Gideon's Corpse (17 page)

“One four niner six niner,” said Fordyce, “heading ten o’clock for Bakersfield.”

“Squawk seven seven hundred, and ident,” came the voice from Los Angeles Center.

Fordyce pressed a button on the console.

“This is Los Angeles Center. Contact at thirty-four miles out from Bakersfield.”

The thick smoke had diminished somewhat, and Gideon could see that the sky had clouded over. The land below was foggy and indistinguishable, just the occasional patch of green revealed amid tufts of gauzy gray.

He took a look at the altimeter: the needle was slowly sliding downward. “Are we descending?” he croaked.

“Law of gravity. Once we get to the single-engine service ceiling, we should be fine. We’re only some thirty-odd miles from Bakersfield. Let me try the left ignition one more time.” He flicked a switch, flicked it again. “Shit. Dead.”

Gideon felt pain in the tips of his fingers and he realized he was gripping the seat with all his might. He slowly loosed his hold, willed himself to relax.
It’s cool. Fordyce has it under control.
Fordyce was an able and experienced pilot. The man knew what to do. So why did he feel so panicked?

“Stabilizing at one thousand nine hundred AGL,” Fordyce said. “We’ll be on the Bakersfield runway in ten minutes. Now you’ll have a story you can take home to—”

Suddenly there was a violent explosion to their right, a rattle that ran through the entire fuselage. Gideon jumped, instinctively shielding his face with his arm. “What the hell was that?”

Fordyce looked white. “Right engine detonating.”

“
Detonating?
” Clouds of oily dark smoke were now pouring from the other engine. It made an ugly, half-coughing, half-grinding noise, then died, the propeller feathering to a stop.

Once again Gideon found himself without words. This was the end—that much was clear.

“We can still glide,” Fordyce said. “I’ll do a dead-stick landing.”

Gideon licked his lips. “Dead-stick landing?” he repeated. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t. Help me pick out a place to land.”

“Help you—?”

“Look out the window, for fuck’s sake, and find me some flat open ground!”

A most peculiar sense of disbelief gripped Gideon. This had to be a movie, this couldn’t be happening. Because if this was real life, he’d be too petrified to move. Instead, he found himself scanning the horizon for a landing site. The ground-level fog had cleared somewhat, and now he could see that a bare ridge lay ahead of them. Beyond the ridge, the land fell away into a narrow valley still thick with fog, surrounded by steep forested hills.

“Can’t see the ground—fog. How much time do we have?”

“Moment.” Fordyce was working the controls yet again, nosing the U-shaped control yoke forward and dialing in the trim tabs. Despite the extremity of the emergency, his voice sounded calm.

“Trimmed for eighty,” he finally said. “That gives us a few miles. What about that damn landing site?”

“It’s still socked in ahead.” Gideon blinked, wiped sweat from his forehead. “How the hell can you lose both engines?”

Instead of answering, Fordyce set his lips in a grim line.

Gideon stared out through the cockpit glass until his eyes hurt. They were descending toward the ridge. Beyond, the cloud cover was slowly breaking up. And then he saw it: through a gap in the clouds a tiny but unmistakable ribbon of asphalt running up the valley.

“There’s a road up there!” he said excitedly.

Fordyce took a quick look at his map. “Highway 178.” He got on the radio again. “Mayday, mayday, this is Cessna one four niner two niner on channel 121.5. Second engine out, repeat, second engine out. Am attempting emergency landing on Highway 178 west-southwest of Miracle Hot Springs.”

Silence over the headset.

“Why isn’t anybody responding?” Gideon asked.

“Too low,” Fordyce said.

They were down to fourteen hundred feet above ground level, and the ridge was coming up fast. In fact, it looked like they weren’t going to clear it.

“Hold on,” Fordyce said. “We should just shave past that.”

Eerily silent, they glided over the barren ridgetop, wind whistling past the dead propellers, fragments of mist trailing away beneath. Gideon realized he’d been holding his breath and now he let it stream out of his lungs. “Sink me,” he muttered.

“Two miles, I’d guess,” Fordyce said. “One thousand one hundred AGL. Steady on glideslope.”

“Landing gear?”

