Gideon's Corpse

22

The Paiute Creek Ranch lay north of Santa Fe in an isolated part of the Jemez Mountain range. Gideon and Fordyce bumped and ground their way up a washed-out mining road and into a series of ponderosa-covered hills and valleys just below a peak. The road ended at a brand-new chain-link fence with a set of locked gates.

As they got out of the Suburban, Gideon glanced over at Fordyce.

“You go first, I want to watch you walk again. Remember what I said.”

“Stop staring at my ass.” Fordyce started toward the gate, and it just about drove Gideon crazy to see how stubbornly the whiff of law enforcement clung to the agent. But he had to admit, the clothes were good—it was the way he carried himself that was a problem. If he kept his mouth shut, then maybe, just maybe, no one would notice.

“Remember,” Gideon muttered, “I’m doing the talking.”

“You mean, the bullshitting. Which you’re an expert at.”

Gideon peered through the fence. A hundred yards down the dirt track stood a small log cabin, and through the ponderosa pines he could glimpse more cabins, a barn, and the gables of a large ranch house. In the distance, some green fields were laid up alongside Paiute Creek.

Gideon shook the fence. “Yo!”

Nothing. Had all of them left, too?

“Hey! Anybody home?”

A man stepped out of the nearby cabin and came walking over. He had a long tangle of black hair and a long, squared-off beard in the mountain man style. As he approached, he casually unsheathed a machete stuck into his belt.

Gideon could feel Fordyce tensing up next to him.

“Relax,” he murmured. “It’s better than a .45.”

The man stopped ten feet from the fence, holding the machete dramatically across his chest. “This is private property.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Gideon. “Look, we’re friends. Let us in.”

“Who you here to see?”

“Willis Lockhart,” Gideon said, proffering the name of the commune’s leader.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but we’ve got a business proposition for him that he’ll want to hear—I guarantee it. I’m sure he would be pissed if we were turned away without him getting a chance to hear it. Good and pissed.”

The man considered this a moment. “What kind of proposition?”

“Sorry, man, that’s for Lockhart’s ears only. It’s about money. M-O-N-E-Y.”

“Commander Will is a busy man.”

Commander Will. “Well, are you going to let us in or not? ’Cause we’re busy, too.”

A hesitation. “You armed?”

Gideon held out his arms. “No. Feel free to check.” And they had, in fact, left their sidearms in the car. Fordyce had his ID, the warrants, and the subpoena rubber-banded to his shin, under his pants.

“Him?”

“No.”

The man sheathed his machete. “All right. But the commander isn’t going to like it if you guys aren’t who you say you are.”

He unlocked the gate and they filed through. The man gave them a cursory pat-down. Gideon noted that he locked the gate behind them, which was too bad. Still, getting in had taken a lot less jawboning than he’d anticipated.

They passed a corral where some commune members were working cattle, branding and cutting—ordinary-looking cowboy types. Around a bend, the big ranch house came into closer view, three stories tall, with new-looking gabled wings and a huge wraparound porch. Beyond, in a large field, he could see a serious array of solar panels surrounded by chain link and razor wire, several monster satellite dishes, and a small microwave tower.

“What do you think they need all that shit for?” Fordyce murmured.

“In case the Playboy Channel on regular cable goes down,” Gideon said jokingly, but he, too, stared hard at the array.

As they approached the main house, they entered a beautifully restored historic mining town, complete with log cabins, corrals, and a hitching post with a couple of saddled horses tied up. The authenticity was spoiled by a parking lot behind the ranch house, in which stood a small fleet of identical Jeeps, earthmoving equipment, and several large trucks.

They mounted the wooden porch of the main house; the man knocked on the door, then entered. They followed him in. Gideon was surprised to find that the downstairs parlor had been fixed up as a modern-looking conference room, with a rosewood table, corporate chairs, whiteboards, and even a plasma screen. The whiteboard had some partial differential equations scribbled on it that Gideon did not recognize, but he knew enough to realize were very sophisticated. Beyond the parlor, he got a glimpse of a classroom in session, where a group of kids listened to a teacher in a gingham dress. The whole place had a weird, steampunk feel to it.

“Upstairs,” said their escort.

As they mounted the stairs, Gideon caught a bit of what the teacher was saying—something about how government biologists had developed the HIV virus for genocidal purposes.

He caught Fordyce’s eye.

Gaining the landing, Machete Man led them down a long corridor. Several of the doors were open; in one, a barely dressed, curvaceous woman lolled on a bed of purple satin sheets. She glanced out at them indifferently.

“Do you suppose she’s, ah, the vice commander?” Gideon asked as they stopped before a closed door. “The perks of power.”

“Stow it,” Fordyce growled as Machete Man knocked on the door.

A voice called them in.

The room was done up in high Victorian whorehouse style, with red velvet wallpaper, opulent Victorian sofas and chairs, Persian rugs, brass lamps with green glass shades. Sitting behind a desk was a man in his fifties, extremely fit, with long hair, the same squared-off beard—it seemed to be a popular look—and Rasputin-like eyes. He was dressed in a blue shawl-lapel coat, brocaded vest, old-style ascot, and gold chain: the very image of a gambling-house dandy.

Totally hokey.

Gideon felt himself relaxing. Equations or no equations, these people were lightweights. This was no Manson Family. No Waco compound. His elaborate subterfuge was starting to look unnecessary.

