Blasphemy wf-2

by Douglas Preston

  He combed the hair carefully over the thinning spots, grimaced, inspected the crooked teeth he could never afford to get fixed. Somehow, he was reminded of his son, Luke—he’d be eleven now—and the feeling of anguish deepened. He hadn’t seen Luke in six years, all the while being stuck with child support he had no hope of paying. A sudden vision of the boy flashed through his mind—the way he ran all skinny through a sprinkler one hot summer day . . . . The memory was like a knife slitting his throat—the way he had seen a Navajo woman slit the throat of a lamb, which struggled and bleated, still living but already dead.

  He trembled, thinking of the injustices of his life, his money problems, his wife’s unfaithfulness, the divorce. He had been victimized again and again, through no fault of his own. He had come to the Rez with nothing but his faith and two cartons of books. God was testing his faith with a hardscrabble existence and a constant shortage of money. Eddy hated owing money all over, especially to Indians. But the Lord must know what He was doing, and Eddy was slowly building his congregation, even if they seemed more interested in the free clothing he gave away than in the sermon. None of them ever laid more than a few dollars in the collection basket—some weeks it held only twenty dollars. And a lot of them went on to Mass at the Catholic Mission to load up on free eyeglasses and medicine, or the LDS Church in Rough Rock, for the food bank. That was the trouble with the Navajos: they couldn’t tell the voice of Mammon from the voice of God.

  He paused for a moment to look around for Lorenzo, but his Navajo helper had not yet made his appearance. At the thought of Lorenzo, he flushed. The collection-plate money had disappeared for the third time, and now he had no doubt it was Lorenzo. It was only fifty-odd dollars, but it was fifty dollars his mission desperately needed—and, worse, it was stealing from the Lord. Lorenzo’s soul was in danger for a lousy fifty bucks.

  Eddy was fed up. Last week he had decided to fire Lorenzo, but for that he needed proof. And he would soon have it. Yesterday, between the collection and the end of the service, he had marked the bills in the collection plate with a yellow highlighter. He’d asked the trader in Blue Gap to keep an eye out for anyone spending them.

  Pulling on his T-shirt, he stretched his skinny arms and glanced over his humble mission with a mixture of affection and disgust. The trailer he lived in was falling apart. Near it stood the ProPanel hay barn he had bought from a rancher in Shiprock, disassembled, transported, and reerected to be his church. A backbreaking labor. Plastic chairs in different sizes, shapes, and colors substituted for pews. The “church” was open along three of the four sides, and during his sermon yesterday the wind kicked up and blew sand through the congregation. The only thing he owned of any value was back in the trailer, an iMac Intel Core Duo with a twenty-inch screen, sent to him by a Christian tourist passing through Navajoland who had been impressed by his mission. The computer was a godsend, his lifeline to the world beyond the Rez. He spent many hours a day on it, visiting Christian newsgroups and chat rooms, sending and receiving e-mail, and organizing donations of clothing.

  Eddy walked into the church and began straightening out the chairs, putting them back in neat rows, and sweeping the sand off the seats with a hand brush. As he worked, he thought about Lorenzo and he became angrier, banging the chairs around and shoving them roughly into place. This was something Lorenzo was supposed to do.

  When he finished adjusting the chairs, he carried a push broom to the wooden preaching platform and started sweeping the sand off the far end. As he swept, he saw Lorenzo appear in the yard. Finally. The Navajo always walked the two miles from Blue Gap, and he had a tendency to arrive silently, unexpectedly, like a ghost.

  Eddy straightened up and leaned on the broom handle as the young Navajo walked into the shade of the church.

  “Hello, Lorenzo,” said Eddy, trying to keep his voice even. “May the Lord bless you and guide you today.”

  Lorenzo flipped his long braids back. “Hi.”

  Eddy scrutinized his sullen face for signs of drug or liquor intoxication, but the eyes slid away from his as Lorenzo silently took the broom from his hands and began sweeping. Navajos were hard to read, but Lorenzo was harder than most, a loner, silent, keeping his own council. It was hard to tell if anything was going on in that head of his, beyond a craving for drugs and alcohol. Eddy couldn’t recall a single instance in which Lorenzo had ever spoken a complete sentence. Incredible to think he’d attended Columbia University, even if he didn’t graduate.

