Gideon's Corpse

by Douglas Preston

  “And your father is going to help a suspected nuclear terrorist?”

  “My father is going to help me. And trust me, if I tell him you’re innocent, he’ll believe me. And he’s a good man, with a strong sense of justice, of right and wrong. If he believes you’re innocent—and he will—he’ll move heaven and earth to help you.”

  Gideon was too weary to argue. He let the matter drop.

  Working together, they built a small fire in the back of the shelter, concealed from the outside. The thin stream of smoke rose and trickled along the roof, exiting through a narrow crack. Alida blew on the fire until it was blazing merrily, then rigged up a couple of sticks to use as drying racks.

  She held out a hand. “Let me have your shirt and pants,” she demanded.

  Gideon hesitated a moment, then reluctantly stripped. She pulled off her own shirt, bra, pants, and panties, and hung everything together on the line. Gideon was simply too wiped out to go through the motions of averting his eyes. It was, in fact, pleasant to watch the firelight play off her skin as she moved. Her long blond hair fell in wild tangles down her bare back, swaying with the movement of her body.

  She turned to him and, somewhat reluctantly, he glanced away.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, with a laugh. “I used to go skinny-dipping with the boys in the stock tank at our ranch all the time.”

  “Okay.” He looked back and found her eyes also lingering on him.

  She quickly adjusted the wet clothes, added a few more sticks to the fire, then sat down.

  “Tell me everything,” she said. “About yourself, I mean.”

  Slowly, haltingly, Gideon began to talk. Normally, he spoke of his past to no one. But whether it was the exhaustion, the stress, or simply having an interested and sympathetic human being nearby, he started to tell her about his life: how he became an art thief; how easy it had been to rip off most historical societies and rinky-dink museums; how he was able to do it most of the time without the victims even knowing they had been robbed. “A lot of those places don’t take care of their art,” he told her. “They don’t display it or light it well, and nobody sees it. They may have an inventory list, but they never check it against their collections, so years might go by before they realize they’ve been robbed. If ever. It’s the perfect crime, if you don’t set your sights too high, and there are literally thousands of places out there just begging to be victimized.”

  Alida pulled a stray strand of damp hair away from her forehead with a finger. “Wow. Are you still doing it?”

  “I quit years ago.”

  “Don’t you ever feel guilty?”

  Gideon couldn’t quite put out of his mind the fact that he was talking to a nude woman. He tried to put it in perspective—after all, the fellows in Le déjeuner sur l’herbe didn’t seem to have thought much about it. The clothes on the racks were starting to steam and would be dry soon, anyway. “Sometimes. Once in particular. I got arrogant and went to a fund-raising cocktail party at a historical society I had ripped off. I thought it would be funny. I met the curator in charge of the collection and he was all shaken up, upset. Not only did he notice the little watercolor was gone, but it turns out that was his particular favorite in the whole place. It was all he could talk about, he felt so bad. He really took it personally.”

  “Did you give it back?”

  “I’d already sold it. But I gave serious thought to stealing it back for him.”

  Alida laughed. “You’re terrible!” She took his hand in hers, gave it a little caress. “How’d you lose the end of your finger?”

  “That’s a story I never tell anyone.”

  “Come on. You can tell me.”

  “No. Really. I’m taking that secret to the grave.”

  Saying this, Gideon suddenly remembered that the grave, for him, might be a lot closer than for most people. It was a fact he recalled every single day, almost every single hour—but this time, sitting in the cave, the remembrance came on him like a blow to the gut.

  “What is it?” Alida asked, sensing it immediately.

  Without hesitating, he knew he was going to tell her. “There’s a good chance that I’m not long for this world myself.” He tried to laugh, his attempt to make light of it falling flat.

  She stared at him, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “I allegedly have something called a vein of Galen aneurysmal malformation.”

  “A what?”

  Gideon stared into the fire. “It’s a tangle of arteries and veins in the brain, a big knot of blood vessels in which the arteries connect directly to the veins without going through a network of capillaries. As a result, the high arterial pressure dilates the vein of Galen, blowing it up like a balloon. At a certain point it bursts—and you’re dead.”

