“You damn fool!” Blaine screamed, gasping, spittle on his lips.
Without a word, holding the gun to Blaine’s throat, Gideon slipped his hand into the man’s suit coat, groped about, and located the telltale puck of smallpox. He slipped it out, placed it in his pocket, and got up.
“You goddamn fool,” Blaine said, weakly, still lying on the ground.
A sudden eruption of gunfire sent Gideon to the ground. Dart, fifty yards away, had turned in his flight and was now firing at him.
There was no cover and Gideon scrambled to get low and carefully aimed, returning fire. His second shot brought the man down.
And then he heard choppers. Following the sound with his eyes, he made out a pair of Black Hawks approaching fast from the east; they slowed, then turned, coming in for a combat landing.
More backup for Blaine and Dart.
“Drop your weapon and give me the smallpox,” came the voice.
Gideon turned to see Blaine, standing unsteadily, the Peacemaker back in his hand. He felt sick. And he’d been close—so close. His mind raced, trying to figure out a way to escape, to protect the smallpox. Could he hide it, bury it, run with it? Where was the Stryker? He looked around desperately, but the vehicle was still enveloped in the streaming clouds of smoke.
“I said, give me the smallpox. And drop your weapon.” Blaine’s hands were shaking.
Gideon felt paralyzed, unable to act. As they faced each other off, the choppers settled down on the fairway, their doors flew open, and soldiers poured out, weapons at the ready, fanning out in a classic pattern and advancing on them. Gideon looked at the approaching soldiers, then back to Blaine. Strangely, tears were streaming down the older man’s face.
“I’ll never give you the smallpox,” said Gideon, raising his own weapon and pointing it at Blaine. They stood there, weapons aimed at each other, as the soldiers approached. Gideon sensed that Blaine would not shoot him—any shot had the possibility of unleashing the smallpox. Which meant all he had to do was pull the trigger on Blaine.
And yet—even as his grip tightened on the weapon—he realized he could not do it. No matter what the stakes, even at the cost of his own life, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot Alida’s father. Especially since it was now futile.
“Drop your weapons!” came the shout from the group of soldiers. “Disarm! Now! Get down on the ground!”
Gideon braced himself. It was all over.
There was a brief burst of gunfire; Gideon flinched, anticipating the impact—and yet the burst did not strike him. Quite abruptly, Blaine pitched face-forward onto the grass, where he lay unmoving, still clutching the Peacemaker.
“Drop your weapon!” came the shouted command.
Gideon held his arms out, letting the sidearm fall from his hand as the soldiers approached, warily, keeping him covered. One began to search him; he found the smallpox puck and gently removed it.
A lieutenant from the chopper crew came striding over. “Gideon Crew?”
Gideon nodded.
The officer turned to the troops. “He’s all right. He’s Fordyce’s partner.” He turned to Gideon. “Where is Agent Fordyce? In the Stryker?”
“They killed him,” said Gideon, dazed. He began to realize that, in addition to notifying Dart, Fordyce—with his belt-and-suspenders FBI mentality—must have notified others as well. These weren’t more conspirators—this was the cavalry, coming to the rescue a little late.
To his great shock, Gideon heard Blaine cough, then saw the old man rise to his hands and knees. Grunting and gasping, he started crawling toward them. “The…smallpox…,” he breathed. Blood suddenly gushed from his mouth, stopping his speech, but still he crawled.
One of the soldiers raised his rifle.
“No,” said Gideon. “For God’s sake, don’t.”
Blaine managed to raise himself a little higher, feebly trying to raise the Peacemaker, while they stared back in horror.
“Fools,” he gargled, then he pitched forward and lay still.
Sickened, Gideon turned his head.
76
THE NEUROLOGIST’S WAITING room was done up in blond wood wainscoting, neat as a pin, with a rack of the day’s newspapers, a box of politically correct wooden toys, copies of Highlights and Architectural Digest, and comfortable leather sofas and chairs complementing one another at the proper angles. A row of windows, with translucent curtains, allowed in a pleasingly diffuse natural light. A large Persian rug, dominating the floor, completed the picture of a prosperous and successful practice.
Despite the overactive air-conditioning, Gideon felt a stickiness in his palms as he nervously opened and closed his hands. He walked up to the receptionist’s window and gave his name.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.
“No,” said Gideon.
The woman examined her computer screen and said, “I’m sorry, but Dr. Metcalfe doesn’t have any openings today.”
Gideon remained standing. “But I need to see him. Please.”
For the first time the woman turned and looked at him. “What’s it about?”
“I want to get the results…of an MRI I had done recently. I tried calling, but you wouldn’t give them to me over the phone.”
“That’s right,” she said. “We don’t give any results over the phone—positive or negative. It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a problem.” She perused the computer screen. “I see you missed an appointment… We could schedule you for tomorrow morning, how’s that?”
“Please help me to see the doctor now.”
She leveled a not unsympathetic gaze at him. “Let me see what I can do.” She rose and disappeared into an inner warren of offices. A moment later she came out. “Through the door, a right, and a left. Examination Room Two.”
