Текст книги "Gideon's Corpse"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

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 donned the outfit. He hesitated with the hair. It had been a woman’s wig, with real hair, that Gideon had given a bad haircut to.

“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– beit.”

“So who am I supposed to be?”

“A cocky, wiseass, arrogant, cunning, self-satisfied, don’t-give-a-shit, morally bankrupt prick. Think about that while you walk around the room.”

“So how does a morally bankrupt prick walk?”

“I don’t know, you’ve got to feelit. 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.

As they got out of the Suburban, Gideon glanced over at Fordyce.

“You go first, I want to watch you walk again. Remember what I said.”

“Stop staring at my ass.” Fordyce started toward the gate, and it just about drove Gideon crazy to see how stubbornly the whiff of law enforcement clung to the agent. But he had to admit, the clothes were good—it was the way he carried himself that was a problem. If he kept his mouth shut, then maybe, just maybe, no one would notice.

“Remember,” Gideon muttered, “I’m doing the talking.”

“You mean, the bullshitting. Which you’re an expert at.”

Gideon peered through the fence. A hundred yards down the dirt track stood a small log cabin, and through the ponderosa pines he could glimpse more cabins, a barn, and the gables of a large ranch house. In the distance, some green fields were laid up alongside Paiute Creek.

Gideon shook the fence. “Yo!”

Nothing. Had all of them left, too?

“Hey! Anybody home?”

A man stepped out of the nearby cabin and came walking over. He had a long tangle of black hair and a long, squared-off beard in the mountain man style. As he approached, he casually unsheathed a machete stuck into his belt.

Gideon could feel Fordyce tensing up next to him.

“Relax,” he murmured. “It’s better than a .45.”

The man stopped ten feet from the fence, holding the machete dramatically across his chest. “This is private property.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Gideon. “Look, we’re friends. Let us in.”

“Who you here to see?”

“Willis Lockhart,” Gideon said, proffering the name of the commune’s leader.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but we’ve got a business proposition for him that he’ll want to hear—I guarantee it. I’m sure he would be pissed if we were turned away without him getting a chance to hear it. Goodand pissed.”

The man considered this a moment. “What kind of proposition?”

“Sorry, man, that’s for Lockhart’s ears only. It’s about money. M-O-N-E-Y.”

“Commander Will is a busy man.”

Commander Will.“Well, are you going to let us in or not? ’Cause we’re busy, too.”

A hesitation. “You armed?”

Gideon held out his arms. “No. Feel free to check.” And they had, in fact, left their sidearms in the car. Fordyce had his ID, the warrants, and the subpoena rubber-banded to his shin, under his pants.

“Him?”

“No.”

The man sheathed his machete. “All right. But the commander isn’t going to like it if you guys aren’t who you say you are.”

He unlocked the gate and they filed through. The man gave them a cursory pat-down. Gideon noted that he locked the gate behind them, which was too bad. Still, getting in had taken a lot less jawboning than he’d anticipated.

They passed a corral where some commune members were working cattle, branding and cutting—ordinary-looking cowboy types. Around a bend, the big ranch house came into closer view, three stories tall, with new-looking gabled wings and a huge wraparound porch. Beyond, in a large field, he could see a serious array of solar panels surrounded by chain link and razor wire, several monster satellite dishes, and a small microwave tower.

“What do you think they need all that shit for?” Fordyce murmured.

“In case the Playboy Channel on regular cable goes down,” Gideon said jokingly, but he, too, stared hard at the array.

As they approached the main house, they entered a beautifully restored historic mining town, complete with log cabins, corrals, and a hitching post with a couple of saddled horses tied up. The authenticity was spoiled by a parking lot behind the ranch house, in which stood a small fleet of identical Jeeps, earthmoving equipment, and several large trucks.

They mounted the wooden porch of the main house; the man knocked on the door, then entered. They followed him in. Gideon was surprised to find that the downstairs parlor had been fixed up as a modern-looking conference room, with a rosewood table, corporate chairs, whiteboards, and even a plasma screen. The whiteboard had some partial differential equations scribbled on it that Gideon did not recognize, but he knew enough to realize were very sophisticated. Beyond the parlor, he got a glimpse of a classroom in session, where a group of kids listened to a teacher in a gingham dress. The whole place had a weird, steampunk feel to it.

“Upstairs,” said their escort.

As they mounted the stairs, Gideon caught a bit of what the teacher was saying—something about how government biologists had developed the HIV virus for genocidal purposes.

He caught Fordyce’s eye.

Gaining the landing, Machete Man led them down a long corridor. Several of the doors were open; in one, a barely dressed, curvaceous woman lolled on a bed of purple satin sheets. She glanced out at them indifferently.

“Do you suppose she’s, ah, the vicecommander?” Gideon asked as they stopped before a closed door. “The perks of power.”

“Stow it,” Fordyce growled as Machete Man knocked on the door.

A voice called them in.

The room was done up in high Victorian whorehouse style, with red velvet wallpaper, opulent Victorian sofas and chairs, Persian rugs, brass lamps with green glass shades. Sitting behind a desk was a man in his fifties, extremely fit, with long hair, the same squared-off beard—it seemed to be a popular look—and Rasputin-like eyes. He was dressed in a blue shawl-lapel coat, brocaded vest, old-style ascot, and gold chain: the very image of a gambling-house dandy.

