Gideon (24 page)

“Do you remember the campaign?” she said with an incredulous laugh. “You’re talking about the most scrutinized president in U.S. history. How many biographies have been written? There isn’t a detail of Tom Adamson’s life that hasn’t been pored over, investigated, and reinvestigated. If that man ever had a brother—a half-brother, a stepbrother, legitimate, illegitimate, black, brown, yellow, simian, alien—don’t you think we would have found out by now?”

“What about Bickford?”

“What about him?”

“He’s vice president. A heartbeat away. Maybe he wants to be the Man.”

“First of all, if Jerry Bickford had wanted to be president, he would have run for president. He’s a kingmaker, he’s not a king. He’s also the most honest politician we’ve had since … probably since George Washington.”

He struck his lower lip out, considering this. “I guess.”

“There’s also a rumor going around about him. That he’s sick. A small stroke or something. He’s kind of dropped out of sight the last few days, and no one’s quite sure what’s going on. But I guarantee you, Jerry Bickford’s not involved in any of this. That’s just crazy, Carl. It’s really, really crazy.”

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “It’s crazy.”

Without any warning, he stepped over to her and planted a soft kiss on top of her head. Then he headed toward the front door, his stride steady and purposeful.

“Wait a second,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to do what I should have done at the beginning—turn myself in. Before things get even crazier. And something even worse happens.”

She almost smiled. “What could be worse?”

Without even a trace of a smile, he said softly, “They could come looking for your. That’s the worst thing I could possibly imagine.”

She walked over to him, gently rubbed the side of his cheek with her hand. Their bodies were close, touching when they swayed. “We’re in this together,” she told him, her voice low and urgent. “And I want you to stay.”

His hand went up to touch hers. Their fingers entwined. “Amanda …”

Gently but firmly she untwined the fingers. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” she said. “This has nothing to do with you and me.” She slipped her hand out of his grasp, but her body still leaned up against his. “This is strictly professional.”

He frowned at her, not quite believing what he heard. “Professional?”

“Absolutely. You don’t think I can pass up a story like this, do you?” And before he could answer, she said, “I’m a journalist. I’m supposed to be able to find people.” She took a step back, gave him a determined not. “So let’s cut the shit and go find Harry Wagner.”

Punching in the numbers on his cellular phone, placing the call that would irrevocably change his life, H. Harrison Wagner was afraid.

When he identified himself to the English voice on the other end of the phone and there was a distinct pause, Harry knew that he had the element of surprise on his side. With surprise came control. And, usually, with control came victory. Even over a man like Lindsay Augmon. But waiting for Augmon to respond, Harry did not feel victorious. His blood ran cold, a chill swept through his entire body, and he thought:
Hang up. Hung up and forget all your well-thought-out plans. Just run. As far and as fast as you can
. But then the man on the other end recovered his composure. He no longer sounded surprised when he calmly said, “How did you get this number?”

“Have you forgotten who I work for?” Harry said.

“No.” Augmon sighed. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.” Harry was pleased. His voice showed no sign of stress, no hint of nerves. “You’ve gotten my communications?”

Augmon hesitated. Then said, “Yes, of course I have.” There was a resignation to his tone, as if this conversation had been inevitable. As if everything that Harry had asked for, everything Harry had done, had been preordained. The Englishman sounded weary and slightly impatient.

“I know everything,” Harry said.

“You know a lot,” the voice on the other end admitted. “But not everything.”

“I know enough to fuck you up, pal,” Harry said. “And fuck you up big time.”

“Your threats have already been made and taken into consideration,” Augmon said. “There’s no need for you to embellish them. I have had greater experts than yourself try to intimidate me and, believe me, it’s a waste of your energy and mine.”

“Fine. No more embellishment. Let’s just get down to business. Write down this number.” Harry clearly and distinctly, barked out a nine-digit number.

“Your bank account?”

“Good,” Harry said. “I’m impressed.”

“Cayman Islands?”

“
Very
good.”

“And how much would you like wired into it?” the man wanted to know.

“For you, spare change. For me, my retirement fund. Five million dollars.”