  Eddy stepped back and watched Lorenzo sweep, his strokes slow and inefficient, leaving streaks of sand. He suppressed the urge to say something to Lorenzo now about the collection money. Eddy himself barely had enough to eat, and he had had to borrow money for gas again, and here was Lorenzo stealing God’s money, no doubt to buy drugs or liquor. He felt a growing agitation at the thought of confronting Lorenzo. But he had to wait to hear from the trader first, because he needed proof. If he accused Lorenzo and the boy denied it—which he would, the liar—what could he do without proof?

  “When you finish up here, Lorenzo, could you please sort through the clothing that just came?” He pointed to several boxes that had arrived on Friday from a church in Arkansas.

  The man grunted to signify he had heard. Eddy watched his fumbled sweeping a few moments longer. Lorenzo was high, there was no question about it—he had stolen the collection to buy drugs. And now Eddy wouldn’t be able to get through the week without borrowing money for gas and food.

  He trembled wth rage—but he said nothing, turned, and walked stiffly back into the trailer to make his meager breakfast.

  9

  FORD PAUSED AT THE THRESHOLD OF the barn. The Monday morning sun slanted in, lighting up a storm of dust motes. He could hear the sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, munching feed. He ventured inside and walked down the center aisle, stopping to look at the horse in the first stall. A paint horse, working a mouthful of oats, looked back at him.

  “What’s your name, pardner?”

  The horse nickered, then lowered his head to scoop up another mouthful.

  A pail rattled toward the other end of the barn. He turned to see a head poke out of the far stall: Kate Mercer.

  They stared at each other.

  “Morning,” said Ford, mustering what he hoped passed for an easy smile.

  “Morning.”

  “Assistant director, string theorist, cook, and . . . stable hand? You’re a woman of many talents.” He tried to keep his voice light. There were other talents of hers he’d been hard-pressed to keep out of his mind.

  “You might say that.”

  She pressed the back of a gloved hand against her forehead, then walked over, carrying a pail of grain. A wisp of straw was tangled in her glossy hair. She wore tight jeans and a battered denim jacket over a white, crisp man’s shirt. It was unbuttoned at the collar, and he glimpsed the soft swell of her breasts.

  Ford swallowed, unable to think of anything to say except an inane “You cut your hair.”

  “Hair does have that tendency to grow, yes.”

  He wouldn’t rise to the bait. “It looks nice,” he said blandly.

  “It’s sort of my version of a traditional Japanese hairstyle called umano-o.”

  Kate’s hair had always been a touchy point. Her Japanese mother did not want her daughter to be Japanese in any way. She refused to allow Japanese to be spoken in the house, and insisted Kate wear her hair long and loose, like an all-American girl. Kate had given in on the hair, but when her mother began hinting that Ford would make an ideal American husband, it made her look all the harder for flaws.

  It occurred to Ford what the new hairstyle must mean.

  “Your mother?”

  “She passed away four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A pause. “Going for a ride?” Kate asked.

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “I didn’t know you knew how to ride.”

  “I spent a summ
er at a dude ranch when I was ten.”

  “In that case, I wouldn’t advise riding Snort.” She nodded to the paint. “Where do you plan to go?”

  Ford shuffled a USGS map from his pocket and unfolded it. “I wanted to pay a visit to Blackhorse to see the medicine man. By car it looks like twenty miles over bad roads. But it’s only six miles by horse, if you take the trail on the back side of the mesa.”

  Kate took the map and examined it. “That’s the Midnight Trail. Not for novice riders.”

  “It’ll save me hours.”

  “I’d still take the Jeep if I were you.”

  “I don’t want to arrive in a car emblazoned with government logos.”

  “Hmmm. I see your point.”

  They lapsed into silence.

  “All right,” said Kate. “The horse you want is Ballew.” She lifted a halter off a hook, entered a stall, and led out a dirt-colored horse with a ewe neck, rattail, and a big hay belly.

