Blasphemy (16 page)

Hazelius paused, then looked up. “I’ve said it before: no discovery worth a damn in this world comes easy. Any great exploration into the unknown is dangerous—physically and psychologically. Look at Magellan’s voyage around the world, or Captain Cook’s discovery of Antarctica. Look at the Apollo program or the space shuttle. We lost a man yesterday to the rigors of exploration. Regardless of how the investigation turns out—and I think most of us can guess which way it will go—I’ll always consider Peter a hero.”

He paused, choking up with emotion. After a moment he cleared his throat. “The next run of Isabella begins at noon tomorrow. You all know what you have to do. Those of us not already in the mountain will gather here, in the rec room, at eleven thirty and head over as a group. The Bunker doors will close and lock at eleven forty-five. This time, ladies and gentlemen, I swear, we will gaze like stout Cortez on the Pacific.”

There was a fervor in his voice that struck Ford—the fervor of the true believer.

THAT SAME MORNING, THE REVEREND D. T. SPATES eased himself into his office chair, pressing a lever to adjust his lumbar support and fiddling with other levers to get it to his liking. He was feeling good. The Isabella project had proved to be a red-hot subject. He owned it. It was his. The money was pouring in and the phone banks were jammed. The question was how to advance the subject on his Friday night Christian talk show,
Roundtable America
. In a sermon, you could play on emotion, you could roll out the blood and thunder. But
Roundtable America
worked on a more cerebral level. It was a respected show. And for that he needed firm facts—which he had precious few of, beyond what he could glean from the Isabella project Web site. He had already canceled the guests he had booked weeks ago and had found a new one, a physicist who could talk about the Isabella project. But he needed more: he needed a surprise.

His assistant, Charles, entered with the morning folders. “The e-mails you requested, Reverend. Messages. Schedule.” He laid them down, side by side, with quiet efficiency.

“Where’s my coffee?”

His secretary entered. “Good morning, Reverend!” she said brightly. Her frosted bouffant hair bobbed and glittered in the morning sun. She set a tray in front of him: silver coffeepot, cup, sugar, creamer, a Mrs. Fields macadamia-nut cookie, and a freshly ironed copy of the
Virginia Beach Daily Press
.

“Shut the door when you leave.”

In the restful quiet that followed, Spates poured a cup of coffee, leaned back in his chair, raised the cup to his lips, and took that first bitter, delectable sip. He rolled the brew around in his mouth, swallowed, exhaled, and placed the cup down. Then he picked up the e-mail folder. Every day Charles and three helpers culled through the thousands of e-mails that arrived, selecting those from people who had given or seemed prepared to give at the “1,000 Blessings” level, and those from politicians and business leaders who needed cultivation. This was the result, and they required a personal response, usually a thank-you for money or a request for money.

Spates plucked the first e-mail off the pile, scanned it, scribbled a response, laid it aside, picked up the second one, and in this way worked through the pile.

Fifteen minutes into the pile, he hit one Charles had flagged with a Post-it:
Looks intriguing
.

He took a nibble of the cookie and read.

Dear Rev. Spates,

Greetings in Christ. This is Pastor Russ Eddy, writing you from the Gathered in Thy Name Mission, Blue Gap, Arizona. I’ve been bringing the Good News to Navajoland since 1999, when I founded the mission. We’re a small operation—in fact, it’s just me.

Your sermon on the Isabella project really hit home, Reverend. I’ll tell you why. Isabella is our next-door neighbor—it’s right up there on Red Mesa above me, I can see it out my window as I type this. I’ve been getting quite an earful about it from my flock. There are a lot of ugly rumors. And I mean
ugly
. People are scared; they’re frightened about what’s going on up there.

I won’t take up any more of your time, Reverend—just a word of thanks for fighting the Good Fight and alerting Christians everywhere aboust this godless machine out here in the desert. You keep it up.

Yours in Christ,

Pastor Russ Eddy

Gathered in Thy Name Mission

Blue Gap, Arizona

Spates read the e-mail, then read it again. He drained his coffee cup, laid it on the tray, mashed his thumb on the last moist cookie crumb and licked it off. He leaned back, thinking. Seven fifteen in Arizona. Country pastors got up early, right?

