by Alex Archer
The skinny kid reached out and rapped his knuckles on top of the bearded guy's baseball cap. "Dude, blast waves don't propagate in space. Hello. It's a vacuum? Blast waves need something to travel through. They're like sound."
The bearded guy batted his hand away. "Okay. The expanding shell of lethal hard radiation. Satisfied?"
"You're not taking this seriously," the Kiowa-looking kid said sulkily. "Native peoples had a lot of wisdom about Nature."
"Hey, I was the one who brought up the Mayan calendar. I'm not selling ancient native wisdom short here."
But the skinny guy kid had lost interest in the conversation. Instead he stared at the metal band picture on the Indian's T-shirt as if seeing it for the first time.
"Jesus, dude," he said, "are those ten-penny nails sticking out of that guy's armband?"
Chapter 4
With a heave of effort Father Robert Godin hoisted his nondescript and battered black duffel bag off the baggage carousel in the brightly lit bowels of the Albuquerque International Airport. Crowded all around him were people wearing colorful pins showing hot air balloons; images of hot-air balloons decked the area. He had had difficulty getting reservations, either for a flight in or a hotel room. The annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta was a major event and tourist draw.
Around him people chattered in a Babel of languages. He picked out French, German, Japanese, as well as English and the locally common Spanish. He half envied them their thoughtless gaiety – and half pitied them.
Yet isn't that your cross to bear, Robert? he told himself. That you should carry in this graying pate of yours fearful knowledge so that these simple children of God need never have to learn it?
Throwing the scuffed black bag over the shoulder of his brown leather jacket, he grinned behind his wire-rimmed glasses and began walking to the car rental agency's check-in counter nearby. God in His wisdom never promised to make life easy for people. Much less Jesuits.
Least of all him. But you screwed up, he reminded himself. You volunteered.
****
"You're not welcome here, Father."
There, Archbishop Daniel García thought with guilty satisfaction. I said it.
Although he was as tall as his visitor, and had longer legs, he seemed to be having trouble keeping up with the older man. They strolled in apparent amity around the southern quad of St. Pius X High School, the portion occupied by the Catholic Center, command center for the Archdiocese of Santa Fe, over which García presided. It was a crisp October morning, blustery as usual on the West Mesa bluffs overlooking the Rio Grande. Though it was clear, the winds had driven the hot-air balloons from the sky early. The archbishop's cassock, which he liked to wear during business hours because it made him look official, snapped at his calves like a nasty little animal.
The smile never faltered on the seamed, oblong face. "I gathered as much, Excellency," Father Robert Godin said, "by your body language when I came into your office."
García's face twisted briefly, partly in annoyance, partly in alarm. He had a long, sharp, studious face and a hank of black hair under his skullcap. He was not ashamed that women found him handsome.
Am I that transparent? he wondered. Given what this man had done – and did – that was frightening.
"I don't mean you personally, of course," the archbishop said hurriedly. "All God's children are equally welcome. And I do respect your profound commitment to the church. But your mission – it's simply not something that we need."
"With all respect, Excellency, the Vatican believes otherwise."
They can be so retrograde, he thought. But you could not say that sort of thing aloud to a special Vatican emissary. "We don't wish to encourage superstition among our flocks here."
"Such as belief in miracles?" Godin asked.
Precisely, García wanted to say. But of course you couldn't say that, either. Maybe kicked back in some oak-and-leather lounge with aperitifs, cleric to cleric. But not ex cathedra, as it were.
"Let me elucidate, Father," he said, perhaps ever so slightly in hope of befuddling a nonnative English speaker. But he knew better. He had seen the man's dossier, or at least such as was available – even to a man who ranked as high in the church hierarchy as he did. Godin was known to speak at least half a dozen languages, and he spent a great deal of time in North America. And he was a Jesuit. He would have mastered the English language. "Back about thirty years ago a woman in this state believed that the image of Jesus appeared to her in the scorch marks on a tortilla. She presented this as serious evidence of a miraculous apparition. The press, needless to say, had a field day," he finally said.
