Nelson Demille: Wild fire

He replayed everything in his mind, slanting it toward his new belief that this was some crazy FBI or CIA thing. It had to be. This was just too weird otherwise.

They had their eye on him for something big, and this was the big test. They did this kind of thing to see what you could take. The Custer Hill Club was like the CIA Farm in Virginia, right?

He said to himself, Okay, good. I passed the first test. Now, we do the meeting and see what that’s all about. Keep cool, Harry. Stay pissed. He shouted at the camera, “Assholes! I’m gonna rip your fucking heads off and shit down your necks!”

He lay back on the thin mattress and smiled to himself. He yawned and drifted into a restless sleep.

The glare of the overhead light and the cold made him dream that he was outside again, walking through the woods. He was taking pictures of birds, then he was arguing with some men, then he was talking pleasantly to Mr. Madox, who gave him back his gun and said, “You’re going to need this.” The men suddenly raised their rifles, and dogs were running toward him. He pulled the trigger on his Glock, but it didn’t fire.

Harry sat up quickly and wiped the cold sweat from his face. Holy shit…

He fell back on the bed and stared up at the metal ceiling. Something was bothering him. It was Madox. Something about that guy seemed too… real. No. Can’t be real.

Because if this was all real, then his life was in danger.

The door opened, and a voice said, “Come with us.”

Kate and I got to the bed-and-breakfast in the hamlet of Mattituck before the lockout time of 10:00 P.M., and checked in with the proprietor, a lady who reminded me of the nice matrons who work in the Metropolitan Correctional Center downtown.

The quaint old house was everything I expected and more. In fact, it sucked.

We slept late Saturday morning, so we missed the home-cooked breakfast, and also missed meeting the other guests, two of whom we’d heard through the thin walls the night before. The woman was a screamer, but not multi-orgasmic, thank God.

Anyway, we spent Saturday touring the North Fork vineyards, which have replaced the potato farms that I remember from when I was a kid. The vines are mature now and produce fine chardonnays, merlots, and so forth. We sipped a little free wine at each of the vineyards, and I especially enjoyed the sauvignon blancs, which were dry and fruity, with a hint of… well, potatoes.

Saturday night, we went to a floating barge restaurant, which had a great view of Peconic Bay and was very romantic, as per Kate.

We sat at the bar while we waited for our table, and the bartender rattled off a dozen local wines that were available by the glass. Kate and the bartender-a young fellow who looked like he could benefit from a few weeks of man camp-discussed the whites and settled on one that wasn’t too fruity. I thought grapes were a fruit.

The young man asked me, “Did any of those wines sound good to you?”

“They all did. I’ll have a Bud.”

He processed that, then got our drinks.

There was a stack of newspapers on the bar, and I noticed the New York Times headline: PENTAGON PLANS SMALLPOX SHOTS FOR UP TO 500,000.

The invasion looked like a done deal unless Saddam knuckled under. I considered calling my bookie to see what today’s odds were for going to war. I should have placed a bet last week, when the odds were longer, but I have inside information, so that’s cheating. Also, it’s not ethical to make money on a war, unless you’re a government contractor.

I asked Kate, who’s a lawyer, “Am I a government contractor or a contract agent for the government?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m struggling with an ethical issue.”

“That’s probably not much of a struggle.”

“Be nice. I’m thinking of calling my bookie and placing a bet on the Iraq war.”

“You have a bookie?”

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

“No. That’s illegal.”

“Am I under arrest? Can we do the thing with the handcuffs later?”

She tried not to smile and glanced around the bar. “Lower your voice.”

“I’m trying to be romantic.”

The hostess came over and escorted us to our table.

Kate studied the menu and asked if I’d split a dozen oysters with her, reminding me with a grin, “They’re an aphrodisiac.”

I informed her, “Not really. I had a dozen last week and only eleven worked.” I added, “Old joke.”

“It better be.”

Seafood was the specialty of the house, so I ordered Long Island duck. They swim. Right?

I was feeling relaxed and happy to be away from the stress of job and city. I said to Kate, “This was a good idea.”

“We needed to get away.”

I had a brief thought of Harry in upstate New York, and I wanted to ask Kate again about the Custer Hill Club, but the purpose of being here was to leave the job behind.

Kate was in charge of the wine menu, and after some fascinating discussion with the waiter, she ordered a bottle of something red.

It came and she tasted it, pronouncing it full-bodied with a hint of plum, which would go well with my duck. I didn’t think my duck cared.

Anyway, she raised her glass and said, “To beepers that don’t go off on weekends.”

“Amen.” We clinked glasses and drank. Hers must have had the plum.

I held the wineglass to the candlelight and said, “Nice sleeve.”

“Nice what ?”

“Cuffs?”

She rolled her eyes.

So, we had a nice dinner in pleasant surroundings, and Kate’s beautiful blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and the red wine made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

It was easy to pretend that all was right with the world. It never is, of course, and never was, but you have to steal a few hours now and then, and pretend that the rest of the world isn’t going to hell.

On that subject, everyone I know still talks about how their lives have changed since September 11, and it’s not all for the worse. A lot of people, myself included, and Kate, too, sort of woke up and said, “It’s time to stop sweating the small stuff. It’s time to re-connect to people you like and get rid of people you don’t like. We’re not dead, so we need to live.”

My father, who is a World War II veteran, once tried to describe to me the mood of the country after Pearl Harbor. He’s not good with words, and he was having some difficulty painting a picture of America on that first Christmas after December 7, 1941. Finally, he got it and said, “We were all scared, so we drank and fucked a lot, and we called and visited people we hadn’t seen in a while, and people sent lots of cards and letters, and everybody came closer together, and helped each other, so it really wasn’t that bad.” Then he asked me, “Why did we need a war to do that?”

Because, Pop, that’s the way we are. And on September 11, last year, my parents spent two days trying to reach me from Florida, and when they finally got through to me, they spent fifteen minutes telling me how much they always loved me, which was a bit of a surprise, but I’m sure they meant it.

And that’s the way we are now, but in a year or two, lacking another attack on the country, we’ll be back to our normal, self-centered, standoffish selves. And that’s okay, too, because quite frankly I’m getting a little tired of out-of-town friends and family asking me how I’m doing. We’ve all had our cathartic moment, and our re-evaluation of our lives, and it’s time to get on with whatever we were doing, and go back to being whoever we were.