He picked up the receiver and tapped in a phone number from the end of the e-mail. It rang several times before a high-pitched voice answered.

“This is Pastor Russ.”

“Ah, Pastor Russ! This is Reverend Don T. Spates from God’s Prime Time Ministry, Virginia Beach. How are you today, Pastor?”

“I’m just fine, thank you.” The voice seemed doubtful, even suspicious.

“Now who did you say you were?‘

“Reverend Don T. Spates! God’s Prime Time!”

“Oh! Reverend Spates! This is quite a surprise. You must’ve gotten my e-mail.”

“I certainly did. It was
very
interesting.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“Please call me Don. I can see that your proximity to this machine, your access to this scientific experiment, could be a Gift from God.”

“How’s that?”

“I need an inside source of information on what’s going on out there, someone on the scene. Maybe God means you to be that source. He didn’t move you to write that e-mail for nothing, Russ. Am I right?”

“Yes sir. I mean, no, He didn’t. I listen to your sermon every Sunday. We don’t get any television reception out here, but I do have a high-speed satellite Internet connection and I listen to the Webcast, without fail.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Russ. It’s good to know our new Webcast’s reaching out. Now, Russ, you mentioned rumors in your e-mail. What kind of rumors you been hearing?”

“All kinds. Radiation experiments, explosions, child abuse. They say they’re creating freaks up there, monsters. That the government is testing a new weapon to destroy the world.”

A slug of disappointment congealed in Spates’s gut. This so-called pastor sounded like a nutcase. No wonder, living out there in the desert with a bunch of Indians.

“Anything a little, ah, more . . . solid?”

“There was a killing up there, yesterday. One of the scientists found with a bullet in his head.”

“Is that right?” This was better. Praise the Lord. “How do you know?”

“Well, in a rural area like this, rumors spread fast. The mesa was crawling with FBI agents.”

“You saw them?”

“Sure did. The FBI only comes on the Rez when there’s been a homicide. The Tribal Police handle almost all other crimes.”

Spates’s spine tingled.

“One of my flock has a brother in the Tribal Police. The latest rumor is that it was actually a suicide. All hush-hush.”

“The dead scientist’s name?”

“Don’t know.”

“You’re sure it was one of the scientists, Russ, and not somebody else?”

“Believe me, if it had been a Navajo, I’d know. This is a very tight-knit community.”

“Have you run into any of the scientists on the team?”

“No. They pretty much keep to themselves.”

“Is there a way you can make contact?”

“Well, sure. I suppose I could drop by, introduce myself as the local pastor. Real friendly-like.”

“Russ, that is an
excellent
idea! I’m interested in finding out more about the fellow who runs Isabella, guy named Hazelius. You heard about him?”

“The name’s familiar.”

“He declared himself the smartest man on earth. Said everyone was beneath him, called us all a race of morons. Remember that?”

“I think I do.”

“That’s quite a thing to say, isn’t it? Especially coming from a man who doesn’t believe in God.”

“It doesn’t surprise me, Reverend. We live in a world that worships evil.”

“That we do, son. Now: Can I count on you?”

“Yes, sir, Reverend, you bet you can.”

“Here’s something important: I need this information in two days, so I can use it on Friday’s
Roundtable America
. You ever listen to my show?”

“Since you’ve Webcast it, I never miss it.”

“This Friday, I’ve got a physicist on the show, someone with a Christian perspective, to talk more about the Isabella project. I’ve just
got
to have more information—not the usual PR stuff. I’m talking
dirt
. Like this death—what happened? Talk to that Navajo cop you mentioned. You understand, Russ?”

“Absolutely, yes, you got it, Reverend.”

Spates replaced the phone in its cradle and gazed pensively out the window. Everything was falling into place. The power of God knew no bounds.

ON HIS RETURN FROM BREAKFAST, FORD was about to enter his casita when Wardlaw stepped from the side of the house and blocked his entry.

Ford had been expecting something like this.