"It looked more like Mozart to me," Godin said. "Also, the derision seemed aimed as much at New Mexico as the church. Remember, I was a full adult, already in seminary and long in the tooth for that, when the story came out, your Excellency. I'm a bit older than you."
"Yes. Well, it's hardly our desire to expose our parishioners to ridicule. Or our state. After all, we are quite on the cutting edge of technology here, as I'm sure you're aware."
"Yes. Building all those brand-new fusion warheads, of which there apparently can never be enough."
The archbishop's pale amber eyes blinked rapidly behind his horn-rims. Normally he wore contacts, but for the occasion he had donned the eyeglasses. He felt they gave him gravitas.
Now he felt back on his heels again. He's the bloody-handed ex-mercenary and spook – and if half the rumors are true, some of the blood on his hands is of much more recent provenance than the end of the Cold War. How did I wind up on the defensive about the bomb?
They strolled a pathway of crushed pink gravel that ran right along the edge of the bluff above the Rio Grande. Across the river Albuquerque spread like a toy city, looking much neater than it did closer up, tucked away between the tree-lined valley and the foothills of the rather abrupt Sandia Mountains, rising in a blue wall to the east. García was glad the students were all in class at the moment, although usually they stayed north of the center unless they were jogging the path for P.E. The campus had once belonged to the now defunct University of Albuquerque, and was quite extensive.
"Father," he said earnestly, "to be candid, I fear what you may represent."
To his amazement Godin laughed. He had an easy laugh, easy as the lope with which he walked, loose-limbed as an adolescent. He seemed for a fact to be made out of rubber. And steel.
"I'm no witch-hunter, Your Excellency," the Jesuit said. "In fact some very good friends and professional associates of mine are witches. They can be very useful allies sometimes, in my line of work."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," García said.
"I'm not here to validate the sightings of the Santo Niño. I'm not the devil's advocate on the miracle case. My concern is to establish whether the apparitions might be demonic in origin, and in that case, whether they pose a danger to the church. And to the human race, for that matter."
"Preposterous," García blurted before he could catch himself.
Godin laughed. "As preposterous as being a high-ranking executive in an organization that explicitly teaches the reality of demons and miracles?"
García frowned. "We of the more modern generation – if I may speak frankly, Father – prefer to think of such things as allegories. Metaphors for the human condition. We much prefer to leave the biblical literalism to our, shall we say, more zealous Protestant brethren."
Godin nodded. "Fair enough. You've been spared certain experiences that would remove a lot of doubt in no uncertain terms. I have not. But after all, Your Excellency, I do not ask for your belief, nor even your cooperation. Merely your permission to operate within your archdiocese."
"But some of your experiences give me pause, Father – again, speaking candidly. Not as an exorcist, or whatever you may be – "
"Not that, either – thank God."
" – but rather your past, shall we say, political experiences. You have been a fairly active expon
ent of, even a warrior for, the forces of reaction. I can only be concerned as to what sort of methodology you might find appropriate to employ in pursuit of your mission."
Godin stopped and took off his glasses and polished them with a spotless white handkerchief. "You will believe this or not as you choose, Excellency," he said, "but I am, and always have been for all practical purposes, apolitical. When I fought against the followers of Pierre Mulele, I saw myself fighting against sadistic murderers, rapists, torturers. The fact that the Soviet Union chose to use them as counters in their great game made little difference to me. Fighting evil – evil I could see, and hear and smell – that was my role."
García shook his head. No point in getting drawn into a protracted wrangle, he told himself sternly. "I fear the very mission you've been sent upon indicates a strain of reaction within the church herself," he said, trying for more sorrow than anger. "Like much of the world, the church seems to have taken an alarming turn to the right of late."
He knew he skirted the edge. He was of course speaking to an inferior, hierarchically speaking. But the man was a direct representative of the Vatican. And a Jesuit. Some – most – of the Jesuits he knew were all-right guys, down with liberation theology and the true mission of the church in the modern world, which was to spread social justice and environmental enlightenment.
