“What are you doing here?” she asked crossly.

“Just checking in. Looking for your father.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re still chasing that stupid lead.”

“I’m afraid so,” he said pleasantly. “Nice horse. What’s his name?”

She crossed her arms. “Sierra. My father is really busy.”

“Can’t we do this in a nice, friendly way?”

She recrossed her arms and gave an irritated sigh. “How long do you want with him?”

“Ten minutes.”

The man with the clipboard came back, his face creased with anxiety. “I’m very sorry, he just pushed his way in—”

Alida turned to him with a radiant smile. “I’m taking care of it.” She turned back to Gideon, the smile vanishing as quickly as it came. “They’re about to shoot the final sequence of Moonrise and they’ve got a big pyro scene coming up. Can’t you wait until after that?”

“Pyro scene?”

“They’re going to blow up and burn the town. Or at least a good part of it. The pyrotechnics are almost ready to go.” She added after a moment, “You might enjoy it.”

It would give him a little more time to hang around and ask her questions. If he could think of some. “How long will it take?”

She glanced at her watch. “About an hour. Once the explosions and fire start, it goes fast. You can talk to my dad afterward.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.” He glanced over her appraisingly. “You look like a star.”

“I’m a stunt double.”

“For anyone in particular?”

“The female lead, Dolores Charmay. She’s playing Cattle Kate.”

“Cattle Kate?”

“The only woman in the history of the West hanged for cattle rustling.” Alida flashed him a brief smile.

“Ah. Now, that suits you. How many bad guys do you kill?”

“Oh, maybe half a dozen. I also have to gallop around, holler, fire my six-guns, ride through a curtain of fire, cause a stampede, get shot, and fall off my horse—the usual stuff.”

A man came by, uncoiling a wire, two others behind wheeling a tank of propane. Behind the church, Gideon saw what looked like a giant gasbag being gingerly maneuvered into position.

“What’s that?” he asked

“That’s all part of the pyrotechnics. That gasbag will create a fireball. It looks spectacular, but there’s no actual explosion. See, in the movie the bad guys have secretly stockpiled the town with arms and munitions, so a lot of great stuff is going to go off.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Not if it’s done right. They’ve got a special pyro crew setting it up. Everything’s planned and timed down to the last iota. It’s as safe as a walk in the park. You just don’t want to be in the town when it burns up—that’s all.”

She was warming to her subject and, to his relief, it seemed she was forgetting her dislike of him.

“And those things?” he asked, by way of encouragement. He pointed to some cylinders that were being buried in the ground.

“Those are flash pots. They’re filled with an explosive mixture that goes off just like a bomb, shooting upward. Those lines over there go to nozzles and racks that release jets and sheets of burning propane to simulate building fires. You’re going to love it when all this goes off—if you like explosions, that is.”

“I love explosions,” he said. “All kinds. In fact, one of the things I do at Los Alamos is design high-explosive lenses for nuclear implosion devices.”

Alida stared at him, what little friendliness there was leaving her face. “How awful. You design nuclear bombs?”

He hastily changed the subject. “I only mention it because what you’ve got here isn’t so different. I imagine all these pyrotechnics are connected to a central computer controller, which will fire them off in the right sequence.”

“That’s right. Once the sequence starts, they’d better be rolling, because there aren’t any retakes and there’s no turning back. If they miss the shot, a couple of million dollars’ worth of pyrotechnics are wasted, not to mention most of the set.” She slipped a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket, shook one out, lit up.

“Um, should you be smoking here?”

“Absolutely not.” She exhaled a long stream of smoke in his direction.

“Let me have one.”

With a wry smile she slid one from her packet, lit it for him, flipped it, and inserted it between his lips.

A short, bowlegged, cranky-looking man with a shaved head came walking down the street on stubby legs, bawling in a megaphone. She held her cigarette behind her back and Gideon followed suit.

“Isn’t that—?”

“Claudio Lipari. The director. A real Nazi.”

Gideon noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. A dozen sedans were arriving, bringing in a rolling cloud of dust, but instead of stopping in the parking lot they drove over the plastic tapes and continued on toward the town, fanning out as they came.

Lipari saw them. He stopped and stared, frowning.

“What’s going on?” Alida asked.

“Crown Vics,” said Gideon. “It’s law enforcement.”

The cars parked at the edges of town, surrounding the place. Doors opened and four men got out of each car—all wearing bulky blue suits leaving little doubt there was body armor underneath.

The director began walking toward the closest car, his face furious, waving them off with his arms and shouting, to no effect. The men in the blue suits came forward, spreading out, flashing their badges, moving in a well-coordinated action.

“Classic,” said Gideon. “They’re about to make an arrest. A big one.” Are they after Blaine?

“God, no,” said Alida. “Not right now.”

To his surprise, Gideon saw Fordyce get out of the lead car. The FBI agent seemed to be scanning the area. Gideon waved his hand; Fordyce saw him and began walking over. His face looked grim.

“Something’s wrong,” said Gideon.

“This is unbelievable. This can’t be about my father.”

Fordyce arrived, face red, brow furrowed.

“What going on?” Gideon asked.

“I need to talk to you in private. Come over here.” Fordyce pointed to Alida. “You move away, please.”

Gideon followed Fordyce away from Alida and the bustling main street. They walked over to a quiet area behind one of the false façades. Gideon could see wires everywhere and a scattering of flash pots. Fordyce had his weapon out.

“You’re making an arrest?” said Gideon.

Fordyce nodded.

“Who?”

The gun came up. “You.”

Gideon stared first at the pistol, and then at Fordyce. He glanced around and saw that, indeed, the blue suits were all in position, weapons drawn, blocking his avenues of escape.

“Me?” Gideon asked, incredulously. “What have I done?”

“Just turn around and put your hands on your head.”

Gideon did as he was told, the butt of the cigarette still burning in his mouth. Fordyce began patting him down, removing his wallet, penknife, and cell phone. “You’re quite the artist, aren’t you?” Fordyce said. “A master manipulator. You and your friend Chalker.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You did a fine job of pretending to dislike the guy—and here it turns out you’re best buddies, in with him from the beginning.”

“I told you, I couldn’t stand the bastard—”

“Right. All that stuff on your computer—frigging jihadist love letters almost.”

Gideon’s mind was moving a mile a minute. The cluster-fuck had turned into a veritable orgy of incompetence. This was truly incredible.

“You really had me going,” Fordyce said. His voice had the bitter tone of a man betrayed. “That trip up to your cabin. Dinner and male bonding. And that sob story about your terminal illness. What a crock. This whole trip west was nothing but an intentional wild goose chase—I should have seen that on day one.”

Gideon felt a surge of furious anger. He hadn’t asked for this assignment. It had been forced on him. Already, he’d wasted a precious week of his life. And now this: he was probably going to spend the rest of his all-too-short life dealing with this bullshit—maybe even from the inside of a cell.