Gideon's Corpse by Douglas Preston

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