Wild Fire (18 page)

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

W
e 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.”