“John, stop being an idiot. Bears won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”
“Famous last words. How do you know what bothers a bear?”
“Stop with the fucking bears.”
We continued on. There wasn’t much traffic going our way, and only a few vehicles passed us going back toward Saranac Lake.
Kate said, “Tell me why we’re going to the Custer Hill Club.”
“Standard police procedure. You go to the place where you last heard from the missing subject.”
“This is a little more complex than a missing-person case.”
“Actually, it isn’t. The problem with the FBI and the CIA is that they make things more complicated than they need to be.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I need to remind you that we don’t want to alert Madox or anyone there that a Federal agent was on his property.”
“I think we’ve discussed this. If you were on the Custer Hill property with a broken leg, no cell-phone service, and a bear nibbling on your toes, would you want me to follow orders and wait for a search warrant to look for you?”
She considered that, then said, “I know that a cop will risk his life and his career to help another cop, and I know you’d do the same for me-though you may be conflicted about my dual role as your wife and as an FBI agent-”
“Interesting point.”
“But I think you have another agenda, which is to see what the Custer Hill Club is all about.”
“What was your first clue?”
“Well, the stack of airline passenger lists and car-rental contracts in my briefcase, for one. And you inquiring about Global Oil Corporation aircraft, for another.”
“I just can’t seem to fool you.”
“John, I agree that we need to push the search for Harry, but beyond that, you’re getting into something that may be a lot bigger than you realize.” She reminded me, “The Justice Department is interested in this man and this club and his guests. Do not screw up their investigation.”
“Are you speaking as my colleague, my wife, or my lawyer?”
“All of the above.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Okay, I’ve said my piece because I had to say it and because I really worry about you sometimes. You’re a loose cannon.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re also extremely bright and clever, and I trust your judgment and your instincts.”
“Really?”
“Really. So, even though I’m technically your superior, I’ll follow your lead on this.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not. And I also want to remind you that nothing succeeds like success. If you… we… go beyond our orders, then we’d better have something to show for it.”
“Kate, if I didn’t think there was more to this than oil-price rigging, we’d be sitting around the state trooper headquarters now, drinking coffee.”
She took my hand, and we drove on.
About forty minutes after we’d left the airport, I saw a sign for Route 56 north, and Kate said, “Bear right.”
I hit the brakes and reached for my Glock. “Where?”
“Here. Bear right. Go.”
“Bear… oh… bear right. Don’t use that word.”
“Turn fucking right. Here.”
I turned onto Route 56 north, and we continued on. This stretch of road was real wilderness, and I said to Kate, “This looks like Indian Country. What’s it say in the brochure about Indians? Friendly?”
“It says that the peace treaty with the Native American population expires on Columbus Day 2002.”
“Funny.”
We drove for about twenty miles, and a brown sign informed us that we were leaving Adirondack State Park.
Kate said, “The desk sergeant said the Custer Hill Club is on private land inside the park, so we passed it.” She glanced at the Hertz map. “There’s a town called South Colton a few miles up ahead. We’ll stop and ask for directions.”
I continued on, and a small group of buildings appeared. A sign said: SOUTH COLTON-A SMALL TOWN WITH A BIG CHIP ON ITS SHOULDER, or words to that effect.
There was a gas station at the edge of the small bump-in-the-road town, and I pulled in and parked. I said to Kate, “You go ask for directions.”
“John, get off your ass and go ask for directions.”
“All right… you come with me.”
We got out, stretched, and went inside the small, rustic office.
A wizened old guy from Central Casting wearing jeans and a plaid shirt sat at a beat-up desk, smoking a cigarette and watching a fly-fishing show on a TV that was on the counter. Reception seemed to be less than optimum, so I moved the rabbit ears for him, and he said, “Right there. That’s good.”
As soon as I took my hands off the rabbit ears, he lost reception again. One of my jobs as a kid used to be to act as an antenna for the family television, but I was beyond that now, and I said to him, “We need some directions.”
“I need to get a satellite dish.”
“Not a bad idea. You can speak directly to the mother ship. We’re looking for-”
“Where you comin’ from?”
“Saranac Lake.”
“Yeah?” He looked us over for the first time, checked out the Taurus outside, and asked, “Where you from?”
“Earth. Look, we’re running late-”
“Need gas?”
“Sure. But first-”
“Lady need the restroom?”
Kate answered, “Thank you. We’re headed for the Custer Hill Club.”
He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Yeah?”
“Do you know where that is?”
“Sure do. They gas up here. Don’t do no car work for them. They take their cars up to the dealer in Potsdam. Hell, I forgot more about car repair than those idiots at the dealers ever knew.” He went on, “But if they get stuck in the snow or mud, who do you think they call? The dealer? Hell, no. They call Rudy. That’s me. Why, just last January, or maybe it was February… yeah, it was that big snow in mid-month. You remember that?”
I replied, “I may have been in Barbados. Look, Rudy-”
“I got a snack machine over there and a Coke machine. You need change?”
I surrendered. “Yes, please.”
So we got change, bought some petrified snacks from the machine, plus two Cokes, used the restroom, and got a few gallons of gas.
Back in the tiny office, I paid for the gas with one of my government MasterCards. Agents carry two credit cards, one for food, lodging, and miscellaneous, and one specifically for gasoline. My gasoline card said CORPORATE, and R AND I ASSOCIATES, which meant nothing, but nosy Rudy asked, “What’s R and I Associates?”
“Refrigerators and Ice Makers.”
“Yeah?”
I changed the subject and asked him, “You got a local map?”
“Nope. But I can draw you one.”
“For free?”
He laughed and rummaged through a stack of junk mail and found a flyer advertising a moose-wrestling contest or something, and began writing on the back with a pencil. He said, “So, you got to look for Stark Road first, and make a left, but there’s no signs, then you get to Joe Indian Road-”
“Excuse me?”
“Joe Indian.” He went through it again in case I was stupid, then concluded, “You hit this here loggin’ road with no name, and stay on for about ten mile. Now, you’re looking for McCuen Pond Road on the left, and that takes you right up to the Custer Hill property. Can’t miss it, ’cause you get stopped.”
“Stopped by who?”
“The guards. They got a house there and a gate. The whole property got a fence around it.”
“Okay, thanks, Rudy.”
“Why you headin’ up there?”
“We’re doing a service call for the refrigerator. Problem with the ice maker.”
“Yeah?” He looked at us. “They expectin’ you?”
“They sure are. They can’t make a cocktail until we fix the ice problem.”
“They didn’t give you no directions?”