Gideon's Corpse

Gideon sat back, wondering what else to ask. He could think of nothing. He took out his cards, gave one to Blaine and then, after a faint hesitation, another to Alida. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call. My partner Special Agent Fordyce and I will be flying to Santa Cruz the day after tomorrow, but you can always reach me on my cell.”

Blaine took the card and slipped it into his shirt pocket without glancing at it. “I’ll see you out.”

At the door, Gideon thought of one final question. “What was it about your books that Chalker liked so much? Any particular characters, perhaps, or plots?”

Blaine screwed up his face. “I wish I could remember… Except that, it seems to me, he once said he thought the most vivid character I’d ever created was that of the abbot in Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. Which puzzled me, because I consider the abbot to be the most evil character I’ve ever created.” He paused. “Maybe to a man like that, the two were synonymous.”

20

Fordyce entered the hotel bar, strode across the carpet, and took a seat next to Gideon. “What’s your toxin?” he asked.

“Margarita. Patrón Silver, Cointreau, salt,” said Gideon.

“I’ll have the same,” Fordyce told the bartender. He turned back to Gideon with an expansive grin. “I said I was going to kick ass—and I did.”

“Tell me about it.”

Fordyce pulled a file out of his briefcase and slapped it on the table. “It’s all right here. We’ve not only got clearance to interview the imam of the mosque—Chalker’s mentor—but also a warrant allowing us to enter the Paiute Creek Ranch with a subpoena for Co

“How’d you do it?”

“I called Dart’s office directly, spoke to his assistant, a guy named Cu

“Why not?”

“Typical bureaucratic snafu. The original Title Eighteen Notice of Intent was defective, they had to redo it, get it re-signed by a pissed-off judge.”

“How’d you get them to agree?”

“I called in a chit. A big one. And to tell you the truth, nobody thinks the wife is worth the trouble. They divorced long before his conversion, they haven’t been on speaking terms, and apparently she’s a sad case.” He put away his papers. “We’ll hit the ranch at dawn. Then we’re scheduled for tea with the imam at two o’clock.”

“Tea with the imam. Sounds like a BBC comedy series.”

Fordyce’s drink arrived and he punched it down with scarcely less gusto than a triple espresso. “So. What do you know about this Paiute Creek Ranch?”

“Not all that much,” said Gideon. “It has a dicey reputation. Some say it’s a cult sort of like the Branch Davidian compound, armed patrols and locked gates. A guru named Willis Lockhart runs the show.”

“They’ve got a clean record,” said Fordyce. “I checked. No allegations of child abuse, no bigamy, no weapons violations, taxes paid up.”

“That’s encouraging,” said Gideon. “So what’s your plan?”

“Go in easy, don’t spook them, show the warrant nice and polite, pick up the wife, leave. We have to bring her for interrogation to the Santa Fe command center, but we’ll have a chance to hear what she has to say on the way there.”

“And if the ranch people don’t cooperate?”

“Call for backup.”

Gideon frowned. “That ranch is deep in the mountains. Backup would take an hour or more.”

“In that case, we leave nice, come back mean. With a SWAT team in tow.”

“Hello, Waco.”

Fordyce sat back in irritation. “I’ve been at this for years, believe me, I know how to do this.”

“Yeah, but I have another idea…”

Fordyce held up his hands in a mock-dramatic gesture. “Please. I’ve had enough of your ‘ideas.’”

“The problem is getting in there. Warrant or no warrant, they probably aren’t going to let us in. And even if they do, how are we going to find the wife? You think they’ll just fetch her for us? That ranch covers thousands of acres, and we’ll have to have their cooperation—”

Fordyce swiped one hand across his neatly clipped head. “All right, all right. So what’s your bright idea?”

“We go in undercover. As…well…” Gideon thought for a moment. What kind of person would they let into the ranch?

Fordyce snorted. “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

Gideon took a sip of his margarita. “No. We’ll go in with a business proposition.”

“Oh yeah?”

“New Mexico just passed a medical marijuana law.” He went on to explain his nascent idea to Fordyce. The FBI agent was silent a long time, staring into his ice cubes, and then raised his head.

“You know, it’s not a bad plan.”

Gideon smirked. “I’m going to enjoy watching you muss up your perfect hair and finally lose that junior executive FBI outfit.”

“I’ll let you do the talking. You already look like a stoner.”

21

They hit the Salvation Army store early the next morning, the moment it opened. Gideon flipped through the racks, scooping up outfits and handing them to Fordyce, who carried them with ill-concealed grace. Then they swung by a theatrical supply company before returning to Fordyce’s hotel room with their haul. Gideon spread the clothes out on the bed while Fordyce watched with a frown.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

“Stand over there.” Gideon spread out a shirt, laid the pants underneath, frowned, switched the shirt for another, then another, then socks, squinting at each combination.

“Jesus,” Fordyce complained, “we’re not going on Broadway here.”

“The difference is that if our little play is a flop, you’ll get a bullet instead of a rotten tomato. Trouble is, you look like you were born a Fed.”

He mixed and matched the outfits again, adding shoes and socks, a baseball cap and a wig, finally assembling something to his liking. “Try these on,” he said.

“Son of a bitch.” Fordyce shed his suit and do

“Go ahead,” said Gideon. “Don’t be shy.”

Fordyce put on the wig, adjusted it.

“Now the cap. Put it on backward.”

The cap went on. But that didn’t look right: Fordyce was too old. “Turn it right way around.”

Finally Fordyce stood in front of him, in full costume. Gideon circled him appraisingly. “Too bad you shaved this morning.”

“We’ve got to go.”

“Not yet. I need to see you walk around.”

As Fordyce took a turn around the hotel room, Gideon groaned. “You’ve got to put your heart in it, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t know what more I can do. I already look like a jerk.”

“It’s not just about the look. It’s about the mental attitude. You’ve got to act the part. No, not just act it—be it.”

“So who am I supposed to be?”

“A cocky, wiseass, arrogant, cu

“So how does a morally bankrupt prick walk?”

“I don’t know, you’ve got to feel it. Put in some attitude. Throw in a little pimp roll. Give us a curl of the lip. Tilt your chin.”

Fordyce, with an irritated sigh, did a second turn.

“Aw, shit,” said Gideon. “Can you lose the poker up the ass?”

Fordyce turned to him. “We’re wasting time. If we don’t get there soon, we won’t have time for the imam.”

With another muttered curse, Gideon followed Fordyce down toward the waiting Suburban. He wondered just how good a radar these people would have. To him, Fordyce still walked and talked just like a Fed.

Maybe they wouldn’t notice. But if they did, he’d better have a plan B.

22

The Paiute Creek Ranch lay north of Santa Fe in an isolated part of the Jemez Mountain range. Gideon and Fordyce bumped and ground their way up a washed-out mining road and into a series of ponderosa-covered hills and valleys just below a peak. The road ended at a brand-new chain-link fence with a set of locked gates.