“Not yet. That would increase our drag—
oh, fucking hell!
”

They had cleared the ridge and were gliding into the valley beyond. And now the landscape came into view through the parting mists: another low ridge, covered with a towering grove of sequoias, tall and majestic, standing between them and the highway beyond.

“Fucking hell,” Fordyce whispered again to himself.

Gideon had never heard Fordyce lose it and that scared him more than anything. He looked down at his own hands, flexed them, as if to experience physical movement just once more. He realized, with a little flare of surprise, that he wasn’t afraid of dying—that maybe this was better than what was coming…in eleven months. Maybe.

Fordyce’s face had gone dead white, and sweat had beaded heavily on his forehead. “Sequoia National Forest,” he said huskily. “I’m going for that gap, there. Hold on.”

The plane was heading toward the uneven ridge, obscured by massive trees with tiny pointed tops. Moving the control yoke again, Fordyce angled the plane toward an enfilade between several of the giant trees. At the last possible moment, he veered the plane sharply to the right.

Gideon felt the world tilt and the nose of the plane drop heavily. “Christ,” he murmured. Whether it was an epithet, or a prayer, or both, he wasn’t sure. A moment of sheer terror as the huge, reddish trunks flashed past them just feet away, turbulence buffeting the plane—and then the sky was abruptly clear. The ribbon of Highway 178 curved gently ahead, a few cars crawling along it.

“Five hundred feet AGL,” Fordyce said.

“Can we make it?” Gideon’s heart was pounding. Now that they’d passed the trees and a chance for survival existed, he felt a sudden urge to live.

“Don’t know. We lost a lot of altitude in that maneuver. And I still have one final turn to make—have to land with traffic, not against, if we stand any chance of walking away from this.”

They began a slow turn toward the highway. Gideon watched as Fordyce lowered the landing gear.

“More trees ahead,” Gideon said.

“I see them.”

Another wrenching movement and Gideon heard the sudden
thwap thwap!
of branches on the underside of the plane, and then they were turning to align with the road, a bare thirty feet above the surface.

A truck was lumbering just ahead of them, grinding up a rise, and they descended toward it, seemingly on a collision course. Gideon closed his eyes. There was a
rubumbump!
as one of the plane’s wheels bounced off the top of the truck’s cab. As the truck’s horn blared, the plane was shoved into a tilt; Fordyce pulled it straight, then settled the craft down onto the road ahead, holding the nose up high as the truck behind them fought to slow down, air brakes razzing.

They hit the tarmac with a lurch, came up, then back down with another jarring
thump
—and then they were skidding along the ground, finally coming to a stop in the middle of the highway. Gideon turned and saw the truck screeching to a stop behind them, jackknifing, spewing and spitting rubber from shredding tires. It slid to a stop barely twenty feet from them. Ahead, in the opposite lane, a car approaching from the other direction also slammed on the brakes.

And then all was silent.

For a moment, Fordyce sat like a marble statue, as the metal ticked and hissed around him. Then he prized his fingers from the control yoke, flicked off the master switch, pulled off his headset, and undid his safety harness.

“After you,” he said.

Gideon climbed out of the plane on rubbery, nerveless legs.

They sat down, robotically, on the shoulder of the highway. Gideon’s heart was going so fast he could barely breathe.

The trucker and the driver of the oncoming car came running up. “Damn!” cried the trucker. “What happened? You guys all right?”

They were all right. Other cars began stopping, people getting out.

Gideon didn’t even notice. “How often does an engine just die like that?” he asked Fordyce.

“Not often.”

“What about both engines? In exactly the same way?”

“Never, Gideon. Never.”

30

A
DAY AND A
half later, Gideon Crew parked the Suburban—its windshield replaced—in the field beside his log-and-adobe cabin, killed the engine, and got out. He glanced around, breathing deeply, taking in for a moment the vast sweep of early-evening scenery laid out before him: the Piedra Lumbre basin; the Jemez Mountains surrounding him, fringed with ponderosa pines. The air, the view, were like a tonic. It was the first time he’d been back to the cabin since the business on Hart Island, and it felt good. Up here, the dark feeling that was almost always with him seemed to abate. Up here, he could almost forget everything else: the frantic investigation, his medical diagnosis. And the other, deeper things, as well: his blighted childhood; the colossal, lonely mess he’d made of his life.