But the church still harbored deep, dank recesses of reaction, some even within the Society of Jesus.
Godin had started walking again, north toward the cluster of not particularly attractive flat buildings with flaring, slanted tops that made up most of the campus. "I'm not interested in heresy, either, Your Excellency. Either professionally or personally. My own faith's likely little more orthodox than your own."
"You – a Jesuit?"
The priest laughed again as the archbishop, cheeks burning, had to trot to catch up.
"You should read more history of the church. We Jesuits have often been accused of unorthodox views – though nowhere near as often as we're guilty of it."
"What do you want of me, then?" García asked at length.
"As I said, your permission to operate freely."
"Under the circumstances, the archdiocese can take no official cognizance of your activities."
"Meaning what, if I may be so bold as to ask, Excellency?"
"Meaning that what you do here is your own concern. I do not give permission. It is not in my purview to deny, much as I might wish otherwise. You enjoy the same rights and privileges – and responsibilities – as any other communicant, and any other ordained priest. But the archdiocese will extend no cooperation."
"That's fine, Excellency," Godin said easily. "I'm used to operating on my own."
García felt his thin cheeks grow hot. "And if you violate the laws of the land, the archdiocese will have no choice but to repudiate you. Should you break the law, and should I find out about it, it will be my pleasure to report you to the authorities."
To García's amazement the priest turned to him with an engaging, boyish grin. "Sure, sure," Godin said, patting his shoulder. "You'd be shirking your responsibilities to do otherwise. And don't worry. Over the years and the miles I've gotten pretty adept at not getting caught."
Such was the twinkle in the man's eyes that García found himself able to believe the words were spoken in jest. Almost. It was impossible, he found, to dislike Godin as a person, much as it may have been his duty as a progressive Christian to do so. He hoped God would forgive him.
"I will take up no more of your time, Excellency. I thank you, and trust that this is the last time I bother you."
"For both our sakes," García said gravely, "I hope so."
Without being entirely sure why he did so, he extended his hand. Godin bent to kiss the ring. Then he turned and strode off toward the parking lot at a land-devouring gait.
Archbishop Daniel García stood staring after him with the wind snapping his cassock like a sail. He is a dinosaur, he thought in wonder. And quite possibly dangerous.
So why do I feel shame?
Chapter 5
"I have to admit," Dr. Lauren Perovich said, "that it's an exciting place and time to be a professional student of folklore. I'm actually getting to see it in action – see folklore made." She smiled and shook her head. "Then again, New Mexico's seldom a dull place. Not for anyone with a taste for the strange."
You can say that again, Annja thought.
"After all, this is the land of the McDonald's coffee verdict and the holy tortilla, Ms. Creed."
"'Annja' is fine, Doctor."
"Annja, then. And call me Lauren."
Despite the gray streaking the professor of American folklore's long, straight, ash-blond hair, she looked little older to Annja than Annja herself did in the mirror most mornings. Perhaps it was the late-afternoon light filtering between the half-shut blinds of Dr. Perovich's little office tucked away in a corner of the University of New Mexico campus in central Albuquerque.
Or maybe I'm just getting old, Annja thought.
The folklorist was slim and youthful in her grayish turtleneck pullover and jeans. Her blue eyes danced behind round glasses. Annja thought her students lucky, hoped they appreciated the fact. The professor had graciously agreed to meet with Annja after her normal office hours, when afternoon classes were done for the day.
"If you don't mind my asking," Perovich said, "what's your professional interest in these Holy Child sightings, Annja?"
"Well, as an archaeologist I deal in people – societies – cultures that are dead and buried. It sounds awful when put that way, I suppose. But it's true. So I find it useful to, I guess, reconnect to the dynamic world of a living human culture, the interactions of living beings. So I keep touch with how people really work – to avoid embarrassing situations like thinking some artifact whose purpose I can't identify must have ritual significance, when it's, like, a pot scrubber or back scratcher or something else everyday."
The conversation she'd overheard in the diner that morning had actually suggested action to her.
