Blasphemy wf-2

by Douglas Preston

  “All right, now what is it you want with me?” He spoke in a soft wood wind voice with that peculiar Navajo accent that seemed to give weight to each word.

  Ford gestured to the wall with his head. “Your family?”

  “Nephews.”

  “They’re in the military?”

  “Army. One’s stationed in South Korea. The other, Lorenzo, finished a tour in Iraq and now he’s . . .” A hesitation. “Back home.”

  “You must be proud of them.”

  “I am.”

  Another silence. “I hear you’re leading a protest ride against the Isabella project.”

  No answer.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. To listen to your concerns.”

  Begay crossed his arms. “Too late for listening.”

  “Try me.”

  Begay uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Nobody asked people around here if we wanted this Isabella. The whole deal was done down in Window Rock. They get the money and we get nothing. They told us there’d be jobs—then you people brought in construction workers from outside. They said it would bring economic development—but you people truck in your food and supplies from Flagstaff. Not once have you folks shopped in our local stores in Blue Gap or Rough Rock. You built your housing in an Anasazi valley, desecrating graves, and took away grazing land that we were still using, without compensation. And now we’re hearing talk about smashing atoms and radiation.”

  He placed his big hands on his knees and glared at Ford.

  Ford nodded. “I hear you.”

  “I’m glad you’re not deaf. You’re so damn ignorant of us, I bet you don’t even know what time it is.” He arched his eyebrows quizzically. “Go ahead—tell me what time you think it is.”

  Ford knew he was being set up in some way but played along anyway. “Nine.”

  “Wrong!” said Begay triumphantly. It’s ten.“

  “Ten?”

  “That’s right. Here on the Big Rez, half the year we’re in a different time zone from the rest of Arizona, half the year in the same zone. In the summer, when you enter the Rez, we’re one hour later than the rest of the state. Hours and minutes are a Bilagaana invention anyway, but the point is, you geniuses up there know so little about us that you don’t even have your clocks set right.”

  Ford looked at him evenly. “Mr. Begay, if you’re willing to work with me to make some real changes, I promise you I’ll do all I can. You’ve got some legitimate grievances.”

  “Who are you, a scientist?”

  “I’m an anthropologist.”

  There was a sudden silence. Then Begay eased himself back. A dry laugh shook his frame. “An anthropologist. Like we’re some kind of primitive tribe. Oh, that’s funny.” He stopped laughing. “Well, I’m an American, just like you. I got relatives fighting for my country. I don’t like you folks coming out here to my mesa, building a machine that’s scaring the hell out of everyone, making a lot of promises you don’t keep, and now they send an anthropologist like we’re savages with bones through our noses.”

  “They sent me here only because I spent time over in Ramah. What I’d like to do is invite you up to the Isabella project for a tour, to meet Gregory Hazelius, to see what we’re doing, to get acquainted with the team.”

  Begay shook his head. “The time for tours is over.” He paused, then asked, almost reluctantly, “What kind of research are you doing over there? I been hearing some weird stories.”

  “Investigating the Big Bang.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s the theory that the universe came into existence thirteen billion years ago in an explosion and has been expanding outward ever since.”

  “In other words, you people are shoving your noses into the Creator’s business.”

  “The Creator didn’t give us brains for nothing.”

  “So you all don’t believe that a Creator made the universe.”

  “I’m Catholic, Mr. Begay. In my view, the Big Bang was simply how He did it.”

  Begay sighed. “Like I said: enough talk. We’re riding up the mesa on Friday. That’s the message you can take back to your team. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

  FORD RODE BALLEW BACK TO WHERE the trail ascended. He looked up at the boulders and crags and cliffs. Now that he knew Ballew could navigate the switchbacks and rough spots, there was no reason to walk. He would ride the old horse.

  When they passed through the rock opening at the top of the mesa an hour later, Ballew burst into a trot, eager to get back to the barn. Ford clung to the saddlehorn in a panic, thankful there was nobody around to see what a fool he must look. At around one o’clock Nakai Rock loomed up, and the low bluffs around the valley came into view. As he rode down into the cottonwoods, he heard a harsh laugh and saw a figure walking furiously along the path from Isabella to the settlement.

