have one bar-”

“That”-I cocked my thumb toward the mahogany bar-“is the only bar I’m interested in tonight.”

“I think we need to call Tom. Really.”

“Whoever loses this hand calls him.”

She lost the hand, and twenty-two bucks, but won the right to call Tom Walsh.

She dialed his cell phone, he answered, and she said, “Returning your call.” She put it on speaker, then set the cell phone on the table as she gathered up the cards.

I heard him ask, “Where are you?”

Kate said, “At The Point. Where are you?”

He replied, “At the office,” which I thought was interesting and unusual at this hour. “Can you talk?”

She giggled. “Not very well. I’ve had four Stolis.”

She fan-shuffled the deck near the phone, and Walsh said, “I’m getting static.”

“I’m shuffling.”

He seemed impatient with her. “Where’s John?”

“He’s here.”

I said, “Ante up.”

“What-?”

She threw a dollar chip in and said to me, “Cut.”

Walsh asked, “What are you doing?”

Kate replied, “Playing poker.”

“Are you playing alone?”

She dealt five-card draw and replied, “No, that’s solitaire.”

“I mean,” he said with affected patience, “is anyone there aside from John?”

“No. Are you opening?”

I threw a blue chip in the pot. “Open for five.”

She threw two blues in. “Raise you five.”

Walsh asked, “Do you have it on speaker?”

“Yes. How many cards do you want?”

“Two.”

She hit me with two cards and said, “You better have something better than three of a kind, mister. Dealer stands pat.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Walsh said, “Excuse me-would you mind holding up your game for a minute of business?”

Kate put her hand facedown on the table and whispered to me, “To you.”

“You raised my open. It’s to you.”

“Are you sure?”

Walsh said, “It’s to you, Kate. But before you bet, perhaps John can tell me how it went with Major Schaeffer.”

I put my hand facedown, sipped my scotch, and said, “Since you know we’re at The Point, I assume you’ve spoken to him-so what did he tell you?”

“He said Kate was not present at the meeting.”

“Correct. I did a cop-to-cop with him.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. And?”

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

“He told me that you told him about our bet. I guess you’re in a betting mood today.”

That was about as witty as Tom Walsh got, and I wanted to encourage him in that direction, so I laughed.

He asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“No, sir. We’re still drinking.”

“I see… well-”

“Weren’t you supposed to call Schaeffer before we got there to tell him that Kate and I are the designated investigators?”

“Apparently, even drunk, you don’t forget an oversight on my part.”

“Tom, even if I was dead, I wouldn’t forget you screwing me around.”

Mr. Walsh advised me, “You need to learn to manage your anger.”

“Why? It’s the only thing that motivates me to come to work.”

Walsh ignored that. “Was Schaeffer helpful? Did you learn anything?”

“Tom, whatever Schaeffer told me, he’ll tell you. He loves the FBI.”

He suggested, “I think we need to continue this discussion when you’re less fatigued.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just FYI, Harry’s body is being flown by helicopter back to New York for autopsy.” He added, “I understand there were signs of physical abuse on the body.”

I didn’t reply.

Walsh continued, “This is obviously not a hunting accident, and the Bureau is treating it as a homicide.”

“What was your first clue?” I added, “Fax me the full autopsy report, care of Schaeffer.”

He ignored that. “A team of agents have arrived from New York and Washington, and they’d like to speak to both of you tomorrow.”

“As long as they’re not here to arrest us, we’ll talk to them.”

“Don’t be paranoid. They just want a full briefing from you both.”

“Right. Meanwhile, you need to get a Federal judge to issue a search warrant for the Custer Hill Club property and lodge ASAP.”

“That’s being discussed.”

Kate cut in. “Tom, John and I think that Bain Madox is conspiring to do something that goes beyond oil-price fixing.”

There was a silence, then Walsh asked, “Like what?”

“We don’t know.” She looked at me and mouthed the words “MAD,” “NUKE,” “ELF.”

I shook my head.

“Like what?”

She replied, “I don’t know.”

“Then why do you think that?”

“We-”

I said, “Let’s discuss this when you’re sober, Tom.”

“Call me in the morning. I know that place doesn’t have room phones, and that cell service is not good, but don’t fuck with me.” He added, “And don’t even think about submitting a bill for that place.” He hung up.

I said to Kate, “It’s to you.”

She threw three blues in the pot. “Don’t even think about raising. In fact, don’t even call.”

“Fifteen, and another fifteen.”