After a long moment, he scooped up the shopping bags from the passenger seat, pushed open the door to the cabin, and walked into the kitchen alcove. The smell of wood smoke, old leather, and Indian rugs enveloped him. With the country in an uproar, cities evacuating, and the voices of the crazies and conspiracy freaks filling the talk shows and radio, here at least was a place that remained the same. Whistling the melody to “Straight, No Chaser,” he began removing items from the shopping bags and arranging them on the counter. He took a moment to circumambulate the cabin, opening shutters and raising windowpanes, checking the solar inverter, turning on the well pump. Then he returned to the kitchen, looked over the array of ingredients, still whistling, and began pulling out pots, knives, and other equipment from various drawers.

God, it felt good to be back.

An hour later, he was opening the oven, checking the progress of his braised artichokes
à la provençale
, when he heard a vehicle approach. Looking out the kitchen window, he saw Stone Fordyce behind the wheel of a shabby FBI Crown Vic. In response, he threw half a stick of butter into a chafing dish and began heating it on the stove.

Fordyce stepped inside, glanced around. “This is what I call rustic charm.” He glanced over into the alcove. “What’s that, computer stuff?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of equipment to run off solar power.”

“I’ve got some serious battery storage.”

Fordyce moved into the living room, tossed his jacket on a chair. “That’s some road up here. I almost scraped off my muffler.”

“Discourages visitors.” Gideon nodded toward the kitchen table. “Bottle of Brunello open—help yourself.” He had wondered if the wine would be thrown away on the FBI agent, but decided to try anyway.

“God knows I need it.” Fordyce poured himself a generous bumper, took a sip. “Something smells good.”

“Good? This is going to be the best meal you’ve ever eaten.”

“Is that a fact?”

“I’m sick of eating airport and hotel food. Usually I only eat one meal a day, prepared by myself.”

The agent took another sip of wine, eased himself down on the leather sofa. “So—find out anything?”

They had returned to Santa Fe directly from the crash site instead of continuing to the writing center. It had seemed more important to figure out who’d sabotaged the plane—if in fact it had been sabotaged. To save time, they had divvied up this day’s investigative duties.

“Sure did.” The butter foam was subsiding in the chafing dish, and he carefully transferred the
rognons de veau
—rinsed and peeled of their fat—from the butcher’s paper into the dish. “I looked into that Cobre Canyon allegation. Hiked up the canyon. You won’t believe what I found.”

Fordyce rocked forward. “What?” he asked eagerly.

“A pile of rocks, some seashells, a prayer rug, a ritual ablution bowl, and a small natural spring.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s a shrine. Members of the mosque go out there to pray. No evidence of bomb making or anything other than praying.”

Fordyce grimaced.

“And I looked into why our friend the imam left the Catholic Church. Years ago, he was abused by a priest. All hushed up, there was some kind of payment involved. Nothing public. His family signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

“That’s what he wanted us to find out. But couldn’t tell us.”

“Exactly. And I was also able to get a make on those two guys you videotaped at the mosque. Get this: one of them has a commercial pilot’s license, used to fly for Pan Am.”

Fordyce put down his glass. “No
shit
. Well, that ties in with what I found about our accident today.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I saw the preliminary report of the NTSB investigators. This was put on a fast track. There’s no doubt about it—the plane was sabotaged. Somebody—maybe your friend the pilot—added jet fuel to the avgas in our Cessna.”

“What does that mean?”

“That Cessna runs on one hundred low-lead. It needs an octane rating of one hundred to function. Adding jet fuel lowered the octane. As a result, the mixture basically burned through both pistons, one after the other.” Fordyce took another sip of wine. “A misfueled engine can start and stop normally—up until the moment it burns up. The thing is, avgas is light blue in color. Jet fuel is clear, sometimes straw-colored. When I did that inspection, the color
did
look a bit off—too light—but it was still blue, so I thought we were okay. This was very deliberate, done by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.”

There was a brief silence as the implications of this sank in.

“So what time did you finish your investigations?” Fordyce asked.