Blasphemy (47 page)

He checked his watch. Four-thirty A.M. Two hours until dawn. When the sun rose, he would go straight to Dobson. He would put himself in his lawyer’s hands. Dobson would handle the whole thing. Sure, it would cost money. But after this, the donations would be like a gusher. He just needed to weather the storm. He’d been through storms before, like when those two whores reported him to the newspapers. He thought then his whole world was over. And yet, a month later he was back in business, preaching in the Cathedral, and now he was the hottest televangelist in the business.

Pulling out a handkerchief, he mopped his face, wiped around his eyes, forehead, nose, and mouth, leaving a brown stain of old makeup on the white linen. He looked at it in disgust and tossed it in the trash. He poured another cup of coffee, splashed in a shot of vodka, and drank it down with a shaking hand.

He put the cup down so hard it broke in two. The rare Sèvres cup had split perfectly down the center, as if cleaved. He held the pieces in his hands, staring at them, and then, in a sudden fury, threw them across the room.

Lurching to his feet, he went to the window, threw it open, and stared. Outside, all was dark and silent. The world slept. But not in Arizona. Terrible things could be happening out there. But it wasn’t his fault. He had devoted his life to doing Christ’s work on earth.
I believe in honor, religion, duty, and country
.

If only the sun would rise. He imagined himself cosseted in the hushed, wood-paneled confines of his lawyer’s offices on 13th Street, and he felt comforted. At first light he’d rouse his chauffeur and head to Washington.

As he looked down the darkened, rain-slick streets, he heard the distant sound of sirens. A moment later he saw something coming down Laskin Road: police cars and a wagon, lights flashing, followed by vans. He ducked back inside and slammed the window, heart pounding. They weren’t coming for him. Of course not. What was wrong with him? He went back to his desk, sat down, reached for more coffee and vodka. Then he remembered the broken cup. To hell with the cup. Sweeping up the bottle in his hand, he tipped it to his lips and sucked down a mouthful.

He put the bottle down, exhaled. They were probably just chasing niggers out of the yacht club down the way.

A loud crash in the Silver Cathedral made him jump. Suddenly there were noises, voices, shouts, the blaring of police radios.

He couldn’t move.

A moment later his office door boomed open and men in FBI flak jackets came barging in, crouching, guns drawn. They were followed by an enormous black agent with a shaved head.

Spates remained seated, unable to comprehend.

“Mr. Don Spates?” asked the agent, unfolding a shield. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent in Charge Cooper Johnson.”

Spates could say nothing. He just stared.

“Are you Mr. Don Spates?”

He nodded.

“Place your hands on the desk, Mr. Spates.”

He held his fat, liver-spotted hands out and placed them on the desk.

“Stand up, keeping your hands in sight.”

He stood up clumsily, the chair falling with a crash to the floor behind him.

“Cuff him.”

Another agent came around, took a firm grasp of one forearm, pulled it behind his back, pulled the other one behind—and Spates felt, with stupefaction, the cold steel slip around his wrists.

Johnson walked up to Spates and parked himself in front, arms folded, legs apart.

“Mr. Spates?”

Spates stared back. His mind was completely blank.

The agent spoke in a low, rapid voice. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand?”

Spates stared. This couldn’t be happening to him.

“Do you understand?”

“Wha—?”

“He’s drunk, Cooper,” said another man. “Don’t bother, we’ll just have to Mirandize him again.”

“You’re right.” Johnson gripped Spates’s upper arm. “Let’s go, pal.”

Another agent took the other arm and they gave him a nudge, started walking him toward the door.

“Wait!” cried Spates. “You’re making a mistake!”

They continued to hustle him forward. Nobody paid him the slightest attention.

“It isn’t me you want! You’ve got the wrong man!”

An agent opened the door and they passed into the darkened Silver Cathedral.

“It’s Crawley you want, Booker Crawley of Crawley and Stratham! He did it! I was just following his directions—I’m not responsible! I had no idea this would happen! It’s his fault!” His hysterical voice echoed crazily in the vast indoor space.

They escorted him up the side aisle, past the dark audience prompts, past the plush velvet seats that had cost three hundred dollars apiece, past the columns gilded in real silver leaf, through the echoing Italian marble foyer, and out the front door.

