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.”
The struggling stopped. She stared at him.
“That’s right. I know it.”
“Bullshit. You’re the one that tried to arrest him.” But she said this with a little less conviction.
“Whether bullshit or not, I’ve got a gun trained on you, so you’re going to goddamn well listen to me. You got that?”
She was quiet.
“All right.” And Fordyce briefly explained the arc of his reasoning. But in doing so he didn’t mention Novak’s name or go into any details—the last thing he needed was more freelancing on the part of Gideon. Or her.
“So you see,” he said, “I know both of you are innocent. But no one will listen to me, the investigation is completely off-base—and it’s up to us to pursue this line on our own.”
“Let me up,” she said. “I can’t think with you lying on top of me.”
He cautiously let her up. She stood, slapping away the pine needles and dust. “Let’s go into the house,” she said.
“Is Gideon inside?”
“No. He’s not on the ranch.”
He followed her into the house, into a large rustic living room with Navajo rugs on the walls, a bearskin on the floor, and an elk skull over the mantelpiece of a big stone fireplace.
“Want anything?” she asked. “Coffee?”
“Coffee. And a Band-Aid.”
“Coming up.”
The coffee tasted wonderful. He looked at her discreetly as she rummaged for a bandage. This was one hell of a woman. Like Gideon: formidable.
“What do you want?” she asked as she tossed him a Band-Aid box.
“I need to find Gideon. We took on this assignment together and I intend to complete it—with him, partners.”
She thought about this, but only for a moment. “Fair enough. I’m in.”
“No, you’re not in. You have no idea how dangerous this is going to be. We’re professionals—you’re not. You’d be a serious hindrance and a danger to us both—not to mention yourself.”
A long silence.
“Well,” she finally said, “I guess I can accept that. You and Gideon can use the ranch as your base.”
“Can’t do that, either. This ranch is likely to be raided—not today, maybe, but soon. It’s just a matter of time. You’ve got to get the hell out of here. And I’ve got to find Gideon. Now.”
More silence. She was thinking it through, and he was pretty confident she’d understand what she had to do.
Finally, she nodded. “Okay. Gideon’s taken the Jeep and he’s headed up to the Paiute Creek Ranch to confront Willis. Because sure as hell, he and his weirdo cult are behind this.”
Fordyce managed to cover up his surprise. Gideon had alreadyconfronted Willis—the day before.
“He went up to Paiute Creek… thismorning?”
“Right. Left at dawn.”
So Gideon was lying to her, too. What the hell was the man really up to? He was on the track of someone, Fordyce was sure of that—and he had some reason for not sharing the information with her.
“All right,” he said. “Give me the plate number and a description of the vehicle, and I’ll take it from there.”
She gave him the info, while he wrote it down.
He rose. “Miss Blaine? May I offer you some advice?”
“Sure.”
“You need to go to ground. Now. Because it’s as I said: sooner rather than later, they’re going to raid this ranch—and with the mentality of this investigation, you might not survive it. Understand? Until we find out who’s really behind this, your life is not safe.”
She nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Thanks for your cooperation. I’m outta here.”
60
Gideon had reached Tucumcari, and he pulled into a Stuckey’s to fill up on gas. It was about one in the afternoon and he’d been making excellent time. He felt a certain relief. He’d made a clean getaway and he was driving a vehicle unknown to law enforcement. He had twenty-three more hours of driving ahead of him, more or less. Alida’s money might not be enough to get him all the way, but if he had to raid a cash register or two he’d deal with that when the time came.
After filling up, he went into the Stuckey’s, in full disguise as Mr. Touchy-Feely-Middle-Aged-Divorced-Man-on-a-Road-Trip-of-Self-Discovery, and stocked up on beef jerky, Cheetos, Twinkies, and Ring Dings, along with a case of Coke and a box of NoDoz. He found a plastic hospital urinal and—after a momentary hesitation—added it to his basket. That would shave some time off his run. He brought everything to the counter, purchased it, and carried the bulging bag to his car. He got in and was about to start the engine when he felt something cold against the nape of his neck.
“Don’t fucking move,” came the low, hoarse voice.
Gideon froze. He glanced at the glove compartment, where he’d stashed the Python.
“I’ve already got your .357,” came the voice.
Now Gideon recognized the voice as Fordyce’s. Unbelievable. How had this happened? This was a disaster—the ultimate disaster.
“Listen to me well, Gideon. I know now you’re innocent. I know you were framed. And I also know the security director, Novak, was in on it.”
Gideon wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. He struggled with disbelief. Was this some kind of gambit? What was Fordyce up to?