Gideon’s Sword

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

Dawn broke over the Central Bronx, a dirty yellow stain that crept into the sky above Mosholu Parkway. Gideon Crew stared out the scarred window of the Lexington Avenue Express, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. He had been on the train for hours, going from its southern terminus at Utica Avenue in Queens to its northern terminus at Woodlawn in the Bronx and back, traveling beyond emotion into the gray territory of mere existence.

  It had been years since he’d last cried, but he had found himself crying—with fury, with sorrow, with his own stupidity and selfishness.

  But now he was beyond that. He had come through the other side and—slowly but surely—his mind had begun to function again.

  He understood certain facts. Nodding Crane had murdered Orchid, then hidden her body so it would not be found immediately, giving him time for a clean getaway. He’d killed her for two reasons. First, there was the possibility she knew something and therefore had to die. But more important, Nodding Crane had murdered her as a way to flush him out. In this Nodding Crane had figured him exactly right: the killing would flush him out. Because now, Nodding Crane had to die. There was no other way. Gideon had dragged Orchid into this horror; he owed it to her.

  And no doubt that was exactly what Nodding Crane expected.

  Over the long hours on the train, Gideon had worked out the details. What they both sought was buried on Hart Island. Both would go to Hart Island to get it. Only one would return. But Gideon was not crazy, and he knew he needed to stack the deck in his favor. And this was where Mindy Jackson came in. She had proven herself; she would be his secret weapon.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed her number.

  To his great surprise, she actually answered. “Gideon?”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Downtown. No luck yet on the woman. How about you? Found anything?”

  “Everything.”

  A silence. Then a cool, “Tell me.”

  “First, I want your promise. We handle this my way.”

  A pause. “Okay. Fine. Your way.”

  “Wu wasn’t smuggling the plans to a weapon—​he was carrying a piece of wire embedded in his leg. This wire is of a revolutionary new material. The numbers are the formula, the recipe for it. Put the two together and you’ve got it all.”

  “What kind of new material?”

  “A room-temperature superconductor.” He explained the significance of it and was impressed at how quickly she understood the ramifications—and the dangers.

  “The legs,” he went on, “were amputated after the accident. They’re buried in a mass grave on Hart Island—New York’s potter’s field. I’ve got a few things to take care of, and then tonight I’m going to Hart Island to dig up those legs.”

  “How are you going to find them?”

  “Body parts are tagged and buried in numbered boxes, in sequence. I’ve got the number. We might have to do a little…sorting. I’ve got it all worked out. There’s a place where you can rent outboard skiffs on City Island, past the bridge on the right. Murphy’s Bait and Tackle. Meet me there at ten PM.”

  “How far offshore is this island?”

  “About a mile northeast of City Island, in the middle of Long Island Sound opposite Sands Point. Bring a sniper rifle.”

  “This is stupendous. How did you—?”

  He interrupted her. “Nodding Crane will be there.”

  “Oh. Jesus.”

  “Remember the agreement. We run this my way. No CIA army descending on the island and scaring Nodding Crane off. Just you and me.”

  He snapped the phone shut. Then he collected a piece of trash lying on the floor of the subway car and began to write on it.

  Nodding Crane sat across the street from Saint Bart’s, strumming his battered guitar. The police had come and gone, the barriers had been taken down, the cleaning crews had fixed the church. Everything had returned to normal. It was a beautiful morning, just a few fluffy clouds scudding across the field of blue. Now all he had to do was wait.

  I wants my lover, come and drive my fever away

  He saw Crew come up from 49th Street, going against the crowds of commuters, and turn the corner onto Park. Right on time. Nodding Crane took no little satisfaction in seeing that the man looked like death warmed over: haggard, disheveled, his eyes two pools of shadow. He crossed Park Avenue and walked directly up to where Nodding Crane had laid his open guitar case collecting tips. Nodding Crane kept playing, his voice soft. Crew stood over him, on the far side of the case, as he continued to strum and sing. The morning crowds streamed past; he knew Crew wouldn’t do anything rash.