He was greeted with a seething mob of the press, blinded by a thousand flashes and a roar of questions. Boomed mikes swung out at him from all directions.

He blinked, gaping and slack-jawed, like a cow before the slaughter.

An FBI paddy wagon idled in front, at the end of a narrow, cleared path.

“
Reverend Spates! Reverend Spates! Is it true
—?”

“Reverend Spates!”

“No!” Spates cried, rearing back against his handlers. “Not in there! I’m innocent! It’s Crawley you want! If you let me go back to my office, he’s in my Rolodex—”

Two agents opened the back doors. He struggled.

The flashes came a hundred per second. The lenses pointed at him glowed like a thousand fish eyes.

“No!”

He resisted at the threshold and was given a rude push. He stumbled, turned, begging. “Listen to me, please!” He broke into a loud, sucking sob. “It’s Crawley you want!”

“Mr. Spates?” said the agent in charge, leaning in the door. “Save your breath. You’re going to have plenty of time to tell your story later. Okay?”

Two agents got in with him, one on either side, pushed him into a seat, manacled his cuffs to a bar, and buckled his seat belt.

The door slammed, shutting out the tumult. Spates heaved a great choking sob, drew in more air. “You’re making a terrible mistake!” he wailed, as the paddy wagon pulled from the curb. “You don’t want me, you want
Crawley
!”

FORD STARED INTO THE BARREL OF the revolver, the gleaming steel eye staring back. Unbidden, the words of the confession came to his lips. He began to cross himself, whispering, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit—”

“Praise God!” boomed a voice into the waiting silence.

Everyone turned. A Navajo appeared on foot, coming in from the dark, dressed in a buckskin shirt with a bandanna around his head. He was leading a string of horses and had a pistol in one hand, waving it around above his head. “Praise God and Jesus!” He began pushing into the crowd, which parted to let him pass.

Ford recognized Willy Becenti.

Eddy continued to point the gun at Ford.

“Praise God and Jesus!” Becenti cried again, leading the horses right toward them, forcing the kneeling people to move out of the way. “Praise the good Lord! Amen, brother!”

“Praise God!” came the automatic responses. “Praise Jesus!”

“My friend in Christ!” Doke said, rising to his feet. “Who might you be?”

“Praise Jesus!” Willy cried again. “We’re brothers in Christ! Come to join you!”

The horses were jittery, prancing about, their eyes rolling, and people were frightened and backing away from them. Behind the horses another figure loomed into the ruddy light, on horseback, herding the animals from behind. Ford saw it was Nelson Begay, the medicine man.

Becenti stopped the nervous horses right before the group of scientists, the animals crowding into each other, eyes rolling, tossing their heads, barely under control.

The crowd continued to back up nervously. “What are you doing with those horses?” Eddy cried angrily.

“We want to join you!” Becenti gaped at him like an idiot and dropped a lead rope as if by accident. The lead horse tried to back up and Becenti stomped on the rope, arresting his movement. “
Whoa
, you sumbitch!” he screamed. He bent down to retrieve the end. In that quick movement, he spoke quickly to the group, his voice just audible. “At my word,” he said, “get on the horses and we’re outta here.”

Doke stepped into the open area in front of Eddy and Ford. “All right, pal, you better tell me who you are and what you just said to the prisoners.”

“You heard me, man,” Becenti whined in a high-pitched voice. “I’m a friend in Christ! Thought you might need horses!”

“You’re disrupting our business here, you idiot. Move these horses out of the way.”

“Sure, course, sorry man, just trying to help.” Becenti turned. “Easy, horses!” he shouted, waving his hands wildly. “Settle down! Ho! Easy!”

His shouting only seemed to agitate the horses further. Becenti grabbed their halters and began turning them around to lead them back out, but he seemed inept at managing the animals. When they didn’t obey he waved a coiled lasso at them, and they suddenly veered sharply, forcing Doke and Eddy back and crowding between them and the captives. One horse reared.

“Get these horses out of our way!” Doke screamed, trying to shove them aside.

“Praise Jesus and the saints!” Becenti shook his pistol over his head again and cried, “
Now
!”

