Blasphemy

by Douglas Preston

  “I’ve got a lot to do....”

  “We made a pretty good team last time.”

  She brushed back her hair and looked at him—searchingly, for a long time. Finally she spoke. “All right.”

  They saddled up and set off southwestward toward the sandstone bluffs along the edge of the valley. Kate rode ahead, her slim body fitted confidently to her horse, swaying with it, in a rhythmic, almost erotic motion. A battered Australian cowboy hat was crammed on her head, and her black hair stirred in the wind.

  God, how am I going to tell her?

  As they approached the edge of the mesa where the Midnight Trail plunged down through a cut in the rock, Ford moved his horse up alongside her. They stopped twenty feet from the edge of the cliffs. She was staring across toward the horizon, a troubled look on her face. The wind blew up in uneven gusts from below, bringing with it an invisible cloud of grit. Ford spat and shifted in the saddle. “Are you still thinking about what happened last night?” he asked.

  “I can’t stop thinking about it. Wyman, how could it guess those numbers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She gazed out over the vast red desert unrolling to blue mountains and cloud-castled infinities. “Looking at this,” she murmured, “it’s not hard to believe in God. I mean, who knows? Maybe we are talking to God.”

  She brushed back her hair and smiled ruefully at him.

  Ford was astonished. This was a very different Kate from the strident atheist he had known in graduate school. He wondered once again what had happened in those missing two years.

  32

  BOOKER CRAWLEY STUCK THE CHURCHILL IN his mouth while he lined up the snooker shot. Satisfied, he hit the cue ball with a decisive rap and watched the little balls do their thing.

  “Nice,” said his billiards companion, watching the three ball drop into the braided leather pocket.

  Through a row of narrow windows, the sun glinted off the river. It was a pleasant Thursday morning at the Potomac Club, and most members were at work. Crawley was also at work, or so he considered it—entertaining a potential client who owned a barrier island near Cape Hatteras and wanted the government to pay twenty million dollars to build a bridge to it. A bridge like that would double, even triple his land investment. For Crawley, this was a no-brainer. The junior senator from North Carolina owed him a favor after that golfing trip to St. Andrews, and he was a man who could be counted on for his loyalty and the preservation of his perks. One phone call, an earmark slipped into an unrelated bill, and Crawley would make the developer millions while pocketing a seven-figure fee for himself. If Alaska could have its bridge to nowhere, North Carolina should have one, too.

  He watched the developer lining up his shot. He came from that special tribe of southerners who sported three last names and a roman numeral. Safford was his name, Safford Montague McGrath III. McGrath came from fine old Scotch-Irish stock, a big, blond, trim specimen of southern gentility. In other words, he was as dumb as a cow in the rain. McGrath made a show of being savvy in the ways of Washington, but anyone could see he was walking around with a hayseed jammed in one of his big country ears. Crawley had a feeling the man was going to tussle over the fee like a pigskin at the two-yard line. He was the type who had to come away from a negotiation feeling like he’d beat the crap out of the other side, or he wouldn’t be able to get it up at home.

  “So how’s Senator Stratham these days?” McGrath asked, as if he had once known the old bastard.

  “Fine, just fine.” No doubt these days the old boy was enjoying a lunch of Gerber’s whirled peas and sipping Ensure through a straw. The reality was, Crawley had never worked with old Senator Stratham; he’d bought the firm, Stratham & Co., when Stratham had retired. He had thereby acquired an aura of respectability, a link to the fine old days, which handily distinguished him from the other K Street lobbyists who had sprung up after the last election like mushrooms in a steaming pile after a rain.

  McGrath’s next shot grazed the corner, made a little jog in front of the pocket, and drifted off down the felt. The man straightened up, saying nothing, his lips tight.

  Crawley could polish off the fellow with his eyes closed, but that wouldn’t do. No—the best way was to stay just ahead until the very end, then lose. Close the deal on the man’s flush of triumph.

  He flubbed the next shot by a close enough margin to give it verisimilitude.