Totally hokey.

Gideon felt himself relaxing. Equations or no equations, these people were lightweights. This was no Manson Family. No Waco compound. His elaborate subterfuge was starting to look unnecessary.

“What do they want?” the man asked sharply, looking at Machete Man.

“They say they have a business proposition for you, Commander.”

Lockhart’s keen eyes turned to them, scanned Gideon, then scanned Fordyce. They remained on Fordyce for a moment—a little too long. Gideon’s heart sank.

“Who are you?” he asked Fordyce, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“He’s a Fed,” said Gideon, with sudden inspiration.

Fordyce whipped his head around and Lockhart rose in his chair. Gideon gave an easy laugh. “Or, rather, an ex-Fed.”

Lockhart remained standing, staring.

“ATF, retired,” said Gideon. “You know these jokers can retire at forty-five? Now my pal’s in another line of business—not unrelated to his previous work.”

A long silence. “And what line of business might that be?”

“Medical marijuana.”

The commander’s bushy eyebrows rose. After a moment he eased himself back down in his seat.

Gideon went on. “The name’s Gideon Crew. My partner and I are looking for a secure place to site a growing operation—something in the mountains, well protected, on good irrigated land far from prying eyes and marijuana thieves. With a source of reliable labor.” He allowed himself a little smile. “It’s a bit more profitable than the alfalfa you’re growing, it’s legal, and of course there are certain, ah, in-kind perks.”

Another long silence as Lockhart stared at Gideon. “Well now, what if we already had our own little ‘medical’ marijuana plantation up here? Why would we need you?”

“Because what you’re doing is illegal and you can’t sell it. I’ve got the permits and I’ve got a dispensary in Santa Fe all ready to go, first one in town. The volume will be enormous. And I repeat: it’s all legal.”

Now Fordyce interjected, bestowing a grin on Lockhart. “My days at ATF left me with excellent contacts in the business.”

“I see. And what made you think of us?”

“My old friend Connie Rust,” said Gideon.

“And how do you know Connie?”

“Well, see, I was her former purveyor of cannabis, before she joined up with you folks.”

“And where did you get your supply?”

“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 Connie up here. Right away.”

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, Connie,” said Lockhart.

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 scanning them both uncomprehendingly.

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 Connie Rust, and we are hereby taking her into custody.” He tossed the papers onto Lockhart’s desk. “We’re leaving. Any effort to impede us will be felony obstruction of justice.”

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, fanning out, their shouts and voices echoing in the enclosed space.

“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.

Gideon was no such expert. If he was to have any chance to survive—any chance at all—it would be by using his lame experience as a high school fencer.

I’ll try a coupé lancé, Gideon thought with something close to desperation. He thrust the tip of his blade at the man’s chest, which his opponent all too easily parried with a sideswipe, the blades making contact for the third time with another terrific grating noise and cascade of sparks.

Gideon was thrown back against the side of the barn, and the man—smiling now—came sweeping in, his blade glancing off the wood of the barn as Gideon ducked, lost his balance, and fell. Fordyce tried to move in but the man forced the agent back with a lunge of his saw. And now the man was on top of him, his beard vibrating as he plunged the blade down toward Gideon, who held his own chain saw up as protection; he parried the whirling blade with his own and it twisted away, the vicious kick forcing the man backward. Seizing the opportunity, Gideon sprang to his feet, and—as the man turned back toward him, roaring—he suddenly leapt forward in a flunge, thrusting his chain saw ahead, then twisting it to one side. It tore through the sleeve of the man’s workshirt and left a bloody stripe across his upper arm.

“A hit, a very palpable hit!” Gideon cried.

The flesh wound just served to make the bearded man even angrier. He rushed forward, swinging the chain saw above his head as if it were a mace, then bringing it crashing down on Gideon’s own saw. There was a moment of grinding, sparks flying, and then with a mighty wrenching sound the saw was jerked from Gideon’s hands. This was followed immediately by a sharp crack!as the chain of the man’s saw snapped. It was an old saw, without a chain catcher, and the chain whipped around like a lash, laying open the man’s face from mouth to ear. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating Gideon, as the man fell back with a scream, dropping the saw and clutching at his face.

“Behind you!” Fordyce roared.

Gideon scrambled up, seizing his own chain saw by its kickback protector, and swung around just in time to meet a group of cowboys rushing him with cattle prods; his saw blistered an arc through them, cutting the prods off at the hilts and scattering the men in terror.

And then Gideon heard the sound of shots.

“Gotta go!” Fordyce yelled, hauling Connie Rust to her feet and throwing her over his shoulder. They ran toward the fence. Gideon sank the chain saw blade into the links and chewed open a ragged hole, which they tumbled through, bullets kicking up dirt around them.

A moment later they’d reached the Suburban; Gideon tossed aside the chain saw and leapt into the driver’s seat while Fordyce threw Rust into the backseat, climbing in on top of her and keeping her down.

Tunk tunk!A pair of rounds turned the windshield into an opaque web of cracks.

Gideon punched a hole through the sagging glass with his fist, ripped out the dangling pieces, then threw the Suburban into gear and fishtailed out, leaving behind a huge cloud of dust.

As the sound of the shots became more distant, Gideon heard Fordyce groan from the backseat.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m just thinking of the paperwork.”