Ford grabbed Kate and swung her up on a roan, while Becenti threw Chen on a spotted Indian pony, then pulled up Cecchini behind himself onto a buckskin. Corcoran and St. Vincent scrambled up on another horse. Innes vaulted onto a sorrel and in under ten seconds they were all on horseback, two to a pony.

Trying to claw his way through the milling crowd, Doke screamed, “Stop them!” He reached for his rifle and yanked it out of the scabbard slung across his back.

Eddy had his gun back up, aiming it at Ford.

“Praise the Lord!” shouted Becenti, spinning his mount around. He rammed Eddy, hooves churning. The man fell back, the shot going wild, and went down; and in an instant the Indian spurred his horse on top of Doke, who dropped his rifle and dove out of the way. Becenti raised his coiled lasso. Whirling it, he shouted “
Hiiyaahh
!”

Already agitated, their mounts needed no further encouragement. They charged through the crowd, scattering them. After they had broken free, Becenti veered to the right and led them at a full gallop down into the cover of a sandy draw. Gunfire erupted behind them, ragged shooting into the dark, but they were already in the cover of the draw and the bullets went humming over their heads.

“
Hiiiyahhh
!” Becenti screamed.

The horses tore down the sandy draw, taking bend after bend, until the sound of the guns had become a faint
pop-pop
in the distance, the cries and shouts of the crowd almost gone. They slowed down to a fast trot.

Behind them, in the distance, Ford heard the revving of a motorcycle.

“You hear that, Willy?” Begay called from the rear. “Someone’s got a dirt bike.”

“Shit,” said Becenti. “We’re gonna have to lose that mother. Hang on!”

He turned out of the draw and charged up a slickrock embankment, the horse’s hooves clattering on the sandstone. On top, they raced across a dune-field, heading toward a deep arroyo at the far side.

A rumble, and the whole mesa shook. Dark clouds of dust shot up against the night sky. Flames erupted from the ground a few hundred yards to their right. With a crackle, a piñon tree burst into flame, and another. A thunderous explosion sounded behind them, and another, back at the eastern end of the mesa.

The roar of the dirt-bike engine sounded again, much closer. It was catching up fast.

“
Hiyaah
!” Becenti cried again, as he charged over the lip of the arroyo and plunged down the slope toward the bottom.

Ford followed, gripping the roan with his legs, Kate’s arms around him.

FORD’S HORSE PLUNGED DOWN THE SOFT slope of sand, leaning back and digging in as he half slid, half leapt down the long slope, sand sliding down around them.

The roar of the dirt bike sounded on the rim above. Shots rang out, and Ford heard the snip of a bullet on a rock to his left. They reached the bottom and galloped down the arroyo. Ford could hear the dirt bike above them, racing along the rim.

Becenti reined in his horse. “He’s cutting us off! Turn around!”

The dirt bike slowed to a stop at the edge, sending a cascade of sand down into the arroyo. Doke planted his legs, pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, and took aim.

They wheeled their horses around as the first shot sounded, kicking up a jet of sand next to Ford. They took temporary cover behind a landslide of boulders. Another shot rang out, whining off the top of the rocks. Ford realized they were trapped in the arroyo. They could go neither forward or backward; the man had a clear shot up or down the arroyo on both sides. The embankment above them was too steep to climb.

Another shot threw up a gout of sand just behind them. There was a raucous laugh from above. “You can run, you Godless assholes, but you can’t hide!”

“Willy!” Begay said. “Now’s the time to use your pistol!”

“It’s . . . not loaded.”

“Why the hell not?”

Becenti looked sheepish. “I didn’t want anybody getting hurt.”

Begay threw up his hands. “That’s just great, Willy.”

Ford heard another shot, the round humming just over their heads and thudding into the opposite embankment. “I’m coming down!” Doke’s voice roared triumphantly.

“Oh shit, man, what do we do now?” Becenti asked. His horse pranced and snorted in the confined crowd.

Ford could hear Doke sliding and hopping down the slope. In a moment he would reach the bottom, where he would have a clear shot all the way down the arroyo. He might not take down them all, but he’d certainly kill plenty before they could take cover around the next bend.