Gideon (35 page)

LINDSAY AUGMON: I was being just a tad facetious.

SENATOR HEARNS: Were you? Well, then let’s get specific, so we know when you’re just being facetious. Where would you like to be broadcasting to that you’re not?

LINDSAY AUGMON: There are many—

SENATOR HEARNS: China?

LINDSAY AUGMON: Yes, of course, China. Plus—

SENATOR HEARNS: Would China qualify as an enormous market, in your opinion?

LINDSAY AUGMON: It would.

SENATOR HEARNS: And, as of this moment, how many people would you be forced to share that market with?

LINDSAY AUGMON: Well, it would be a bidding situation with the Chinese government running the—

SENATOR HEARNS: Yes, I understand that. I’m not asking who you’d be bidding against. I’m asking who you’d have to share with.

LINDSAY AUGMON: If you’d let me answer the question, I’d be happy to tell you what you want to know. As of the moment there is no one to share it with.

SENATOR HEARNS: The bidding rights are up for grabs?

LINDSAY AUGMON: That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. The Chinese government has not yet made its choice.

SENATOR HEARNS: And when they do, what would those rights be worth? More than the four hundred forty million dollars you stand to make in India?

LINDSAY AUGMON: It’s not that black and white. There is a lot of technology that still has to be brought in, and we don’t know exactly how prevalent television will—

SENATOR HEARNS: Mr. Augmon, would you like to know what the experts I’ve talked to estimate as the worth if someone could gain exclusive satellite broadcast rights to China?

LINDSAY AUGMON: I’m sure you’re going to tell me.

SENATOR HEARNS: You’re damn straight I’m going to tell you. Over the next ten to fifteen years, as much as a hundred billion dollars!

LINDSAY AUGMON: I’m sure that’s a slight exaggeration.

SENATOR HEARNS: Only slight?

LINDSAY AUGMON: It’s worth a great deal of money, Senator.

SENATOR HEARNS: Ah. So now we finally have an idea of what you consider a lot of money: a hundred billion dollars! I’m glad to hear it, because I also think it’s a lot of money. And why aren’t you bidding for China, Mr. Augmon?

LINDSAY AUGMON: I believe you know the answer to that.

SENATOR HEARNS: Because the president won’t allow it.

LINDSAY AUGMON: Because the president’s policies won’t allow it.

SENATOR HEARNS: His human rights policies. Which I assume you disagree with.

LINDSAY AUGMON: I admire President Adamson’s compassion. But I question his priorities.

SENATOR HEARNS: Yes, I’m sure you do.

LINDSAY AUGMON: I don’t believe that a ban on trade with China is going to right the world’s wrongs. I think, in fact, it will greatly exacerbate them.

SENATOR HEARNS: To get one of the satellite slots that open up, is there a lot of lobbying that goes on?

LINDSAY AUGMON: As I’m sure everyone in this room knows, Senator, when dealing with your government it never hurts to have deep pockets.

SENATOR HEARNS: An unfortunate but accurate observation. How deep do your pockets go when it comes to Senator Chalmers?

SENATOR CHALMERS: This is outrageous! How dare you! What the hell do you think you’re doing? What the hell are you implying?

SENATOR HEARNS: Please calm down, Walter. I’m not implying anything. Please. It was an unfortunate transition. I was just trying to verify that Mr. Augmon is indeed one of the larger contributors to your presidential campaign.

SENATOR CHALMERS: And what the hell does that have to do with anything going on here?

SENATOR HEARNS: I believe that now you’re infringing on my time.

SENATOR CHALMERS: You are stepping on the wrong goddamn toes, Senator.

SENATOR MAXWELL: Senators, please, this is not the time for a down-home pissing contest. Why don’t you sit down, Walter, and let Molly finish her damn questions?

SENATOR HEARNS: Thank you, Paul. Mr. Augmon …”

LINDSAY AUGMON: I have given money to Senator Chalmers’s campaign, yes. I find him a man of integrity and I support his political positions.

SENATOR HEARNS: Which do not include the same human rights policies and trade restrictions on China.

LINDSAY AUGMON: I’m not a hundred percent aware of the specifics in that area.

SENATOR HEARNS: You are aware, sir, that Vice President Bickford was supposed to be testifying before this committee later today.

LINDSAY AUGMON: I am. I understand he’s quite ill.