  “Nice try,” said McGrath. He took a long puff on his cigar, laid it in the marble ashtray, crouched, and sighted. Then he shot. He obviously considered himself a hotshot pool player, but he didn’t have the finesse for snooker. Still, this was an easy one and the ball was well potted.

  “Whew,” said Crawley. “You’re going to make me work, Safford.”

  An attendant entered carrying a silver tray that held a note. “Mr. Crawley?”

  Crawley took the note with a flourish. The club management, he thought with a smile, still used a system whereby an army of old-time darkies went flitting around with notes on silver platters—very antebellum. Getting a note on a silver platter beat hell out of fumbling for a squealing cell phone.

  “Excuse me, Safford.” Crawley unfolded the note. It read, Delbert Yazzie, Chairman, Navajo Nation, 11:35 A.M. Please call a.s. a. p . Then a number.

  When courting a prospective client, Crawley liked to make it clear he had at least one client who was more important. People despised you if they thought they were your number one client.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Safford, but I’ve got to take this call. In the meantime—order us a round of martinis.”

  He hustled off to one of the old oak phone booths that could be found on every floor, shut himself in, and dialed. In a moment he had Delbert Yazzie on the other end.

  “Mr. Booker Crawley?” The Navajo’s voice sounded faint, old, quavering, like it was coming all the way from Timbuktu.

  “How are you, Mr. Yazzie?” Crawley kept his voice friendly but distinctly cool.

  A silence. “Something unexpected seems to have come up. Have you heard of this preacher, Don T. Spates?”

  “I certainly have.”

  “Well, that sermon of his caused quite a ruckus out here already, just among our own people. As you know, we have a lot of missionary activity on the Navajo Nation. Now I’m hearing it may be causing a problem in Washington, too.”

  “Yes,” said Crawley. “It is.”

  “It seems to me this could be a serious challenge to the Isabella project.”

  “Absolutely.” Crawley felt a swell of triumph. He had called Spates less than a week ago. This would go down as one of the masterstrokes of his career.

  “Well, then, Mr. Crawley, what can we do about it?”

  Crawley let a silence build. “Well, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do about it. I was under the impression you no longer required our services.”

  “Our contract with you isn’t up for six weeks. We’re paid up until November first.”

  “Mr. Yazzie, we’re not a house rental. That isn’t how things work in Washington. I’m sorry. Our work on the Isabella project has, most regretfully, come to a close.”

  Crackle, hiss. “Losing the government leasing payments for the Isabella project would be a great blow to the Navajo Nation.”

  Crawley held the receiver silently.

  “I’m told Spates has a television program tomorrow night that’s going to attack the Isabella project again. And there are rumors Isabella is having problems. One of the scientists committed suicide. Mr. Crawley, I’m going to consult with the Tribal Council and see about getting your contract renewed. We’re going to need your help after all.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Yazzie, but we’ve filled your slot with another client. Really, I’m terribly sorry—but, if you don’t mind me saying so, I did mention this possibility. I can’t tell you how much I regret this, personally and professionally. Perhaps you could find some other firm to take up your case? I can recommend several.” />
  The phone line spat noises into the silence. Crawley could hear a faint, ghostly conversation going on in the static. Christ, what kind of phone system did they have out there? Probably still using telegraph lines strung up by Kit Carson.

  “Another firm would take too much time getting up to speed. We need Crawley and Stratham. We need you.”

  We need you. Oh God, was this music to his ears or what?

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Yazzie. This kind of work involves a lot of one-on-one staff time. Very intensive. And we’re booked to the gills. To take this back on... It would mean hiring more staff, maybe even leasing more space.”

  “We would be glad—”

  Crawley interrupted. “Mr. Yazzie, I’m truly extremely sorry, but you caught me just before an important luncheon engagement. Would you be kind enough to call me Monday afternoon, say at four, eastern time? I really want to help, and I promise I’ll give it serious thought. Tomorrow night I’ll watch Spates’s show, and you and the Tribal Council should do the same, so we can get a better idea of what we’re up against. We’ll talk Monday.”