  “No.”

  “You’re born with it, but after the age of twenty it can start to grow.”

  “What can they do about it?”

  “Nothing. It’s inoperable. There are no symptoms and no treatment. And it’ll kill me in about a year, more or less. I’ll die suddenly, without warning, boom, sayonara.”

  He fell into silence, still staring into the fire.

  “This is one of your jokes, right? Tell me you’re joking.”

  Gideon remained silent.

  “Oh my God,” Alida whispered at last. “There’s really nothing that can be done?”

  After a moment, Gideon responded. “The thing is, I was told all this by a man back in New York. The one who hired me for this job. He’s…a manipulator. There’s a chance he might be making it all up. To find out one way or another, I got an MRI in Santa Fe a few days ago, but of course I haven’t had a chance to get the results.”

  “So it’s just hanging over your head, a potential death sentence.”

  “More or less.”

  “How awful.”

  Instead of answering, Gideon tossed a twig onto the fire.

  “And you’ve been carrying this around with you, not sharing it with anyone?”

  “I’ve told one or two others. Not in this much detail.”

  She was still holding his hand. “I can’t imagine what that would be like. Wondering if your days are numbered. Or whether it’s just some cruel joke.” She raised her other hand, stroked his fingers, caressed the hair of his wrist. “How awful it must be.”

  “Yes.” He looked up at her. “But you know what? At this particular moment, I feel pretty good. More than good, in fact.”

  She returned the look. Without a word, she took his hand and placed it on her naked breast. He traced its contours, feeling her warm skin, her nipple growing erect. Then she placed her own hand on his chest and slowly pushed him back, onto the sand. As he lay there, she knelt next to him and caressed his chest, his flat stomach. Then she swung over and straddled him, lowering herself and leaning close to kiss him, her breasts softly caressing his chest. And then she began easing him into her: gently at first, then with the pressure of swiftly increasing passion.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped. “What…are we doing?”

  “We may have a lot less time than I thought,” she answered huskily.

  49

  GIDEON AWOKE SUDDENLY. The sun was shining brightly into the mouth of the cave. Alida was gone. Something had woken him up.

  And then he heard voices outside.

  He sat up, immediately wide awake. He could hear the murmur of a man’s voice and the crunch of footfalls coming up the scree slope to the overhang. Had Alida betrayed him again—after everything? It wasn’t possible…or was it? Pulling on his pants, he grasped a heavy branch lying next to the dead fire and rose silently, tense, ready to fight.

  The crunching drew closer and a silhouette appeared in the mouth of the cave: the outline of a man. Gideon could see nothing else in the glare. He readied himself for a lunge.

  “Gideon?” came the man’s voice—a voice he recognized. “Easy now, it’s just us, Alida and Simon Blaine.”


  “Gideon?” It was Alida’s voice. “It’s okay.”

  Panic ebbing, he lowered the branch.

  Blaine entered cautiously. “I’m here to help,” he said in his Liverpudlian accent. “Is that all right with you?”

  Alida followed her father into the cave.

  Gideon tossed the branch aside and sat back. “What time is it?”

  “About noon.”

  “How did you get here?” he asked.

  It was Alida who answered. “I hiked toward Cochiti Lake, talked some guy in a trailer into using his phone. Called my dad.”

  Blaine stood in front of him, smiling and leprechaunish, in pressed jeans, a workshirt, and a silly looking leather cowboy vest, his white beard trimmed, his blue eyes piercing. Alida stood beside him.

  Gideon rubbed his face. He had slept for so long, it was hard to collect his thoughts. Vivid memories of the previous night came flooding back.

  “Dad’s going to help us,” she said. “Just like I promised.”

  “That’s right,” Blaine added. “My daughter tells me you’ve been framed and that you’re no terrorist—and her word’s certainly good enough for me.”

  “Thank you,” said Gideon, feeling enormous relief. “Sorry I trashed your movie set.”

