Gideon (6 page)

“Rules?” The woman looked at him incredulously. “What rules you talkin’ about?”

“My rules,” Harry said. “The only ones that count.”

It took them twenty-two minutes to get there. The woman known as Momma One-Eye lived in a small shack at the end of a rutted dirt road. Harry walked around to the other side of the car, opened the door for the woman in the front seat, motioned for her to step out. She looked into the backseat, saying nothing, but Harry knew she was asking him to leave her daughter in the car. Harry smiled apologetically and shook his head. He opened the door to the backseat and waved his hand in a grand gesture, welcoming the little girl to their new destination.

Harry knocked on the door to the shack and got no answer. He hadn’t expected one. The wood was so thin, it was not worth picking the lock. He just kicked out again and the door flew open. The little girl flinched at the noise and ran into her mother’s arms. The older woman grabbed her daughter, lifted her up against her chest, and held her tightly. She whispered something to the girl, and Harry smiled sadly when he heard what she was saying.

It’s going to be all right baby.

It’s going to be all right.

He had a detestable job to do, so he ushered the two of them into the one-room cabin. There was a fireplace, which he guessed was the only means of heat. The furniture was scarce, and what was there was simple: a single bed, two high backed wooden chairs, a round kitchen table that could seat four, a small refrigerator and stove. He politely asked the woman to have a seat in a wooden rocking chair in the middle of the room. Never letting go of her daughter, she sat. The little girl soon settled on her lap. Harry Wagner then removed his suit coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and began to search the room.

The kitchen cabinets had several cans of beans and Jolly Green Giant vegetables. There was one closet and that was cleaned out of everything except four wire hangers. Under the bed there was only dust. He was thorough, as usual, but the search didn’t take long and he found nothing of any interest. Nothing that would make his employer happy. And he knew he wasn’t going to find Momma One-Eye, either. Not today. But he’d been told to make sure this was not a wasted trip. At the very least, he’d been ordered to leave a warning. One that served a purpose.

So he picked up a kitchen knife from Momma’s counter and took a deep breath.

His job had just become twice as detestable. He was not going to kill one person. He was going to kill two.

Without saying a word, he took three steps toward the middle of the room and slit the throat of the woman sitting in the rocking chair. Death was instantaneous. The woman never made a sound. She didn’t even look surprised. She merely toppled back into the chair as her blood spurted onto the front of his shirt and tie. He glanced down, revolted by the deepening stains, but he knew he couldn’t let that distract him. The little girl was free now and screaming. She was running toward the front door and she was fast, but not as fast as he was. He had her by the arm and he swung her around, hard enough that he heard something pop, probably her shoulder. That was the end of her resistance. She wasn’t screaming now; it was more of a whimper. She was too frightened to scream, even when he ripped her clothes off. Her head was down, tucked against her flat chest. She wouldn’t look at him, as if, somehow, not seeing him would make him go away. He took her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes. When he pulled the knife up, she shut her eyes tight, contorting her face into such an exaggerated expression, he almost laughed. But he didn’t laugh. Instead, tears of grief began to roll down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so very sorry.” Then, with one more slice, he slit the little girl’s throat from ear to ear. She was so fragile, he nearly cut straight through the bone. As she slumped back to the floor, her head was tilted so far to the side, it looked like it was about to fall off.

It took Harry several minutes to compose himself. He did it by forcing himself to look at what he’d done, willing himself to study the carnage and confront the reality of his deeds. When he knew the scene was embedded in his memory, so deeply that he would never forget the most minute detail of this horror, Harry went outside to his rental and opened the trunk, and took out a small, leather overnight bag. From that he removed a starched white shirt and a tie identical to the one he was wearing. He went back inside, took off his bloodstained shirt and tie, tossed them on the floor. There was an oil lamp on the mantel above the fireplace and he picked it up, holding it at chest level, then dropped it onto the wooden floor. He took out a cigar, a Dominican with Cuban leaves. It was one of the few unhealthy vices he allowed himself. Harry removed the wrapper, cut off the tip, and put the cigar in his mouth. He lit a match and held it to the end of the cigar until he was drawing in large, satisfying bursts of smoke. With a last look at the two bodies, one still rocking ever so slightly in the rocking chair, the other sprawled on the floor by the door, he dropped the lit match onto the spreading puddle of kerosene and walked out the door.

