Gideon's Corpse

31

Stone Fordyce woke up to the theme song of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. He fumbled off his cell phone alarm with a curse and forced himself to sit up. He knew the pounding in his head was due to the wine, and he suspected the havoc in his stomach was from the damn kidneys he had eaten the night before.

He glanced at the clock: five AM. He had a routine report scheduled for seven thirty AM New York time, five thirty New Mexico time. That gave him half an hour to get his brain in order.

Ten minutes before the call, in the middle of shaving, his cell phone rang. With another curse, he wiped his hands and answered it.

“Am I speaking to Special Agent Fordyce?” The cool voice of Dr. Myron Dart was on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry, I thought our conference call was for seven thirty,” said Fordyce, irritated, wiping the shaving cream off the unshaven side of his face.

“The conference call has been canceled. Are you absolutely alone?”

“Yes.”

“I have some information for you that has just come to my attention. Information of a…very sensitive nature.”

The Circle Y Movie Ranch was located north of Santa Fe, in the Piedra Lumbre basin, a ten-thousand-acre ranch bisected by Jasper Wash and surrounded by mesas and mountains receding to the horizon. It was a hot June day, the high desert air clear and deep. The Circle Y was the most famous of the many so-called movie ranches surrounding Santa Fe, a working cattle ranch that also hosted a number of Western-style movie sets used by Hollywood studios in the making of films and television shows.

As Gideon drove along the winding ranch road, the image of a Western town rose from the plains, with a steepled church at one end and a classic Boot Hill graveyard at the other. A dusty main street ran the length of it. Approached from behind, however, it began to look a little strange, until the buildings proved themselves to be mere façades, braced into position by slapdash two-by-four scaffolding. Just beyond the ersatz village ran Jasper Creek, an intermittent stream, now dry, winding along a narrow arroyo between shelves of rock, dotted here and there with ancient cottonwoods.

It was a picture-perfect scene, everything painted gold in the early-morning sun, under sapphire skies. While the air was still cool, he could feel it was going to be a scorcher.

Gideon parked in a dirt lot at one side of the town in an area roped off for vehicles. He strolled toward the set. The place was bustling, with camera booms, cherry pickers, and lights rising above the ferment of activity, punctuated with the blast of megaphoned commands and people running hither and yon.

Most of the town had been roped off with plastic tape, and as Gideon approached the barrier a man with a clipboard intercepted him. “May I help you, sir?” he asked, blocking Gideon’s way.

“I’m here to see Simon Blaine.”

“Is he expecting you?”

Gideon removed his ID. “I’m with the FBI.” He gave the man an ingratiating smile and, unable to stop himself, winked. I could get used to this, he thought.

The man took the ID and scrutinized it for a long time before handing it back. “What’s it about?”

“Can’t go into that.”

“Mr. Blaine is occupied right now. Can you wait?”

“We’re not going to have a problem here, are we?”

“Uh, no, absolutely not. But…let me go see if he’s free.”

The man bustled off. Gideon took the opportunity to duck under the tape and stroll into “town.” The long main street ran between a saloon, livery stables, a general store, what appeared to be a whorehouse, a blacksmith’s forge, and a sheriff’s office. A tumbleweed rolled past, and Gideon noted that it was a real tumbleweed that had been spray-painted a golden yellow, and that it was being pushed along by a wind-machine parked behind a false façade. More painted tumbleweeds were stacked in a wire basket next to the machine, being released by a worker, one by one, with shouted instructions to the wind-man as to exactly where the tumbleweeds were to go.

A group of riders in Western garb came clip-clopping down the street on paint horses. The lead rider was Alida, her blond hair streaming behind her in the phony wind like a golden flame. She was dressed in full Western regalia: white shirt, leather vest, six-guns strapped on, woolly chaps, hat, boots—the works. She glanced his way, recognized him, and reined her horse to one side. With a frown she dismounted and came over, leading her horse by the reins.

“What are you doing here?” she asked crossly.

“Just checking in. Looking for your father.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re still chasing that stupid lead.”

“I’m afraid so,” he said pleasantly. “Nice horse. What’s his name?”

She crossed her arms. “Sierra. My father is really busy.”

“Can’t we do this in a nice, friendly way?”

She recrossed her arms and gave an irritated sigh. “How long do you want with him?”

“Ten minutes.”

The man with the clipboard came back, his face creased with anxiety. “I’m very sorry, he just pushed his way in—”

Alida turned to him with a radiant smile. “I’m taking care of it.” She turned back to Gideon, the smile vanishing as quickly as it came. “They’re about to shoot the final sequence of Moonrise and they’ve got a big pyro scene coming up. Can’t you wait until after that?”

“Pyro scene?”

