Blasphemy (13 page)

“We’ll try.”

“I need to know ASAP.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

“A couple of other things.”

“Shoot.”

“Michael Cecchini—his dossier says he joined a religious cult as a teenager. I’d like to know more about that.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Rae Chen. She seems . . . How can I put it? Too normal.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Look into her background, see if there’s something odd there.”

Ten minutes later the ring light blinked. Ford pushed the RECEIVE button and Lockwood’s voice came on, considerably more tense. “Regarding Volkonsky, we called his wife, his colleagues at Brookhaven—nobody’s heard from him. You say he left last night? At what time?”

“I’m guessing sometime about nine.”

“We’re putting out an APB on his car and plate. It’s a forty-hour drive back to his home in New York State. If he’s headed that way, we’ll find him. Did something happen?”

“I ran into him yesterday. He’d spent the entire night at Isabella and he’d been drinking. He was full of forced hilarity. He said to me, ‘Before, I worry. Now I am fine.’ But he looked the opposite of fine.”

“Any idea what he meant by that?”

“None.”

“I want you to search his quarters.”

A hesitation. “I’ll do it tonight.”

Ford cradled the receiver and looked at the cottonwood trees outside the window. Lying, spying, deceiving, and now breaking and entering. A fine way to launch his first year out of the monastery.

FORD TOOK IN BLUE GAP, ARIZONA, with a single sweep of his eyes. It lay in a dusty basin surrounded by rimrock and the gray skeletons of dead piñons. The town was little more than a pair of intersecting dirt roads, asphalted a hundred yards from their point of intersection. There was a gas station of adobe-colored cinder block and a convenience store with a cracked window. Plastic grocery bags flapped like banners from the barbed-wire fence behind the gas station. Next to the convenience store stood a small middle school building surrounded by a chain-link fence. To the east and north, two grids of HUD housing had been laid out in rigid symmetry in the red dirt.

In the near distance, the purple silhouette of Red Mesa formed a towering backdrop.

“So,” said Kate as the Jeep reached the pavement, “what’s your plan?”

“Get gas.”

“Gas? The tank’s half-full, and we get all the free gas we need back at Isabella.”

“Just follow my lead, will you?”

He pulled into the gas station, got out, and filled up. Then he tapped on Kate’s window. “Got any money?” he asked.

She looked at him with alarm. “I didn’t bring my purse.”

“Good.”

They went in. A large Navajo woman stood behind the counter. A few other customers—all Navajo—were browsing in the store.

Ford picked out a pack of gum, a Coke, a bag of chips, and the
Navajo Times
. He strolled to the counter, plunked them down. The woman rang them up with the gas.

Ford dipped into his pocket, and his expression changed. He made a show of looking through his pockets.

“Damn. Forgot my wallet.” He glanced at Mercer. “You got any money?”

She glared. “You know I don’t.”

Ford spread his hands and smiled sheepishly at the lady behind the counter. “I forgot my wallet.”

She returned the gaze, unmoved. “You have to pay. At least for the gas.”

“How much is it?”

“Eighteen fifty.”

Again he made a great show of searching his pockets. The other customers had stopped to listen.

“Can you believe it? I don’t have a dime on me. I’m really sorry.”

A heavy silence followed. “I
got
to collect the money,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry. I really am. Listen, I’ll go home and get my wallet and come straight back. I promise. Gosh, I feel like such an idiot.”

“I can’t let you go without collecting the money,” said the woman. “It’s my job.”

A small, skinny, restless-looking man in a dun cowboy hat, motorcycle boots, and shoulder-length jet-black hair strode forward and slid out a battered wallet on a chain from his jean’s pocket. “Doris? This’ll take care of it.” He spoke grandly and handed her a twenty.

Ford turned to the man. “That’s damn nice of you. I’ll pay you back.”

“ ‘Course you will, don’t worry about it. Next time you come, just give Doris the money. Someday you’ll return the favor, right?” He cocked his hand, winked, and pointed a finger at Ford.

“You bet.” Ford held out his hand. “Wyman Ford.”

“Willy Becenti.” Willy grasped his hand.

“You’re a good man, Willy.”

“Damn right about that! Isn’t that so, Doris? Best man in Blue Gap.”

Doris rolled her eyes.

