CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

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."

Neither Kate nor I responded.

Major Schaeffer continued, "So, you're thinking that Harry Muller originally parked the camper much closer, and that he entered the property about eight A.M. Saturday morning, got picked up by the Custer Hill security, then somewhere along the line he was forcefully interrogated, then maybe drugged, and he and his camper were moved onto this trail, where he was murdered, and his camper was driven a few more miles up the trail. Is that about it?"

I replied, "That's about it."

Schaeffer nodded and said, "Could've happened that way." He asked me, or himself, "But why in the name of God would they murder a Federal agent?"

"That's what we're here to find out."

Kate asked, "Has anyone else had a hunting accident on or around this trail, or near the Custer Hill property?"

Schaeffer kept his eyes on the narrow trail and replied, "I've been thinking about that since Detective Corey brought it up yesterday, so I asked around and the answer is yes, about twenty years ago when the Custer Hill property was being developed." He informed us, "It happened about five miles north of the property. One of my old-timers remembered it."

Kate asked, "What was the outcome?"

"Hunting accident, shooter unknown."

"And the victim?"

"Never identified." He briefed us, "Male, about forty, clean shaven, well nourished, and so forth. Single shot to the head. It was summer, and the victim was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and hiking boots. No ID, the body was at least two weeks dead when discovered, and some animals had gotten to it. Facial photos were taken but not shown to the general public for obvious reasons. Fingerprints were recovered, but not good ones, and they were unmatchable to any data banks that existed at the time."

Kate pointed out, "Isn't that a little suspicious? I mean, single shot to the head, no ID, no one reported missing, and I assume no vehicle turned up in the area."

"Well, yeah. It's suspicious. But according to my guy who remembered it, there was not a single clue or evidence of foul play, so, to make things simple, the sheriff and the coroner ruled it an accident, awaiting any information to the contrary." He added, "We're still waiting." He paused, then said, "Even now, with this apparent homicide, I wouldn't try to connect that death to the Custer Hill Club, which wasn't even occupied at the time."

I said to him, "Run the fingerprints again."

We drove on in silence. I thought, of course, there could very well be a connection. The victim, if he had been murdered, could be some hiker who saw something he wasn't supposed to see at the Custer Hill construction site-or maybe it was some guy working on the Custer Hill project who saw or knew too much about something. Like ELF. Or something else.