Wild fire

“Right. That’s a thrill.”

“But if you’re armed, that’s cheating. The interesting thing about black bears is that you can actually interact with them. They’re dangerous, but they’re not dangerous. Follow?”

“I think I lost you after the first ‘dangerous.’”

“Well, think of a lion on one hand, and a lamb on the other. With those animals, you know exactly where you stand. Correct?”

“Right.”

“But a bear-a black bear-is more complex. They’re intelligent, they’re curious, and they will often approach a human. Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re just looking for a handout. But five percent of the time-and it’s hard to tell when that is-they’re looking to kill you.” He took a step closer to me and said, “That is what makes it interesting.”

“Right. That’s interesting.”

“You see my point? The potential for death is there, but the likelihood of death is low enough so that you are drawn into the encounter for the thrill. Your heart races, your adrenaline shoots out of your ears, and you’re stuck right there, between fright and flight. You see?”

I mean, I didn’t smell alcohol on his breath, but maybe he was drinking vodka, or snorting something, or he was nuts. Or maybe this was a parable, about John and Bain.

He concluded with, “Now, a brown bear or a polar bear is a different story. You know exactly what’s on their minds.”

“Right. What are those colors again? Brown is…?”

“Bad. Grizzly.”

“So, black is-”

“Not bad.” He added, “The white ones are polar bears. They’ll rip you apart.” He informed me, “We only have black bears here.”

“Good. And they know they’re black?”

He thought that was funny, then looked at his watch. “Well, again, thank you for stopping by. If… well, if there’s some sort of… fund established for Mr. Miller… please let me know.”

I totally lost it, but I took a breath and got myself under control. I really wanted to gut-shoot him, and watch him die slowly as I explained that me shooting him was very personal, and not at all professional and not what I was paid to do.

He seemed to be waiting for me to say good-bye, but I just stood there, and he said to me, “By the way, a mutual friend of ours, Rudy, stopped by last night.”

Or maybe I could explain to him that I shot him for God and country. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I was fairly certain that he had to be stopped, and if I didn’t stop him right now, then whoever tried to stop him later might be too late. Bain Madox would understand that.

He said, “Rudy. From the gas station in South Colton.”

I put both my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and felt the butt of my Glock in my right hand.

Madox continued, “He seemed confused about something. He was under the impression I’d asked you to let him know that I wanted to see him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. Why did you tell him that?”

But if I shot him right here and now, only he would know why. And maybe that was enough.

But maybe I needed to know more. For sure, the police and the FBI would want to know more.

“Detective?”

And maybe, to be honest with myself, I couldn’t just pull my gun and shoot an unarmed man. And to be even more honest, Mr. Bain Madox intrigued me… no, he impressed me. And he’d already been shot-he’d survived a war, and he was, or believed he was, a patriot continuing to do his duty, and if I told him he was actually a psychopathic killer, he’d be shocked.

“Mr. Corey? Hello?”

We made eye contact, and I thought he guessed what was on my mind. In fact, his eyes focused on where my right hand was gripping the gun in my pocket.

Neither of us spoke, then he said to me, “Why did you tell him to tell me that you were a good shot?”

“Who?”

“Rudy.”

“Rudy?” I took another breath and brought my hand out of my pocket, empty. I said, “Rudy. Rudy, Rudy. How is Rudy?”

He seemed to sense a pivotal moment had passed, and he dropped the subject of Rudy. “I’ll have Carl show you out.” He walked to his desk, picked up a walkie-talkie, and was about to hit the Send button.

I said, “I’m here to investigate a homicide.”

He hesitated, then put down the walkie-talkie. He looked at me and asked, “What homicide?”

I moved closer to his desk and replied, “The murder of Harry Muller.”

He appeared appropriately surprised and confused. “Oh… I was told that it was an accident. The body had been found… I’m sorry, I should have expressed my condolences to you. He was a colleague of yours.”

“A friend.”

“Well, I am very sorry. But… I had a call from the sheriff’s office, and the person said this man’s body had been found in the woods and that it was ruled a hunting accident.”

“It hasn’t been ruled anything yet.”

“I see… so… there’s a possibility of foul play.”

“That’s right.”

“And…?”

“I was hoping you could help me.”

“No… I’m sorry. What would I know about…?”

I sat in the chair in front of his desk and motioned for him to have a seat.

He hesitated, aware that he didn’t have to sit and talk about this, and that he could ask me to get out of his chair, his house, and his life. But he wasn’t going to do that. He sat. Technically, I had no jurisdiction here to investigate a homicide-that was still the job of the state police. But Madox didn’t seem to know that, and I wasn’t about to give him a lesson in constitutional law.

We did the old eye-lock thing, and the guy never blinked. Amazing. How did he do that? Even guys with glass eyes blink.

He asked me, “How can I help you, Detective?”

“Well, it’s like this, Mr. Madox. Harry Muller, as you may know, was not here to watch birds.”

“You said he was.”

“He wasn’t. Actually, he was here to watch you.”

He didn’t feign shock or surprise. He seemed to think about that, nodded, then said to me, “I understand that the government is interested in me. A man in my position would be surprised if the government wasn’t interested in him.”

“Yeah? Why do you think the government is interested in you?”

“Well… because of my dealings with foreign powers. Oil pricing.” He informed me, “I’m a personal friend of the Iraqi oil minister.”

“No kidding? How’s he taking this war thing?”

“I haven’t spoken to him recently, but I imagine he’s not very positive about the imminent invasion of his country.”

“I guess not. So, you think the government is interested in you because… why?”

“Because my interests and the interests of the United States government don’t always coincide.”

“I see. So, whose interests come first?”

He smiled a little, then answered, “My country always comes first, but my country is not always well represented by my government.”

“Yeah. I can buy that. But let’s say for argument’s sake that the government doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your