I was beyond angry-I was filled with homicidal rage against whoever did this to Harry. But I had to keep my cool and work the case until I was sure I had the killer. Then, payback.

We passed through Colton, then South Colton. Rudy’s gas station was closed, and I hoped he was on his way to his master’s mansion, peeing his pants en route.

I saw the sign welcoming us to Adirondack State Park, and very quickly the trees got bigger and thicker, and the road got darker.

After a few minutes, I said to Kate, “Murder is what we see. But there’s something else going on that we don’t see.”

She didn’t reply for a while, then asked, “Such as?”

“The only thing Madox accomplished by staging a hunting accident away from his property was to buy time.”

“Time to hide evidence.”

“No. Eventually, everything points back to Madox anyway. If buying a little time is what he accomplished, then that’s all he wanted.”

“Okay, but why?”

I explained, “Bain Madox does not engage in stupid or reckless acts. The only way it makes sense for him to kill a Federal agent whom the FBI knows was on or near his property is if the murder and the subsequent investigation did not concern him. And the only way that makes sense is if something else is going to happen soon which is a lot more important to Bain Madox than being a murder suspect.” I glanced at her. “So what could that be?”

“All right… I get it…”

“I know you do. Say it.”

“Nuke.”

“Yeah. I think this guy has a nuclear weapon. That’s what Harry was saying. That’s what I believe.”

“But… why? What…?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s going to nuke Baghdad. Damascus. Tehran.”

“I think that’s a stretch, John. We need more information. More evidence.”

“Right. We might get that sooner than we think.”

She didn’t reply.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It was dark when we reached the hamlet of Ray Brook, which was close to the airport where we’d landed that morning.

Close as it was, we’d taken the long way to get there and discovered things on our journey that were not even on our radar screen at 9:00 A.M. when we entered 26 Federal Plaza.

And that was the way some days went in this business. Most days were uneventful; some days, like September 11, 2001, turned on a dime.

Today, Columbus Day, I lost a friend, got into a pissing match with the boss, and met a nut job who might be planning a nuclear surprise.

Next Columbus Day, if there is one, I’ll go to a Yankee play-off game.

We found the regional state police headquarters and troop barracks at the edge of town, and I pulled into the parking lot. I asked Kate, “Are we official, visitor, or morally handicapped?”

“Look for persona non grata.”

I couldn’t find such a space, so I parked in official parking. We got out and walked toward the large, modern brick-and-cedar building. A sign over the front doors said TROOP “B” NEW YORK STATE TROOPERS.

We entered the lobby and identified ourselves to the duty sergeant, who seemed to be expecting us; in fact, he’d probably been expecting us all day.

He called Major Schaeffer on the intercom and asked us to wait.

There were a few troopers coming and going, dressed in their gray military-style jackets, belted at the waist with a cross strap and holster, and wearing their Smokey the Bear hats. These outfits looked like they hadn’t changed since Teddy Roosevelt was governor of New York.

I also noticed that all these guys, and even the women, were tall, and I asked Kate, “Do you think they breed them?”

The place had all the spit and polish of the paramilitary organization that it was, and the only thing it had in common with an NYPD precinct house was a NO SMOKING sign.

There was a stack of brochures on a side table, and Kate, who can’t resist informative brochures, took one and read aloud to me, “Troop B is the northernmost troop, and they patrol the largest geographic area of all the troops-eight thousand, ninety-one square miles-which includes the most sparsely populated counties in the state, marked by great distances and long winters.”

“Are they bragging, or complaining?”

She read on, “Patrolling the North Country fosters a special brand of self-reliance, and B Troopers are renowned for their ability to handle any situation with minimum assistance.”

“The word is minimal. Minimal assistance. Does that mean we’re not welcome?”

“Probably, if you’re going to correct their grammar.” She continued reading, “In addition to such typical tasks as investigating accidents and crimes, interstate patrol, and special Canadian border details, they often find themselves called on to search for lost hikers, evacuate injured campers, rescue storm-stranded travelers, investigate Fish and Wildlife law violations, and respond to domestic disputes and criminal complaints in remote locations.”

“But can they walk a beat in the South Bronx?”

Before she could think of a smart reply, a tall, rugged-looking guy in a gray civilian suit came into the lobby and introduced himself. “Hank Schaeffer.” We all shook hands, and he said, “Sorry about Detective Muller. I understand you were friends.”

I replied, “We are.”

“Well… really sorry.”

He didn’t seem to have much else to say, and I noticed that Schaeffer hadn’t met us in his office. There’s always this problem of turf intrusion, jurisdiction, pecking order, and so forth, but Kate handled it well by saying, “Our instructions are to assist you in any way possible. Is there anything we can do?”

He informed us, “Your guy Walsh in New York seemed to think you were off the case.”

I said, “FBI Special Agent in Charge Walsh has rethought that. He should have called you.” The prick. “So, you can call him, or you can believe me.”

“Well, you guys work it out. If you’d like, I can have a trooper drive you to the morgue.”

He didn’t seem to know that we’d been there, done that. I said to him, “Look, Major, I understand this is your show, and you’re not happy about having a dead Federal agent on your hands, and you’ve probably heard more than you want to hear from New York, Albany, and maybe Washington. We’re not here to make your life more difficult-we’re here to help. And to exchange information.” I added, “I have a dead friend lying in the morgue.”

Schaeffer thought about that and said, “You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Follow me.”

We went down a long hallway and entered a large cafeteria. There were a dozen or so uniformed and civilian-attired men and women scattered around, and Schaeffer found an empty table in a corner.

We sat, and he said, “This is unofficial, in the open, coffee, courtesy, condolences, and no papers on the table.”

“Understood.”

Schaeffer seemed like a straight guy who would extend a professional courtesy, if for no other reason than to see what he could get in return.

I got right to the point. “Looks like an accident, smells like a homicide.”

He gave a slight nod, and asked me, “Who would want to kill this man?”

“I’m thinking Bain Madox. You know him?”

He looked appropriately shocked, then asked me, “Yeah… but why-?”

“You know that Detective Muller was here on assignment at the Custer Hill Club.”

“Yeah. I found out after he went missing and the Feds needed help finding him.” He advised both of us, “It would be nice if I knew about these things ahead of time. You know, sort of a courtesy. Like, this is my jurisdiction.”

I replied, “I won’t argue with you about that.”

“Look, you’re not the people I need to complain to. But every time I get mixed up with the FBI”-he glanced at Kate and continued-“I feel like I’m getting snowed.”

“Right. Me, too. You understand that beneath my Federal credentials, I’m just a cop at heart.”