Free Gideon by Russell Andrews Page A

bucks, isn’t it? You’ll have more than enough description to help you out. Believe me, you’ll not be wanting for material.”
    “What’s to stop me from showing this stuff to somebody else? Letting them try to find out the real story?”
    “For one thing, Carl, I’m here to stop you. And I think you’ll already agree I’m a fairly effective stopper. For another, I’m not allowed to leave any of this material here with you, and you’re not allowed to make a copy.”
    Carl nodded. “Can I at least make notes?”
    “You can,” Wagner replied.
    “That’s good, because I flunked my Evelyn Wood course. Question: What are you going to be doing while I’m doing this?”
    “Answer: I’m going to be watching you.”
    Carl glanced at the stack of papers, frowning. “This could take hours.”
    “I’m very patient. And I have nowhere else to go.” Wagner sat back down on the bed, crossed his arms, and diligently began watching Carl. He did not blink. He did not loosen his tie. “When you’re done,” he continued, “I will take the material and leave.”
    “I’ll miss you,” Carl said.
    “You will start writing immediately. I’ll return to pick up what you’ve written and to bring you more material.”
    “When will that be?”
    “You’ll know when you find me here.”
    Carl thought about chucking the whole thing right then. But then he thought about his novel and the fifty thousand dollars he’d just deposited in the bank. He thought about Maggie Peterson saying this project was going to change the course of history.
    “Harry, you seem to be a fairly intelligent guy.”
    “Why, thank you, Carl. That’s kind of you.”
    “Are you aware of just how fucking weird this whole thing is?”
    “It’s a fucking weird world, Carl. And getting weirder as we speak.” Again Wagner smiled at him faintly. “You’d better get to work.”
    * * *
    Carl dug a blank notepad out of the bottom drawer of his desk and started in on the diary. It was not easy going. The handwriting was tortured and faint, the prose rambling and disjointed and semiliterate. He found the content hard to follow, let alone absorb. Especially with that very large man sitting not ten feet away, staring at him like an immaculately groomed bird of prey. It took some getting used to. It all took some getting used to.
    But this was his job, he told himself. It was just like stroking a fifteen-foot jumper with three seconds left in a tie game. You get in the zone. you block out everything else. You do it.
    Carl Granville read, he made notes, he concentrated. Soon he was barely conscious of Harris Wagner sitting there. Wagner, for his part, remained as motionless as a tree. And as silent. Not once did he so much as clear his throat or make any other effort to remind Carl he was there. He knew that Carl knew.
    After a couple of hours Carl needed to splash some cold water on his face. Wagner allowed it, as long as Carl left the door ajar. Standing at the sink, his head spinning, Carl wondered just exactly what the hell he was reading. Clearly it was a woman’s diary. The handwriting and spelling showed that she was uneducated; the content indicated that she was dirt poor and of no apparent significance. But who was she? And who were all of the people that she was talking about? Had one of them become famous? Maggie had mentioned that her source, Gideon, was based in Washington—clearly, this diary in some way had political implications. But what were they? None of what he’d read seemed in any way controversial or damaging to anyone. It was about a time long ago and far away. Distant, obscure people in a distant, obscure place.
    And just exactly who was Harry Wagner? A bodyguard? A detective? A spy?
    Carl wondered. How could he not wonder?
    Wagner was making a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Waiting for the water to boil—“Electric kettle, Carl, that’s the secret,” he said—he used the bathroom himself. He kept the door open the entire