Nelson Demille - Wild fire

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.

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.