  It was Volkonsky, the computer programmer, his long greasy hair in disarray. He looked haggard and angry, but at the same time he was grinning like a madman.

  Ford hauled Ballew to a stop, dismounted quickly, and used the horse to block the trail.

  “Hello.”

  “Excuse me,” said Volkonsky, trying to dodge around.

  “Nice day, don’t you think?”

  Volkonsky halted and stared, his face full of furious mirth. “You ask: Is it nice day? And I answer you: Never been better day!”

  “Is that so?” Ford asked.

  “And why is that your business, Mr. Anthropologist?” He tilted his head, his brown teeth exposed in a grimace of false hilarity.

  Ford stepped so close, he could have touched the Russian. “From the way you look, I’d say you’re having anything but a nice day.”

  Volkonsky laid a hand on Ford’s shoulder in an exaggerated, mock-friendly way and leaned forward. A wash of liquor and tobacco-laden breath enveloped Ford. “Before, I worry. Now I am fine!” He tilted his head back and roared with harsh laughter, his unshaven Adam’s apple bobbing.

  The sound of steps came from behind. Volkonsky straightened abruptly.

  “Ah, Peter,” said Wardlaw, approaching down the trail. “And Wyman Ford. Greetings.” His voice, pleasant and oddly ironic, emphasized the final word.

  Volkonsky started at the salutation.

  “Coming from the Bunker, Peter?” Wardlaw’s words seemed laced with menace.

  Volkonsky maintained the manic grin, but Ford now saw uneasiness in his eyes—or was it fear?

  “The security log says you were there all night,” Wardlaw continued. “I’m worried about you. I hope you’re getting enough sleep, Peter.”

  Silently, Volkonsky stepped past him and walked stiffly down the trail.

  Wardlaw turned to Ford as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Nice day for a ride.”

  “We were just chatting about that,” said Ford dryly.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “I went to Blackhorse to meet the medicine man.”

  “And?”

  “We met.”

  Wardlaw shook his head. “That Volkonsky . . . he’s always worked up about something.” He took a step down the trail, then stopped. “He didn’t say anything . . . odd to you, did he?”

  “Such as?” Ford asked.

  Wardlaw shrugged. “Who knows? The man’s a little unstable.”

  Ford watched Wardlaw strolling off, meaty paws thrust in his pockets—a man like the rest of them, close to the breaking point, only far better at hiding it.

  11

  EDDY STOOD OUTSIDE HIS TRAILER, A glass of cold water in his hand, watching the sun sink toward the distant horizon. Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen—he had disappeared sometime around noon, vanished as silently as he had come, without having finished his chores. A heap of unsorted clothing lay on a table and the sand around the church hadn’t yet been raked. Eddy stared at the distant horizon, burning with resentment. He never should have agreed to take in Lorenzo. The young man had been in prison for involunta
ry manslaughter, plea-bargained down from second-degree murder—knifed someone in a drunken brawl in Gallup. Served only eighteen months. Eddy had agreed to hire him, at the request of a local family, to help him satisfy his conditions of parole.

  Big mistake.

  Eddy took a sip of the cool water, trying to suppress the hot resentment and anger that boiled inside him. He hadn’t heard yet from the trader in Blue Gap, but he had no doubt he would soon. And when that happened, he would have the proof he needed and could get rid of Lorenzo for good—send him back to prison, where he belonged. Eighteen months for murder—no wonder the crime rate on the Rez was sky high.

  He took another sip and was surprised to see the faint outline of a man, walking down the road toward the mission, silhouetted against the setting sun. He stared, squinting.

  Lorenzo.

  Even as he approached he could see, from Lorenzo’s uncertain gait, that the man was drunk. Eddy crossed his arms and waited, his heart accelerating at the thought of the coming confrontation. He would not let it pass—not this time.

  Lorenzo came to the gate, leaned for a moment on the post, then came in.