She laughed and brushed away a strand of chestnut-brown hair that had drifted in to tickle her forehead. "Or maybe I'm just abusing professional courtesy to gratify simple curiosity."
Dr. Perovich sat rocking slightly in her swivel chair and nodding judiciously. Then she grinned impishly.
"I admit I'm just a bit disappointed," she said. "I had visions of seeing myself on Chasing History's Monsters, I suppose."
"The Holy Child doesn't exactly fit my definition of a monster. Or at least not my producer's. Now, if he had murdered eight or nine people..."
"But the show also deals with more general paranormal events," Perovich said.
"You seem awfully knowledgeable about it."
"I admit I'm a fan. Since I'm not a 'hard' scientist – " her fingers made quote signs in the air " – I don't have to pretend to some kind of reflex skepticism. Frankly, a lot of what passes for skepticism I can't tell from rather ingenuous faith in conventional explanations."
"Um," Annja said, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. She liked to style herself a skeptic, too. "Well. I'll certainly keep you in mind for the future. You'd be a good talking-head expert. You're articulate and interesting. It doesn't hurt that you're photogenic."
"Not, I'm afraid, like that hostess – what's her name?"
"Kristie Chatham."
"That's the one. Just so long as it doesn't matter if your experts aren't quite so profoundly endowed."
"Not to me," Annja replied.
She was grateful for the banter. There were monsters on the prowl, her instincts told her. Doug Morrell, her producer on the show, would, in the fullness of time, be all over the black anomaly of the night before – the more so since one of his own people was among the witnesses. An eagle, she told herself firmly.
That's all it was.
Perovich crossed her legs, laced her fingers over a knee and sat back. "So how can I help you?"
"You're keeping
up with the recent rash of Santo Niño sightings, I take it?"
"Oh, yeah." Her eyes gleamed.
"What's your professional take on them?"
Perovich swung around in her chair. "Fascinating. Really, really. We're seeing a synthesis of truly ancient folk legends with modern urban myth. Although I suspect the vanishing hitchhiker first appeared to Egyptian chariot drivers, portraying himself as the god Horus. Falcon head and all."
"Can you tell me a bit more about the myth?" Annja asked.
"Yep. A staple of the Automotive Age. Really seemed to hit its stride back in the seventies – although I'm never sure whether that's just because people began to be aware of urban legends as such, and keep track of them, about that time. That's always a risk, with sociological or psychological disciplines, even medicine. How much of an increased volume of reports of something is due to actual increased occurrence, and how much to people simply being more aware of it, and even having someone to report it to? Also, I ran up against the legend myself in those days, as a blushing girl – not to date myself too much.
"The basics are a young man appears by the side of the road with his thumb out. Although he's long-haired and bearded and maybe a bit scruffy in appearance, a kindly motorist stops and picks him up. The young man is very polite and friendly. Then his manner turns grave. He warns of some impending disaster, usually global in scale. Then something distracts the motorist. He looks away. When he looks back the passenger is gone."
"And he figures it was Jesus?" Annja asked.
"Sometimes. Who else would be long-haired, benign and prophetic? Well, of course, a raft of personages, even from the New Testament, although who ever sees an apparition of John the Baptist? Sometimes the enigmatic passenger explicitly identifies himself as Christ, but that's rare."
She shrugged. "Actually, my personal encounter with the legend involved a friend telling me about a hitchhiker his uncle picked up who claimed to be a scientist. This scientist – a young, kind of scruffy, polite man – claimed he had learned that the Earth was going to run out of oxygen by 1980. After that he dropped out of school and decided to wander and see America, spread the warning, for what good it would do. Of course, both my friend and his uncle swore it was true. It wasn't strictly a vanishing-hitchhiker yarn in the classic sense, although, if memory serves, the uncle claimed he did lose track of the guy kind of mysteriously at the next truck stop. But not long after I heard that story, I ran into an aunt who said a friend of hers said a friend of hers had had an encounter with Jesus. When I heard that tale I instantly hooked it up in my mind with the dropout-scientist yarn. And I was hooked. That's the actual urban legend that gave me my vocation – that and the choking Doberman."
