“And how do you know all this?”
Fordyce took a breath. He had to say it. “I interviewed him.”
Millard stared at him. “I’m aware of that.”
“How?”
“Novak complained. You barged into his house after midnight, no authorization, didn’t follow any interview protocols—what did you expect?”
“I had no choice. We’re out of time. The fact is, the guy lied to investigators, told them it was impossible to plant those emails. He forgot to mention he’sthe only one who could have done it.”
Millard stared at him long and hard, his lips compressed. “Are you saying Novak framed Crew? For money?”
“All I’m saying is, the guy’s dirty. Take him in now, sweat the bastard—”
Millard’s lips became almost invisible. The man’s skin seemed to tighten across his face, as if he were drying out. “You are out of line, mister. Your behavior is unacceptable, and these demands are improper and, frankly, outrageous.”
Fordyce couldn’t take it anymore. “Improper? Millard, N-Day is tomorrow. Tomorrow!And you want me to—”
A loud commotion erupted at the main door. A man was shouting, his shrill manic voice echoing in the warehouse space, rising above the hubbub of voices swirling around him. He had apparently just been brought in, and as his outrage rang out, Fordyce heard disjointed accusations of police brutality and government conspiracies. Clearly a nut case.
And then Fordyce heard Gideon’s shouted name mingling with the incoherent mix.
“What the hell?” Millard flashed him another look. “Don’t you go anywhere. I’ll get back to you in a moment.”
Fordyce followed Millard to the front, where the man was haranguing a large group of agents. He was shocked to see it was Willis Lockhart, the cult leader. He hadn’t been brought in, it seemed—he had come in on his own. But what a change: he was wild, his face haggard, spittle on his lips. From the outraged, furious rant, Fordyce gathered that Gideon Crew had showed up at the ranch the previous night, kidnapped Willis at gunpoint, brought him to a grave he’d dug in the woods, brutalized him, tortured him, threatened to kill him, all the while demanding answers to questions about nukes and terrorism and God knows what else.
So Gideon was still alive.
Willis screeched about how it was all a plan, a plot, a conspiracy, before his rantings dissolved into incoherency.
At that moment, Fordyce was suddenly and utterly convinced: Gideon Crew was innocent. There was no other explanation—none—for why he would have gone to the Paiute Creek Ranch and done what he did to Willis. He had been framed. Those emails had been planted. And just as clearly, it meant that Novak was in on the terrorist plot. Even though he already half believed it, now the conclusion was inescapable.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Lockhart’s scream interrupted this epiphany. Fordyce looked up to see the cult leader staring at him, extending a shaking finger. “It’s him! There he is! It’s the other guy who came up to the ranch last week! They started a fight, trashed the place, left my people hurt! You son of a bitch!”
Fordyce glanced left and right. Everyone was staring at him, Millard included.
“Fordyce,” Millard said in a strange voice, “is this another man you interviewed?”
“Interviewed?” Lockhart shouted. “You mean brutalized! He attacked half a dozen of my people with a chain saw! He’s a maniac! Arrest him! Or are all of you part of it as well?”
Fordyce glanced at Millard, glanced at the exit. “The man’s crazy,” he said in a calm voice. “Look at him.”
He saw on everyone’s faces a certain relaxation, a certain relief that these accusations were as crazy as all the others. Everyone’s face, that is, except Millard’s.
Suddenly Lockhart lunged at Fordyce, and there was an eruption of chaos as a dozen agents rushed in to intervene.
“Let me at him!” Willis yelled, clawing at the air. “He’s the devil! He and that man Gideon Crew!” He swung a powerful forearm, connecting with an agent, slammed into another. In the resulting confusion, the pushing and hollering and shoving, Fordyce managed to duck down, dart through the crowd, and slip out the door. He headed straight for his car, got in, started the engine, and took off.
57
As dawn broke, Gideon stood by the leather sofa, his head pounding, pulling on his clothes while Alida lay nude on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, still asleep, her blond hair in a wild tangle, her smooth skin glowing against the coarse dark nap of the rug. Out the windows of the cabin, dark clouds smeared across half the sky, and a humid wind lashed the pines. A storm was brewing.
Confused memories of the night before knocked about in his head: too many drinks, more spectacular sex, and God only knew what unwise things said or promised. Gideon felt awful. What had he done? He was a complete asshole. To allow himself to be drawn into that, when he suspected her father of being a terrorist and all the while plotting how to stop him, bring him down…it was monstrous.
What should he do? Should he take Alida into his confidence? No, that wouldn’t work—she would never, ever believe that her father, Simon Blaine, bestselling author, ex-spy, was the ringleader of—or at least involved in—a nuclear terrorism plot. Who would? He had to keep lying to her, and he had to do this alone. He had to go to Maryland, find Blaine, and stop him. And he couldn’t get on a plane, couldn’t do anything requiring an ID. His only way of getting back east was to drive—in Alida’s Jeep.
It seemed impossible. Why would a man like Blaine be involved in a terrorist plot like this? But he was. Gideon was sure of it now. There was simply no other answer.
As he thought about his position, once again he felt overcome with self-loathing. Yet what choice did he have? This was about more than clearing his own name. Countless lives were at stake. Nobody would believe him; he was a wanted man; and so he was compelled to act alone. There was no escaping it.
As he pulled on his shirt, his eye once again fell on the curves of Alida’s body, her face, her lucent hair… Was it possible he was actually in love with her?
Of course it was.
Enough, enough. But even as he was trying to pull his eyes away, she opened her own. And winced.
“Ouch,” she said. “Hangover.”
He tried to force a grin onto his face. “Yeah. Me too.”
She sat up. “You look like hell. I hope I didn’t break you.” She gave a wicked smile.
He hid his face by bending down to tie his shoes.
“And where are you so all fired up to go this morning?”
He forced himself to look up. “Paiute Creek Ranch. I’m going to confront Willis.”
“Good. It’s him, I just know it. Let me come along.”
“No, no. Could be dangerous. And your presence might detract from getting the truth out of him.”
She hesitated. “I get it. But I’m worried. Be careful.”
Gideon tried to arrange his face into a semblance of normality. “I’ll need to borrow the Jeep.”
“No problem. Just stick to the back mountain roads.”
He nodded.
She stood up and before he could escape she put her arms around him, pressed her lips to his, and sidled her naked body up against him. A long, lingering kiss followed, the warmth of her body creeping through his clothing. Gideon surrendered to it. Finally, she released him.
“That was for luck,” she said.
Gideon could only nod dumbly. She went to a drawer, plucked out the keys, tossed them to him.
He caught them. “Um, just in case—gas, whatever—do you have any money?”
“Sure.” She picked her pants off the floor, rummaged in the pockets, extracted a wallet. “How much?”
“Whatever you can spare, I guess.”
She pulled out a bunch of twenties, and without counting handed them over with a radiant smile.
He tried to move but felt as if frozen. He couldn’t do this—not to her. And yet here he was, about to do it. Stealing her car, taking her money, lying to her, going after her own father. But, damn it, what choice did he have? His position was impossible. If he stayed here with Alida, countless people would die and he might still end up in jail. If he left…