As Harry got into his car, he heard the noise, the lovely whoosh of flame as it starts to catch and spread. He felt the warmth and then stared at the magnificent flames, beginning to roar higher and higher, out of control now, crackling and spitting, as Momma One-Eye’s cabin began to burn to the ground.

* * *

Heading out of town, Harry drove evenly and steadily, slowing down only once, as he passed a ragged football field. The letters on the scoreboard read “Go Owls.” The
w
in the team name was crooked, tilted to the right. The field itself was in disrepair. The grass was brown, and there were clumps of cans and bottles on what should have been the fifty-yard line. One crossbar was missing, and the other was leaning at a 45-degree angle. Still, it was a school field, and Harry smiled as he passed by, remembering the feeling on pulling on a helmet and running out to play as cheer-leaders screamed and parents roared their approval. Harry flashed back to those glorious days of stardom, losing himself momentarily in the past, then shook away the cobwebs of memory, put his foot on the gas pedal, and got the hell out of there.

Back on the highway, cruising at precisely the legal limit, H. Harrison Wagner realized he didn’t have to be in New York until the next afternoon. A whole day off. And the kid he was supposed to see, the writer, he’d be easy. He didn’t know what was going on. Didn’t even have a clue. Harry now knew enough about killing to know he much preferred dealing with people who didn’t have a clue. As with everything else, they made it much easier to do what had to be done.

Harry thought about the trap he’d allowed himself to be caught in. He didn’t know whom he hated more: the person who’d caught him, or himself, for being caught. But, as always, his urges soon overcame any sense of self-reflection. So, as he drove, Harry Wagner decided he was going to spend the night in Nashville. And do his best to fall in love for another twenty-four hours.

Yes, he admitted to himself, underneath it all he was so, so weak.

But what the hell. If he was going to be weak, he might as well enjoy it.

Carl rang the buzzer to Maggie Peterson’s apartment and waited for over a minute before ringing again. When there was no answer after his third ring, he leaned against the elegant wrought-iron gate that shielded her front door from the street and began to wonder if he’d imagined their entire conversation earlier that morning.

The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and bright, and the sidewalk outside Maggie’s lavish East Side brownstone looked freshly washed. Nannies and young mothers were out on the street pushing baby carriages. A couple of teenage boys were kicking a soccer ball in and out among the parked cars. He’d been waiting, pacing in front of her stoop, for fifteen minutes when an errant kick from one of the teenagers sent the soccer ball Carl’s way. He was in the process of making a nice little dropkick back to them when a black limousine pulled up directly in front of his pacing path. A chauffeur stepped out from behind the wheel and walked around the car to open the back door on the passenger side. As he did so, he glanced at Carl, a conspiratorial glance that seemed to wonder why the passenger couldn’t open her own goddamn door. The answer was that Maggie was the passenger and Maggie clearly did nothing on her own that she could have someone else do for her. She did not apologize to Carl for keeping him waiting; she just strode silently past him, unlocked the glistening iron gate, then the door to her apartment, and whisked herself inside. Carl followed and found himself in a chrome and black leather living room. He sensed a theme, since she was still dressed in black leather, although it was a different black leather outfit from the one she’d worn at the funeral. This one was a vest with, apparently nothing underneath it, and a short, skintight skirt, along with ankle-high boots. She blended in perfectly with her furniture. When she sat on the couch, leaned back, and crossed her legs, her white arms, legs, and face took on a free-floating, almost ghostly appearance.

