Gideon's Corpse

“Where else?” Gideon gestured at Fordyce.

Lockhart glanced back at the agent. “This was during your time at ATF?”

“I never said I was Mister Perfect.”

Lockhart seemed to ponder this and apparently found it plausible. He picked up a walkie-talkie lying on his desk. “Bring Co

He laid it back down. They waited in silence. Gideon’s heart began to pound. So far, so good.

A few minutes passed. Then a knock came at the door and a woman stepped in.

“Here’s an old friend of yours, Co

She turned to them, a wreck of a woman, her skin raddled by drink and weed, her lips loose and wet, her bleached-blond hair with two inches of brown roots. Another long gingham dress covered her emaciated form.

“Who?” she asked, her watery blue eyes sca

Lockhart gestured at Gideon. “Him.”

“I’ve never seen—”

But Fordyce wasn’t waiting to hear more. He reached down, whipped out his badge and papers from his leg, while Gideon stepped over to Rust and took a firm grasp of her arm.

“Stone Fordyce,” the agent rapped out as he pulled off the wig. “FBI. We’ve got a warrant and subpoena to compel the testimony of Co

As Lockhart stared at them, thunderstruck, they turned and barged out through the door, Gideon hauling along the bewildered and unresisting woman.

“What the fuck?” Gideon heard the shout from behind them. “Don’t let them go!” As they ran down the stairs he could hear Lockhart yelling into his walkie-talkie.

In a moment they were out the door and jogging down the dirt street. That was when Rust began to shriek: a high-pitched scream that was almost animalistic in its bewilderment and terror. But she did not struggle; she was passive to the point of being limp.

“Keep it going, keep it going,” said Fordyce. “We’re almost there.”

As they came around the bend, passing the large barn, they realized they were not almost there. The commune members who’d been working cattle were pouring into the dirt road, blocking it—many of them with long cattle prods in their hands. Gideon counted seven.

“Federal agents acting on a warrant!” boomed Fordyce. “Do not interfere! Make way!”

They did not make way. Instead they began to advance at a menacing walk, cattle prods held in front of them.

“Oh no,” said Gideon, slowing.

“Keep going. It may be a bluff.”

Gideon continued hustling Rust along, Fordyce leading the way.

“FBI, engaged in official business!” Fordyce roared as they trotted forward, his shield extended.

The sheer force of his determination slowed the cowboys, caused them to hesitate. But then Rust’s high-pitched keening sound seemed to stiffen their resolve.

The opposing groups were now almost on top of each other. “Stand down,” shouted Fordyce, “or you will be arrested and charged with felony obstruction!”

But instead of standing down, the cowboys renewed their advance. The leading man jabbed at the agent with his cattle prod. Fordyce twisted away, but the second prod got him in the side. There was a crackle of electricity and he went down with a roar.

Gideon let Rust go—she collapsed to the ground in a sobbing heap—and seized a shovel leaning against the barn. He lunged forward with the shovel, smacking the prod out of the second man’s hand. It spun off into the dirt and Gideon swept the shovel back into the man’s side. The man fell to the ground, clutching his midriff. Gideon dropped the shovel and scooped up the cattle prod, turning to face the others, who immediately surged forward with a collective shout, wielding their prods like swords.

23

Swords. Thanks to a cute girl with swashbuckling proclivities, Gideon had briefly dabbled with fencing in high school. He’d quit when she quit, before he’d gotten any good at it. In hindsight, that seemed like a mistake.

The men circled him warily, Gideon backing up toward the side of the barn. He could see Fordyce, still on the ground, struggling to rise. One of the men gave him a swinging kick in the side, flipping him over.

That pissed Gideon off. He lunged at the closest man, making contact while pressing the prod’s fingertip switch. Howling in pain, the man went down and Gideon swung at the next, parrying his thrust and knocking aside the man’s prod before feinting at a third opponent. Behind his back he heard shouting: Fordyce was now back on his feet, staggering, roaring, and swinging away like a drunken maniac.

The third man jabbed again at Gideon, hitting his prod with a flash of sparks. Gideon hopped back, then lunged, but he was off-balance, the opponent advancing, thrusting and jabbing with the prod, Gideon parrying, electricity crackling. The second man came at him from the side just as Gideon scored a hit, his opponent going down with a zap and scream, writhing in the dirt. Gideon spun and knocked aside the other man’s thrust. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fordyce unleashing a roundhouse into another opponent, breaking his jaw with an audible crack, then leaping onto another like a wild animal, the man struggling to bring his long prod around to jab Fordyce with its fork.

More men converged on Gideon, backing him up against the side of the barn as he fended off their thrusts and swings. But there were too many for him to handle alone. One of them came in fast, slashing at him, while another jabbed him in the side; he felt a sudden white-hot blast of pain and cried out; legs buckling, he crumpled against the barn wall as the men closed in.

Suddenly Fordyce appeared behind them, now swinging the shovel like a baseball bat, smacking one attacker broadside in the head and causing the others to spin around to defend themselves. He parried their jabs with the shovel, the prods clanging and spraying sparks with every contact.

But there were too many: they were badly outnumbered, now both of them backed up against the barn doors. Gideon rose to his knees; Fordyce grabbed his arm and heaved him to his feet. “Inside the barn,” he said.

A final swing of the shovel and a maniacal scream cleared their way to the open barn door, and they ran inside. After the brilliant light of the outdoors, Gideon was temporarily blinded by the sudden darkness.

“We need weapons,” said Fordyce hoarsely as they retreated into the back, stumbling, feeling their way behind rows of equipment and stacks of alfalfa. Half a dozen cowboys poured in the door, fa

“Well, lookee here.” Gideon seized a chain saw leaning up against a post, grabbed the starter, and gave it a yank.

It fired up with an ugly rumble. He lifted the saw by the front handle, goosed it. Its roar filled the space.

The cowboys froze.

“Follow me.” Gideon ran straight toward the massed cowboys, swinging the chain saw in front of him, pressing the throttle control all the way down. The saw’s engine rose to an earsplitting scream.

The cowboys backed up and broke into a fearful retreat as Gideon reemerged into the sunlight.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” he yelled at Fordyce.

And then he heard another roar. Around the side of the barn came their old escort from the log cabin—but now instead of a machete he, too, was wielding a chain saw.

There was no option: Gideon turned and met the man’s charge face-on, chain saws roaring. In a moment their saws came together with a mighty crash and a burst of sparks, the inertial force causing a kickback so violent that it knocked Gideon sideways, almost throwing him to the ground. The man, with the advantage of momentum, advanced with a swing of his shrieking blade, the chain a flashing blur along its edge; Gideon blocked it again with his own blade, and they clashed with another immense kick and shower of sparks. Again Gideon was driven back and the man advanced—he was clearly an expert with the chain saw.