She threw in three more blue chips and said, “I’ll let you off easy.” She fanned out a Jack-high straight flush in hearts, and swept the pot toward her. “What did you have?”

“None of your business.”

She gathered the cards and shuffled the deck. “You’re a bad loser.”

“Good losers are losers.”

“Macho, macho.”

“You love it.”

We played a few more hands, and I was ahead a little on the poker, though still down on the pool. I suggested, “Let’s do darts. A buck a point.”

She laughed and said, “You can’t even get your glass to your mouth. I’m not standing in the same room as you with a dart in your hand.”

“Come on.” I got up, a little unsteady, and said, “This is like a saloon triathlon-poker, pool, and darts.”

I found the darts, stepped back about ten feet from the board, and let them fly. One hit the board, and the others, unfortunately, went astray, the last one pinning a window drape to the wall.

Kate thought that was funny, and I said, “Let’s see how you do.”

She informed me, “I don’t play darts. But you can go again.” She laughed.

Amy returned with a cloth-covered tray, which she set on the bar. “Here we are. He had apple-smoked turkey sausage.”

Before I could tell her what Pierre could do with his turkey sausage, Kate said, “Thank you.”

Amy was looking at the darts in the wall but didn’t comment, except to ask, “Have you decided on breakfast?”

We perused the menu and ordered breakfast, which even a French chef can’t screw up.

I wanted to watch the evening news, and I asked Amy, “Where’s the TV?”

She replied, “There are no televisions at The Point.”

“What if the world came to an end? We couldn’t see it on television.”

She smiled, the way people do who know they’re dealing with an inebriated person. She addressed Kate, whom she probably thought was sober. “Yeah, like, we had that problem on 9/11. You know? So, they set up a TV here in the bar. So everyone could watch it.” She added, “It was really horrible.”

Neither Kate nor I commented, and Amy wished us a pleasant evening, stole another glance at the darts, and left.

I uncovered the tray and examined the turkey sausage wrapped in some kind of phyllo dough. “What is this crap?”

Kate said, “We’re checking out of here tomorrow.”

“I like it here.”

“Then stop complaining and eat those fucking sausages.”

“Where’s the mustard? There’s no mustard.”

“Time for bed, John.” She handed me my leather jacket, put on her coat, gathered up her handbag and briefcase, then led me out the door.

I shoved my Glock in my waistband in case we ran into any bears, and suggested that Kate do the same, but she ignored my good advice.

The air was cold, and I could see my breath, and in the sky were thousands of bright stars against a black sky. I could smell the pines, and the wood smoke coming from the chimneys of the Main Lodge, and everything was very quiet.

I like the noise of the city, and concrete below my feet, and I don’t miss seeing the stars at night because the lights of Manhattan create their own universe, and eight million people are more interesting than eight million trees.

And yet, this was undeniably beautiful, and under other circumstances, I might relax here and surrender to the wilderness and be at peace with myself while eating French food with twenty strangers who probably made their money screwing the American public.

Kate said, “It’s so serene. Can’t you feel the tension and stress just leaving your body?”

“I’m kind of going back and forth on that.”

“You need to let go and let nature take over.”

“Right. Actually, I’m starting to get in touch with my primitive self.”

“John, this may come as a surprise to you, but you’re already very in touch with your primitive self. In fact, I haven’t yet met the other side of you.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a criticism, so I didn’t reply.

We went around the Main Lodge and on to a stone terrace. We could see through the big windows into the Great Hall, and I watched the guests around the two tables, working hard at the game of civilized dinner behavior. None of them were local, of course, and wherever they’d come from, they’d arrived.

I thought of Bain Madox sitting in his great hall-fireplace, dog, hunting trophies, old scotch, a manservant, and probably a girlfriend or two somewhere. For 99 percent of humanity, this would be more than enough. But Mr. Bain Madox, though he should have been very content with his accomplishments and wealth, was being directed by some inner voice into a dark place.

I mean, thinking back on that meeting, I could see something in his eyes and in his demeanor that made me believe he was on a mission, a man of destiny, far above the rest of humanity.

I’m sure he had reasons for whatever he was up to, reasons that he thought were good and which he’d actually hinted at over scotch and coffee. But I didn’t care about his reasons, or his inner demons, or his divine voices, or his obvious megalomania; what I cared about was that he was apparently engaged in a criminal enterprise, and that he’d most likely killed a friend of mine on his way toward his larger goal, which itself was undoubtedly beyond criminal.

Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“Madox. Harry. Nukes. Radio signals. Stuff like that.”

