Off in the distance, I saw a big prefab barn. Its doors were open, and inside I could see a few vehicles-a black Jeep, a blue van, and a lawn tractor. Outside the barn were parked a few all-terrain vehicles, which I assumed were used to patrol the property. I expected to see that Colonel Madox also had a few Abrams tanks, but there was no sign of tread marks.
To the right, about a hundred yards from the lodge, I saw two long buildings. From Harry’s map, which I had in my jacket pocket, I identified the white wooden structure as the barracks, and it looked like it could hold about twenty men. The other structure was the size of a house, and it was built of solid bedrock, with a sheet-metal roof and steel shutters closed over the windows. Three chimneys belched black smoke, and near the open door of the building was a step van whose painted sign said POTSDAM DIESEL.
Madox came up beside me and said, “Not a spectacular view. The view out the front is better.”
“I think this is interesting.” I asked him, “Why do you have all these telephone poles and cables running around your property?”
We made eye contact, and he didn’t flinch. “Those poles and wires were installed to connect the call stations around the property.”
“Really?”
“You remember when you were a cop on the beat, and you had police call boxes?”
“Right. We also had two-way car radios since the 1950s, which are a lot cheaper than a few hundred telephone poles in the bedrock.”
Mr. Madox did not respond. In fact, he was probably thinking hard right now, wondering if these were just idle questions, or leading questions.
He said to me, “As I discovered in combat, radios are not reliable. In any case, the call boxes are rarely used now that we have cell phones and high-quality walkie-talkies. He informed me, “The poles are also used to mount and power the security lights.”
“Right.” And the listening devices and video cameras. “Hey, what’s that white building?”
“The barracks.”
“Oh, right. For your army. And I see your motor pool out there. This is a hell of a place.”
“Thank you.”
“And that stone building?”
“That’s where my electrical generator is.”
“I see three chimneys blowing smoke.”
“Yes, three generators.”
“Do you sell power to Potsdam?” I asked.
“I’m a big fan of redundancy.”
“Redundancy.”
“Yes. And so is God. That’s why we have two balls.”
“But only one dick. What’s that about?”
“I’ve often asked myself that very question.”
“Me, too.” He was now supposed to ask me why I was asking all these questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Well, thank you for stopping by. Again, sorry about… I’m sorry-what was his name?”
“Harry Muller.”
“Yes. People need to be careful in the woods.”
“I see that.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I just need a few more minutes of your time.”
He smiled politely and reminded me, “That’s what you said the last time, and you stayed awhile.”
I ignored that and moved away from the window, then looked around the office. It was a big room, paneled in light pine with oak furniture. On the floor was an oriental rug.
Above Madox’s desk was a framed photograph of an oil tanker with the words GOCO BASRA on the bow. Another framed photograph showed a burning oil field.
Madox said to me, “The Gulf War. Or, should I say, Gulf War One?” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”
I didn’t reply.
Usually, my routine of short questions and shorter responses shakes up a suspect, but this guy was cool as a cadaver on ice. I did sense, however, a little uneasiness in his manner. In fact, he lit a cigarette but blew no smoke rings this time.
Neither of us spoke, then I moved toward a wall filled with framed certificates and photographs.
They were all military-awards, citations, an honorable discharge, his commission as a second lieutenant, his promotions, and so forth, plus a number of photographs, mostly of Madox in various uniforms, about a half dozen taken in Vietnam.
I looked at one that showed his face close-up. His skin was painted in camouflage, plus it was dirty, and there was a fresh cut over his right eye from which ran a trickle of blood. His whole face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes peered out from his blackened features, looking more hawk-like and piercing.
He said to me, “These photographs remind me of how lucky I am to be here.”
Well, I thought, let’s see how lucky you are. “I see three Purple Hearts.”
“Yes. Two minor wounds, but the third Purple Heart was nearly posthumous.”
I didn’t ask for any details, and he didn’t offer any, except “An AK-47 round, through my chest.”
Obviously, it hadn’t hit any vital organs but may have caused blood loss to his brain.
He said, “I was on my third tour of duty, and I was pushing my luck.”
“Right.” Harry hadn’t been so lucky.
“But you know what? I’d do the same thing again.”
I thought I should remind him that the definition of crazy was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
The odd thing, of course, was that, as Ms. Mayfield suggested, Bain and I had connected, and if he hadn’t apparently killed a friend of mine, and if he wasn’t trying to take over or fuck up the planet, I’d probably like him. In fact, he seemed to like me, despite my nosy questions. But then, I hadn’t killed any of his friends, and I hadn’t yet messed up his plans to nuke the planet, or whatever he was working on. So he had no reason not to think I was an okay guy.
As I studied the remainder of his photos, he asked me, “Have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”
“I have.”
“Military or police?”
“Police.”
He informed me, “As you know, then, it’s traumatic. It’s so far removed from your normal, everyday experience that you can’t quite grasp what happened.”
“I think I got it.”
“What I mean is, if you’re in combat-or doing police work-you expect you may be wounded-or killed-and you think you’re prepared for it. But when it actually happens, you can’t believe it’s really happened to you.” He asked me, “Wasn’t that your reaction?”
“I really think I got what happened.”
“Did you? Well, maybe people react differently.” He expanded on his subject and said, “Then, after you comprehend what’s happened, you go into another state of mind.” He explained, “To paraphrase Winston Churchill, There’s nothing as satisfying as getting shot and surviving.”
“Right. The alternative is getting shot and dying.”
“That’s the point. It’s a near-death experience, and if you survive, you’re never the same again. But I mean that in a positive way. You feel very… euphoric… powerful. Almost immortal. Was that your experience?”
I recalled lying in the gutter on West 102nd Street after two Hispanic gentlemen popped off what sounded like a dozen rounds at me, managing an unimpressive three hits at twenty feet, and I remembered seeing my blood running into a storm drain in front of my face.
“How did you feel?” he asked.
“I think I felt fucked up for a few months.”
“But afterward. Didn’t it change your life?”
“Yeah. It ended my career.”
“Well,” he said, “that’s a big change. But I mean, did it change how you looked at life? How you felt about the future? Like, God had something big planned for you.”
“Like what? Getting shot again?”