Gideon (23 page)

They were eating the corned beef and cabbage that Amanda made, and going through as many details as Carl could remember. Anything at all about the book he’d been writing, about the information he’d been given, the material he’d read. Dates. Any recognizable locations. Anything distinctive about the conversations he’d had with Maggie, with Harry Wagner. Anything at all he might have picked up about the identity of the unknown Gideon. He was clean-shaven now, hair slicked back, wearing the Giants jersey and sweatpants. It was good to be clean again. And it was even better to be sitting there listening as Amanda began to sink her teeth into the puzzle they had to solve. He almost felt like his old self. Except, of course, that he wasn’t. And never would be again. That Carl Granville was gone. That Carl Granville was history.

In between bites of food, Amanda was taking notes, sorting through any information that seemed relevant, making lists, and trying to organize the whole thing according to time line, geography, and character involvement. She didn’t have a lot to go on.

He had no real names. Just the boy he’d taken to calling Danny and the boy’s mother, whom he’d tagged Rayette. And no real places. He had read real descriptions of the southern towns he’d been writing about, he’d gotten to know them so well he felt he’d lived in them himself, but all names had been excised from the diaries and letters he’d been given. They could have been anywhere. Louisiana. Tennessee. Arkansas. Alabama. Who the hell knew. So many of the details had blurred in his mind—he had absorbed so much in such a short time—but Amanda was a terrific reporter. She had gone through the story with him three times already, asking questions, taking him further and further into the recesses of his mind. Each time something new came back to him. Each time he felt they were making some slight step forward. The question was: What were they stepping forward to?

“All right,” she said. “Tell me about Rayette.”

“Poor, uneducated. Borderline hooker. Big drinker. Married several times—”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Three, four … three. There were three. No, four.”

“Who were they?”

He listed the men he remembered. And described some of the small, shithole southern towns in which Rayette had lived. He remembered that Danny had been born in 1945. They had started moving around soon after his birth. His sense was that they’d moved from state to state rather than within one state. The baby brother—Carl had never even thought of a name to call the child—was born in ’54. In 1955 Danny committed the murder, killing the year-and-a-half-old boy. Whatever town it had happened in had smelled really bad. There was something—a factory? a chemical plant? a slaughterhouse?—that fouled the air. It was a factory. Definitely a factory. And he had remembered that there was a midwife. With a birthmark covered half her face.

“What
kind
of factory?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

“It didn’t ever say. I made something up. I said it was a battery factory, I think. Yeah, that’s right. I did a little research on my own, and that seemed like a decent choice. They used to dump all kinds of toxic shit in the water back then. Cobalt, cadmium …”

“Those were the good old days for American industry, when they could dump anything they wanted to dump. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why Rayette’s baby was born retarded.”

“You think there’s an ecological angle to all this? I mean, from Gideon’s point of view?”

“I don’t know. It’s certainly possible.” Amanda pressed on. “But we don’t have enough to go on. You have to remember more.”

“I can’t even remember my own name,” he said.

“Come on, Carl, there has to be something else.”

“I’m blank.”

“A school,” she urged. “Or a church. Some kind of landmark. A store …”

“Elvis,” he said.

“What?”

“Elvis!” His eyes were on fire now. “Elvis Presley performed in the town. At a small arena, maybe a high-school auditorium or something like that, for fifteen hundred people.”

“When?” she asked.

“The day of the murder. 1955.”

“Good!” Amanda sounded elated. “Very good.”

Carl allowed himself a brief and triumphant smile. Then he shook his head and sagged back into his chair. “It’s not much,” he said, “is it?”

“No, it’s not much,” she agreed. “But it sure as hell is something.”

Two and a half hours later they had very little else. Carl was struggling to stay awake, and Amanda was stuck for a new direction to take. They had gone through the story three more times and no new details had emerged. They were back at the start point: Whoever Danny was in reality, he had grown up to be somebody very, very important. And someone else, Gideon, was trying to use Carl and the book he’d been writing to bring him down. Somehow Danny must have gotten wind of this plot. As a result, two women were dead and Carl was on the run. And here they were in Amanda’s cozy house picking through the remains of lukewarm corned beef and cabbage, trying to make sense of the whole thing.