  “Lorenzo?”

  The Navajo slowly turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his silly braids half undone, the bandanna around his head askew. He looked terrible, his whole frame stooped, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.

  “Come here, please. I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Lorenzo merely looked at him.

  “Lorenzo, didn’t you hear me?”

  The Indian turned and shambled on toward the clothes pile.

  Eddy quickly moved and stood in Lorenzo’s path, blocking him. The Indian stopped and raised his head, looking at him. The sour smell of bourbon washed over him.

  “Lorenzo, you know very well that drinking alcoholic beverages is a violation of your parole.”

  Lorenzo just stared.

  “You also left without finishing your work. I’m supposed to certify to your parole officer that you’re doing an adequate job here, and I won’t lie to him. I won’t lie. I’m letting you go.”

  Lorenzo dropped his head. For a moment Eddy thought it was a gesture of contrition, but then he heard a hawking sound, as Lorenzo scoured up a gob of phlegm and slipped it from his lips, depositing it into the sand at Eddy’s feet like a raw oyster.

  Eddy felt his heart pounding. He was furiously angry. “Don’t you spit when I’m talking to you, mister,” he said, his voice high.

  Lorenzo tried to take a step to the side to go around Eddy, but the pastor quickly stepped in his way again. “Are you listening to me, or are you too drunk?”

  The Indian just stood there.

  “Where’d you get the money for liquor?”

  Lorenzo lifted his hand, let it drop heavily.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “A guy owed me.” His voice was hoarse.

  “Is that so? Which guy?”

  “Don’t know his name.”

  “You don’t know his name,” repeated Eddy.

  Lorenzo made another halfhearted attempt to go around, which Eddy blocked. He felt his hands trembling. “I happen to know where you got that money. You stole it. From the collection plate.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way. You stole it. Over fifty dollars.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Don’t swear at me, Lorenzo. I saw you take it.” The lie was out before he even realized he was telling it. But it didn’t matter; he might as well have seen him—guilt was written all over his face.

  Lorenzo said nothing.

  “That was fifty dollars of money that this mission desperately needs. But you didn’t just steal from the mission. You didn’t just steal from me. You stole from the Lord.”

  No response.

  “How do you think the Lord will react to that? Did you think about that when you took the money, Lorenzo? And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.”

  Lorenzo turned brusquely and began walking the other way, back toward town. Eddy lunged forward and grabbed his shirt at the shoulder. Lorenzo jerked his shoulder away and kept going. Suddenly he veered and went off toward the trailer.

  “Where are you going?” Eddy cried. “Don’t go in there!”

  Lorenzo disappeared inside. Eddy ran after him, pausing at the door. “Get out of there!” He hesitated to follow him inside, fearful of being jumped. “You’re a thief!” he shouted in. “That’s what you are. A common thief. Get out of my house now! I’m calling the police!”

  A crash came from the kitchen, a silverware drawer flung across the room.

  “You’ll pay for the damage! Every cent!”

  Another crash, more scattered flatware. Eddy desperately wanted to go in, but he was afraid. At least the drunk Indian was in the kitchen and not in the back bedroom where his computer was.

  “Get out of there, you drunkard! Human garbage! You’re dirt in the eyes of Jesus! I’m reporting this to your parole officer and you’ll go back to prison! I guarantee it!”

  Suddenly Lorenzo appeared in the entryway, a long bread knife in his hand.

  Eddy backed up and off the stoop. “Lorenzo. No.”

  Lorenzo stood on the stoop, uncertainly, waving the knife and blinking in the setting sunlight. He did not advance.

  “Drop the knife, Lorenzo. Drop it.”

  His hand lowered.

  “Drop it, now.” Eddy could see his whitened grip on the handle relaxing. “Drop it or Jesus will punish you.”

  A gargle of rage suddenly came from Lorenzo’s throat. “I screw your Jesus up the ass, like this!” He jabbed the knife into the air so violently that it almost threw him off balance.