  Doctor says she’ll do me more good in a day

  Crew dropped a crumpled piece of paper into the case, where it joined a smattering of bills and coins. He did not move. Nodding Crane finished the song and finally raised his head, and their gazes locked. For almost a minute they stared at each other, and Nodding Crane could feel the implacable hatred in Crew’s eyes, which warmed him as well as a fire. Then the man abruptly broke eye contact, turned, and walked back the way he had come, toward Lexington Avenue.

  When he was gone, Nodding Crane picked up the wadded paper and opened it, to reveal a scribbled note.

  We will meet on Hart Island at midnight tonight. This is where Wu’s amputated legs are buried. The exact location of the legs will be written on a slip of paper in my pocket. To get it, or the wire, you will have to kill me. Or I will kill you. Either way, one of us will die on Hart Island.

  That is the way you planned it and that is the way it must be.

  G. C.

  Nodding Crane slowly balled up the paper in his fist as a look of deep satisfaction settled on his face.

  58

  Wherever there were drug dealers there were guns. And the center of drug dealing in New York City, at least at the street level, could be found in the ironically named Mount Eden neighborhood of the South Central Bronx. Gideon sat on the D train rocketing northward from Manhattan, a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket. This was not the most intelligent way to acquire a firearm, but he was in a hurry and it had the advantage of efficiency.

  As the D train pulled out of the 161st Street Yankee Stadium stop, a man who had just gotten on angled over to sit down beside him. It took Gideon a few moments to realize it was Garza, tricked out as an artist in black beret and peacoat.

  “What, exactly, are you doing?” Garza asked. His tone had lost much of its initial affability.

  “My job.”

  “You’re out of control. You’ve got to cool it, slow down, and come in to discuss the next step with us.”

  “This has nothing to do with you anymore,” said Gideon, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “It’s my gig now. It’s personal.”

  “That’s just what I mean: you’re getting too close to this. I’ve never seen anything so unprofessional. Eli was wrong to trust you. You’re in danger of compromising the mission with your recklessness.”

  Gideon didn’t answer.

  “Going up to Throckmorton Academy, pretending to be a parent—what kind of a crazy damn move is that? From now on, we want to know what you’re doing and where you’re going. If you think you can beat Nodding Crane, you’re a fool.”

  Gideon sensed Garza knew nothing of Hart Island. It gave him a certain satisfaction to be ahead of Glinn and his smooth-​operating sidekick for once. “I’ll handle it myself.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll need backup. Don’t be a damn idiot.”

  Gideon scoffed.

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You go rogue on us, Crew, and we’ll shut you down, I swear to God we will.”

  Gideon hesitated. This was a complication he didn’t need. “Corona Park. Queens.”

  A beat. “Corona Park?”

  “You know. Where the old World’s Fair was. We’re meeting at the Unisphere.”

  A silence. “When?”

  “Midnight tonig
ht.”

  “Why there?”

  “Just a place to meet.”

  Garza shook his head. “A place to meet.”

  “Nodding Crane murdered my friend. Now it’s either him or me. Like I said, this has nothing to do with you. When I get done with this business, I’ll take care of yours. Don’t try to stop me.”

  Garza was silent for a while, then he nodded. As the train pulled into the next stop, he rose and left, a disgusted look on his face.

  Crew got off at 170th and the Grand Concourse. He walked eastward toward the park, passing a row of abandoned buildings. Reaching the park—a sad affair with dirt instead of grass and trash everywhere—he slowed his walk to a loiter, glancing around, just another suburban guy looking for drugs. Almost immediately he was accosted by a dealer, who passed him murmuring smoke, smoke.

  He stopped, turned. “Yeah.”

  The dealer swerved and came back. He was a short, stooped kid with a comb stuck in his hair, pants hanging south of his ass. “What you need?” he asked. “Got smoke, blow, horse…”

  “A pistol.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll pay big money,” Gideon went on. “But I need something heavy-caliber, best quality.”

  The dealer didn’t seem to hear at first. Then he muttered something that sounded like “wait here” and rambled off.