“What do they want?” the man asked sharply, looking at Machete Man.

“They say they have a business proposition for you, Commander.”

Lockhart’s keen eyes turned to them, scanned Gideon, then scanned Fordyce. They remained on Fordyce for a moment—a little too long. Gideon’s heart sank.

“Who are you?” he asked Fordyce, his voice tinged with suspicion.

“He’s a Fed,” said Gideon, with sudden inspiration.

Fordyce whipped his head around and Lockhart rose in his chair. Gideon gave an easy laugh. “Or, rather, an ex-Fed.”

Lockhart remained standing, staring.

“ATF, retired,” said Gideon. “You know these jokers can retire at forty-five? Now my pal’s in another line of business—not unrelated to his previous work.”

A long silence. “And what line of business might that be?”

“Medical marijuana.”

The commander’s bushy eyebrows rose. After a moment he eased himself back down in his seat.

Gideon went on. “The name’s Gideon Crew. My partner and I are looking for a secure place to site a growing operation—something in the mountains, well protected, on good irrigated land far from prying eyes and marijuana thieves. With a source of reliable labor.” He allowed himself a little smile. “It’s a bit more profitable than the alfalfa you’re growing, it’s legal, and of course there are certain, ah, in-kind perks.”

Another long silence as Lockhart stared at Gideon. “Well now, what if we already had our own little ‘medical’ marijuana plantation up here? Why would we need you?”

“Because what you’re doing is illegal and you can’t sell it. I’ve got the permits and I’ve got a dispensary in Santa Fe all ready to go, first one in town. The volume will be enormous. And I repeat: it’s all legal.”

Now Fordyce interjected, bestowing a grin on Lockhart. “My days at ATF left me with excellent contacts in the business.”

“I see. And what made you think of us?”

“My old friend Connie Rust,” said Gideon.

“And how do you know Connie?”

“Well, see, I was her former purveyor of cannabis, before she joined up with you folks.”

“And where did you get your supply?”

“Where else?” Gideon gestured at Fordyce.

Lockhart glanced back at the agent. “This was during your time at ATF?”

“I never said I was Mister Perfect.”

Lockhart seemed to ponder this and apparently found it plausible. He picked up a walkie-talkie lying on his desk. “Bring Connie up here. Right away.”

He laid it back down. They waited in silence. Gideon’s heart began to pound. So far, so good.

A few minutes passed. Then a knock came at the door and a woman stepped in.

“Here’s an old friend of yours, Connie,” said Lockhart.

She turned to them, a wreck of a woman, her skin raddled by drink and weed, her lips loose and wet, her bleached-blond hair with two inches of brown roots. Another long gingham dress covered her emaciated form.

“Who?” she asked, her watery blue eyes scanning them both uncomprehendingly.

Lockhart gestured at Gideon. “Him.”

“I’ve never seen—”

But Fordyce wasn’t waiting to hear more. He reached down, whipped out his badge and papers from his leg, while Gideon stepped over to Rust and took a firm grasp of her arm.

“Stone Fordyce,” the agent rapped out as he pulled off the wig. “FBI. We’ve got a warrant and subpoena to compel the testimony of Connie Rust, and we are hereby taking her into custody.” He tossed the papers onto Lockhart’s desk. “We’re leaving. Any effort to impede us will be felony obstruction of justice.”

As Lockhart stared at them, thunderstruck, they turned and barged out through the door, Gideon hauling along the bewildered and unresisting woman.

“What the fuck?” Gideon heard the shout from behind them. “Don’t let them go!” As they ran down the stairs he could hear Lockhart yelling into his walkie-talkie.

In a moment they were out the door and jogging down the dirt street. That was when Rust began to shriek: a high-pitched scream that was almost animalistic in its bewilderment and terror. But she did not struggle; she was passive to the point of being limp.

“Keep it going, keep it going,” said Fordyce. “We’re almost there.”

As they came around the bend, passing the large barn, they realized they were not almost there. The commune members who’d been working cattle were pouring into the dirt road, blocking it—many of them with long cattle prods in their hands. Gideon counted seven.

“Federal agents acting on a warrant!” boomed Fordyce. “Do not interfere! Make way!”

They did not make way. Instead they began to advance at a menacing walk, cattle prods held in front of them.

“Oh no,” said Gideon, slowing.

“Keep going. It may be a bluff.”

Gideon continued hustling Rust along, Fordyce leading the way.

“FBI, engaged in official business!” Fordyce roared as they trotted forward, his shield extended.

The sheer force of his determination slowed the cowboys, caused them to hesitate. But then Rust’s high-pitched keening sound seemed to stiffen their resolve.

The opposing groups were now almost on top of each other. “Stand down,” shouted Fordyce, “or you will be arrested and charged with felony obstruction!”

But instead of standing down, the cowboys renewed their advance. The leading man jabbed at the agent with his cattle prod. Fordyce twisted away, but the second prod got him in the side. There was a crackle of electricity and he went down with a roar.

Gideon let Rust go—she collapsed to the ground in a sobbing heap—and seized a shovel leaning against the barn. He lunged forward with the shovel, smacking the prod out of the second man’s hand. It spun off into the dirt and Gideon swept the shovel back into the man’s side. The man fell to the ground, clutching his midriff. Gideon dropped the shovel and scooped up the cattle prod, turning to face the others, who immediately surged forward with a collective shout, wielding their prods like swords.