Gideon followed the instructions and entered the room. A nurse appeared with a clipboard and a cheerful good morning, seated him on the exam table, took his blood pressure and pulse. As she was finishing up, a large figure in a white lab coat appeared in the doorway. The nurse bustled along, handed the figure the clipboard, and vanished.
The doctor entered, a grave smile on his kindly face, his halo of curly hair highlighted from behind by the bright morning sun that streamed in the window. It made him look curiously like a large, jolly angel.
“Good morning, Gideon.” He grasped his hand, giving it a warm, brief shake. “Have a seat.”
Gideon, who had stood up when the doctor entered, sat down again. The doctor remained standing.
“I have here the results of the cranial MRI we performed seven days ago.”
From the tone in the neurologist’s voice, Gideon knew immediately what the man was going to say. He felt himself in the grip of a fight-or-flight reaction, his heart pounding, his blood racing, his muscles tensing up. He struggled to calm his body.
Dr. Metcalfe paused, then eased himself down onto a corner of the table. “The results of the test show a growth of blood vessels in the brain we call an AVM, or arteriovenous malformation—”
Gideon rose abruptly. “That’s it. That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.” He started for the door but was arrested by the doctor, who placed a gentle hand on Gideon’s arm to steady him.
“I gather, then, that I’m your second opinion and you already knew about this?”
“Yes,” said Gideon. He wanted nothing more than to head for the door.
“Very well. I believe, however, you could benefit from hearing what I have to say, if you’re willing to listen.”
Gideon remained standing. With effort, he overcame his impulse to run. “Just say it then. Don’t dress it up. And spare me the expressions of sympathy.”
“Very well. Your AVM involves the great cerebral vein of Galen and it is both congenital and inoperable. This type of malformation tends to grow with time, and the indications are that yours is growing. An abnormal, direct connection between the high-pressure artery and the low-pressure vein is causing t
he steady dilation of the vein and enlargement of the AVM in general. In addition, part of the AVM involves a venous anomaly downstream, which appears to be constricting blood flow, leading to further dilation of the vein.”
He paused. “Are my descriptions too technical?”
“No,” said Gideon. In a way, the technical terminology removed some of the horror. Even so, the idea that this was going on in his brain made him sick.
“The prognosis is not good. I would estimate you have six months to two years to live—with the most probable mortality rate being somewhere around a year or slightly less. On the other hand, the annals of medical history are sprinkled with miracles. No one can say for sure what the future will bring.”
“But the survival rate after, say, five years is…what?”
“Vanishingly small. But not zero.” The doctor hesitated. “There is a way for us to know more.”
“I’m not sure I want to know more.”
“Understandable. But there’s a procedure known as a cerebral angiography, which would tell us a great deal more about your situation. We insert a catheter into the femoral artery in the groin area and thread it up to the carotid artery in the neck. There we release a dye, or blocking agent. As it spreads through the brain, we take a series of radiographs. This allows us to map the AVM. It would tell us more accurately how much time you have…and, perhaps, show us how we might ameliorate it.”
“Ameliorate it? How?”
“Through surgery. We can’t take out the AVM, but there are other surgical options. One can work around the edges, so to speak.”
“Which would do what?”
“Possibly prolong your life.”
“By how much?”
“It depends on how fast the vein is dilating. A few months, perhaps a year.”
This led to a long silence.
“These procedures,” Gideon said at last. “Are there risks?”
“Significant risks. Particularly neurological. Operations like this have a ten to fifteen percent mortality rate, and an additional forty percent possibility of causing damage to the brain.”
Gideon looked the doctor in the eye. “Would you take those risks in my position?”
“No,” the doctor said without hesitation. “I wouldn’t want to live if my brain were compromised. I am not a gambler, and fifty-fifty odds are not attractive to me.” The neurologist returned Gideon’s gaze, his large brown eyes full of compassion. Gideon realized he was in the presence of a wise man, one of the few he had met in his short and relatively unhappy life.
“I don’t think the angiogram will be necessary,” Gideon said.
“I understand.”
“Is there anything I have to do in the meantime, any way I should alter my life?”
“Nothing. You can live a normal, active life. The end, when it comes, will probably be abrupt.” The doctor paused. “This isn’t really medical advice. But if I were you, I’d do the things that are really important to you. If it involves helping others, so much the better.”
“Thank you.”
The doctor gave his shoulder a squeeze and dropped his voice. “The only difference between you and the rest of us is that, while life is short for everyone, for you it’s just a bit shorter.”
77
GIDEON TURNED OFF North Guadalupe Street, driving the Suburban through the ancient Spanish gate and onto the groomed white gravel entryway of the Santa Fe National Cemetery. A dozen or so cars were parked before the Administration Building and he pulled in beside them, then exited the vehicle and glanced around. It was a warm summer morning, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains dark green against a porcelain sky. The orderly rows of small white tombstones stretched ahead of him, running from the shade into brilliant light.
