Gideon's Corpse

by Douglas Preston

  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.”

  24

  GIDEON FINALLY RELAXED as they left the maze of dirt roads behind and exited onto Highway 4 near Jemez Springs. They had not, to his relief, been chased or followed from the Paiute Creek Ranch. He slowed the Suburban as they eased through town, the streets thronging with
tourists down from Santa Fe.

  During the wild drive out of the mountains, Connie Rust—in the backseat with Fordyce—had fallen quiet. Now she began to whimper, over and over again. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Nothing bad,” said Fordyce, his voice calm, reassuring. “We’re here to help you. I’m sure you’ve heard about what your ex-husband was involved in.”

  This brought another bout of sobbing.

  “We just want to ask you some questions, that’s all.” Gideon listened as Fordyce explained—with infinite patience, as if speaking to a child—that they had a subpoena, which required her to answer all their questions truthfully, but that she had nothing to worry about, that she was not a suspect, that she would not be locked up, and that in fact she was a very important person whose help they were depending on. He continued on in a deep-voiced murmur, gently overriding Rust’s self-pitying outbursts, until she appeared to calm down.

  A final sniffle. “What do you want to know?”

  “My colleague,” said Fordyce, “Gideon Crew, used to work with your ex-husband up in Los Alamos. He’ll be asking the questions.”

  Gideon heard this with surprise.

  “Meanwhile,” Fordyce went on, “we’re going to switch drivers so he can talk to you undistracted.” He turned to Gideon. “Right, partner?”

  Gideon pulled over.

  Outside the car, Fordyce took him aside. “You knew Chalker,” he murmured. “You know what to ask.”

  “But you’re the interrogation expert,” Gideon protested in a whisper.

  “She’s ready to talk now.”

  Gideon got into the backseat next to her. She was still sniffling, dabbing at her nose with a Kleenex but otherwise calm. She even looked a little pleased at the attention. Gideon felt at a loss. Interrogations were not his thing.

  Fordyce started up the car and pulled back out onto the road, driving slowly.

  “Um,” said Gideon, wondering where the hell to start. “Like Agent Fordyce said, I was a colleague of your ex-husband’s up on the Hill.”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “We were friends. I think you and I met once.” He thought it better not to remind her it was at the Christmas party where she got drunk.

  She looked at him again, and he was shocked at the depth of disorientation in those eyes. “Sorry, I just don’t remember you.”

  What to ask? He racked his brains. “During your marriage, did Reed ever show an interest in Islam?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about his work? Did he ever express any negative views about what he was doing up at the lab, with bombs and such?”

  “He was gung ho about his work. Proud of it. Disgusting.” She blew her nose. Talking about Chalker seemed to clear her mind—somewhat.

  “Why disgusting?”

  “He was a tool of the military-industrial complex and never realized it.”

  “Did he ever express any views against the United States? Express sympathy for any terrorist organizations?”

  “No. He was a flag waver from way back. You should’ve seen him after 9/11. ‘Nuke the bastards.’ Little did he know Bush and Cheney organized the whole thing.”

  Gideon did not venture a comment on this opinion. “Didn’t it then seem strange to you that he converted to Islam?”

  “Not at all. When we were married, he used to drag me to the Zen center for meditations, to these pseudo-Indian Native American Church meetings, EST, Scientology, the Moonies—you name it, he tried it.”

  “So he was sort of a spiritual seeker.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it. He was a pain in the ass.”

  “Why did you divorce?”

  She sniffled. “Just what I said: he was a pain in the ass.”

  “Did you remain in contact with him after your divorce?”

  “He tried to. I was sick and tired of him. When I joined the ranch, he finally left me alone. Willis read him the riot act.”

  “Riot act?”

  “Yes. Willis told him he would beat the crap out of him if he contacted me again. So he didn’t. He was a coward.”

  Fordyce suddenly spoke from the front seat. “Do you and Willis have a relationship?”

  “We did. Then he dedicated himself to celibacy.”

  Yeah, right, thought Gideon, recalling the young woman he had glimpsed lolling in a bed next to Willis’s office.

  “So what’s the idea behind the ranch, the purpose of it?” asked Fordyce.

  “We’ve seceded from this bogus country. We’re off the grid, self-sufficient. We grow all our own food, we take care of each other. We’re the harbingers of a new age.”

  “And why is this necessary?”

  “You people are prisoners of your government. You have no idea. Your politicians are suffering from the disease of power. It’s totally corrupt and yet you don’t see it.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the disease of power’?” Fordyce asked.