  Eddy staggered back, the words landing on him like a kick to the gut. “How—dare—you— blaspheme our Savior? You sick—you evil man! You’ll burn in hell, Satan! You—!” Eddy’s high-pitched voice was choked off by hysteria.

  A raucous, phlegmy laugh erupted from Lorenzo’s throat. He waved the knife around, grinning, as if enjoying Eddy’s horror. “That’s right,up the ass.”

  “You’ll burn in hell!” Eddy cried, with a rush of courage. “You’ll call on Jesus to moisten your parched lips, but He won’t be listening. Because you’re scum. Human garbage scum!”

  Lorenzo spat again. “Right on.”

  “God will strike you down, mark my words. He will smite you and curse you, blasphemer! You stole from Him, you dirty Indian thief!”

  Lorenzo rushed at Eddy. But the preacher was small and quick, and as the knife came at him in a wide, inefficient arc, Eddy skipped aside and seized Lorenzo’s forearm in both his hands. The Navajo struggled, trying to turn the knife back on Eddy, but Eddy held on with both hands like a terrier, twisting and wrenching the arm, trying to shake the knife loose.

  Lorenzo grunted, strained, but in his drunken state he didn’t have the strength. His arm suddenly went limp and Eddy held on.

  “Drop the knife.”

  Lorenzo stood there, uncertainly. Eddy, seeing his chance, threw a shoulder into Lorenzo, spinning him sideways, and grabbed the knife. Losing his footing, Eddy fell backward with Lorenzo falling on top of his chest. Even as Lorenzo fell, however, Eddy had taken the knife by the handle. Lorenzo fell on it, the knife impaling his heart fore and aft. Eddy felt hot blood gush on his hands and with a cry he released the blade and pulled himself out from under the Navajo. The knife was in Lorenzo’s chest, right over his heart.

  “No!”

  Incredibly, Lorenzo rose to his feet, the knife sticking out of his chest. Staggering back, with one final effort he wrapped both his hands hard around the knife handle. He stood there for a moment, hands gripping the handle, straining to pull it out with rapidly ebbing strength, his face blank, his eyes filming over. Toppling forward, he fell heavily into the sand, the force of the fall driving the poi
nt of the knife out his back.

  Eddy stared, his mouth working. Below the supine body, he saw a pool of blood running into the sand, soaking into the thirsty ground, leaving jellylike clots on the surface.

  The first thought Eddy had was, I will not be a victim again.

  THE SUN HAD LONG SET AND a chill was in the air by the time Eddy finished the hole. The sand was soft and dry and he had dug it deep—very deep.

  He paused, drenched in sweat and shivering at the same time. He climbed out of the hole, pulled up the ladder, placed his foot against the body, and rolled it in. It landed with a wet thump.

  Working with great care, he shoveled all the bloody sand into the hole, digging down as far as it went, not missing a grain. Then he stripped off his clothes and tossed them in next. Finally, in went the bloody bucket of water he had washed his hands in, bucket and all, followed by the towel he had dried himself with.

  He stood shivering at the edge of the dark hole, stark naked. Should he pray? But the blasphemer deserved no prayer—and what good would prayer do for someone already writhing and shrieking in the blast furnaces of hell? Eddy had said God would smite him down, and not fifteen seconds later God had done just that. God had directed the blasphemer’s hand against himself. Eddy had actually witnessed it—had seen the miracle.

  Still naked, Eddy filled in the hole, shovelful by shovelful, working hard to keep up his body warmth. By midnight he was finished. He raked out the evidence of his work, put away his tools, and went into the trailer.

  As Pastor Eddy lay in bed that night, praying as hard as he had ever prayed in his life, he heard the night wind come up, as it so often did. It moaned and rocked and rattled the old trailer, the sand hissing against the windows. By morning, Eddy thought, the yard would be swept clean by the wind, a smooth expanse of virgin sand, all trace of the incident erased.

  The Lord is scouring the ground clean for me, just as he forgives me and scours clean the sin from my soul.

  Eddy lay in the dark, shaking and triumphant.