  “He looks like a reject from the dog-food factory.”

  “Don’t judge a horse by his looks. Old Ballew here’s bombproof. And he’s smart enough to keep his cool going down the Midnight Trail. Grab the saddle and pad off that rack and let’s tack up.”

  They brushed and saddled the horse, bridled it, and led it outside.

  “You know how to mount?” she asked.

  Ford looked at her. “Foot in the stirrup, step up—right?”

  She held the reins to him.

  Ford fumbled with the reins, looped one over the horse’s neck, held the stirrup, and stuck his foot in.

  “Wait, you need to—”

  But he was already swinging up. The saddle slipped sideways and Ford stumbled to the ground, landing on his butt in the dirt. Ballew stood there indifferently, saddle hanging sideways on his flank.

  “I was going to say, you need to check the cinch.” She seemed to be stifling a laugh.

  Ford got up, slapping off the dust. “Is that how you break in the dudes out here?”

  “I tried to warn you.”

  “Well, I’d best be off.”

  She shook her head. “Of all the places in the world you could be, I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “I’m not.”

  Ford suppressed a retort. He had a job to do. “I got over all that a long time ago. I hope you can, too.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that—I’m so over it. It’s just that I don’t need this kind of complication right now.”

  “And what complication is that?” Ford asked.

  “Forget it.”

  Ford fell silent. He wasn’t going to get embroiled in anything personal with Kate. Keep your mind on the mission. “You heading back into the Bunker today?” he asked lightly, after a moment.

  “Afraid so.”

  “More problems?”

  Her eyes slid—warily, he thought. “Maybe.”

  “What kind?”

  She looked up at him, looked away. “Hardware glitches.”

  “Hazelius told me it was software.”

  “That, too.” Again her eyes looked away.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She faced him directly, her mahogany eyes veiled and troubled. “No.”

  “Is it something . . . serious?”

  She hesitated. “Wyman? You do your job and let us do ours—okay?”

  She turned abruptly and walked back toward the barn. Ford watched her until she vanished into the shadowed interior.

  10

  RIDING BALLEW, FORD GRADUALLY RELAXED, TRYING to keep his mind off Kate, where it had been dwelling far too much for his liking. It was one of those glorious late summer days, tinged with melancholy, that reminded him the season would soon be over. Snakeweed bloomed golden among the dry grasses. Prickly pears were turning furzy with spines, and the tips of the Apache plumes had traded their blossoms for the puffs of red-and-white feathers that signaled autumn’s approach.

  The trail petered out, and Ford continued cross-country, navigating by compass. Ancient corkscrewed junipers and hoodoo rock formations made the mesa top feel prehistoric. He crossed the track of a bear in sand, the paw prints looking almost human. Shush, the long-forgotten Navajo word for “bear” popped into his head.

  Forty minutes later, he reached the edge of the mesa. The cliff dropped away sheer for a few hundred feet before stepping down through shelves of sandstone toward Blackhorse, two thousand feet below. The settlement looked like a cluster of geometric marks on the desert, about a half mile from the base of the mesa.

  Ford got off and searched the edge of the cliffs until he found the slot in the rimrock where the Midnight Trail descended. It was marked on the map as an old uranium prospecting road, but rockfalls, landslides, and washouts had turned it into an intermittent track. It plunged through the rimrock and switchbacked down the face before crossing a rib of mesa and zigzagging down more switchbacks to the bottom. Just tracing the line of the trail, in places barely more than a few feet wide, made him dizzy. Maybe he should have taken the Jeep after all. But he sure as hell wasn’t turning around.

  He led Ballew to the edge and began walking down, trailing the horse. Unfazed, the horse lowered his head, gave a sniff, and followed Ford down. He felt a twinge of admiration, even affection, for the old gutbucket.

  Half an hour later they emerged at the bottom. Ford mounted and rode the last bit of trail down a shallow tamarisk-shaded canyon to Blackhorse. Cow pens, corrals, a windmill, a water tank, and a dozen shabby trailers completed the town. Behind one trailer stood several eight-sided hogans built of split cedar, with mud roofs. Near the center of town, a half dozen preschool children romped on a dilapidated swing set, their voices shrill in the desert’s emptiness. Pickup trucks were parked beside the trailers.