“They’re going to blow up and burn the town. Or at least a good part of it. The pyrotechnics are almost ready to go.” She added after a moment, “You might enjoy it.”

It would give him a little more time to hang around and ask her questions. If he could think of some. “How long will it take?”

She glanced at her watch. “About an hour. Once the explosions and fire start, it goes fast. You can talk to my dad afterward.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.” He glanced over her appraisingly. “You look like a star.”

“I’m a stunt double.”

“For anyone in particular?”

“The female lead, Dolores Charmay. She’s playing Cattle Kate.”

“Cattle Kate?”

“The only woman in the history of the West hanged for cattle rustling.” Alida flashed him a brief smile.

“Ah. Now, that suits you. How many bad guys do you kill?”

“Oh, maybe half a dozen. I also have to gallop around, holler, fire my six-guns, ride through a curtain of fire, cause a stampede, get shot, and fall off my horse—the usual stuff.”

A man came by, uncoiling a wire, two others behind wheeling a tank of propane. Behind the church, Gideon saw what looked like a giant gasbag being gingerly maneuvered into position.

“What’s that?” he asked

“That’s all part of the pyrotechnics. That gasbag will create a fireball. It looks spectacular, but there’s no actual explosion. See, in the movie the bad guys have secretly stockpiled the town with arms and munitions, so a lot of great stuff is going to go off.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not if it’s done right. They’ve got a special pyro crew setting it up. Everything’s planned and timed down to the last iota. It’s as safe as a walk in the park. You just don’t want to be in the town when it burns up—that’s all.”

She was warming to her subject and, to his relief, it seemed she was forgetting her dislike of him.

“And those things?” he asked, by way of encouragement. He pointed to some cylinders that were being buried in the ground.

“Those are flash pots. They’re filled with an explosive mixture that goes off just like a bomb, shooting upward. Those lines over there go to nozzles and racks that release jets and sheets of burning propane to simulate building fires. You’re going to love it when all this goes off—if you like explosions, that is.”

“I love explosions,” he said. “All kinds. In fact, one of the things I do at Los Alamos is design high-explosive lenses for nuclear implosion devices.”

Alida stared at him, what little friendliness there was leaving her face. “How awful. You design nuclear bombs?”

He hastily changed the subject. “I only mention it because what you’ve got here isn’t so different. I imagine all these pyrotechnics are connected to a central computer controller, which will fire them off in the right sequence.”

“That’s right. Once the sequence starts, they’d better be rolling, because there aren’t any retakes and there’s no turning back. If they miss the shot, a couple of million dollars’ worth of pyrotechnics are wasted, not to mention most of the set.” She slipped a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket, shook one out, lit up.

“Um, should you be smoking here?”

“Absolutely not.” She exhaled a long stream of smoke in his direction.

“Let me have one.”

With a wry smile she slid one from her packet, lit it for him, flipped it, and inserted it between his lips.

A short, bowlegged, cranky-looking man with a shaved head came walking down the street on stubby legs, bawling in a megaphone. She held her cigarette behind her back and Gideon followed suit.

“Isn’t that—?”

“Claudio Lipari. The director. A real Nazi.”

Gideon noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. A dozen sedans were arriving, bringing in a rolling cloud of dust, but instead of stopping in the parking lot they drove over the plastic tapes and continued on toward the town, fanning out as they came.

Lipari saw them. He stopped and stared, frowning.

“What’s going on?” Alida asked.

“Crown Vics,” said Gideon. “It’s law enforcement.”

The cars parked at the edges of town, surrounding the place. Doors opened and four men got out of each car—all wearing bulky blue suits leaving little doubt there was body armor underneath.

The director began walking toward the closest car, his face furious, waving them off with his arms and shouting, to no effect. The men in the blue suits came forward, spreading out, flashing their badges, moving in a well-coordinated action.

“Classic,” said Gideon. “They’re about to make an arrest. A big one.” Are they after Blaine?

“God, no,” said Alida. “Not right now.”

To his surprise, Gideon saw Fordyce get out of the lead car. The FBI agent seemed to be scanning the area. Gideon waved his hand; Fordyce saw him and began walking over. His face looked grim.

“Something’s wrong,” said Gideon.

“This is unbelievable. This can’t be about my father.”

Fordyce arrived, face red, brow furrowed.

“What going on?” Gideon asked.

“I need to talk to you in private. Come over here.” Fordyce pointed to Alida. “You move away, please.”

Gideon followed Fordyce away from Alida and the bustling main street. They walked over to a quiet area behind one of the false façades. Gideon could see wires everywhere and a scattering of flash pots. Fordyce had his weapon out.

“You’re making an arrest?” said Gideon.

Fordyce nodded.

“Who?”

The gun came up. “You.”