Gideon (40 page)

“I say,” she replied, “that you can forget the maybe.” She pulled into a dirt parking area across the street from Frankie and Johnnie’s, shut off the engine, and smiled at him tightly. “C’mon, Bubba—let’s eat.”

And like a normal couple, they strolled arm in arm into the country diner. Up front was a general store, its shelves loaded with cans of Green Giant vegetables and barrels of nails and sacks of flour. In the back was a twelve-stool counter, behind which were two women in hair nets slaving over an eight-burner cast-iron stove. Three men were sitting at the counter, one with is small daughter. Two of the men glanced up as Carl and Amanda walked in. They exchanged polite nods. The third man didn’t budge. He was too engrossed in his newspaper. As Carl sat down next to him, he couldn’t help but glance at the local headlines. Carl tried to study the words without being too obvious. For a moment he felt a sense of relief when he saw that it had nothing to do with him. Then he realized what he was reading and what the ramifications were.

He read that Duane and Cissy LaRue had been murdered.

And he realized that meant that someone was following them.

“I don’t wish to disturb your lunch,” the Closer said into the cell phone, “But the path they are presently taking requires some serious attention on your part.”

“Explain,” Augmon commanded crisply. “Elaborate.”

The Closer was sitting in the front seat of the Suburban, parked in the shuttered gas station catty-corner from Frankie and Johnnie’s, less than fifty feet from Amanda’s battered little Subaru. “Do you have your laptop in front of you?”

“Of course,” Augmon shot back. He was back in New York now, in his corner office on the thirty-third floor of the Apex International building. He always took lunch in his corner office on the thirty-third floor.

“Log on to Maps Are Us.”

“I assume you wish for me to pull up a map of Mississippi.”

“You assume correctly.” The Closer heard rapid tapping from the other end of the line as the man with the English accent accessed the Website and found what he wanted.

“Very well,” he said. “I am looking at a map of Mississippi. Now explain to me why I am.”

“They are leading west on Route Six. Toward the delta.”

Augmon was silent a moment. “Oh, my. That is most unfortunate.”

“Most.”

“How did they—how much do you think they know?”

The Closer didn’t respond. The Closer did not like to say the words “I have no idea.

“Bloody hell,” Augmon cursed. “The story hasn’t maxed out yet. I had been hoping to milk it for another day. Possibly two.” He uttered something else under his breath, some British street doggerel involving various parts of the anatomy. The Closer couldn’t quite make it out. “Tell me, how long have we got?”

“A couple of hours if they drive straight there. More if they don’t.”

“Do you have any reason to believe they know exactly where they are going?”

“No reason to believe they do. No reason to believe they don’t.”

“Ah, me. Such a disappointment. I don’t suppose we can adopt a wait-and-see attitude?”

“In my opinion, you cannot. But it’s not my decision to make.”

“Quite so, my young friend. And we do have … what is the expression of yours? Bigger fish to fry?”

“It’s not an expression of mine,” growled the Closer, who had enjoyed this assignment. It had its challenges. It had its amusements. It would be missed.

“Can you take care of them before they get there?” he asked.

“Of course,” the Closer said evenly.

“Then do so,” he said briskly. “Make sure they’re never found. They must never, ever be found.” Then there was a click and the phone went dead.

* * *

Sitting in his office on the thirty-third floor of the Apex building, Lord Lindsay Augmon realized that his dream was about to be realized. He was poised for the greatest takeover of his career. One that would give him limitless power. People talked about Bill Gates, but Bill Gates simply provided the messenger. He, Lindsay Augmon provided the message. Provided, hell. He
was
the message.

He had just made the biggest gamble of his entire life—and his was a life spent rolling the dice. He had committed nearly $150 million to the building and launching of a Fairfield FS601 satellite, the most expensive, well-equipped, latest state-of-the-art communications satellite in existence. Right now that beauty was circling the earth. Launched from French Guiana, it was up there now. All he had to do was push a button and it would be activated. And he had ordered four more to be built over the next two years. It was a total of $750 million. There was no guarantee that he’d ever be able to legally use them. No guarantee he could ever push that button. But there were other guarantees.