  “All power structures, by their very nature, eventually get taken over by psychopaths. Almost all governments in the world have been taken over by gifted psychopaths who have a great command of human psychology and use normal people to their advantage. This race of pathological deviants can’t feel compassion, they have no conscience. They have an insatiable need for power—and they rule the world.”

  It was a recited speech and it had a shopworn air, although it was not without interest, at least to Gideon. He had occasionally felt that way himself.

  “So what do you plan to do about it?” Fordyce asked.

  “We’ll sweep it all away and start afresh.”

  “How will you sweep it away?” asked Gideon.

  She suddenly shut up, her lips tightening.

  After a moment, Fordyce asked: “So what do you do at the ranch?”

  “I was originally part of the technical team, but now I work in the garden.”

  “Technical team?”

  “That’s right.” She tilted her head up pathetically. “We’re no Luddites. We embrace technology. The revolution will be delivered with technology.”

  “What kind of technology?”

  “Internet, the web, mass communications. You saw our satellite dishes. We’re highly connected.”

  “Will the revolution be violent?” asked Gideon pleasantly.

  “The psychopaths will not leave voluntarily,” she said grimly.

  They were approaching the outskirts of Santa Fe, passing the prison, the grasslands giving way to suburban developments. “Any interest at the ranch in your ex-husband’s work?” asked Fordyce. “I mean, he designed atomic weapons. Might be a good way to sweep away the psychopaths.”

  More silence. Then, “That’s not the reason I was invited.”

  “Why were you invited?” said Fordyce.

  “Because…Willis loved me.”

  This pathetic declaration was the last thing she would say. No matter how they asked or cajoled, she remained silent. They delivered the grim witness to the NEST central command complex in Santa Fe without her speaking another word.

  “Let ’em have sloppy seconds,” said Fordyce as they left, gunning the car and heading north. “We’re off to see the imam.”

  25

  THE AL-DAHAB MOSQUE stood at the end of a winding road, a sprawling adobe building with a golden dome framed against red bluffs. It formed a striking picture in red, gold, and blue, surrounded by a sea of government vehicles. The cars and vans filled the capacious parking lot, and more were rudely parked on the grounds to either side.

  As they approached, Gideon heard shouting and turned to see a small but vociferous band of protesters off to one side, held behind police barricades, shouting and waving signs covered with sentiments like MUSLIMS GO HOME.

  “Will you look at those morons?” said Gideon, shaking his head.

  “It’s called free speech,” said Fordyce, pushing along.

  A mobile command unit had been set up in the parking lot, a capacious trailer with
a cluster of communications equipment on top. As Fordyce looked for a place to park the Suburban, Gideon asked: “Why set up here? Why not haul everyone downtown for questioning?”

  Fordyce snorted. “Intimidation. Invade their space.”

  They went through several checkpoints and a metal detector, their credentials scrutinized, before being escorted into the mosque. It was spectacular: a long broad hallway led into the domed interior, beautifully tiled in blue, with complex, abstract patterns. They bypassed the domed central section and were led to a closed doorway in the back. A mass of NEST agents came and went, with guards milling about the door. There were few Muslims to be seen—everyone appeared to be a government agent.

  Once again their creds were checked and then the door was opened. The small, spare room beyond had been turned into an interrogation room, not unpleasant, with a table in the middle, several chairs, microphones dangling from the ceiling, videocameras on tripods in the four corners.

  “The imam will be in momentarily,” said a man wearing a NEST cap.

  They waited, standing up. The door opened again a few minutes later and a man entered. Much to Gideon’s surprise he was a Westerner, and he wore a blue suit, tie, and white shirt. He had no beard, no turban, no robes. The only thing unusual about him was his stockinged feet. He was about sixty, a powerful, heavyset man with black hair.

  He entered wearily and took a seat. “Please,” he said. “Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  When he spoke, Gideon had a second surprise: the man had a strong New Jersey accent. Gideon glanced over to Fordyce, saw he was not sitting down, and decided to remain standing himself.

  The door closed.

  “Stone Fordyce, FBI,” the agent said, flashing his badge.

  “Gideon Crew, FBI liaison.”

  The imam seemed utterly uninterested—indeed, exhaustion appeared to overwhelm the faint traces of anger that remained in his face.

  “Mr. Yusuf Ali?” Gideon asked.

  “That’s me,” said the imam, crossing his arms and looking past them.

  They had discussed ahead of time how to proceed. Gideon would go first and be the sympathetic questioner. Fordyce would interrupt at a certain point and be the heavy. The good-guy, bad-guy routine, as hackneyed as it was, had never been bettered.