Nelson Demille - Wild fire

“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.”

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?”