“We’ve got a few specifics now,” Amanda said. “We’ve just got to figure out how to use them to find out who Danny really is.”

“And Gideon.”

“And why Gideon is trying to ruin Danny.”

“Danny’s obviously someone who has a whole lot to lose,” Carl murmured.

“And not just money,” Amanda added, “or we’d be talking about a simple case of blackmail. Danny’s got to be someone with real power. Or position. Fame …”

“What about the new guy who just took over as head of that Christian right group?”

“The United in Christ Coalition?”

“There’s been a real power grab over there, hasn’t there?”

“He doesn’t murder little boys,” Amanda pointed out sharply. “He just diddles them.”

Carl cocked his head at her. “Really?”

She nodded. “Common knowledge around town. If someone truly wanted him out, it would be a snap. They wouldn’t have to bother rat-fucking him with a book. Do you have any other possibilities?”

He drained his beer and sat back in the chair, gazing up at the ceiling. “The hotshot governor of Alabama, the one who went to Princeton.”

“Al Brady.”

“He’s very progressive. Putting a lot of money into public schools and job training. The
Times
keeps mentioning him as someone who has a national—”

“Why bother?” She dismissed this one with a wave of her hand. “He’s been hospitalized twice for depression. His first wife divorced him because he’s a bed wetter. And when he was in law school he lived with a drug dealer.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Nice crowd you’re moving in.”

“Look who’s talking. Besides, people want to know what they’re buying. It’s up to the press to look under the hood. Who else?”

He named the beloved anchor of the number-one-rated network newscast. “He’s the right age. And he grew up in Arkansas. But—”

“Right,” she said, finishing the thought for him. “But so what? He’d lose his job. He’d write a soul-baring memoir that would go straight to number one on the best-seller list. He’d go on
60 Minutes
and cry. And probably just get another job on another network. Getting rid of him wouldn’t change the course of history. It probably wouldn’t even make anyone change the channel.”

“So where the hell are we, then?” he asked. And when she didn’t answer, he answered for her. “We’re nowhere. That’s where we are.”

He was fading again. The mental strain and the physical pace he’d kept up over the last several days had finally worn him out. Carl didn’t even make it to the spare bed, just lay down on the couch in the living room and conked out. While he slept, Amanda stayed in the kitchen, smoking, drinking a diet Coke, and trying desperately to sort things out. After an hour, the tobacco tasted stale, the soda seemed watery, and her brain was even more muddled than before. She stubbed out her butt, went and stood over him, watching him. Even asleep, he did not show signs of peace. He was tossing and turning, breathing hard; from the kitchen she thought she’d even heard him moaning and muttering. The terror he was living though had clearly penetrated deep into his dreams. She stroked his hair and he stirred. For a moment the tension left his face, and she grinned. There he was, the old Granny. Then his eyes opened. He stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending, as if he didn’t know where he was. When the fog cleared, he forced himself to sit up. Took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Then it was time to go back to work.

She told him that after a brief sleep, the brain sometimes did wonders. New thoughts could penetrate, new memories could reveal themselves. So they went through the story two more times. The first time she made him tell everything he could remember about Harry Wagner. When he’d show up, exactly what he’d said, what he cooked. The second time they concentrated on Maggie Peterson as their focus. Detail after detail came forth. He recounted exactly what she’d said to him in her apartment. He told her about Quadrangle, the name of the Apex imprint she said would be publishing the book.

“Who signed the check?” she wanted to know. “The check that Maggie gave you.”

“I don’t have a clue,” he told her.

“Was it a company check?”

“Of course.”

“Well, what company?”

“I assumed it was Apex.”

“Bartholomew said no, didn’t he?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Was it Quadrangle?” she pressed.

“Maybe,” He shrugged.

“Your bank will have a record of it.”

“Unfortunately,” he pointed out, “if I try to find out, they’ll also have me arrested.”