  Gideon waited. Twenty minutes later the kid was back. “Follow me,” he said.

  Gideon followed him out of the park and into an abandoned building on Morris Avenue, an old brownstone with bashed-out windows and a dark, urine-fragrant interior. As dangerous as this was, it was better than asking Garza for another gun on bended knee. He didn’t want to be any more beholden to the man than necessary. He knew he should be nervous, even scared, and yet he felt nothing. Nothing but rage.

  The dealer went to the dismal stairwell, whistled up it. A whistle returned.

  “Second floor,” he said.

  Gideon mounted the stairs, stepping over a scattering of used condoms, crack vials, and vomit. He reached the second floor. On the landing, two men waited, both dressed in expensive gym clothes with puffy white sneakers. They were Hispanic and well groomed. The taller one, obviously the leader, had a carefully clipped five-day stubble, plenty of rings and gold chains, and smelled strongly of Armani Attitude. The shorter one sported several cold sores.

  “Let’s see the money,” said the tall one, flashing a self-assured grin.

  “When I see the gun.”

  The leader shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back, looking down at Gideon. He was tall and used his height to intimidate. His eyes, however, were stupid. “We got the gun.”

  “Let’s see it. I don’t have all day.”

  The short one with the cold sores reached into his jacket, pulled a gun halfway out. “Nine-millimeter Beretta.”

  “What’s the price?”

  “How much you got?”

  Gideon felt his rage, already close to the boiling point, rise. “Listen, sucker. Name your price. Then I’m going to check out the piece. If it’s good, I pay. If not, I walk.”

  Tall Man nodded, puckering his lips. “Show it to him.”

  Cold Sores removed the gun, handed it to Gideon. Gideon took it, looked it over, snapped the rack a few times. “The magazine?”

  Out came the magazine. Gideon took it, frowned. “Rounds?”

  “Look, man, we can’t have no shooting here.”

  Gideon thought about that. They were right, of course. He would have to field-test it later. He took the magazine, slapped it in, hefted the gun, pulled the trigger. It appeared to be in excellent condition. “I’ll take it.”

  “Two thousand.”

  That was a lot for a seven-hundred-dollar pistol. He looked at it closely. The serial number had been filed off, which probably meant nothing. Acid would bring it up again. He felt in his jacket pocket, where he had put his cash, done up in rubber-banded blocks of five hundred. He selected four, brought them out. He put the gun in his pocket and gave the packets to Tall Man.

  He turned to go and heard a voice. “Just a minute.”

  He turned back to find both men with pistols aimed at him. “Give me the rest of your money,” Tall Man said.

  Gideon stared. “You robbing me? A customer?”

  “You got it, boy.”

  Gideon had another two thousand in his pocket. He made a quick decision, pulled out the money, tossed it on the ground. “That’s all of it.”

  “Pistol, too.”

  “Now, that’s going too far.”

  “Then kiss your white ass good-bye.” They both grinned, aiming their guns.

  “My white ass?” Gideon asked, incredulously. He reached in, removed the pistol, aimed it at the men.

  “You’re forgetting it ain’t loaded, you punk-ass bitch.”

  “If I give you the gun back, promise to let me go,” Gideon whined, holding it out.

  “Sure thing.” Two shit-eating smiles followed this assurance.

  Gideon’s hand shook so much they began to laugh. Tall Man reached over to get the pistol and, just at that moment of distraction, Gideon lashed out at Cold Sores, smacking the gun out of his hand while at the same time jamming his foot against the side of his knee and twisting himself out of the way of Tall Man’s line of fire. As Cold Sores went down with a howl, Tall Man fired, and Gideon felt the bullet tug the shoulder of his jacket. With a furious scream he fell on Tall Man. He went down like a rotten tree and Gideon landed on top of him, wresting the gun from him in one violent motion and jamming it in his eye, pressing it hard against the eyeball.

  “No, no, oww!” the man screamed in pain, trying to twist his head, but the barrel was pressed so hard against his eye, he was forced to stop moving. “Stop, please, oh shit, don’t! My eye!”