SENATOR HEARNS: So your newspapers are implying. But we’re not here to gossip about the supposed state of the vice president’s health. Are you aware that Vice President Bickford has recently issued a statement in which he says, and I’m now quoting, “Modern communications empires like those owned by Lindsay Augmon are the new military-industrial complexes. One of the greatest dangers to American society and the world at large, possibly the greatest danger, is that Apex International already controls so much of what the world reads and watches. Lindsay Augmon, not the president, nor any politicians, is the most powerful man in the world because he has the insidious ability to make people think what he wants them to think.” What do you think about that statement, Mr. Augmon?

LINDSAY AUGMON: I think two things. One is that I’m flattered that the vice president gives me so much credit. And two is that I look forward to finding out any plans for his political future so that I can use appropriately whatever power he thinks I have.

SENATOR HEARNS:Thank you, Mr. Augmon. I’d like to introduce you to your next inquisitor, the junior senator from the grand state of Maryland. Senator Mayfield?

SENATOR MAYFIELD: Good morning, Mr. Augmon. I’d like to go back to the subject of airspace, for a moment. There are four places in the world which communications satellites are currently launched, if my information is correct.

LINDSAY AUGMON: I believe it has to do with weather conditions, Senator.

SENATOR MAYFIELD: And those places are, let me see, Cape Canaveral, Florida, in the United States; Xichang, China; Tanegashimi, Japan; and Kourou, French Guiana …

It was late-afternoon rush hour by the time Carl and Amanda reached the great Nashville area. Blow-dried commuters in sparkling new cars were crawling home to the sparkling new suburban communities that seemed to sprawl in every direction. Carl and Amanda found themselves caught in the middle of honking, steaming, bumper-to-bumper traffic that brought them to a dead standstill. It made New York look like an easy city in which to navigate.

The thriving New south, Carl reflected impatiently. He could not imagine why a nice small city like Nashville had not learned from the mistakes that formerly nice places such as Atlanta and Houston had made. He could not understand why any city would purposely want to ruin itself in the name of so-called progress.

It was Carl’s turn behind the wheel now. Amanda was working the map. Also the radio dial, in search of an all-news station. Which was no easy task. She found them a station that was All Country, no problem. Another that was New Country. She also found Classic Country, Soft Country, Rockin’ Country, Best Country … Until finally, she found the latest headline news broadcast.

Carl’s “spree killings” were far and away the top story. The station was even taking phone calls, soliciting theories as to where Carl was hiding and where and whom he’d strike next. In between calls they learned that after an exhaustive all-day search of the charred wreckage of the D.C. carriage house, authorities still had not located Amana Mays’s remains. Speculation was growing that she might not have been home at the time and was, in fact, missing rather than dead. The FBI would neither confirm nor deny this suspicion.

As to Carl Granville’s whereabouts, authorities reported that they were still pursuing numerous very promising leads.

“Excellent,” Amanda exclaimed, flicking off the radio. She hated country music—new, old, soft, loud, best, worst. It all depressed her.

“What’s so excellent about it?” Carl asked.

“They have zippo, that’s what. Zilch, nada, bupkes.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The phrase ‘pursuing numerous very promising leads’ is police-speak for ‘We have no fucking idea where he is.’ We got away clean,” she assured him, patting his knee. “You can relax.”

“I’d love to, Amanda, but I don’t remember how.”

After an hour of excruciating traffic they finally left Nashville’s outskirts behind and were streaking south on Highway 65. She directed him to get off at a little town called Columbia, which boasted the birthplace of America’s eleventh president, James K. Polk, as well as the largest, newest plant devoted solely to the manufacture of Saturn automobiles. Thanks to the Saturn plant, the modern world had caught up to Columbia. There were new housing tracts, new strip malls, new car dealerships. From there she had him get onto the Natchez Trace, an immaculate and lush green parkway that was utterly deserted except for them and the occasional family of deer. When they got off the Natchez Trace a few miles outside of Hohenwald, they found themselves in a place that progress had somehow managed to steer around. Here they were firmly rooted in the rural backwoods South of dirt farms, shotgun shacks, dog-eared trailer parks, and tiny white-washed churches.

