Gideon's Corpse

55

Gideon arrived back at the ranch about two o’clock in the morning, having pounded the Jeep along bad forest service roads the entire way. He found Alida still up, sprawled on a big sofa in the rustic living room before a fire, her blond hair spread across the leather.

She jumped up when he walked in, came over and embraced him. “I was so worried about you. My God, you look destroyed.”

Gideon felt destroyed.

She led him to the sofa. “Drink?”

He nodded.

She kissed him gently, then went to the wet bar and began to mix a pitcher of martinis. From the sofa, he watched her pour gin and vermouth into a large shaker, scoop in ice, and shake the mixture vigorously, wondering the whole time just how the hell he was going to manage this. She seemed so happy, so beautiful, she practically glowed.

“Did you find Willis?” she asked, squeezing the zest of a lemon into a pair of glasses. “Did you confront him?”

“He…he wasn’t around,” Gideon lied. An awful feeling, a horrible feeling, settled over him. He was going to have to act with Alida. He was going to have to misdirect, pretend, lie… A flickering recollection of their magical night in the cave only made it worse.

“Do you still think it’s Willis?”

Gideon nodded. “Say, where’s your father?”

“He drove back to our house in Santa Fe. He’s got to get up early tomorrow—has to catch a plane.” She brought over the martinis and he took his. Exactly the way he liked it: straight up, with a twist, little chips of ice swirling around. Gideon took a sip, felt the liquid burn his throat.

She eased herself down next to him, leaned against him, nuzzled his face. “I’m so glad you’re back. You know, I’ve been thinking, Gideon. Thinking about us.”

He took another sip. “Your father’s going on a trip? Where?”

“Maryland, I think.” Her lips brushed his neck and she murmured, “I’m having a hard time keeping my wits about me, with you here. That was some evening we had in the cave—I can’t get it out of my head. Maybe this isn’t a good time to talk, but, as I said, I’ve been thinking…”

“Right,” said Gideon, taking refuge again in his drink. “What’s he doing in Maryland?”

“Research, I think. For his next novel.” Another nuzzle. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine. Just tired. And I’m still dirty, with all that charcoal.” He waved vaguely at his black-smeared face.

“I like it. Sexy.”

“Do you know what the novel’s about?”

“Something to do with viruses, I think.”

“Does your father ever teach writers’ workshops?”

“Sure. He enjoys that. Can we talk about something else right now?”

Gideon swallowed. “In a moment. There’s a workshop in Santa Cruz I’ve heard about, called Writing Your Life.”

“My father teaches at that one every year. He adores Santa Cruz.”

Gideon had to cover his expression with a hefty slug of the drink. He was already feeling the effects of the alcohol.

“So he likes teaching?” he said.

“He loves it. After his disappointment over the Nobel, I think he finds it consoling.”

“You mentioned the Nobel before. What happened, exactly?”

Alida sipped her own drink. “He was on the short list a few times, but didn’t get it. And then he learned through the grapevine why they’d never give it to him—because his politics were wrong.”

“Politics? How so?”

“He used to be a British citizen. And when he was a young man, he was in MI6—that’s the British intelligence service. Sort of like the CIA.”

“I know what it is.” Gideon was stunned. “I had no idea.”

“He never, ever talks about it, even to me. Anyway, I don’t know about the Nobel for a fact myself. It’s just what people say. The Nobel Committee refused Graham Greene for the same reason—he worked in British intelligence. Those damn Swedes just don’t like the idea of a writer being involved in espionage and counter-intelligence. John le Carré won’t get one, either!” She snorted.

“Was your father upset?”

“He doesn’t admit it, but I know he was. I mean, he was only doing his patriotic duty to his country. It’s humiliating.” Her voice had climbed slightly. “Look at all the great writers passed over—James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, Evelyn Waugh, Philip Roth. The list goes on and on. And who do they give it to instead? Writers like Dario Fo and Eyvind Johnson!” She sat back with a thump.

Gideon was so taken aback by her sudden passion he had temporarily forgotten how guilty this whole act of dissembling made him feel. “Aren’t you…well, worried about your father going to Maryland right now? I mean, that’s close to DC.”

“He’s not going anywhere near the evacuation zone. Anyway, I’m sick of talking about my father. I really want to talk to you about us. Please.”

She grasped his shoulder and looked into his face, her dark brown eyes glistening. With tears? Certainly with love. And Gideon couldn’t stop feeling the same unbearable tug at his own heart. “I just…” he started, stumbled. “I’m just concerned about your father, given this terrorist situation. I’d like to know where he’s going in Maryland.”

She looked at him with a small flash of impatience. “I can’t remember. Some army base. Fort Detrick, I think. Why is this so important?”

Gideon knew that Fort Detrick was hardly more than a stone’s throw from Washington. Was Simon Blaine planning to mobilize his people there for the final push? Why an army base? It was surely no coincidence that Blaine was traveling back east to an army base, thirty hours before N-Day. His head reeled at the possibilities. “Your father must know a lot of people in the intelligence community.”

“He does. When he was in MI6, I believe one of the things he did was act as a liaison with the CIA. At least, I once saw a citation they gave him. Classified. It was the one time he left his safe open.”

“And he’s flying out tomorrow morning?”

She laid a hand on his arm, the impatience breaking out again. “That would be this morning, since it’s two AM already. Gideon, what’s this interest in my father? I want to talk about us, our relationship, our future. I know it’s sudden, I know guys don’t like to be ambushed like this, but, damn it, I know you feel the same way I do. And you of all people know we may not have a lot of time.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to avoid the subject.” He tried to cover up his runaway interest by adopting a slightly accusatory tone. “It’s just that I thought your father was going to help us. Now he’s running away.”

“He has helped us! He’s not running away, either. Look, we’re safe here, we can use this as a base to find out who framed you. All we have to do is track down that man Willis. It makes sense that he and his crazy cult are behind this. He’ll be caught, the hunt will be over, and you and I will be cleared.”

Gideon nodded, feeling awful all over again. “Yes. I’m sure that will happen.” He gulped the rest of his drink.

She sat back. “Gideon, are you ready to talk? Or are you just trying to forestall it with all these questions about my father? I don’t want to force myself on you.”

He nodded dumbly, attempted a smile. He was already wishing for a second drink. “Sure.”

“I hesitate to bring up a painful subject, but… Well, you know I’m direct. I say what I think, even if I put my foot in my mouth. I hope you know that about me by now.”

“I do,” he croaked.

She drew closer. “I know you may have a fatal condition. That doesn’t frighten me off. I’m ready to make a commitment to you. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. That’s what I’ve wanted to tell you. I haven’t felt this way about a guy…well, ever.”

Gideon could hardly manage to look at her.

She took his hands in hers. “Life is short. Even if it’s true, and you only have a year—well, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. Will you do that? We’ll roll up a lifetime of love into one year.”