He walked east, his shoes crunching on the gravel. This was the older part of the cemetery—originally built for the Union soldiers who died in the Battle of Glorieta Pass—but he could see, through the pines and cedars, the distant newer section, climbing the low flanks of the nearby ridge, where the desert had been newly covered with turf and transformed into Technicolor green. Partway up the hill, he could make out a small group of people gathering around an open grave.
He gazed over the neatly ordered files of white crosses and stars of David. Before long, I’ll be in a place like this, and people will be gathering around my grave. This unexpected and unwanted thought was quickly followed by another, dreadful yet irresistible: Who will come to mourn me?
He turned up the path that led toward the group of mourners.
The details of Simon Blaine’s involvement in the terrorist plot had been kept out of the papers. Gideon had expected to see a much larger crowd at his burial. He had been, after all, a well-known and well-regarded novelist. But as Gideon made his way through the severe white rows, he realized there were no more than two dozen people circled around the open grave. As he approached, he could make out the voice of the priest, intoning the older, formal Episcopal version of the Burial of the Dead:
Give rest, O Christ, to thy servant with thy saints,
where sorrow and pain are no more,
neither sighing, but life everlasting.
He moved forward, stepping out of the shade of the trees and into brilliant sunlight. His eyes searched the crowd and found Alida. She was dressed in a simple black dress, with a veiled hat and white elbow-length gloves. He took an unobtrusive place at the back fringe of the group and surreptitiously studied her face across the grave. The veil was pinned back across the hat. As she stared down at the coffin, her eyes were dry but her face looked ravaged and utterly desolate. His own eyes remained on her face, unable to look away. Suddenly her gaze flickered up and met his for one terrible second. Then she looked back down, into the grave.
What was that look? He tried to parse it. Was there any feeling there? It had been too quick, and now she resolutely refused to raise her head again.
Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant Simon…
In the week following Fort Detrick, Gideon had tried repeatedly to contact Alida. He had wanted—needed—to explain: to tell her how desperately sorry he was; to say how terrible he’d felt about deceiving her, to express his condolences about what had happened to her father. He had to help her understand he’d simply had no choice. That her father had done it to himself, something she must of course realize.
Each time he’d tried calling, she had hung up. The last time he called he found she had switched to an unlisted number.
Then he’d tried waiting outside the gate to her father’s house, hoping that, by seeing him, she would stop just long enough for him to explain… But she had driven past, twice, without a look or acknowledgment.
And so he had come to the burial, willing to endure any humiliation to see her, talk, explain. He didn’t expect that their relationship could continue, but at least he would be able to reach out to her one last time. Because the idea of leaving it like this, raw and unresolved, full of bitterness and hatred, was something he simply couldn’t imagine. He had so little time left—he knew that now.
Again and again he had replayed in his head their time together: their horseback escape; Alida’s initial fury at him; the slow morphing of her feelings into something else, culminating into love—his first real love, thanks to the incredible generosity of her heart and spirit.
In the midst of life we are in death;
of whom may we seek for succor,
but of thee, O Lord,
who for our sins art justly displeased?
Gideon began to feel like an intruder, blundering in on something private and personal. He turned away and walked back down the slope of the hill, past grave after grave after grave, until he reached the older section of the cemetery. There, in the cool shade of a cypress tree, he waited on the white gravel path, where she would have to pass by on her way back to her car.
Even if you only have a year, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. We’ll roll up a lifetim
e of love in one year. Her words. He found himself haunted by the image of her, naked in the doorway of her ranch house, beautiful as a Botticelli maiden—that day he’d driven away in her car, hell-bent on ruining her father’s life.
…Why was it so important for him to speak with her? Was it because he still hoped, against all hope, that he could make her see things his way, understand the awful bind he had been in, and—ultimately, with the boundlessness of her big heart—forgive him? Or did part of him already guess that was impossible? Maybe he needed to explain simply for his own peace of mind—because, though perhaps he could never again hope Alida might love him, at least he could help her understand.
He watched the service from afar. The shifting breeze brought the priest’s faint voice to his ears from time to time, a distant murmur. The coffin was lowered. And then it was over. The tightly clustered group around the grave loosened and began to disperse.
He waited in the shade as they made the long, slow, straggling procession down the hill, his eye fixed on her, her alone, as people offered her their condolences, hugged Alida, took her hand. It all took an excruciatingly long time. First came the cemetery workers; next a knot of women of a certain age, talking animatedly among themselves in low tones; next, various young people and couples; and then came the priest and a few of his assistants. He gave Gideon a professional smile and nod as he passed.
Last came Alida. He had assumed she would be accompanied by others, but she had drifted back from them and was the last to leave, all alone. She approached him, bowed by her loss but still walking proud, her head erect and staring straight ahead, moving slowly along the long, narrow pathway among the graves. She didn’t seem to see him. As she drew closer, Gideon felt a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Now she was almost upon him. He wasn’t sure what to do—whether to speak, step in front of her, reach out—and as she drew alongside he parted his lips to speak but no sound came. He watched, struck mute, as she passed by, walking the same slow walk, her eyes straight ahead, without the faintest flicker, the faintest change of expression, to acknowledge his existence.
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