Gideon's Corpse

20

Fordyce entered the hotel bar, strode across the carpet, and took a seat next to Gideon. “What’s your toxin?” he asked.

“Margarita. Patrón Silver, Cointreau, salt,” said Gideon.

“I’ll have the same,” Fordyce told the bartender. He turned back to Gideon with an expansive grin. “I said I was going to kick ass—and I did.”

“Tell me about it.”

Fordyce pulled a file out of his briefcase and slapped it on the table. “It’s all right here. We’ve not only got clearance to interview the imam of the mosque—Chalker’s mentor—but also a warrant allowing us to enter the Paiute Creek Ranch with a subpoena for Connie Rust, Chalker’s ex-wife, compelling her cooperation.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I called Dart’s office directly, spoke to his assistant, a guy named Cunningham. He said he’d clear the brush for us and he did. And get this: Chalker’s wife hasn’t been interviewed yet. She’s a virgin.”

“Why not?”

“Typical bureaucratic snafu. The original Title Eighteen Notice of Intent was defective, they had to redo it, get it re-signed by a pissed-off judge.”

“How’d you get them to agree?”

“I called in a chit. A big one. And to tell you the truth, nobody thinks the wife is worth the trouble. They divorced long before his conversion, they haven’t been on speaking terms, and apparently she’s a sad case.” He put away his papers. “We’ll hit the ranch at dawn. Then we’re scheduled for tea with the imam at two o’clock.”

“Tea with the imam. Sounds like a BBC comedy series.”

Fordyce’s drink arrived and he punched it down with scarcely less gusto than a triple espresso. “So. What do you know about this Paiute Creek Ranch?”

“Not all that much,” said Gideon. “It has a dicey reputation. Some say it’s a cult sort of like the Branch Davidian compound, armed patrols and locked gates. A guru named Willis Lockhart runs the show.”

“They’ve got a clean record,” said Fordyce. “I checked. No allegations of child abuse, no bigamy, no weapons violations, taxes paid up.”

“That’s encouraging,” said Gideon. “So what’s your plan?”

“Go in easy, don’t spook them, show the warrant nice and polite, pick up the wife, leave. We have to bring her for interrogation to the Santa Fe command center, but we’ll have a chance to hear what she has to say on the way there.”

“And if the ranch people don’t cooperate?”

“Call for backup.”

Gideon frowned. “That ranch is deep in the mountains. Backup would take an hour or more.”

“In that case, we leave nice, come back mean. With a SWAT team in tow.”

“Hello, Waco.”

Fordyce sat back in irritation. “I’ve been at this for years, believe me, I know how to do this.”

“Yeah, but I have another idea…”

Fordyce held up his hands in a mock-dramatic gesture. “Please. I’ve had enough of your ‘ideas.’”

“The problem is getting in there. Warrant or no warrant, they probably aren’t going to let us in. And even if they do, how are we going to find the wife? You think they’ll just fetch her for us? That ranch covers thousands of acres, and we’ll have to have their cooperation—”

Fordyce swiped one hand across his neatly clipped head. “All right, all right. So what’s your bright idea?”

“We go in undercover. As…well…” Gideon thought for a moment. What kind of person would they let into the ranch?

Fordyce snorted. “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

Gideon took a sip of his margarita. “No. We’ll go in with a business proposition.”

“Oh yeah?”

“New Mexico just passed a medical marijuana law.” He went on to explain his nascent idea to Fordyce. The FBI agent was silent a long time, staring into his ice cubes, and then raised his head.

“You know, it’s not a bad plan.”

Gideon smirked. “I’m going to enjoy watching you muss up your perfect hair and finally lose that junior executive FBI outfit.”

“I’ll let you do the talking. You already look like a stoner.”