  Cold Sores was up again, having retrieved his gun. He aimed it at Gideon.

  “Drop it or I fire!” Gideon screamed like a lunatic. “And then I’ll kill you!”

  “Drop it!” shrieked Tall Man. “Do what he says!”

  Cold Sores backed out of the room, limping, not dropping it. Gideon could see he was going to run. Hell, let him go. Cold Sores broke and ran. Gideon could hear his footsteps clattering down the stairs, and then a crash as he fell in panic. More lopsided running and then silence.

  “Looks like it’s just us,” said Gideon. He could feel warm blood running down his arm. The bullet had evidently grazed his shoulder. A tuft of material stood out. The actual wound was dead, without feeling.

  Tall Man blubbered incoherently. Keeping the barrel pressed hard into his eye socket, rendering him immobile, Gideon felt inside the man’s jacket, removed the money. There was another, much bigger brick of cash in there—at least five thousand. He took that as well, along with a knife. Then, as an afterthought, he ripped the gold jewelry from the man’s neck, yanked off his diamond rings, and took his wallet. Feeling around in the pockets, he collected car keys, house keys, loose change, and half a dozen nine-millimeter rounds that had evidently been removed from the Beretta’s magazine.

  He pulled the pistol out of the man’s eye. Tall Man lay on the floor, blubbering like a baby. “Listen to me, Fernando,” said Gideon, looking at the man’s driver’s license. “I’ve got your keys. I know your address. You try any shit and I’m coming to your house and I’m going to kill your family, your dog, your cat, and your goldfish.”

  The man let out a wail, covering his face with his hands, rocking on the floor.

  As Gideon left the building, he made sure Cold Sores wasn’t lurking around, then began heading for the Grand Concourse subway station. Along the way he dropped the keys, bling, and wallet down a storm drain, keeping the money and guns.

  Now he had two pistols. He ducked into a doorway and examined his haul. The second was a Taurus Millennium Pro in .32 ACP caliber with a full magazine. He loaded the 9mm rounds into the magazine of the Beretta, slapped it into place, and tucked both firearms into the rear of his belt. Then he
took off his jacket and examined his shoulder. It wasn’t quite as superficial as he’d thought, but it was still only a flesh wound. He put his jacket back on and glanced at his watch. Ten AM.

  On the way to the subway, he stopped at a drugstore, where he purchased a butterfly bandage and applied it to his shoulder in the restroom. Next, on impulse, he dropped into a variety store, where he bought a notebook, some paper, pens, and a thick manila envelope. Finally, he repaired to a nearby coffee shop to write his last will and testament.

  59

  The coffee shop was a cheerful place, a sturdy holdout against the grime and hopelessness outside. A battleax waitress, at least sixty but spry as a teenager, with bobbing hair and pancake makeup, came bustling over.

  “What can I get you, hon?”

  She was perfect. For the first time in a long while, Gideon felt an emotion that wasn’t dark. He tried to smile. “Coffee, eggs over easy, bacon, white toast.”

  “You got it.”

  She went off and he opened the notebook, thinking. There were two things he loved in the world: his fishing cabin in the Jemez Mountains and his Winslow Homer drawing. The drawing would have to go back to the Merton Art Museum in Kittery, Maine, from which he’d appropriated it years before. But the cabin…He wanted to make sure it went to someone who would love it as he did, who would not let it go to wrack and ruin. Or sell it to a developer. Even if he defeated Nodding Crane—and that was a big if—he knew now that he would still be staring death in the face.

  The waitress slid his breakfast in front of him. “Writing the great American novel?” she asked.

  He gave her his best smile and she went off, pleased. As Gideon contemplated his own mortality—which he’d been doing a lot of lately—he realized he had nobody. He’d spent most of his adult life pushing people away. He had no family, no true friends, and no colleagues he was friendly with from work. The closest thing he had to a pal was Tom O’Brien—but their relationship had always been transactional, and the guy lacked integrity. His only real friend had been a prostitute—and he’d gotten her killed.