I didn’t need to ask.

He pulled onto the road and said, “Six of them. Three from the New York field office, two from Washington, and one from your shop.”

I said, “They’re from the government, and they’re here to help you.”

“They’re helping themselves to my files.”

Kate, in the back, said, “Excuse me. I’m FBI.”

I turned to her. “We’re not criticizing the FBI, darling.”

No reply.

I asked Schaeffer, “Who’s here from the ATTF?”

“Guy named Liam Griffith. Know him?”

“Indeed. He’s from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s Fed talk for Internal Affairs.”

“Really? Well, he’s looking for both of you.”

I glanced back at Kate, who seemed a little upset.

Some people called Liam Griffith the Enforcer, but the younger guys who’d seen The Matrix too many times called him the Agent in Black. I called him a prick.

I recalled that Griffith was supposed to be at that meeting in Windows on the World, but he’d been either late or uninvited. In any case, he’d escaped the fate of everyone who’d been there that morning.

Also, I’d had a few run-ins with Mr. Griffith during the TWA 800 case, and my last words to him in the bar at Ecco’s had been, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

He took my suggestion, though he didn’t take it well.

Now, he was back.

Kate asked Schaeffer, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him you’d probably stop in today. He said he’d like to see you both when you arrive.” He added, “I figured you’d want to postpone that.”

I said to Schaeffer, “Thanks.”

He didn’t acknowledge that. “Your boss, Tom Walsh, called right after you left. He asked what we discussed, and I referred him to you.”

I replied, “Good. I referred him to you. Did you tell him we were staying at The Point?”

“No. Why?”

I glanced back at Kate, then said to Schaeffer, “Well, he left a message for us there.”

Schaeffer reiterated, “I didn’t mention it.”

Maybe, I thought, the FBI guys from the city, or Liam Griffith, had interviewed my friend Max at Hertz. I asked Schaeffer, “Did Walsh say we were assigned to this case?”

“No. But neither did he say that Griffith was here to pull you off the case. But I think he is.”

If Kate and I could speak freely now, we’d probably agree that basically we’d been screwed by Tom Walsh. In fact, I couldn’t keep that in, and I said to Kate, “Tom reneged on our deal.”

She responded, “We don’t know that… Maybe Liam Griffith just wants to… make us understand the terms of our assignment here.”

I replied, “I don’t think that’s why Walsh called the Office of Professional Responsibility, or why Griffith would fly here.”

She didn’t answer, but Schaeffer said, “Last I heard, you had seven days to crack the case, and until I hear otherwise, you’re the investigating team.”

“Correct,” I said.

Meanwhile, I needed to keep one step ahead of Liam Griffith.

Less than an hour after we’d left Ray Brook, we turned off Route 56 at Stark Road.

Our cell phones and beepers had been unusually quiet all morning, which would have been a real treat if it wasn’t so ominous.

In fact, our usual phone pal, Tom Walsh, was lying low now that the Enforcer, Liam Griffith, was on the prowl. At this point, Walsh and Griffith had chatted a few times, speculating as to the whereabouts of Detective Corey and Special Agent Mayfield, a.k.a. the renegade agents.

I was certain that Griffith had assured Walsh that the miscreants would be along shortly, and that before they got halfway across the lobby of state police headquarters, they’d be in his custody and headed out to the airport, where an FBI helicopter was waiting to take them back to Manhattan.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

I shut off my cell phone and beeper and motioned for Kate to do the same.

Schaeffer took the same route that Rudy had given us, and within fifteen minutes, we were at the T-intersection where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill Club gatehouse.

Close to the intersection, I saw an orange pickup truck with a state seal on the door parked on the shoulder. Two men in coveralls were clearing brush.

Schaeffer slowed down and said to us, “State police.”

He stopped, and the two guys recognized the boss and came up to the car. They looked like they wanted to salute, but they were undercover, so they just nodded and said, “Good morning, Major.”

Schaeffer asked, “Any activity?”

One of them replied, “No, sir. Nothing going in or out. Quiet.”

He joked, “Don’t work too hard. That’ll blow your civil service cover.”

Both troopers got off good laughs for the boss, and we moved on.

Schaeffer said to us, “If they see a vehicle coming from Custer Hill and turning toward Route 56, they’ll radio to an unmarked vehicle who’ll pick up the subject vehicle on the highway, as we did last night with the Custer Hill van and the Enterprise car. If the subject vehicle turns this way, into the woods, then the truck here will follow.”

Major Schaeffer continued, “Last night, we used a truck from the power company. In a day or so, we’re going to run out of excuses to be at that intersection in the middle of the woods.”

I asked, “Do you think anyone from the Custer Hill property is even aware of these vehicles?”

“Absolutely. My guys say the Custer Hill security people run a Jeep out to this road at least twice a day, look around, then go back. Sort of like a perimeter recon.”

I said, “Bain Madox was an infantry officer.”

“I know that. And he knows he has to recon outside his perimeter.”

Madox was also paranoid, which was useful when people really were after you.

We continued down the logging road, and Kate said, “John, I see what you meant about Harry’s surveillance. It could have been done off the property, back there where Major Schaeffer has his team.”

“Right. One way in, one way out.” And for those guests arriving in the Custer Hill van from the airport, there should have been a stakeout at the airport to see who arrived on the Boston and Albany flights and who went into the van.

Instead, Walsh sent Harry, alone, onto the property.

This was either a badly conceived surveillance, done on a shoestring budget, or something else. Like someone wanted Harry Muller caught. Well, not Harry specifically, but any ATTF cop who got handed this assignment to check out so-called domestic terrorism. Like me, for instance.

As interesting as this thought was, it didn’t make much sense. I should just put this under one of the usual categories of piss-poor planning, desk-chair stupidity, or my bad habit of Monday morning quarterbacking.

Schaeffer broke into my thoughts. “I wouldn’t dream of criticizing how you people run your assignments, but your friend never had much of a chance to accomplish this surveillance on the property.”

Neither Kate nor I replied, and Schaeffer continued, “If you’d contacted me, I’d have given you the lay of the land, offered some manpower, and advice.”

I said, “Sometimes, the Feds can be a little arrogant and secretive.”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

To change the subject while also taking Schaeffer’s advice about using his services, I asked him, “Did you locate Fred?”

“Who? Oh, the Navy veteran. Not yet. I’ll ask around.”

Apparently, Major Schaeffer hadn’t spent too much time on locating Fred the vet. Also, I’m sure he didn’t think it was too important. Neither did I, until Kate suggested calling the ATTF Navy commo guy about ELF. You just never know what’s going to lead to something, or what might connect two points that weren’t even on the same page.

We turned onto a dirt trail that was just wide enough for the car. Schaeffer said, “This is the trail where we found the body a mile or so from here, then we found the camper about three miles further.” He added, “It’s almost six miles from the camper to the perimeter fence of Custer Hill. About an hour-and-a-half hike.”