  He exited the little booth and paused to relight his cigar, inhaling deeply. It was like a sweet, heady perfume. The whole Tribal Council watching the show—what a trip. Spates had better put on a good one.

  He swept back into the billiard room, trailing a stream of smoke and feeling seven feet tall, but when he saw Safford crouching at the table, examining all the angles, he felt a twinge of irritation. Time to cut bait.

  It was Crawley’s shot, and Safford had foolishly parked the cue ball where it could be snookered.

  In five minutes, the game was over. Safford had lost—badly.

  “Well,” said Safford, taking up his martini and smiling gamely. “I’ll think twice before playing billiards with you again, Booker.” He mustered an artificial chuckle. “Now about your fee,” he went on, his voice switching into High Noon mode. “There’s no way we can even consider the level you mentioned in your letter. It’s just not in our budget. Nor does it seem in line with the amount of work required, if I may speak frankly.”

  Crawley racked his cue and tossed the cigar into the sand bucket. He passed by his martini, not bothering to pick it up, and said, without looking back, “I’m afraid something’s come up, Safford, that requires me to cancel our lunch.”

  He turned, then, to enjoy the expression on the developer’s face. The man stood there—cue, cigar, martini, and all—looking like he’d been slapped upside the head.

  “If you change your mind about our fee, give me a call,” Crawley added as he strode out.

  Safford Montague McGrath III wasn’t going to get it up tonight, that was for sure.

  33

  FORD REACHED THE BOTTOM OF THE mesa and rode down the wash in the direction of Blackhorse, Kate coming up and riding alongside him. Halfway down the wash he heard a horse nicker and turned. “Someone’s behind us,” he said, pulling Ballew to a stop.

  Through a thicket of tamarisk came the sound of hooves, and a moment later a tall man pushed through on a big quarterhorse. It was Bia. The Tribal Police lieutenant halted and touched his hat brim. “Out for a pleasure ride?” he asked.

  “We’re on our way to Blackhorse,” said Ford.

  Bia smiled. “Nice day for it, not too hot, bit of a breeze.” He rested his hands on the saddlehorn. “Paying a visit to Nelson Begay, I imagine.”

  “That’s right,” said Ford.

  “He’s a good man,” Bia said. “If I thought there’d be trouble on this protest ride, I’d offer you a Tribal Police presence. But I think that might be counterproductive.”

  “I agree,” said Ford, grateful for the man’s insight.

  “Better to let them do their thing. I’ll keep an eye on them—discreetly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bia nodded and leaned forward. “Long as you’re here, mind if I ask a question or two?”

  “Shoot away,” said Ford.

  “This Peter Volkonsky—did he get along with everyone?”

  Kate answered. “Mostly.”

  “No personality clashes? Disagreements?”

  “He was a little high-strung, but we were cool with that.”

  “Was he an important member of the team?”

  “One of the most important.”

  Bia tugged on his hat. “The man throws some clothes in a suitcase and leaves. It’s nine o’clock, give or take an hour, moon’s already up. Drives about ten minutes, then leaves the road and drives about a quarter mile across the desert. Comes to a deep ravine. Stops the car on an incline near the brink, pulls the emergency brake, turns off the engine, and puts the car in neutral. Then he puts a gun to his head with his right hand, releases the brake with his left hand, fires a bullet into his right temple, and the car rolls over the edge.”

  He paused. The bar of shade under his hat hid his eyes.

  “Is that what you think happened?” asked Kate.

  “That’s the FBI reconstruction.”

  “But you don’t buy it,” said Ford.

  From the stripe of heavy shadow beneath his hat, Bia seemed to be looking at him intently. “Do you?”

  “I find it a little strange that he rolled his car off a cliff after shooting himself,” Ford countered. He thought of the letter. Should he tell Bia? Better to let Lockwood handle it at his end.

  “Actually,” said Bia, “that to me is a believable element.”