There were billions of them. A hundred billion, to be exact.

That was how much money there was to be made in China. And it was all so simple. So easy and available. One just had to be ready. One had to be first. One had to have the opportunity. And if there
was
no opportunity, then it became necessary to make one. So that the button could be pushed someday.

There was the potential to reach a hundred million television sets in China. Eventually more. Possibly a billion! It was more than potential. It was so close to being a reality that Augmon could touch it. Smell it. Squeeze it.

One hundred million TV sets. To start! At a subscription rate of, over a five-year period, one thousand dollars. Most reasonable.

And it added up to a most reasonable hundred billion dollars. And the quicker capitalism crept into and eventually took over the country—something that was certain to happen, just as it had happened in Russia, just as it was happening everywhere else thanks to the unstoppable flow of information that was circling the world—that hundred billion would turn into two hundred billion. Three hundred billion. There was no limit!

Put that together with his operations in South America, Latin America, India, the Middle East, and elsewhere, he would be reaching two-thirds of the world’s population. Broadcasting to them, feeding them information, telling them whom to vote for, telling them what to think, telling them
how
to think.

Oh, it was glorious, glorious, glorious.

Augmon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He thought about where he’d been in his sixty-four years and where he was going. He thought about the empire he was about to control and the mayhem he had caused—and was about to cause—in order to attain that control. He thought about the enemies he’d made, and the friends; he thought about the death and destruction that had surrounded him and would always surround him. Then he smiled. A broad, deep, satisfying smile.

Was it worth it?

Good Lord, yes. It was worth all he had done, all he would do, and much, much more.

Still smiling, his upper lip revealing glistening white teeth, he reached for the phone and dialed a number, a number that maybe twenty people in the world were privileged to know.

He heard the phone ring once, twice, and then it was answered. The voice he knew so well greeted him. The greeting was friendly but curt. Guarded. It was an efficient greeting.

Lord Augmon smiled again, his immaculate teeth practically glowing in the light that came from the bronze lamp on his desk.

And then he began talking to the person who would, once and for all, help make him the king.

* * *

The dynamite gave off a heavy, pungent, sweet odor as it lay there in the front seat of the Suburban.

Twelve eight-inch cylindrical sticks in all. Each one was exactly one and a half inches in diameter and wrapped in buff-colored wax paper. The Closer had bunched them into two bundles of six, wrapped silver duct tape around the two individual bundles, and then used more duct tape to join them together end to end, rather like a large salami.

Duct tape was the Closer’s friend. There wasn’t a plumber, furnace repairer, or bomb builder on earth who could live without duct tape.

Some assembly was required.

The Closer had brought along a supply of blasting caps. An old-fashioned kitchen-type timer was also needed, along with a small battery-powered hand drill, a simple electronic switch, two packages of nine-volt batteries (one to power the drill, the other for the device), a one-foot-by-two-foot sheet of tin chimney flashing, a ball of string, wire, and the duct tape. All of these things had been easily purchased at a hardware store in Corinth while Granville and the girl were madly combing the sleepy little place for clues.

They reminded the Closer of a pair of adventuresome socialites out on a charity treasure hunt.

And now they were going to win the grand prize.

The basic assembly was completed. A hole had been drilled into one of the sticks, and a blasting cap was inserted into the hole. The string was used to secure it in place. The timer was wired to the electronic switch, which was wired to the batteries. The batteries were wired to the blasting cap. When the timer went off, it would complete an electric circuit through the switch. The batteries would supply sufficient energy to the blasting cap to detonate it. This was known as the primary explosion. The resulting shock would then set off the dynamite. This was known as the secondary explosion.