“This is Kate Mercer,” said Ford.

“Hey, Kate, how’s it going?” Becenti grasped her hand, bowed, and kissed it like a lord.

“We were looking for the chapter house,” said Ford. “We want to see the chapter president. Is he around?”

“You mean ‘she.’ Maria Atcitty. Hell, yeah. Chapter house is down that road there. Take your last right before it turns to dirt. It’s the old wooden building with the tin roof right next to the water tower. Say hi to her for me.”

As they drove out of the gas station, Ford said, “That trick never fails on the Rez. Navajos are the most generous people in the world.”

“For cynical manipulation you get an A-plus.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“Well, he did look like a bit of a hustler himself. What do you bet he charges interest?”

They pulled into the parking lot of the chapter house, next to a row of dusty pickups. On the front door someone had taped up one of Begay’s notices for the protest ride. Another fluttered from a nearby telephone pole.

They asked for the chapter president. A neat, solid woman in a turquoise blouse and brown dress pants appeared.

They shook hands and introduced themselves.

“Willy Becenti said to say hi.”

“You know Willy?” She seemed surprised—and pleased.

“In a way.” Ford gave a sheepish laugh. “He loaned me twenty bucks.”

Atcitty shook her head. “Good old Willy. He’d give his last twenty to some bum, then stick up a convenience store to reimburse himself. Come on in and have a cup of coffee.”

At a coffeepot on the counter they collected mugs of weak Navajo coffee, then followed Atcitty into a small office heaped with paper.

“So, what can I do for you folks?” she said with a big smile.

“Well, I almost hate to admit this, but we’re from the Isabella project.”

Her smile faded. “I see.”

“Kate’s the assistant director of the Isabella project, and I’ve just arrived as the community liaison.”

Atcitty said nothing.

“Ms. Atcitty, I know people are wondering what the heck is going on up there.”

“You’ve got that just about right.”

“I need your help. If you can get people together here at the chapter house—say, some evening this week—I’ll bring Gregory North Hazelius down in person so he can answer questions and explain what we’re doing.”

A long silence, then, “This week is too soon. Make it next week. Wednesday.”

“Excellent. Things are going to change. From now on, we’ll be doing some of our shopping down here and over at Rough Rock. We’ll gas up our cars down here, buy our groceries and supplies.”

“Wyman, I really don’t think—,” Mercer began, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“That would help,” said Atcitty.

They rose and shook hands.

As the Jeep left Blue Gap behind in a cloud of dust, Mercer turned to Ford. “Wednesday next week is too late to stop the ride.”

“I have no intention of stopping the ride.”

“If you think we’re going to shop in that store and eat Doritos, mutton, and canned beans for dinner, you’re crazy. And the gas down there costs a fortune.”

“This isn’t New York or Washington,” said Ford. “This is rural Arizona, and these people are your neighbors. You need to get out and show them you’re not a bunch of mad scientists about to destroy the world. And they could use the business.”

She shook her head.

“Kate,” Ford said, “what happened to all your progressive notions? Your sympathy for the poor and downtrodden?”

“Don’t you lecture me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you need lecturing. You’ve become a member of the big bad establishment and you don’t even know it.” He concluded with a little laugh, trying to keep it light, but only too late realized he’d scored a direct hit on her feelings.

She stared at him, white-lipped, then looked out the window. They drove up the Dugway in silence and headed down the long blacktop road for the Isabella project.

Halfway across the mesa, Ford slowed the Jeep and squinted through the windshield.

“Now what?”

“That’s quite a column of buzzards.”

“So?”

He stopped the car and pointed. “Look. Fresh tire tracks going off the road to the west—right toward those vultures.”

She wouldn’t look.

“I’m going to check it out.”

“Swell. I’m already going to be up half the night doing calculations.”

He parked in the shade of a juniper and followed the tracks, his feet crunching in the crusty dirt. It was still blazing hot, as the ground gave up the heat it had sucked in all day. In the distance, a coyote slunk away, carrying something in its mouth.

After ten minutes, Ford came to the edge of a deep, narrow arroyo and looked down. A car rested at the bottom, upside down. Buzzards were perched in a dead piñon, waiting. A second coyote had his head stuck through the broken windshield, jerking and pulling at something. When it saw Ford, it let go and ran off, its bloody tongue dangling.

