Wild fire

Harry didn’t reply.

Mr. Madox was wearing a blue blazer and a loud plaid shirt. Harry Muller was wearing his thermal long johns. He’d been subjected to a humiliating strip search by Carl and two other security guards, who had cattle prods and promised to use them if he resisted. Carl and one of those two guys stood behind him now, cattle prods in hand. So far, there was no sign of the sheriff, and Harry didn’t think the sheriff was on the way.

Harry watched Bain Madox sitting quietly behind his big desk in the large pine-paneled office on the second floor of the lodge. Through the window to his right, he could see the rising slope behind the lodge, and at the top of the hill, he noticed the tall antenna he’d seen from the woods.

Mr. Madox asked his guest, “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that a no?”

“Fuck you.”

Bain Madox stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Madox looked about sixty, Harry thought, very fit, unseasonably tanned, swept-back gray hair, a long, thin, hooked nose like an eagle’s with gray eyes to match. Harry also thought this guy looked rich, but not stupid rich. There was something about Madox that signaled strength, power, and intelligence. Command and control. And Madox didn’t seem one bit nervous about having abducted and detained a Federal agent. This was not good, Harry knew.

Madox took a cigarette from a wooden box on his desk and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you burn. Call the sheriff. Now.”

Madox lit the cigarette with a silver desk lighter and puffed thoughtfully, then asked, “What brings you here, Detective Muller?”

“Bird-watching.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems like a sissy hobby for a man involved in anti-terrorism.”

“You’re about one minute away from me placing you under arrest.”

“Well, then, let me use that minute wisely.” Madox examined the items strewn across the desk: Harry’s cell phone and pager, which were now shut off, his key chain, the Handycam, the Nikon digital camera, the binoculars, the Sibley bird guide, a terrain map of the area, the compass, the wire cutters, Harry’s credentials, and his 9mm Glock 26, the so-called Baby Glock that was easier to conceal. He noticed that Madox had removed the magazine, which was smart of him.

Madox asked Harry, “What am I to make of this?”

“Whatever the fuck you want to make of it, pal. Give me my shit, and let me the fuck out of here, or you’ll be looking at twenty years to life for kidnapping a Federal agent.”

Madox made a face, suggesting he was annoyed and impatient. “Come on, Mr. Muller. We’re well beyond that by now. We need to move forward.”

“Fuck you.”

Madox suggested, “Let me play detective. I see here a pair of binoculars, a small video camera, a very expensive digital camera with a telescopic lens, and a bird guide. From that, I can conclude that you are an enthusiastic bird-watcher. So enthusiastic, in fact, that you also have these wire cutters in the event a fence comes between you and a bird. Plus, a 9mm handgun in case a bird won’t stay still long enough for you to photograph it.” He asked Harry, “How am I doing?”

“Not too good.”

“Let me keep trying. I also see here a U.S. geological survey map on which is drawn in red the perimeter of my property, plus the gatehouse, and this lodge and other structures. This suggests to me that an aerial photograph was taken of my property, and these man-made features were transferred to your map. Correct?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Mr. Madox continued, “I also see here on my desk this badge and a card that identifies you as a retired New York City police detective. Congratulations.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“But what interests me most is this other badge and ID card that say you are a Federal agent with the Anti- Terrorist Task Force. Not retired.” He stared at the photo ID, then at Harry Muller and asked, “Working today?”

Harry decided to try the cover story one more time, just in case this guy wanted a reason to cut him loose. “Okay, let me tell you again what I told your paranoid rent-a-cops. I’m up here for the weekend camping. I watch and photograph birds. I’m also a Federal agent, and by law I have to carry my credentials and my piece. You shouldn’t put two and two together and come up with five. Understand?”

Madox nodded. “I do. But put yourself in my position. And I’ll put myself in yours. I’m Federal Agent Harry Muller, and I’m listening to a man who tells me that all the circumstantial evidence I see in front of me-evidence of surveillance-can be explained as bird-watching. So, do I let you go? Or do I demand a more logical and truthful explanation? What would you do in my position?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over your loud shirt.”

Mr. Madox smiled, then opened the Sibley guide, put on his eyeglasses, and selected a page. He asked Harry, “Where are you most likely to encounter a loon, Mr. Muller?”

“Near a lake.”

“That was too easy.” He flipped a few pages. “What is the color of a cerulean warbler?”

“Brown.”

Mr. Madox shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Muller. Cerulean means blue. Sky blue. One more. Two out of three is passing.” He flipped through the book again. “What color is the male-?”

“Hey, take that book, put a coat of K-Y jelly on it, and shove it up your ass.”

Mr. Madox closed the guide and threw it aside. He turned to his computer screen. “Here are your digital photos. I don’t see any birds in them. I see, however, that you seem interested in one of my utility poles… and let’s see… here’s a telescopic shot of the tower behind my lodge… close-ups of my lodge… ah, there’s a bird perched on my roof. What is that?”

“A shit-seeking hawk.”

Madox picked up the Handycam, switched it to Replay, and looked through the viewfinder. “Here’s the pole again… you noticed the plastic boughs, I assume… here’s the lodge again… nice views from where you were standing… that bird is flying away. What was that? Looks like a great blue heron, but he should have migrated south by now. It’s been unusually warm this fall. Global warming, if you believe that crap.” He put down the camcorder and asked, “Do you know what the solution is to global warming? No? I’ll tell you. Nuclear winter.” He laughed. “Old joke.”

Madox sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He blew perfect smoke rings and watched them as they rose and dissolved. “That’s a lost art.”

Harry Muller glanced around the room as Bain Madox practiced his lost art. He could hear the breathing of the two men behind him as he shifted his gaze to a wall that was covered with framed certificates of some sort. Harry thought that if he could get a handle on who this guy was, it might be helpful.

Madox noticed Harry’s gaze and said, “The one on the top left is my certificate for the Silver Star. Next to it is the certificate for the Bronze Star, then the Purple Heart. Then there’s my commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army. Next row are the usual service medals, including the Vietnam Campaign Medal and a Presidential Unit Citation. I served in the Seventh Cavalry Regiment of the First Air Cavalry Division. The Seventh Cav was General Custer’s old unit. That’s part of the reason for the name of this club. I might tell you the other part later, but if I do, then I’ll have to kill you.” He laughed. “Just joking. Hey, smile. Just joking.”

Harry forced a smile. Asshole.

“The last row is the Combat Infantry Badge, my Expert Rifleman Badge, my Jungle Training School diploma, and, finally, my Army discharge. I left the service after eight years with the rank of lieutenant colonel. We made rank fast in those days. Lots of dead officers opened up the promotion list. Did you serve?”

“No.” Harry decided to play along. “I was too young, then they ended the draft.”

“Right. They should bring it back.”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “They should draft women, too. They want equal rights, they should have equal responsibilities.”