Wild fire

I heard a loud blast but didn’t see his muzzle flash. He did, however, toss his gun into the air. Or so it seemed. His body went straight back, as though he’d been kicked in the chest, and he slammed into the wall next to Luther. As he was sliding to the floor, Kate emptied Carl’s Colt.45 into Ted Nash’s body, which jerked violently each time another bullet hit him.

I watched her get off the last three shots, and there was nothing hysterical or frenzied about the way she was shooting. She was holding the big automatic with both hands in the correct grip, knees bent, arms straight, aim centered, squeeze, fire, breathe, hold it, squeeze, and so forth. Until the slide locked in the empty position.

I went over to her to take the pistol, but she threw it aside.

I said, “Thanks.”

She kept staring at Nash’s body, covered now with blood and gore from a head wound.

She said, “Not a bitch, Ted.”

I’d have to remember not to use that word when we argued.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Ifound a landline phone and called Major Schaeffer, who, as it turned out, was totally clueless about where we were or what was going on.

I gave him a very edited, need-to-know briefing, mentioning murder and mayhem, and requesting troopers, an ambulance, a CSI team, and his presence.

Kate and I, carrying Luther’s fully loaded M16 and Nash’s thankfully fully loaded Glock, explored and secured the other rooms in the subterranean living quarters, which could have been featured in Better Homes and Fallout Shelters.

We found the canvas bag with our stuff in it, and got ourselves back together.

There’s nothing interesting or educational about being a helpless prisoner, especially if your jailers are psychotic and homicidal, so I never quite understood the Stockholm syndrome thing where the prisoner starts to identify with his or her captor and begins to sympathize with whatever bullshit the captor is using as an excuse for his bad behavior.

Now and then, however, what the psycho is doing or saying actually does appeal to what the prisoner already believes, or has thought about himself in the dark parts of his mind.

But enough about that.

Kate and I found Mr. Madox’s barroom, which was actually a smaller version of the one upstairs, and she liberated a bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage 1978, which she opened and drank from a water tumbler.

I found some warm bottles of Carlstadt beer, which doesn’t improve with age, and, in fact, had gotten a little cloudy since 1984. But it hit the spot.

Regarding Mr. Ted Nash, this was his second and hopefully last time back from the dead. I counted seven-count ’em, seven-holes in him, which was not bad for eight shots. In fact, I felt silly feeling for a pulse, and Kate asked me what the hell I was doing. But I needed to be really sure.

Also regarding Ted Nash, in less than three minutes, he’d managed to totally piss me off. First, I’m not a clown, Ted, and my wife is not a bitch. As for the other thing… well, it happened. Even Kate can make a mistake with men. I’m sure not all of her boyfriends were John Coreys.

She must have guessed what I was thinking about, and she finished another glass of champagne and said, “It never happened. He was lying.”

Well, I couldn’t ask Dead Ted, so I let it go. “CIA guys lie,” I said.

“Believe me.”

She had Ted’s Glock, so I said, “I believe you, sweetheart.”

Being a lawyer and an FBI agent, she informed me, “I can explain the first and second shot as self-defense. I can’t explain the other six shots.”

I suggested, “Let’s say Ted challenged you to hit him eight times.” I added, “Actually, I’d be happy to take the rap-or the credit-for killing him.”

“Thanks, but… I’ll handle it.”

We moved back into the ELF room to check the security monitors, and we saw Schaeffer’s guys arriving in marked and unmarked cars, with an ambulance, all lined up on McCuen Pond Road behind the closed gate.

Oddly, the gate wasn’t opening, and the lead car smashed through it.

Then, two uniformed troopers went into the gatehouse, and a few minutes later, two EMS guys from the ambulance carried a body on a stretcher out of the gatehouse and back toward the ambulance.

Kate asked me, “What’s that about?”

“I’m pretty sure Derek is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. Madox needed him to tidy up the lodge and get rid of the van I borrowed from Rudy. But Madox didn’t want Derek talking about that, or talking about where everyone was in the fallout shelter… so he got someone to get rid of Derek.”

Kate commented, “Bain Madox seems to think of everything.”

“Not everything, and not anymore.”

We gave it fifteen minutes to be sure that the right people were in charge upstairs, then made our way to the spiral staircase, found the hydraulic switch to raise the card table, and ascended into the card room, where the air was fresh.

We had our creds out, and we were passed from one state trooper to another, until we found ourselves in the great room, where Major Schaeffer had set up his command post with a radio and a few troopers. Kaiser Wilhelm was sleeping and farting near the hearth.

Schaeffer asked us, “What in the name of God is going on here?”

I replied, “The murder of Harry Muller is solved. Bain Madox and Carl the butler did it.”

“Yeah? Where’s Madox?”

“In the fallout shelter.”

“We searched the whole basement.”

I explained how to find the fallout shelter and added, “You got three dead down there, and one seriously wounded.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Madox, Carl, and some other guy.”

“Madox is dead? How did he die?”

I answered, evasively, “Get your CSI team there and let them get to work. Also, the wounded guy needs help fast.”

Schaeffer picked up his radiophone and gave instructions regarding the fallout shelter.

I also advised Schaeffer, “You should disarm and restrain the security guards.”

“They’re disarmed and confined to their barracks under guard.”

“Good.”

“What do we have on them?”

“Accessories or witnesses to Harry’s murder. Tell them the boss is dead, and see if they’ll start talking.”

He nodded, then said to us, “Those three diesel engines and generators were ru

I replied, “Well, as it turned out, Fred was right. Submarines.”

“What…?”

Kate said, “Sorry, Major, this comes under the category of national security.”

“Yeah?”

I changed the subject back to homicide and informed Schaeffer, “Don’t bother looking for Putyov here.”

“Why not?”

“Well, according to the late Mr. Madox, he murdered his houseguest Dr. Putyov, then put the body through the wood chipper.”

“What?”

“If it matters, Putyov got what he deserved. But I can’t get into that.” I suggested, “You may want the CSI guys to pay special attention to the wood chipper. If they don’t find anything there, you might think about collecting some bear shit and see if you can find a little of Dr. Putyov’s DNA there.”

Schaeffer said, “I’m not quite following-”

“Hey,” I asked, “what happened to the guy in the gatehouse?”

“He’s dead.”

“Derek. Right?”

“That’s what his name tag said.” He informed us, “The EMS guys thought it looked like poisoning. Maybe a neurotoxin. The guy was twitching like an epileptic before he died.”

I said to Kate, “Jeez, I hope it wasn’t the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

Schaeffer replied, “We didn’t find any pigs-in-the-blanket, but there was a fresh pot of coffee in the guardhouse, and this guy had a spilled coffee mug on his desk. So, we’re thinking the coffee. We’ll test it and do the toxicology.”

Kate said to me, “Madox does plan ahead.”

“Not anymore.”

Kate asked Schaeffer, “Are the FBI here?”