Ford climbed down the sandstone boulders toward the car, holding his shirt over his nose to soften the stench of death, which mingled with a strong smell of gasoline. The buzzards rose in a flapping, awkward mass. He crouched and peered inside the smashed interior.

A body was jammed sideways on the seat. The eyes and lips were gone. One arm, flung out toward the broken window, had been stripped of flesh and was missing its hand. Despite the damage, the body was recognizable.

Volkonsky.

Ford remained very still, his eyes taking in every detail. He backed away, careful not to disturb anything, turned, and scrambled up the side of the arroyo. When he could, he took several slow, deep breaths of fresh air, then jogged back toward the road. In the distance, silhouetted against a rise, he could see the two coyotes yipping and squabbling over a floppy chunk of meat.

He reached the car and leaned in the open window. Resentment etched Kate’s face.

“It’s Volkonsky,” he said. “I’m sorry, Kate . . . . He’s dead.”

She blinked, gasped. “Oh my God . . . You’re sure?”

He nodded.

Her lip twitched. Then, in a hoarse voice, “Accident?”

“No.”

Swallowing a feeling of nausea, Ford slipped his cell phone out of his back pocket and dialed 911.

LOCKWOOD ENTERED THE OVAL OFFICE, HIS shoes soundless on the thick carpet. As always, being so close to the still point of power in the turning world gave him a thrill.

The president of the United States came around from behind his desk, hand outstretched, giving him a real politician’s welcome.

“Stanton! Good to see you. How’s Betsy and the kids?”

“Just great, thank you, Mr. President.”

While continuing to clasp his hand, the president grasped Lockwood’s forearm and directed him to the chair closest to the desk. Lockwood sat, placing the file on his knees. Through the east-facing windows, he could see the Rose Garden settling into a mellow late-summer twilight. The president’s chief of staff, Roger Morton, entered and occupied another chair, while the president’s secretary, Jean, was ensconced in the third, ready to take notes the old-fashioned way, with a steno pad.

A heavy man in a dark blue suit entered and settled himself in the nearest chair without invitation. He was Gordon Galdone, chairman of the president’s reelection campaign. Lockwood couldn’t abide the man. He was everywhere these days, in every meeting, ubiquitous. Nothing was decided, nothing happened, without his blessing.

The president resumed his own seat behind the desk. “All right, Stan, you begin.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Lockwood took out a folder. “Are you familiar with a televangelist by the name of Don T. Spates? He runs an operation out of Virginia Beach called God’s Prime Time Ministry.”

“You mean the fellow caught cornholing those two prostitutes?”

A gentlemanly chuckle rippled through the room. The president, a former trial lawyer from the South, was well known for his colorful vocabulary.

“Yes sir, that’s the one. He brought up the subject of the Isabella project in his Sunday sermon on the Christian Cable Service. He went on a real tear. His line was that the government has spent forty billion taxpayer dollars trying to disprove Genesis.”

“The Isabella project has nothing to do with Genesis.”

“Of course. The problem is, he seems to have touched a nerve. I understand a number of senators and congressmen are getting e-mails and phone calls. Now our office is, too. It’s big enough that it may require some kind of response.”

The president turned to his chief of staff. “Is it showing up on your radar, Roger?”

“Almost twenty thousand e-mails logged so far, ninety-six percent opposed.”

“Twenty
thousand
?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lockwood glanced at Galdone. The man’s slab of a face betrayed nothing. Galdone’s game was to wait and speak last. Lockwood hated people who did that.

“It’s worth pointing out,” said Lockwood, “that fifty-two percent of Americans don’t believe in evolution—and among self-identified Republicans, it’s sixty-eight percent. This attack on Isabella is an extension of that. It could get partisan—and ugly.”

“Where’d you get those figures?”

“A Gallup poll.”

The president shook his head. “We stay on message. The Isabella project is a crucial part of keeping American science and technology competitive in the world. After years of lagging, we’ve pulled ahead of the Europeans and Japanese. The Isabella project is good for the economy, good for R and D, good for business. It may solve our energy needs, free us from dependence on Middle Eastern oil. Stan, issue a press release to that effect, organize a press conference, make some noise. Stay on message.”