“I know we’ll figure it all out.”

“Well, Kate, the nice thing about this mystery is that even if we don’t figure it out, we’ll know soon enough what it was that we couldn’t figure out.”

“I think it would be better if we figured it out before it happens.”

We reached the rear of the Main Lodge without encountering any carnivorous wildlife, and I saw a door with a wooden sign that said: MOHAWK.

We entered the unlocked door, and I bolted it, not sure if the door would keep a bear out. Maybe I should move the dresser in front of it.

Kate said, “Oh, this is beautiful.”

“What?”

“The room. Look at this place.”

“Okay.” I looked. It was a big cathedral-ceilinged room, paneled in stained pine. There was a king bed that looked like it could be comfortable, but it was so high off the floor, you wouldn’t want to fall out of it. On the bed was a wicker basket full of toiletries.

There was a lot of furniture in the room, and lots of throw pillows and blankets lying around, which I know women like.

As Kate went around feeling up the fabrics and smelling the flowers, I checked out the bathroom. I’m a bathroom freak, and this one was okay. I like a good toilet bowl. I washed my face in the sink, then returned to the main room.

Along the far wall was a big stone fireplace, and in the hearth were logs and kindling, to which Kate was holding a match. The fire caught, and she stood and said, “This is so romantic.”

Above the fireplace was a huge set of antlers, which reminded me that I was horny. I said, “I’m horny.”

“Can’t we just enjoy the room?”

“You said it was romantic. So?”

“Romance and sex are not the same thing.”

I knew if I argued that point, I wasn’t going to get any, so I said, “I’m very sensitive to that. Here, let me put some music on.” There was a CD player on the desk and a stack of disks.

I quickly found an Etta James CD, which I knew she liked, and popped it in. Etta began crooning “At Last.”

Kate found a bottle of red wine on a dining table, which she opened. Then she poured two glasses and gave one to me. “To us.”

We touched glasses, sipped, and kissed lightly on the lips. I’m not a big wine drinker, but I’ve discovered that wine equals romance, and romance leads to… whatever.

Kate went around and shut off the lamps. We took off our shoes and sat in comfortable upholstered chairs that faced each other in front of the roaring fire.

Kate said, “This was a good idea, except it’s too expensive.”

“Hey, I got an oil tip from Bain. We’re buying oil futures tomorrow as soon as the market opens. Then, I’m calling my bookie with my bet on the start date of the war. Do you think this war has anything to do with what Madox is up to?”

“Possibly.”

“Yeah… maybe Madox is going to nuke Baghdad and keep us from having to go to war. Could that be his game?”

“I don’t know. Why speculate?”

“This is called analysis. This is what we get paid for.”

“I’m off-duty.”

“Would nuking Baghdad raise or lower the price of oil? And how can I bet on the start date of the war if the war is preempted by a nuclear blast? What do you think?”

“I think you should stop thinking about this tonight.”

I looked around the darkened room, lit now by the fire. The reflection of the flames glowed on the shiny oil paintings along the walls. The wind had picked up, and I could hear it howling in the chimney and saw gusts of leaves blowing past the windows. I said, “This actually is romantic. I see the difference now.”

She smiled and replied, “You’re on the right track.”

“Good. Hey, do you realize that William Avery Rockefeller had sex in this very room?”

“Is that all you think about? I mean, here we are in one of the historic Great Camps of the Adirondacks, and all you can think about is that some Rockefeller had sex in this room.”

“That’s not true. I was about to comment on the pastoral movement among the rich in the early part of the last century that led to the construction of these rural homes as simple refuges from the complexities of urban life, with all its noise, pollution, and teeming humanity.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Also, the Rockefellers were horny. I mean, look at what happened to poor Nelson Rockefeller. Then, you have oysters Rockefeller. Oysters. Get it? So, for me to mention that William Avery-”

“John, you’re losing points.”

“Right.” So we listened to Etta James, watched the fire, and sipped wine. The heat of the fire was making me drowsy, and I yawned.

Kate stood, went to the bed, and removed the comforter and a pillow, which she laid out in front of the hearth.

She then slipped into something more comfortable, meaning nothing, and I watched her as she undressed in the firelight. When she was naked, she lay down on the comforter and looked at me.

I think that was my signal to join her, so I stood and undressed slowly-about five seconds-and we lay on our sides in each other’s arms.

She nudged me onto my back and rolled on top of me.

This had been a lousy day, and tomorrow, assuming there was one, wasn’t going to be much better. But for now, this was as good as it got.