“Mind if we chat?” Wardlaw said, his voice sham-friendly. He worked a piece of gum with his jaw, the muscles above his ears bulging rhythmically.

Ford waited. This wasn’t the moment for a showdown, but if Wardlaw wanted it, he would get it.

“I don’t know what your game is, Ford, or who you really are. I’m assuming you’re operating in some kind of semiofficial capacity. I sensed it from the day you arrived.”

Ford waited.

Wardlaw stepped so close, Ford could smell his aftershave. “My job is to protect Isabella—even from you. I’m guessing you’re here undercover because some bureaucrat back in Washington needs to cover his ass. That doesn’t offer you much in the way of protection, does it?”

Ford remained silent. Let the man vent.

“I’m not going to mention your little escapade last night to anyone. Course, you’ll report it to your handlers. If it gets brought up, you know what my defense will be. You were an intruder and my rules of engagement are shoot to kill. Oh, and if you think the broken windowpane and screen are going to get Greer in a lather, they’ve been fixed. None of this goes beyond the two of us.”

Ford was impressed. Wardlaw had actually thought things through. He was glad that the SIO was no fool. He had always found it easier to go up against an intelligent adversary. Stupid people were unpredictable. He said, “Are you finished with your little speech?”

The carotid artery pounded in Wardlaw’s thick neck. “Watch your back, cop.” He stepped aside, just barely, to allow Ford to pass.

Ford took a step forward and then paused. He was so close to Wardlaw, he could have kneed the SIO in the groin. He looked at the man, inches from his face, and said pleasantly, “You know what’s funny? I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

The shadow of a doubt flickered across Wardlaw’s face as Ford moved on.

He went in the house and slammed the door. So Wardlaw wasn’t absolutely certain that Ford had been the man he’d chased. That uncertainty would slow him down, make him cautious. Ford’s cover had been compromised, but it wasn’t blown.

When he was sure Wardlaw had left, he threw himself on the sofa, annoyed and frustrated. He’d been on the mesa almost four days, but he knew scarcely more than he had back in Lockwood’s office.

He wondered why he had ever thought this would be an easy assignment.

The time had come for him to take the next step, the step he had hoped to avoid ever since Lockwood showed him Kate’s dossier.

AN HOUR LATER, FORD FOUND KATE in the stables feeding and watering the horses. He stood in the doorway, following her with his eyes as she filled buckets with oats, broke open a bale of alfalfa, and tossed a flake or two into each stall. He watched the way she moved, her body slender and supple, performing the banal tasks with sureness and grace, despite her obvious exhaustion. It felt like twelve years ago, watching her sleep under that table.

Rock music, turned down low, filtered from inside the barn.

She tossed the last flake and then turned, seeing him for the first time.

“Going for another ride?” she asked, her voice subdued.

He stepped into the cool shade. “How are you, Kate?”

She put her gloved hands on her hips. “Not so good.”

“I’m very sorry about Peter.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I give you a hand?”

“All done.”

The music played on softly in the background. He recognized it now.

“Blondie?”

“I often play music while working with the horses. They like it.”

“Do you remember—?” he began.

She cut him off. “Yes.”

They faced each other silently. At MIT, she used to start the day at the LEES lab, the electronics lab, by blasting “Atomic” out across Killian Court. When he got there, she was usually dancing around the room, earphones on and coffee mug in hand, making a spectacle of herself. She had enjoyed spectacles—like the time she’d poured a pint of gasoline into Murphy Memorial Fountain and lit it on fire. He felt a sudden pang at the memories, the time gone. How full of naïve hopefulness she had been, how sure that life was always going to be a laff-riot. Life eventually clobbered everyone—her especially.

He shook off the memories and focused on the mission. With Kate, the most direct way was always the best. She hated people who beat around the bush. Ford swallowed. Would he ever forgive himself for what he was about to do?

Point-blank he asked the question: “Okay, what are you all hiding?”

She looked at him steadily. No feigned surprise, no protest, no pretense of ignorance.

“None of your business.”

“It is my business. I’m part of the team.”

“Then ask Gregory.”

“I know you’ll be straight with me. Hazelius—I don’t know what to make of him.”