“New Mexico just passed a medical marijuana law.” He went on to explain his nascent idea to Fordyce. The FBI agent was silent a long time, staring into his ice cubes, and then raised his head.
“You know, it’s not a bad plan.”
Gideon smirked. “I’m going to enjoy watching you muss up your perfect hair and finally lose that junior executive FBI outfit.”
“I’ll let you do the talking. You already look like a stoner.”
21
They hit the Salvation Army store early the next morning, the moment it opened. Gideon flipped through the racks, scooping up outfits and handing them to Fordyce, who carried them with ill-concealed grace. Then they swung by a theatrical supply company before returning to Fordyce’s hotel room with their haul. Gideon spread the clothes out on the bed while Fordyce watched with a frown.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked.
“Stand over there.” Gideon spread out a shirt, laid the pants underneath, frowned, switched the shirt for another, then another, then socks, squinting at each combination.
“Jesus,” Fordyce complained, “we’re not going on Broadway here.”
“The difference is that if our little play is a flop, you’ll get a bullet instead of a rotten tomato. Trouble is, you look like you were born a Fed.”
He mixed and matched the outfits again, adding shoes and socks, a baseball cap and a wig, finally assembling something to his liking. “Try these on,” he said.
“Son of a bitch.” Fordyce shed his suit and donned the outfit. He hesitated with the hair. It had been a woman’s wig, with real hair, that Gideon had given a bad haircut to.
“Go ahead,” said Gideon. “Don’t be shy.”
Fordyce put on the wig, adjusted it.
“Now the cap. Put it on backward.”
The cap went on. But that didn’t look right: Fordyce was too old. “Turn it right way around.”
Finally Fordyce stood in front of him, in full costume. Gideon circled him appraisingly. “Too bad you shaved this morning.”
“We’ve got to go.”
“Not yet. I need to see you walk around.”
As Fordyce took a turn around the hotel room, Gideon groaned. “You’ve got to put your heart in it, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know what more I can do. I already look like a jerk.”
“It’s not just about the look. It’s about the mental attitude. You’ve got to act the part. No, not just act it—
“So who am I supposed to be?”
“A cocky, wiseass, arrogant, cunning, self-satisfied, don’t-give-a-shit, morally bankrupt prick. Think about that while you walk around the room.”
“So how does a morally bankrupt prick walk?”
“I don’t know, you’ve got to
Fordyce, with an irritated sigh, did a second turn.
“Aw, shit,” said Gideon. “Can you lose the poker up the ass?”
Fordyce turned to him. “We’re wasting time. If we don’t get there soon, we won’t have time for the imam.”
With another muttered curse, Gideon followed Fordyce down toward the waiting Suburban. He wondered just how good a radar these people would have. To him, Fordyce still walked and talked just like a Fed.
Maybe they wouldn’t notice. But if they did, he’d better have a plan B.
22
The Paiute Creek Ranch lay north of Santa Fe in an isolated part of the Jemez Mountain range. Gideon and Fordyce bumped and ground their way up a washed-out mining road and into a series of ponderosa-covered hills and valleys just below a peak. The road ended at a brand-new chain-link fence with a set of locked gates.
As they got out of the Suburban, Gideon glanced over at Fordyce.
“You go first, I want to watch you walk again. Remember what I said.”
“Stop staring at my ass.” Fordyce started toward the gate, and it just about drove Gideon crazy to see how stubbornly the whiff of law enforcement clung to the agent. But he had to admit, the clothes were good—it was the way he carried himself that was a problem. If he kept his mouth shut, then maybe, just maybe, no one would notice.
“Remember,” Gideon muttered, “I’m doing the talking.”
“You mean, the bullshitting. Which you’re an expert at.”
Gideon peered through the fence. A hundred yards down the dirt track stood a small log cabin, and through the ponderosa pines he could glimpse more cabins, a barn, and the gables of a large ranch house. In the distance, some green fields were laid up alongside Paiute Creek.
Gideon shook the fence. “Yo!”
Nothing. Had all of them left, too?
“Hey! Anybody home?”
A man stepped out of the nearby cabin and came walking over. He had a long tangle of black hair and a long, squared-off beard in the mountain man style. As he approached, he casually unsheathed a machete stuck into his belt.
Gideon could feel Fordyce tensing up next to him.
“Relax,” he murmured. “It’s better than a .45.”
The man stopped ten feet from the fence, holding the machete dramatically across his chest. “This is private property.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Gideon. “Look, we’re friends. Let us in.”
“Who you here to see?”
“Willis Lockhart,” Gideon said, proffering the name of the commune’s leader.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but we’ve got a business proposition for him that he’ll want to hear—I guarantee it. I’m sure he would be pissed if we were turned away without him getting a chance to hear it.
The man considered this a moment. “What kind of proposition?”
“Sorry, man, that’s for Lockhart’s ears only. It’s about money. M-O-N-E-Y.”
“Commander Will is a busy man.”
A hesitation. “You armed?”
Gideon held out his arms. “No. Feel free to check.” And they had, in fact, left their sidearms in the car. Fordyce had his ID, the warrants, and the subpoena rubber-banded to his shin, under his pants.
“Him?”
“No.”
The man sheathed his machete. “All right. But the commander isn’t going to like it if you guys aren’t who you say you are.”