“May I ask how you arrived at that figure?”

“I’m not greedy,” Harry told him. “I figure it’s enough to keep me happy, not enough for you to bother coming after me.”

“I’m sorry you decided to switch sides,” the man on the phone said. “You could have been quite helpful.”

“I’m not switching sides,” Harry responded. “There’s only one side. Always has been. Mine. I need the money by tomorrow.”

“You can have it in thirty minutes. One hour, to be on the safe side. If you give me a number, I’ll call you as soon as it’s arranged.”

“I’ll call you,” Harry said. “One hour.” And without another word, he disconnected the phone.

Harry expected the fear to disappear when he hung up. But it didn’t. It was inside him. clutching at his stomach and his kidneys and his throat. It would not let go, and that surprised him. Fear was not something he generally lived with. The fact was, he could only remember three times in his life that he’d been scared.

The first was when he was nine years old. He was living in Buffalo, New York, and his best friend, Timmy McGirk, was moving to Hawaii. Timmy’s father was a career army officer and he’d been transferred there. Everyone in school was incredibly jealous. But not Harry. Harry was distraught. He cried when Timmy broke the news, and Timmy had to comfort him. Timmy told Harry he could visit anytime he wanted and they would learn how to surf.
Hey, maybe you can learn the hula
. Timmy had said, poking him in the chest and laughing.

The young Harry Wagner never made it to Hawaii. Neither did Timothy McGirk. The plane carrying Tim, his younger sister, and both their parents crashed into the Pacific Ocean approximately thirty minutes before reaching Honolulu. There was some kind of electrical fire in the rear of the plane and the whole thing turned into a flying inferno. According to the newspaper accounts, it was highly unlikely that any passengers were still alive by the time the flaming hulk hit the water. They had long since been asphyxiate and burned to a crisp.

After that, Harry had been afraid to fly. Afraid of falling. The fear took over almost every waking minute. Looking out the window from the high floor of a building, he would break into a cold sweat and his knees would get weak. When his family was driving over a bridge, he would have to close his eyes and crouch on the floor of the car. Sometimes in school he couldn’t even hear the teacher because all his brain was picturing was a huge jet, falling, falling, faster and faster and then …

And then nothing.

Over time the fear became manageable, but it was still present. Then, when Harry turned eighteen, he forced himself to take flying lessons. He was in college by then,the state university at Binghamton. He took a job at an all-night diner, throwing frozen potatoes into vats of boiling-hot grease, to pay for the lessons. Although his airborne, performance was beyond reproach technically, every time he got behind the controls of that twin-engine Cessna he was frozen with terror. The instructor, whose name was Rigney, was extraordinarily handsome, in his mid-thirties. His skin was always a perfect bronze color, even in the dead of winter; his teeth were sparkling white; and his smile was as cocky as it was dazzling. Harry was in awe of Rigney, who, while in the air, would constantly regale the younger man with stories about his winter job. Every December Rigney would pack up, fly down to the Caribbean, and operate his own charter, carrying whoever and whatever needed carrying from island to island. It was four months, he said, of flying, sun, and pussy, the three greatest things in life. Harry would listen to the wild tales with his sweating hands wrapped around the controls, desperately wanting Rigney to notice him and tell him he was doing a good job, desperately wanting Rigney to like him, but wanting even more to make it back down to safety, to get the hell out of the clouds and feel his wobbly legs on firm ground. Rigney picked up on his pupil’s fear and didn’t want to let him solo, even after he’d done the required hours. But Harry had insisted and the instructor had no real reason, other than instinct, to hold him back.

Harry believed that Rigney had picked up on more than just his fear. He believed that Rigney, underneath his cocky smile and cynical eyes, knew everything about him. He thought that Rigney had the ability to look inside him and see the real him. See what Harry Wagner really wanted. See what Harry Wagner really
was
.

