Gideon's Corpse

Shrugs all around. “It’s possible. We could ask around.”

Fordyce produced his cards and handed them out to everyone. “That’s a great idea. Ask around. You learn of anyone here who knew Chalker, even slightly, get in touch. Okay? There must have been a reason why he gave his book collection to the school, and I’d sure like to know that reason. You all could really help the investigation. I mean it. Now we’re heading over to the school—is it this way?”

“Just go straight, take a left, you’ll see it. There may not be anyone around. School’s canceled. A lot of our people are leaving.”

“I understand.” Fordyce shook hands warmly all around and left the men in a group, talking animatedly.

“That was good,” said Gideon, impressed despite himself.

Fordyce grinned. “It’s like fishing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a fisherman, too.”

“Love it—when I get the chance.”

“Fly?”

“Bait.”

Gideon scoffed. “That’s not fishing. And here for a minute I thought we had something else in common.”

He caught a glimpse of the Rio Grande through the trees, the sunlight glinting off the river as it ran over a bed of stones, and he had a momentary flashback to a trout stream far away and many years ago, fishing with his father during the good time, his father explaining that success in fishing, as in life, depended mostly on how long you kept your fly on the water. “Luck,” he used to say, “is where preparation meets opportunity. The fly is the opportunity, the preparation is the cast. And the fish? That’s the luck.”

He quickly pushed that particular memory aside, as he habitually did whenever thoughts of his father arose. It was disturbing to find even here, at this remote Indian pueblo, that people were leaving. Then again, they were in the very shadow of Los Alamos.

The school lay beside the ancient cottonwood groves along the river, flanked by dusty baseball diamonds and tennis courts. It was a weekday morning but the school, as the men had indicated, was mostly empty. An eerie silence hung over the campus.

They checked in with the office and, after filling out a visitors’ book, were escorted to the small school library, a room looking out over the soccer field.

The school librarian was still there, arranging books, a stout lady with long black braids and thick glasses. She got interested when Fordyce showed his ID and they mentioned Chalker’s book collection. Again, Gideon was surprised at how eager she was to help.

“Oh yes.” She shuddered. “I knew him. I did. And I can’t believe he became a terrorist. I just can’t believe it. Do they really have a bomb?” Her eyes widened.

“I’m not allowed to discuss the details,” said Fordyce kindly. “I’m sorry.”

“And to think he gave us his book collection. I have to tell you, everyone here is very worried. Did you know they let school out early for the summer? That’s why we’re so deserted around here. I’m leaving myself, tomorrow.”

“Do you remember Chalker?” Fordyce interrupted patiently.

“Oh yes. It was about two years ago.” She was almost out of breath at the recollection. “He called and asked if we needed books, and I said we’d love to have them. He brought them in that afternoon. There were two, maybe three hundred. He was actually a nice fellow, very nice! I just can’t believe it…”

“Did he say why he was giving them away?” Fordyce asked.

“I don’t recollect. I’m sorry.”

“But why to the pueblo? Why not to the Los Alamos public library or some other place? Did he have a friend here?”

“He really didn’t say.”

“Where are the books now?”

She gestured. “They’re all mixed up. We shelved them with the others.”

Gideon looked about. There were several thousand books in the library. This was going to be more of a chore than he’d anticipated.

“Do you remember any titles in particular?” Fordyce asked, jotting notes.

She shrugged. “They were all hardbacks, mostly mystery novels and thrillers. Quite a few signed first editions—he’d been a collector, apparently. But that didn’t matter to us—to us, a book is meant to be read. We just shelved them where they belonged.”

While Fordyce talked, Gideon drifted away and began to peruse the fiction section, pulling down books at random and flipping through them. He didn’t want to admit it to Fordyce, but he feared his idea might turn out to be a waste of time. Unless by sheer chance he came across one of Chalker’s books with a significant piece of paper stuck into it, or some telling note in the margins. But that seemed unlikely—and book collectors did not normally annotate their books, especially autographed editions.

He drifted along the aisle of fiction, starting with Z and going on down the shelves in reverse alphabetical order, plucking out a book here and there, Vincent Zandri, Stuart Woods, James Rollins… He riffled through books at random, looking for notes or papers, or—he smiled to himself—rough sketches of atomic weapons perhaps, but finding nothing. In the background, he could hear Fordyce questioning the librarian with a gentle but persistent thoroughness. Gideon couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s competence. Fordyce was a strange combination of methodical, by-the-book determination and impatience with rules and red tape.

Anne Rice, Tom Piccirilli… He pawed through book after book with a rising irritation.

And then he paused. Here was a signed book, a copy of a David Morrell novel, The Shimmer, with the author’s signature under a scribbled Best wishes.

Nothing telling there. He flipped through the pages but there was nothing else. He shoved it back. A little farther on, he encountered another signed book, this one by Tess Gerritsen, titled The Bone Garden. Another generic dedication: To Reed, Best Regards. And another, Killing Floor, signed by Lee Child, To Reed, My Best. Chalker had good taste, at least.

Fordyce droned on in the background, extracting every last drop of information from the librarian.

Gideon worked his way down to the B’s. The Abbey in the Oakwood by Simon Blaine was personalized: To Reed, with affectionate regards. And it was signed Simon.

He paused before putting it back on the shelf. Did Simon Blaine sign all his books just Simon? There was another Blaine novel next to it, The Sea of Ice. To Reed, with my best, Simon B.

Fordyce appeared at his side. “Dead end,” he murmured.

“Maybe not.” Gideon showed the two books to Fordyce.

Fordyce took them, flipped through them. “I don’t get it.”

“With affectionate regards? And signed by first name only? Sounds like Blaine knew him.”

“I doubt it.”

Gideon thought for a moment, then turned to the librarian. “I’d like to ask you a question.”

“Yes?” She hurried over, glad to have a chance to talk again.

“You seem to have a lot of books by Simon Blaine.”

“We have all of his books. And come to think of it, most of them came from Mr. Chalker.”

“Ah,” said Fordyce. “You didn’t tell me that.”

She gave an embarrassed smile. “I just now thought of it.”

“Did Chalker know Blaine?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps. After all, Blaine lives in Santa Fe.”

Bingo, thought Gideon. He cast a triumphant eye on Fordyce. “There you have it. They did know each other.”

Fordyce frowned. “A man like Blaine, a bestselling author—National Book Award winner, it says here—isn’t likely to have had much of a friendship with a geek from Los Alamos.”

“I resemble that remark,” said Gideon, in his best Groucho Marx imitation.