“All right, we can work on that. What else?”

“Nothing else,” he said. “Really. She told me why she wanted me to do the book, she liked the fact that I could keep a secret, she knew I could write fast—”

“That was important?”

“Very. I had about three weeks to write the whole thing. She said she wanted it to be published in six.”

“That quickly?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Is that normal?”

“Not at all. Three
months’
delivery to publication would be an incredibly fast turnaround time for a regular book.”

“When did you start?” Amanda asked.

“You know when. The day after Betty’s funeral.”

Amanda went and grabbed her calendar. “June eighteenth,” she said. “That was the funeral.”

“So I started that night.”

“And three weeks from then is … that’s now. Early July.”

“Okay,” he said. “What does that prove?”

“I don’t know. But if she wanted it published three weeks after you turned it in, that’d put the pub date at the end of the month. Why?”

“Could be anything. Could be somebody’s birthday.”

“Or it could be something happening in July,” she said. “An event. An opening of something, I don’t know. What happens in July?”

“The fourth,” he said. “That’s an event.”

“Very patriotic but pretty vague. What else?”

“The All-Star game. But somehow I doubt that’s related.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. They both sat in silence for a few moments. Then her mouth opened slightly and she turned her head toward him. Their eyes met and he nodded.

“I think I might be thinking the same thing,” he told her. “But what does it have to do with Gideon?”

“The presidential convention,” Amanda breathed.

“It’s in New Orleans. In about three weeks.”

“That’s a hell of an event.”

“A nonevent,” Carl said, shaking his head slowly. “Adamson’s the most popular president since Reagan. Even
you
like him, and you don’t like
any
politicians.”

“I do like him,” she agreed. “He can remember his own name in a meeting without looking at a cue card, he can speak in complete English sentences without using a speech-writer, and he’s managed to be president almost four whole years without getting sued by a member of the Bimbo of the Month Club. That gives him a major leg up on his predecessors. The fact that he’s managed to keep the country from falling apart is pure gravy.”

“Plus he’s married to St. Lizzie.”

“I hate that nickname. It’s so sexist. Just because she’s smart and strong on her own, she gets slammed.”

“I’d hardly say she gets slammed. The press treats her like royalty.”

“Well, she deserves a lot of it. She does a lot of good things. She’s building a whole infrastructure of inner-city health clinics. She’s doing more for education than anyone since God knows when. And the same for the rights of pregnant women.”

“I’m not arguing. I voted for the guy and I love his wife. Why are we even talking about them?”

Amanda shrugged. “Just examining every angle. What else would tie in to a book pub in July?”

“You know,” Carl said slowly, “as long as we’re being thorough … Adamson
does
qualify in one regard. He’s certainly got a lot to lose. He’s a shoo-in for reelection in November, no matter who runs against him.”

“Especially if it’s Walter Chalmers. The senior senator from the great state of Wyoming presently trails the president by twenty points in every poll.”

“Because Chalmers is a right-wing fascist gun nut who’s living in the nineteenth century and terrifies anybody who actually hears him speak. He’s crazy.” The words hung there between them. “I guess,” Carl said slowly, “the question we have to ask ourselves is … just how crazy is he?”

“Are you asking if he was crazy enough to murder a little child?”

Carl exhaled a great swoosh of breath. “yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

“Even if it were true, why would Adamson bother? It’s going to be the biggest landslide election since …” She stopped short.

“Since Nixon and McGovern?” he finished. “When Nixon was ahead by twenty points in the polls and still went ahead with the Watergate break-in?”

“I agree he’s a nightmare, but Senator Chalmers as Danny? And President Adamson as Gideon? It just seems too crazy.”

“Maybe Adamson doesn’t even know about it. Maybe it’s one of his aides. Or maybe it’s the other way around,. Maybe it’s Chalmers as Gideon.”

“And the president is Danny?” She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Hey,” he said, “we’re just examining all the angles, remember? And some of them come into play. Adamson’s from the South, he’s about the right age …”