  “Are you puzzled that he packed a suitcase?”

  “Some suicides do that sort of thing. Suicide is often spontaneous.”

  “So where do you see a problem?”

  “Mr. Ford, how’d you know there was a car out there?”

  “I saw the fresh tire tracks and the crushed sagebrush—and then there were the buzzards.”

  “But you didn’t see the ravine.”

  “No.”

  “Because it isn’t visible from anywhere along the road—I checked. How’d Volkonsky know it was there?”

  “He was distraught, drove off into the desert to shoot himself, came across the ravine, and decided to make it even more certain.” Ford didn’t quite believe it himself; he wondered if Bia would.

  “That’s exactly what the FBI thinks.”

  “But not what you think.”

  Bia straightened up and touched his hat. “Be seeing you.”

  “Wait,” said Kate.

  Bia paused.

  “You don’t think one of us might have killed him?” Kate asked.

  Bia brushed a broken tamarisk twig off his thigh. “Let me put it this way: if it’s not suicide, it was a very, very intelligent murder.”

  With this, he touched his hat brim again, nudged the flanks of his horse with his heels, and passed them by.

  Ford thought: Wardlaw.

  34

  BLACKHORSE LOOKED EVEN BLEAKER THAN IT had when Ford had first seen it on Monday — a lonely collection of dust-covered trailers huddled between the flanks of Red Mesa and some low yellow hills. There was the smell of snakeweed in the air. In the patch of dirt where the children had been playing last time, a swing rocked emptily in the wind. Ford wondered where the school was—probably Blue Gap, thirty miles away.

  What a place to grow up. And yet, there was a kind of monastic-like emptiness to a Navajo settlement that Ford found appealing. Navajos did not accumulate property the way other people did. Even their houses were spare.

  As they rode toward the corrals, Ford spotted Nelson Begay shoeing a sorrel horse snubbed to a cedar post. He was cold-shaping a horseshoe on an anvil with a series of well-aimed blows of a hammer. The blows echoed off the mesa.

  Begay laid the hammer and shoe down with a clatter and straightened up, watching them approach.

  Ford and Kate halted, dismounted, and tied their horses to a corral fence. Ford raised his hand in greeting, and Begay motioned them over.

  “This is Dr. Kate Mercer, assistant director of the Isabella project.”

  Begay lifted
his hat brim to Kate. She stepped over and shook his hand.

  “You a physicist?” Begay asked, eyeing her skeptically.

  “Yes.”

  Begay’s eyebrows rose slightly. With great deliberation he turned his back, put his shoulder into the horse’s flank, pulled up the hind leg, and began matching the shoe to the hoof. Then he placed it on the anvil and gave it a few more whacks.

  As Ford stood there pondering Navajo cultural sensitivities, Kate said to Begay’s blue plaid back, “We were hoping to talk to you.”

  “Then talk.”

  “I’d prefer not to talk to a man’s back.”

  Begay dropped the hoof and straightened up. “Well, now, ma’am, I didn’t ask you to come, and right now I happen to be busy.”

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’ve got a Ph.D.”

  Begay coughed, laid down his tools, and faced her without expression.

  “Well?” she said. “Are we going to stand here in the hot sun or are you going to invite us in for coffee?”

  Exasperation mingled with amusement spread across Begay’s face. “All right, all right, come on in.”

  Once more Ford found himself in the spare living room with the military photographs on the walls. As Begay poured coffee, Ford and Kate sat down on the brown sofa. When their mugs were full, Begay settled into the broken Barcalounger. “Are all lady scientists like you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like my grandmother. You don’t take no for an answer, do you? You could be Diné yourself. In fact”—he leaned forward, scrutinizing her face—“you aren’t—?”

  “I’m half Japanese.”

  “Right.” He leaned back. “All right. Here we are.”

  Ford waited for Kate. She always had a knack with people, as she was already proving with Begay. He was curious to see how she’d handle him.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Kate said, “what, exactly, is a medicine man?”