Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

“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.

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.