Douglas Preston - Gideon's Corpse

On the DV, Gideon saw the doors fly open. The three soldiers boiled out, crouching and firing their weapons blindly through the smoke. Then two more figures emerged—Blaine and Dart—and both began running toward the gate at top speed.

“I’m going after them,” Gideon said. “Give me your weapon.”

Gideon threw open the hatch of the Stryker and jumped out, suddenly enveloped in smoke. He could hear the soldiers firing blindly, stupidly, somewhere. He took off in the general direction he’d seen Blaine heading, running along the fairway and quickly emerging from the smoke. The soldiers had also found their way out and turned toward him, raking him with fire. He hit the ground at the same moment the fifty-caliber machine gun sounded from within the smoke; the three soldiers literally came apart in front of him.

He jumped up again, continued running. Blaine was a hundred yards ahead, approaching the final green, but he was old and rapidly losing steam. Dart, younger and more fit, had pulled ahead and was leaving Blaine behind.

As Gideon approached, Blaine turned and, wheezing heavily, pulled out his Peacemaker and fired, the shot kicking up the grass in front of Gideon. Still he ran; Blaine got off a second shot, which also missed as Gideon launched himself at the older man, tackling him at the knees. They fell heavily and Gideon grappled the revolver away from him, flinging it aside, pinning Blaine. He pulled out Jackman’s sidearm.

“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 god damn 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.

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.