  “That’s what insurance is for. Besides, we got a few takes anyway. Now, here’s the plan. I’ve got my Jeep parked on a dirt road about four miles from here. The canyon and river are swarming with FBI and police and God knows who else. But it’s rough, big country, and if we stick to the small side canyons we’ll avoid them. They’re mostly down by the lake, looking for your bodies.”

  Gideon looked carefully at Blaine. Concern and anxiety were written all over his face.

  “I’m going to bring you both up to the ranch. It’s isolated. They’re all convinced you’re a terrorist, Gideon, and they think my daughter’s in on it. With the crazy atmosphere of terror and fear out there—the whole country is gripped with it—I’m not sure you’d survive being apprehended. You would not believe the panic out there, the irrational panic, and it’s only getting worse. So we’ve got to work fast. We’ve got to figure out for ourselves who framed you, and why. That’s the only way we can save you—and my daughter.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s that cult up at the Paiute Creek Ranch—”

  “Maybe. Alida says you might suspect me, as well.” Blaine looked at him with a peculiar expression.

  Gideon blushed. “It doesn’t seem likely. But someone Fordyce and I talked to was so alarmed that they tried to kill us…and framed me.”

  Blaine nodded. “You need to trust me. And I need to trust you. That’s fundamental.”

  Gideon looked at the man. He didn’t really know what to say.

  Blaine smiled suddenly, gripped his shoulder. “You’re a skeptic at heart. Fine. Let my actions speak for themselves, then. But let’s get going.”

  It was a big Jeep Unlimited and they lay in the back, under blankets, while Blaine kept to remote forest roads and abandoned Jeep trails as he worked his way along the foothills of the mountains to his ranch. The roundabout route took several hours, and they finally reached the ranch in midafternoon. Blaine drove into the barn and Gideon and Alida got out. They stood in the fragrant, hay-scented dimness, talking.

  “I’ll need to use a phone,” said Gideon. “I have to call my handlers.”

  “Handlers?” Blaine asked.

  Gideon didn’t respond. Instead, he followed Blaine and his daughter out of the barn, past Blaine’s isolated writing studio, and down to the ranch house: a rustic, two-story, batten-board building dating from the nineteenth century, with a spacious front porch and a row of dormer windows.

  Blaine directed Gideon to a table in the front hall that contained only two items: a telephone, and a framed photo of Blaine himself, signed For my Miracle Daughter, with all my love. Gideon picked up the phone and called Eli Glinn’s number, the one he was instructed never to call except in the most extreme emergency.

  Manuel Garza answered. Gideon cleared his throat, tried to compose his voice. “It’s Crew. I need to speak to Glinn.”

  “This line is only to be used in an emergency.”

  Gideon let a moment pass, and then he managed to say, quite calmly, “You don’t think this is an emergency?”

  “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble, but I’m not sure I’d call it an emergency.”

  Again Gideon let a beat pass. “Just get him for me, will you, please?”

  “Moment.”

  He was put on hold. A long minute passed. And then Garza came back on. “Sorry. Spoke to Mr. Glinn. He’s busy, can’t interface with you right now.”

  Gideon took a breath. “You actually spoke to him?”

  “Exactly what I said. He was very specific that you’re on your own now.”

  “That’s a load of shit! You guys hired me for this job—and now you’re just hanging me out to dry? You know I’m not a goddamn terrorist!”

  “There’s nothing he can do.” Gideon noted a certain suppressed satisfaction in the man’s voice.

  “Pass this message on to him for me, then. I’m done. I quit. And when I get out of this mess, I’m coming looking for him. You know that nice scar he’s got on one side of his face? I’m going to accessorize the other side. And that’s just for starters. You tell him that.”

  “I will.”

  Gideon hung up. Garza enjoyed that, the fuck.

  “Problem?” He found Alida looking at him, an expression of concern on her face.

  Gideon swallowed, tried to shrug it off. “No bigger than any of my other problems.” He turned to Blaine. “I’d like to borrow your Jeep, if I may. There’s a fellow I need to visit up at the Paiute Creek Ranch.”