Seated there, across the intersection from the general store, partially hidden but able to see who came in and out, the Closer finished the job. It was presently 12:17, according to the clock on the Suburban’s dash—the timer was now set for one hour. The sheet of tin was bent around the underside of the bomb, so as to help direct the blast upward. Then the entire thing was wrapped in a plastic shopping bag and more duct tape tied around it, forming a tight, ticking silver bundle. Done. The Closer got out of the Suburban and strode over toward the little Subaru, pausing to glance around. There was nobody else outside. There was nobody looking. And even if they had been, what reason would they have to be suspicious? None. If folks did happen to notice someone fiddling around under a parked car, they automatically assumed it was that person’s own. Moving swiftly and surely, the Closer knelt down under the rear bumper and taped the bundle directly against the fuel tank. The gasoline would provide more power to the explosion.

Way more power.

This was known as total and complete obliteration.

The Closer had planned to remove the Subaru’s D.C. license plates and replace them with Mississippi plates, stolen two nights earlier from another Subaru. But this task was no longer necessary. They had already thought to switch the plates themselves. They were, the Closer reflected wryly, learning the ropes.

The Closer returned to the Suburban, got back in, and waited.

It was now 12:22.

In precisely fifty-five minutes, at 1:17 P.M., Carl Granville and Amanda Mays would cease to exist. Not one useful, detectable trace would be left of them for the forensic scientists to work with. No skin. No hair. No teeth—their jaws would be shattered into so many tiny, far-flung shards of bone that it would be impossible to identify them by their dental records. As for the car, the Alabama plates would confuse them. And sifting through the remains of the wrecked engine for the serial number would be painstaking and time-consuming. It would take weeks to identify it as the missing woman’s, if indeed they even could. If indeed they even bothered.

And by then it wouldn’t matter anymore.

The targets emerged from the restaurant at 12:36 P.M. He had on a cap and sunglasses. She also had on a hat—a rain hat, by the look of it. They both affected a laid-back, country demeanor that was belied only by the keen manner in which she was leafing through a newspaper.

Before they got into the car, Granville stopped and looked nervously up and down the road, as if looking for something. For one fleeting moment the Closer thought Granville was staring straight at the front end of the Suburban, but then dismissed that though. And even if it was true, it no longer mattered. The clock on the Suburban’s dashboard showed that it was 12:38. Carl Granville and Amanda Mays might be able to outrun the Closer—but only for another thirty-nine minutes.

They got into the car now, Granville behind the wheel. He put the keys in the Subaru’s ignition and started it up. The engine didn’t kick over on the first try. It didn’t kick over on the second, either. Briefly the Closer’s heart stopped. But it did just fine on the third try, so they backed out onto the street and headed out, the bomb clinging securely to the gas tank. It did not sag. It was not visible.

The Closer waited before starting up the Suburban. There was no rush. No need to follow on their heels. The Closer knew their destination. And knew they would never reach it.

The Closer glanced at the dashboard clock.

It was now 12:43.

* * *

It was 12:57 when Carl glanced at his watch.

The sign by the side of the road said they were twenty miles from Oxford. Judging by their present speed, they would reach the home of William Faulkner and Ole Miss at about one-thirty. From there, it was approximately one more hour to Clarksdale, the town where Elvis had, in January of 1955, played the city auditorium. With some luck, it would also turn out to be the town that would provide the answers they so desperately needed.

Carl momentarily shifted his gaze to his right. Amanda had been silent since reading the brief story about the LaRues’ murder. He could practically see her reporter’s brain whirring away, trying to make sense of it all. He was doing the very same thing, trying to put matters in rational order. Point one: Whoever their predator was, it was someone who seemed to know their every move. Two: It was someone who had no qualms about slaughtering innocent people. Three: Points one and two made for a bad combination. Who was this hunter? Why was he trailing them? More important, why was he letting them stay alive? Where they serving some awful purpose?
What
purpose?

“I can’t make it fit,” she said finally. “
Why?
”

“I don’t even know which
why
to try to figure out first.”

“Let’s talk through it, okay?”