Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

But creating the actual new persona was never easy. It had to be subtle, believable, not over the top, and yet with a few telling details that the average person would remember and which would be key to misleading investigators. A totally forgettable character would be a waste of time, but on the other hand, a too eccentric character would be dangerous. The process took time, thought, and imagination.

As he sorted through the clothes, laying out one shirt, then another, mixing and matching them with various pants and shoes, a character began to take shape in his mind—a mid-forty-ish man, out of shape, recently divorced, kids gone, laid off from his job, looking to rediscover and renew himself with a car trip cross-country. A Blue Highways sort of odyssey. He’d be a writer—no, make that an aspiring writer. He’d be keeping notes of his journey, ready to share his observations about America with anyone he ran into. His wallet had been stolen first day out—no ID now but that was cool in a way, a kind of freedom, a welcome release from the enslaving bonds of society.

Now that he had it, he quickly assembled the outfit: loafers, black jeans, L.L. Bean oxford pin-striped shirt, Bill Blass sport jacket, bald-cap with a fringe of hair on the longish side, skin with the slightly raddled look that marked the drinking man, Ray-Bans, a Pendleton “Indy” hat with a broad brim. A small but memorable diamond-shaped scar on his right cheek and a modest paunch completed the picture.

Going through the familiar process of creating a new persona, and a disguise to go with it, felt good. And—for at least a few minutes—he was able to forget Alida.

Now that he was done, he turned to the computer and fired it up. It was, just as he’d expected, password-protected, and his few feeble attempts to guess the password failed. Even if he broke the password, no doubt there would be other layers of security. Blaine’s plan might be on that computer, but it might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do him, if he couldn’t get through that password.

No time for that now. He shoved it in the suitcase with the other stuff, exited the motel room, tossed everything in the back of the Jeep, and took off. The vehicle had a GPS and when he plugged in the address for Fort Detrick, Maryland, it informed him the distance was eighteen hundred seventy-seven miles and would take thirty hours. By driving at five miles over the speed limit, stopping only for gas, he might shave it down to twenty-five, twenty-six hours. He didn’t dare push it any faster—without a driver’s license he couldn’t risk a traffic stop.

He looked at his watch. It was already ten o’clock in the morning. Blaine had said his plane was leaving early: he’d already be in the air. Gideon had checked with the airlines, and there had been no direct flights to DC that morning—he would have to change planes, and with the loss of two hours due to time zone changes, Blaine would not be at Fort Detrick until that evening at the earliest. The event would almost certainly go down tomorrow, N-Day—the infamous day on the appointment calendar he had seen in Chalker’s apartment.

He would be there by noon tomorrow. Whether that gave him time to intersect and confront Blaine he could only guess. Of course, it was entirely possible Blaine wasn’t going to Fort Detrick at all. That could have been a ruse; the man might instead be heading straight to Washington. But Gideon would have to deal with that problem when he got east.

He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. In fact, he didn’t have the first notion of a plan, a strategy, a mode of attack. But at least—he thought as he started the engine—he had twenty-six unbroken hours to think one up.

Stone Fordyce eased his car down the hideous dirt road toward Blaine’s ranch. He was filled with misgivings. Under any other circumstances, he would have said to hell with it. But these were not normal circumstances. Washington was, perhaps, one day away from being nuked. And the investigation was now totally screwed up, headed in the wrong direction. Millard and Dart had it wrong: Gideon had been most certainly framed. By a Los Alamos insider. And that insider—probably Novak—was somehow involved with the terrorist plot. It was the only conclusion he could draw.

Actually, he’d come to a second conclusion: Gideon hadn’t run away. He was still in the neighborhood, trying to prove his innocence by searching for the guilty party. That was why he’d gone to Los Alamos, at huge risk to himself. And then he’d confronted Lockhart, again at high risk. Gideon was a clever fox, as sly as they came, but even he wouldn’t go to such extreme measures unless he was truly innocent. Somewhere along the way, Gideon had managed to convince Alida Blaine that he was no terrorist—that was the only way to explain her ongoing involvement, her not contacting the authorities.

So where was Gideon? He couldn’t have walked from Los Alamos to the Paiute Creek Ranch, back across the mountains, in such a short space of time. He had no horse. Therefore, he must have used a car.

But whose?

As soon as Fordyce asked the question he knew the answer. Gideon and Alida were being helped. Who would they turn to? It was so obvious he couldn’t believe no one had thought of it. They were being helped by Alida’s father—the writer, Simon Blaine.

From there, it had been a trivial matter to learn that Blaine had a ranch in the Jemez Mountains. And once it was obvious to him, Fordyce realized it would eventually be obvious to Millard, as well. The investigation might be off-base, but Millard wasn’t stupid. Somebody, at some point, would think to raid Blaine’s ranch.

He just hoped to hell it hadn’t already happened.

But as he approached, he saw that everything looked quiet. The ranch buildings were scattered around a large central field, through which ran a burbling creek, with stands of timber hiding various outbuildings, barns, and corrals.

He pulled off the road well short of the ranch, got out his service piece, and exited the car. There were no vehicles, no signs of life. He moved into the trees and approached the main house quietly, stopping every few minutes to listen. Nothing.

Then, when he was about a hundred yards away, he heard the banging of a door and Alida Blaine came striding out, her long blond hair streaming behind her, walking across the yard.

Fordyce stepped out into the sunlight, gun and badge on display. “Miss Blaine? Federal officer. Don’t move.”

But she took one look and broke into a run, heading straight toward the thick forest at the far side of the meadow.

“Stop!” he cried. “FBI!”

She only ran faster. Fordyce took off after her, sprinting at high speed. He was a fast runner, in excellent shape, but she was really flying. He realized that if she got into those trees, she knew the country and might just get away.

“Stop!” He redoubled his speed, sprinting like a madman, and began to close the gap. They entered the trees but he was still gaining, and in a few hundred yards was close enough to launch himself at her and tackle her from behind.

They landed heavily on a bed of pine needles, but she rolled and fought like a mountain lion, screaming and punching, and it took all his ability, and a few high school wrestling moves, to subdue and pin her.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell’s your problem?” he yelled. “You’re damn lucky I didn’t shoot you!”

“You don’t have the balls,” she spat back, her face red, furious, still struggling.

“Will you just calm down and listen?” He could feel blood trickling down his face where she had raked his cheek with her hand. God, she was a wild one. “Look, I know Gideon was framed.”