  Blaine spread his hands. “Be my guest. Just don’t let the authorities catch you. Can I help you with anything else?”

  Gideon paused. “Do you have any firearms?”

  A broad smile. “I have rather a nice little collection. Care to take a look?”

  50

  THE SUN HAD set, the crescent moon was down, and a very dark midnight approached. Gideon drove Blaine’s Jeep off the Paiute Creek forest service road and into a thicket of gambel oaks. He backed it slowly into a clump of bushes, branches scratching against the paint, until the vehicle was well hidden from the road.

  He got out. He had borrowed some of Blaine’s clothes—a bit loose and a bit short, but serviceable—and was dressed entirely in black, his face darkened with charcoal, a wicked Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver with a four-inch barrel—in his opinion, the scariest-looking pistol made—in one hand and an old-fashioned strop razor in his pocket. He wasn’t going to kill anyone—at least, he wasn’t planning to—but appearance would be everything.

  First he had some work to do. He removed a shovel and a pick from the back of the Jeep and selected a soft, loamy portion of the forest floor as a place to dig. He broke up the ground with the pick, then shoveled out the loose dirt, keeping the edges of the hole crisp and sharp with the blade. It was soft ground and in less than an hour he had created a shallow grave, a stark rectangle, about seven feet long, two feet wide, and three feet deep.

  He packed the shovel back in the Jeep, rinsed his hands from a canteen, then took a sap, some zip ties, and a few other items from the seat and stuffed them all into his pockets. Leaving the grave site, he made his way through the dark ponderosa forest. The Paiute Creek Ranch lay at roughly eight thousand feet of altitude and, despite being summer, the night air was cool to the point of chilliness. He paused frequently to listen to the night sounds of the forest: the distant yipping of a pack of coyotes, the low bassoon of a great horned owl.

  In half a mile he came to the chain-link fence surrounding the ranch settlement. Through the trees he could see the yellow glow of windows. Stopping at the fence, he listened intently, but no sound came from the compound. It was as he hoped: they were apparently on “ranch time,” to bed at sunset, up before dawn.


  A careful inspection indicated that there were no sophisticated alarms or sensors along the fence. Taking out a pair of fencing pliers, Gideon began to snip the chain links, creating a large flap that he pulled back and wired open. He crawled through and made his way carefully through the darkness to the rear of the main ranch house. All was quiet. A few dim yellow lights glowed in the lower windows, but—because the outfit was run on solar power and batteries—there were no bright spotlights or area lights.

  He was convinced there would be some sort of night patrol: these people were paranoid and they would have posted guards. Moving with enormous care through the darkness, he drew up to the building and peered in the window. There, in a rocking chair, sat the cowboy with the squared-off beard, quietly alert, reading a book. An M16 was propped up against the sofa next to him.

  Gideon was convinced Willis occupied rooms on the top floor. It was clearly the most comfortable accommodation at the ranch. One room had been his office, and he recalled seeing through an open door to a sumptuous bedroom with whorehouse-velvet walls and a canopy bed. That would be Willis’s bedroom.

  So he had to do something about the man downstairs.

  He watched the man for a while. The man didn’t look sleepy, he wasn’t drinking, and—what unnerved Gideon most of all—he was reading James Joyce’s Ulysses. This man was no dumb hick cowboy. The outfit was all show. This was a sophisticated and intelligent person who would not be easily fooled.

  Gideon had anticipated running into some problem or other, and he realized he’d done so already. At all costs, he had to prevent the man from raising an alarm. He couldn’t just go in and bash the man over the head. That would make too much noise and had a high probability of ending in a ruckus or fight. Besides, Ulysses had an assault rifle. He began to formulate a plan. It was high-risk, but he couldn’t think of a better way.

  Plucking a piece of paper from his pocket, Gideon scrawled a short note. He took a deep breath, then tapped on the window. The man looked up, saw Gideon’s black face peering in, and rose abruptly from his chair, grabbing the rifle.