But as my therapist would say, if I had one, “John, the thermonuclear-war thing is in the past, and we need to move on.” Right. The problem now was to figure out what Bain was doing in that big house to turn his past failure into success.
I got off the back road at Colton, headed south on 56, and entered the sleepy hamlet of South Colton. And there was Ratso Rudy chewing the fat with some guy in a pickup truck.
I couldn’t resist, so I pulled into the station. “Hey, Rudy!”
He saw me and ambled over to the car. I said, “I’m lost again.”
“Yeah? Hey, how you doin’?” He observed, “You got a new car.”
“No, this is the same one.”
“You sure? You had a Taurus yesterday.”
“I did? Hey, did you see Mr. Madox last night?”
“Well, yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. He didn’t want to see me.”
“He told me he did.”
“You sure?”
“That’s what he said.” I added, “Sorry about telling him you said I should get the money up front.”
“Yeah… I tried to explain that to him, but he thought that was funny for some reason.”
“Yeah? What else did he say?”
“Well… he said you was pulling my leg. He said you was a wise guy. And a troublemaker.”
“Me? Is that the thanks I get for fixing his ice maker?”
“He said there was nothing wrong with his ice maker.”
“Who are you going to believe? Me or him?”
“Well… it don’t matter.”
“The truth matters.” I asked, “Does he still have houseguests?”
Rudy shrugged. “Didn’t see nobody. But there was a car out front of his house, and I thought it was you. Blue Taurus.”
“I have a white Hyundai.”
“Yeah, now you do. But yesterday you had a blue Taurus.”
“Right. Hey, did anybody from Madox’s place stop in for gas today?”
“Nope. You need gas?”
“No, this thing burns rice wine. Did anybody stop here and ask you for directions to his place?”
“Nope… Well, a guy came in from Potsdam, and wanted to check my map.”
“Why?”
“He had these directions to the Custer Hill place, and he wanted to check them out. I told him he wasn’t going to find it on my wall map, so I checked his directions and gave him some landmarks to look for.”
There are different ways to ask nosy questions, and I inquired, “Was he a tall, thin guy with a handlebar mustache, driving a red Corvette?”
“No, he was a repair guy from Potsdam Diesel.”
This caught me by surprise, and I was nearly at a loss for words. “Oh… right. Charlie from Potsdam Diesel. The generator guy.”
“Yeah. But I think his name was Al… Yeah. This is the time of year you need to get the generator checked. Last November… maybe December, we got this ice storm out of nowhere. Lines down all over the-”
“Right… so, is Al still there?”
“Don’t know. That was maybe a hour ago. Didn’t see him go by. Why? You lookin’ for this guy?”
“No… just…”
“Where you headin’?”
“Huh?”
“You said you was lost.”
“No…” I asked Rudy, “Did you give Mr. Madox my message? The one about me being a good shot?”
Rudy looked a little uncomfortable. “Yeah… he didn’t think that was so funny.”
“Yeah? What did he say?”
“Not much. Just asked me to say it again.”
“Okay… good. So… I’ll see you later.”
I got back on the road and headed toward the Custer Hill Club.
Potsdam Diesel.
The generators were about to be fired up, and soon the transmitter would be warming up and the antenna would be humming, sending ELF waves deep into the bowels of the Earth. And someplace on this screwed-up planet was a receiver that was going to pick up those signals.
Holy shit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Iwas driving too fast for the logging road, and the Hyundai went airborne a few times.
Up ahead, I could see where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill gatehouse, but I didn’t see anyone leaning on his shovel nor did I see any freshly filled potholes.
I stopped at the T-intersection and looked farther up the logging road, then McCuen Pond Road.
I seemed to be the only one there.
This was like that scene in The Godfather where Michael goes to the hospital to see how Pop is doing and discovers that someone pulled the police guard off the job, and the hit men were on the way. Mama mia.
I sat there for a minute, waiting for a surveillance guy to pop out of a bush. But I was definitely alone. So, what’s up with Schaeffer? Hank? Buddy? Hello?
Well… time was wasting, so I turned onto McCuen Pond Road and headed for the gatehouse.
I slowed down, as per the sign, then stopped at the speed bump and pulled my Glock and stuck it in my jacket pocket.
The gate slid open, and a guy in camouflage fatigues walked toward me. As he got closer, I saw he was the same storm trooper I’d dealt with the last time, which was good. Or maybe not. I tried to remember if I’d pissed him off. Kate always remembers who I pissed off, and she briefs me.
I rolled down my window, and the guy seemed to recognize me, notwithstanding my new car. He had the same line as last time: “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Madox.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Look, Junior, let’s not go through all this shit again. You know who I am, and you know he’s not expecting me. Open the fucking gate.”
He definitely seemed to remember me now-maybe because I was wearing the same clothes, but more likely because I’m an arrogant prick. He said to me, unexpectedly, “Proceed to the gatehouse.” He added, “He is expecting you.” Then he smiled.
Well, that was nice. But it wasn’t really a nice smile. I drove toward the gate, and in my side-view mirror, I saw Junior Rambo on his walkie-talkie.
The gate slid open, and as I drove through, another guy in the gatehouse stepped out and put up his hand. I returned his greeting with an Italian salute, and accelerated up the winding road toward the lodge.
I noticed again the telephone poles and the three heavy wires running between them-and what had looked a little odd yesterday now looked suspiciously like an ELF antenna. Unless, of course, I was totally wrong. I needed a dose of Bain Madox to give me confidence in my suspicions and conclusions.
Coming toward me was a black Jeep, and the driver was waving to me, which was nice, so I waved back and honked my horn as he veered off into the drainage ditch.
Up ahead was the flagpole, flying the Stars and Stripes with the yellow Seventh Cavalry pennant below. I knew, from something I’d read, that the pennant meant the commander was on the premises, so El Supremo was definitely in.
I went around the flagpole, stopped under the portico, got out, locked my car, then stepped up to the porch. The front door was unlocked, and I went into the atrium foyer and glanced up at the balcony.
There was no one around, and I recalled that the house staff was on a break after the three-day weekend, which showed Mr. Madox to be an enlightened employer, or a man who wanted to be alone.
On the wall, General Custer was still making his last stand, and I noticed now, on the paneling above the painting, a fiber-optic fish eye that could see the whole room. In fact, I may have subconsciously noticed it the first time, and maybe that’s where my stupid Holy Mackerel joke had come from. Maybe not.
I moved closer to the painting as though studying it, then closer until I was too near the wall for the eye to see me.
I glanced up at the balcony again, then I pulled my little lint roller out of my jacket, peeled the paper off, and dropped it on the carpet and rolled it with my foot. Then I retrieved it and put it back in my pocket. If that stupid dog was around, I’d have lint-rolled him, too.