Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

“Again?”

Racing through the kitchen to more protests and shouts, they emerged onto Lexington Avenue opposite the 51st Street subway entrance. At Gideon’s urging, they ran across the street and jogged down the stairs. He swiped his card through the turnstile twice, and they emerged onto the platform just as an uptown train was pulling in. Orchid in tow, Gideon boarded the train. The doors closed.

“What the hell ?” Orchid said, gasping for breath.

Gideon sank back into a seat, thinking fast. He’d heard the same voice humming and singing on Avenue C. And today, the man had been playing a very rare version of a Blind Willie tune — a version that had only been released on vinyl in Europe and the Far East.

If we can find you, Garza had said, so can Nodding Crane. And now it seemed he had.

Gideon exhaled slowly, looked carefully around the car. Surely it was impossible that Nodding Crane had followed them onto the uptown train.

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand, still recovering his breath.

“I’ve just about had it with your shenanigans,” said Orchid, yelling.

“I know. I know.” He patted her hand. “I’ve been really unfair to you. Look, Orchid: I’ve dragged you into something that’s a lot more dangerous than I realized. I’ve been a real idiot. I need you to go back to your apartment and lie low — I’ll contact you later when all this blows over.”

“No way ! You’re not gonna leave me again!”

Now she was really shouting, turning heads all the way down the car.

“I promise I’ll call you. I promise .”

“I won’t be treated like shit!”

“Please, Orchid. I really like you, I really do. That’s why I can’t drag you into this trouble.” He looked at her carefully. “I will call you.”

“Why don’t you just say it?” she cried, the tears suddenly springing into her eyes and rolling down her face. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? You think I can’t see that? Why don’t you let me help you? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

He didn’t have the heart to deny it. “Yes, I’m in trouble, but you can’t help. Just go back to your place. I’ll come back for you, I promise. It’ll be over soon, one way or another. Look — I’ve got to go.”

“ No! ” She clutched at him like a drowning woman.

This was futile. He needed to get away from her — for her own safety. The subway rolled into 59th Street, halted with a groan, and the doors slid open. At the last moment, making a sudden decision, Gideon twisted free and ran out. He stopped and turned to apologize again, but the doors slammed shut, and he had a glimpse of her devastated face through the window as the train pulled out of the station.

“I promise I’ll call you!” he cried, but it was too late and the train was gone.

Gideon drove moodily through the midafternoon Jersey traffic. He’d crossed over through the Holland Tunnel, then pointed the rented Chevy northward through the old, tired urban tangle, one town blending seamlessly with another: Kearny, North Arlington, Rutherford, Lodi. The streets all looked the same—​narrow, busy, dense with three- and four-story brick buildings, their shopfronts dingy, heavy clusters of telephone wires hanging claustrophobically overhead. Now and then, through the urban accretion, he could catch glimpses of what had once been a downtown: the marquee of a movie theater, now disused; the plate-glass window of an erstwhile soda joint. Fifty or sixty years ago, these places had been separate little towns, bright and sparkling, full of bobby soxers and guys with derbies and ducktails. Now they were just ghostly pentimentos beneath an endless procession of salumerias, mercados, discount stores, and cell phone shops.

He crossed into Bergen County, passing through another half a dozen sad-looking towns. There were much faster ways to reach his destination, of course, but Gideon wanted to lose himself for a while in a mindless act such as driving. He was full of uncomfortable and unwelcome emotions: agitation at discovering Nodding Crane, shame and embarrassment at his treatment of Orchid. He told himself it was for her own good, for her protection; that she was better off not getting involved with a man who had a year to live. It didn’t make him feel any better. He had used her, used her cynically.

As he drove farther north, toward the New York State line, the cramped streets grew broader and leafier, and the traffic eased. Residences became grander and farther apart. He glanced down at the sheet of paper he’d placed on the passenger seat. Biyu Liang, Bergen Dafa Center, Old Tappan, he’d scrawled on it. With the attendance records unwittingly supplied by Van Rensselaer, it had been a trivial undertaking to single out the Asian boy who’d been at JFK — Jie Liang — and from there to learn the identity of his mother. He didn’t know what a Dafa Center was, but that was the woman’s place of employment — and his destination.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into what to his surprise appeared to be an old estate: not huge, but well manicured, a large puddingstone mansion, a separate garage, and an adjoining gatehouse, the whole now converted into a small campus of sorts. A sign set back from the road read BERGEN DAFA CENTER.

Gideon parked his car in the lot beside the main building and trotted up the steps to the twin doors, decorated with wrought-iron filigree. He stepped through into an ornate front hall that had been converted into a reception area. A tasteful sign on one wall read: FALUN GONG EXERCISES 3–5 WEEKDAYS, TEACHINGS WEEKNIGHTS 7–10. It was flanked by other signs covered with symbols and Chinese ideographs.

A young Asian woman was seated behind a desk. She smiled as he approached.

“May I help you?” she asked in unaccented English.

Gideon smiled back. “I’d like to speak with Biyu Liang, please.”

“She’s conducting a session at the moment,” the woman said, extending her hand toward an open door through which Gideon could hear a mixture of music and speech.

“Thank you, I’ll wait for her to finish.”

“Feel free to observe.”

Gideon stepped past her and into a spacious room of Zen-like simplicity. A woman was leading a group of people in a series of slow exercises, all of them moving gently in unison to the hypnotic sound of five-tone music, tinkling bells, and percussion. The woman was apparently giving instructions in melodious Mandarin. He looked at her carefully. She was younger than the woman in the airport had been, but resembled her enough that he concluded the woman in the video had probably been the child’s grandmother.

Gideon waited for the session to end. As he did so, he was increasingly struck by what he was seeing; there was something ineffable in the movements, something beautiful, almost universal. Falun Gong, he mused. He had heard of it, vaguely, and recalled it was some form of Buddhist practice from China. Clearly, he needed to learn more.

The session continued for another ten minutes. As the group dispersed, chatting quietly, Gideon remained standing at the entrance, waiting. The woman who had been leading the session noticed him and came over. She was small with what could only be described as a round, shining face.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes.” Gideon gave her a big smile. “My name’s Gideon Crew, and my son, Tyler, is entering Throckmorton Academy in the fall — we’ve just moved here from New Mexico. He’s going to be in your son Jie’s class.”

“How nice,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.” They shook hands and she introduced herself.

“He’s adopted,” Gideon continued, “from Korea. We just wanted to make sure he’d feel at home — he’s still having some difficulty with English — which is why my wife and I were pleased to learn there would be other Asian children in the class. It’s hard to come into a new school in a new place. That’s why I was hoping to meet you and a few of the other parents.”