  Ford nudged Ballew with his heels. The old horse moved slowly over the flats on the outskirts of town. A steady wind blew. The children stopped playing and stood like miniature statues, watching him. Then, as if on cue, they ran off squealing.

  Ford halted Ballew fifty feet from the closest trailer and waited. He knew, from Ramah, that Navajo personal space began well before the front door. A moment later a door banged, and a rangy man in a cowboy hat with bowlegs came hobbling down from one of the trailers. He raised his hand to Ford. “Tie your horse over there,” he called, over the sound of the wind.

  Ford dismounted, tied Ballew, and loosened the flank cinch. The man approached, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. “Who are you?”

  Ford stuck out his hand. “Yá‘át’ééh shi éí Wyman Ford yinishyé.”

  “Oh no, not another Bilagaana trying to speak Navajo!” the man said cheerfully, then added, “at least your accent is better than most.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Nelson Begay.”

  “You found him.”

  “Got a moment?”

  Begay squinted, looked at him more closely. “You come down off the mesa?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  Begay said, “That’s a hell of a trail.”

  “Not if you walk your horse.”

  “Smart man.” Another awkward pause. “You’re . . . you’re from the government, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Begay squinted at him again, gave a snort, then turned and limped back to the trailer. A moment later the door slammed. Silence took over the town of Blackhorse, except for the wind, unfurling skeins of yellow dust around Ford as if weaving a blanket.

  Now what? Ford stood in the swirling dust, feeling like an idiot. If he knocked on the door, Begay wouldn’t answer, and all he’d do is establish himself as another pushy Bilagaana. On the other hand, he had come here to speak to Begay, and speak to Begay he would.

  Screw it, the guy can’t stay in his trailer forever. Ford sat down.

  The minutes dragged on. The wind blew. The dus
t swirled.

  Ten minutes passed. A stink beetle marched purposely through the dust on some mysterious errand, becoming a little black dot as it went off and disappeared. His mind wandered, and he thought about Kate, their relationship, the long journey his life had made since then. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his wife. Her death had wrecked any sense of security he had felt in life. Before, he hadn’t known how arbitrary life could be. Tragedy happened to others. Okay, lesson learned. It could happen to him. Move on.

  He saw the faint movement of a curtain in a window, which suggested Begay was watching him.

  He wondered how long it would take the guy to get the message that he wasn’t moving. He hoped soon—sand was starting to filter into his pants, work itself into his boots, sift down his socks.

  The door slammed, and Begay came stomping out on the wooden stoop, arms crossed, looking mightily annoyed. He squinted at Ford and then shambled down the rickety wooden steps and came over. He extended his hand and helped Ford up.

  “You’re about the patientest goddamn white man I ever met. I suppose you’ll have to come in. Broom yourself off before you ruin my new sofa.”

  Ford slapped off the dust and followed Begay into the living room, and they sat down.

  “Coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  Begay returned with mugs of liquid as watery as tea. Ford remembered this, too—to save money, Navajos used the same coffee grounds multiple times.

  “Milk? Sugar?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Begay heaped sugar into his mug, followed by a good pour of half-and-half from a carton.

  Ford took in the room. The brown crushed-velvet sofa he sat on looked anything but new. Begay eased himself into a broken Barcalounger. An expensive giant-screen television set sat in one corner, the only thing of any value in the house as far as he could see. The wall behind it was plastered with family photographs, many showing young men in military uniform.

  Ford turned a curious gaze on Begay. The medicine man wasn’t what he had expected—neither a young, fiery activist nor a wise and wrinkled elder. He was lanky, with neatly trimmed hair, and looked to be in his early forties. Instead of the cowboy boots most Navajo men wore in Ramah, Begay wore high-top Keds, battered and faded, their rubber toe-caps peeling off. The only gesture to being Native American was a necklace of chunk turquoise.