On his off days Harry began to follow Rigney around. Secretly. Just watching him from afar. He was certain that Rigney never knew, and Harry got better and better at trailing him down the street. He could keep up with him for blocks and blocks, ducking into doorways and dodging behind passersby when needed. He even found out where Rigney lived, and sometimes he would go to his house late at night. He would hide in the bushes and peer into the lit windows. Sometimes he would climb a big maple tree in Rigney’s front yard and crouch in the branches, just watching. There were always women inside, young, attractive women who laughed at everything Rigney said and moaned loudly every time Rigney kissed them. Sometimes Rigney would come to the window, one of his women begging him to come to bed. But Rigney would stare out at the yard and Harry would freeze, terrified that Rigney might see him. Once Rigney stood like that, naked, his body framed in the light from the bedroom lamp. He stood for fifteen minutes, maybe longer, just staring. Harry crouched down in the branches of the tree, sweating, willing himself to disappear behind the camouflage of the leaves. Then Rigney turned away, laughing, and jumped into bed with his pouting partner.

The day before Harry’s first solo flight, Rigney insisted on taking him up one last time. Harry hadn’t slept in a week, hadn’t eaten in almost as long. For over a month, minutes before each lesson began, he’d gone to the men’s room at the tiny upstate airport and gotten the dry heaves so bad, he’d cough up blood into the rusty sink.

When they went up for their final session before the solo, Rigney was uncharacteristically quiet. No leering talk of flying babes in bikinis, no cheery chatter about three-martini flights and blow jobs in the pilot’s seat. He told Harry he wanted to simulate the next day’s solo flight, wanted Harry to feel as if he were totally alone. It didn’t take long before they were soaring, encased in silence save for the steady hum of the plane’s engine. As always, Harry’s mind forced its way back in time, let the picture of the burning jet return in all its paralyzing glory. Soaring above the cottony clouds, looking down at the roads and bridges and buildings below, all reduced to an unreal miniature landscape, Harry kept his hands clenched on the controls and waited until the ordeal could be over and he could once again get his feet back on the ground.

Except this time it was not so simple.

At ten thousand feet, half a hour into the two-hour session, Rigney reached over and began to reduce the power to the right engine.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked through clenched teeth.

“I want you to demonstrate emergency single-engine procedures.”

“We’ve done this,” Harry said.

“That’s right,” Rigney told him. “And we’re gonna do it again.”

The plane dipped suddenly, dropping maybe a hundred feet, and Harry thought his heart would literally burst from his chest. Mouth open, sweat pouring down his face, he turned to Rigney, incredulous. But the instructor only looked at him and said calmly, “Gotta see how you do when things go wrong.”

Harry fought the urge to panic. He tasted his own bile rising up in his throat but choked it back and forced his mind to focus. It was only a test, he told himself. Rigney was just reducing power, not destroying it.
Right the plane, get it level, show him you know what you’re doing, and he’ll bring the power back up
.

He looked to his right. Rigney was making no move to restore power.

“You’re going too far,” Harry said.

“Maybe so,” Rigney said. “Shit happens sometimes.”

Harry heard the throat of the carburetor constrict.
Christ, the engine’s off!

“Restore power,” Harry said. “Restore the goddamn power!”

“I’d like to, son,” Rigney said, his calm and even tone infuriating Harry. “But if you remember any of the shit I been crammin’ into your brain, you’ll remember that the carburetor heat comes from the manifold. And once the engine stops, what happens?”

“No manifold,” Harry breathed. “You son of a bitch. You froze the carburetor. You stupid, stupid son of a bitch.”

“You can swear at me all you want,” Rigney said, “but that ain’t gonna get us home.”

“You piece of shit!” Harry screamed. “We’re going to die!”

“Not if you do what you know how to do.”

Think
, Harry told himself.
This lunatic’s ready to die with you, so think, think, think
. But he couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything except see himself falling, falling all the way to earth, a great big ball of fire plummeting toward his death …

“We’re losing speed,” Harry said. “If we go below sixty-five knots, we’ll stall. We’ll lose the other engine.”

Rigney said nothing.

“Help me,” Harry pleaded. “Please help me.”

Rigney folded his arms serenely. “I ain’t even here,” he said.

Harry Wagner was frozen. Paralyzed. And in the few moments he was ruled by indecision, the plane began spinning wildly out of control.