Gideon's Corpse

“My—”

“Remember when those school groups came to see the lab?” Gideon said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “You loved those kids, loved showing them around. And they responded to you. Not to me. Not to the others. To you. Remember that, Reed?”

“I’m burning up!” Chalker screamed. “They got the rays on again! I’ll kill him, and the death will be on your head, not mine! You HEAR me? SEVEN, EIGHT—”

“Let the poor boy go,” Gideon said, taking another step forward. It deeply frightened him that Chalker couldn’t even count straight. “Let him go. You can have me instead.”

With a brusque motion, Chalker turned, aimed the weapon at Gideon. “Get back, you’re one of them!”

Gideon held his arms out toward Chalker almost beseechingly. “You think I’m in on the conspiracy? Take your best shot. But please, please, let the kid go.”

“You asked for it!” And Chalker fired.

4

And missed.

Gideon dropped to the tarmac, his heart suddenly pounding so hard it seemed to knock itself against his rib cage. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, waiting for another explosion, a searing pain, and oblivion.

But a second shot did not come. He heard a confusing welter of noise, voices shouting over one another, the rasp of the megaphone. Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes, looked toward the house. There was Chalker, barely visible in the doorway, holding the boy in front of him. He could tell from the way the man handled the weapon, his shaking hand, his stance and grip, that it was probably the first time in his life he had fired a handgun. And he was shooting from fifty yards.

“It’s a trick!” Chalker shrieked. “You’re not even Gideon! You’re a fake!”

Gideon got up slowly, keeping his hands in sight. His heart refused to slow down. “Reed, let’s just do the trade. Take me. Let the little boy go.”

“Tell them to turn off the rays!”

Don’t argue with his delusion, they had told him. It was good advice. But how the hell should he respond? “Reed, everything will be all right if you just release the boy. And the little girl.”

“Turn off the rays!” Chalker crouched behind the boy, using him as cover. “They’re killing me! Turn off the rays or I blow his head off!”

“We can work it out,” Gideon called. “Everything’s going to be fine. But you have to let the boy go.” He took another step, and another. He had to get close enough for a final rush—if it became necessary. If he didn’t rush Chalker, tackle him, the little boy would die and the snipers would take Chalker out—and Gideon didn’t think he could bear seeing that happen.

Chalker screamed as if in agony. “Stop the radiation!” His whole body was shaking as he waved the gun around.

How do you respond to a lunatic? Desperately, Gideon tried recalling the advice Fordyce had given him. Engage the hostage taker, stimulate his humanity.

“Reed, look into the boy’s face. You’ll see how truly innocent he is—”

“My skin’s on fire!” Chalker cried. “I was counting! Where was I? Six, eight—” He suddenly grimaced, his face contorted with pain. “They’re doing it again! The burning, burning!” Once again he pushed the gun into the child’s neck. Now the boy began to scream—a high, thin sound, otherworldly.

“Wait!” Gideon yelled. “No, don’t!” He began walking more quickly toward Chalker with his hands up. Forty yards, thirty—a distance he could cover in a few seconds…

“Nine, TEN! TEN! Ahhhhhh!—”

Gideon saw the finger tighten on the trigger and he sprinted straight at him. At the same time, with an inarticulate roar, the male hostage suddenly appeared in the hallway and fell upon Chalker from behind.

Chalker wheeled backward, the gun firing harmlessly.

“Run!” Gideon screamed at the boy as he dashed toward the house.

But the boy did not run. Chalker struggled with the hostage, who was clinging to his back. They spun around together and Chalker slammed him into the wall of the entryway and wrenched free. The man rebounded with a fierce cry and swung at Chalker, but he was a flabby man in his fifties and Chalker deftly sidestepped the blow and punched him to the floor, knocking him senseless.

“Run!” Gideon yelled at the boy again as he jumped the curb.

As Chalker swung the gun around toward the father, the boy leapt onto the scientist’s back, pounding him with his small fists.

“Dad! Get away!”

Gideon tore up the walkway toward the front steps.

“Don’t shoot my dad!” the boy shrieked, flailing.

“Turn them off!” Chalker screamed, whirling around, distracted by the child, swinging the handgun back and forth as if seeking a target.

Gideon took a flying leap at Chalker, but the gun went off before he made contact. He slammed the scientist to the ground, seized his forearm, and broke it against the banister like a stick of firewood, the weapon tumbling from his grip. Chalker shrieked in agony. Behind him, the boy’s heartbreaking cries shrilled out as he hunched over his father, who was lying prone on the floor, the side of his head gone.

Pinned, Chalker writhed underneath Gideon like a snake, roaring insanely, spittle flying…

…And then the SWAT team came bursting through the door and thrust Gideon violently aside; Gideon felt hot blood and body matter spray across one side of his face as a fusillade of shots cut off Chalker’s ravings.

The sudden, awful silence that followed lasted only a moment. And then, from somewhere inside the house, a little girl began to cry. “Mommy’s bleeding! Mommy’s bleeding!”

Gideon rolled to his knees and puked.

5

The charge of SWAT team responders, CSI coordinators, and emergency medical personnel rolled in like a wave, the area immediately filling with people. Gideon sat on the floor, absently wiping the blood from his face. He felt shattered. No one took any notice of him. The scene had abruptly changed from a tense standoff to controlled action: everyone had a role to play; everyone had a job to do. The two screaming children were whisked away; medical personnel knelt over the three people who had been shot; the SWAT teams did a rapid search of the house; the cops began stringing tape and securing the scene.

Gideon staggered up and leaned against the wall, hardly able to stand, still heaving. One of the medics approached him. “Where’s the injury—?”

“Not my blood.”

The medic examined him anyway, probing the area where Chalker’s blood had splattered across his face. “Okay,” he said. “But let me clean you up a bit.”

Gideon tried to focus on what the medic was saying, almost drowning from the feeling of revulsion and guilt that overwhelmed him.

Again. Oh my God, it’s happened again. The presence of the past, the horribly cinematic and vivid memory of his own father’s death, was so strong that he felt a kind of mental paralysis, an inability to work his mind beyond the hysterical repetition of the word again.

“We’re going to need this area vacated,” said a cop, moving them toward the door. As they spoke, the CSI