Hohenwald had a population of less than four thousand people and, seemingly, one church per resident—most of them devoted to fundamentalist faiths with which Carl was not familiar. There was a brief, run-down main street with parking on the slant, a Piggly Wiggly, a gas station, and a high school. There were a few stores, most of these devoted to the buying and selling of used clothing. As near as Carl could tell, Hohenwald seemed to be the used-clothing capital of Tennessee, if not the entire South.

At the stoplight, Amanda leaned out the window to ask directions from a bearded man who was getting out of his pickup truck. The man was somewhere between the ages of twenty and fifty and had more fingers than he did teeth. His accent was so thick Carl could not grasp one word he said. It sounded a lot like “Macrerosesenmisotowonthrow.” Fortunately, Amanda was able to translate.

“Miller’s Creek Road is seven miles south of town on this road,” she informed him. “Take a left at the church.”

Carl shook his head at her. “Jesus, how did you understand him?”

“You forget, I spent a summer down this way before I got out of school,” she reminded him. “Working as a news intern at the paper in Birmingham, Alabama. My ear got used to it. Yours will, too, if you stay here long enough. It’s a little like being in France, except the food’s a lot greasier and they don’t serve wine with their grits.”

Miller’s Creek Road was bumpy, twisting, and narrow. It was not paved, although the flinty, rust-colored native soil—known as chirt—was as unforgiving as stone. There was nothing but deep woods on either side of the road. As dusk approached, fat bugs smacked into the windshield, leaving behind their wet remains. The air was heavy with moisture and utterly still. The Subaru’s wheezing air-conditioning system was no match for it. Perspiration streamed down Carl’s face. The back of his neck felt slimy. He craved a shower and eight hours on a firm mattress. He was painfully aware it might be some time before he got either.

Every once in a while there would be a mailbox and a dirt driveway leading off into the woods. No homes that were visible from the road, not until they went over an old wooden bridge and around a bend. Here there was a clearing where a small group of spanking new reproduction log cabins had been erected, complete with satellite dishes and aboveground swimming pools.

The home of Duane and Cissy LaRue was not one of these.

Their place, a modest-sized brick bungalow with a screened-in porch, was located just beyond. Carl pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and they got out, stretching their legs, looking around. Carl had not been sure what to expect of a place belonging to the world’s biggest fans of the young Elvis. It seemed surprisingly ordinary—all except for the two vehicles that were parked in their driveway. One was a 1955 Cadillac convertible. A
pink
Cadillac convertible. The other was a battered green pickup truck, also of mid-fifties vintage, with a faded sign on its door that read Crown Electric.

“You do realize the significance of Crown Electric, don’t you?” Amanda said, staring at it with just a touch of awe on her face.

“Refresh my memory, would you?”

“Crown Electric,” she informed him, “was where Elvis was working in Memphis when he first started recording for Sam Phillips at Sun Records.” She peered at the truck, then at Carl. “I wonder if this is going to be weird.”

“Stop wondering,” he said. “It will be.”

He was right. The LaRues were quite friendly and pleasant, but they did take a little getting used to. A warning by Shaneesa would have been nice, Carl thought. Something, anything to prepare them for the sight of a 220-pound sixty-something grandmother dressed in pigtails, a plaid jumper, bobby socks, and saddle shoes. And of her stringy, elderly little husband with his jet black pomaded ducktail haircut and his shiny black shirt, black pants with a wide pink stripe running up and down, and white bucks.

Then again, Carl decided, maybe there was no way to prepare for the LaRues.

One thing most definitely in their favor: they were extremely gracious people, not in the least bit put out by two sweaty, desperate strangers showing up on their doorstep unannounced.

“Now you kids come right on in,” Cissy chattered merrily. She had a high-pitched, singsong voice. She also had many, many chins,too many to count, and she wore a great deal of fruity, cloying perfume. She smelled, Carl thought, as if she bathed in large tubs of Hawaiian Punch.

“We’re very sorry to intrude,” Amanda started to say, but the LaRues immediately pooh-poohed her apology.

“It’s a pure pleasure to welcome you,” Cissy said. “We’ve gotten used to folks dropping in.”

They stood expectantly, as if waiting for Carl and Amanda to say something in response. When they didn’t, Duane snorted. “We do a weekly cable television show out of Columbia,” he explained, his voice as low and rumbling as Cissy’s was birdlike. His manner was much more reserved than his wife’s, but also quite polite.