“How do you like it?” she asked, and he wasn’t sure if she meant the apartment or her outfit. He had to admit, he liked them both just fine. The living room opened into a gourmet kitchen. The six-burner Viking stove alone would have taken up most of the space in Carl’s entire apartment. The rest of the apartment seemed just as opulent. As distracting as Maggie was, lolling on her couch, the view behind her was even more distracting. French doors led out to a brick patio and an elegant, English-style garden in full and brilliantly colorful bloom. Somewhere down the black and white tiled hallway, he assumed, was at least one bedroom. Probably two or three. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be inviting him down that hallway to check out that view.

Carl finally responded to her question and, indicating the apartment, said that it was beautiful. He then took the plunge and began rattling off how pleased he was that she’d liked his novel, that it was very personal and important to him, the whole idea of a small-town basketball coach and what happens to him when he lands a once-in-a-generation player. He hoped she liked the title,
Getting Kiddo,
because he felt very strongly about it—well, not so strongly that he wouldn’t think about changing it if she really hated it. He was just telling her how thrilled he was that she thought it could be a success, that he’d work incredibly hard, do whatever it took to help, when she held up an imperious hand, cutting him off, and said, bluntly, “Your novel won’t sell for shit.”

That stopped him cold. Which she didn’t even notice. She was too busy pouring some Evian into a crystal glass filled with ice cubes. She didn’t offer him any, just took a sip, sighed with pleasure, and put the glass down.

“It’s too damned good to be successful in today’s market,” she explained. “But I
will
publish it. And I’ll do the whole number—fancy advance galleys, a reading tour at the good independent stores, the three or four of them that are still left …”

Carl shook his head at her, confused. “Maybe I’m missing something here. Why do you want to take on a book that won’t sell?”

“Because I want you to take on something for me that
will
sell. Something big. I’m talking number-one best-seller big. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening big,” Carl said. He was also noticing that she had a wall of original Nan Goldin photographs. It was a disturbing display of junkies, transvestites, and asexual body parts.

“I’ve landed something that’s so unbelievably hot we’re doing it as an instant book. Written quickly, published even quicker. The kind of thing we usually save for terrorist attacks, wars, or dead royalty.”

As she talked her face lit up as though it were Christmas morning and she’d just been given the ultimate present. At that moment Carl saw right into the essence of Maggie Peterson, and that essence was pure, unadulterated greed.

“I’ve got an inside source in Washington,” she went on. “A certain someone who has an amazing story to tell, every bit of it true. And when that story is published, it will change the course of history.”

“That’s quite a statement,” Carl said, somewhat skeptically. Hype was, after all, what Maggie Peterson was best at.

“I mean every word of it. I am not exaggerating. This book will change the course of history.”

“Who’s the inside source?”

“Someone who, for personal reasons, wishes to be known only as Gideon.”

“Gideon,” Carl repeated. “Okay … but who
is
Gideon?”

Maggie drained her glass, uncrossed her legs, and leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “The first and only thing you need to know about Gideon is that you’ll get no answers whatsoever about him. None. You will never meet him, you will never speak to him, you will never have any contact with him. So don’t even bother asking questions. Gideon is in an extremely sensitive position. And terrified of being outed. He will deal only with me. No one else. Understood?”

“No,” he said slowly, frowning.

“Then keep quiet and listen.” Her words poured out of her in machine-gun style, quickly, violently, and dispassionately. “I need a ghost. Someone who can write, because Gideon can’t. At least, not well enough for a book. Furthermore, I need someone who can do this as fiction—a tight, well-crafted commercial novel. Because if Apex tries to publish this as nonfiction, we’ll get sued for billions of dollars.

“By who?”

“I really don’t like repeating myself,” she answered testily.” You will get no answer from me about Gideon.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be dense,” Carl said. “But how do you expect me to agree to write a book when I don’t have the slightest idea who or what it’s about?”

“I’m talking about a rush, rush assignment,” she snapped, as if that answered her question. “I’ll feed you information, highly confidential information delivered directly to you. You will absorb it, then turn it into fiction, adding color, texture, and atmosphere but keeping as close to the facts as possible. You’ll get it back to me, chapter by chapter, and I’ll edit it as you go along. The timing is vital. It
must
be published in six weeks.
Now
do you understand?”