“We were looking for the chapter house,” said Ford. “We want to see the chapter president. Is he around?”
“You mean ‘she.’ Maria Atcitty. Hell, yeah. Chapter house is down that road there. Take your last right before it turns to dirt. It’s the old wooden building with the tin roof right next to the water tower. Say hi to her for me.”
As they drove out of the gas station, Ford said, “That trick never fails on the Rez. Navajos are the most generous people in the world.”
“For cynical manipulation you get an A-plus.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Well, he did look like a bit of a hustler himself. What do you bet he charges interest?”
They pulled into the parking lot of the chapter house, next to a row of dusty pickups. On the front door someone had taped up one of Begay’s notices for the protest ride. Another fluttered from a nearby telephone pole.
They asked for the chapter president. A neat, solid woman in a turquoise blouse and brown dress pants appeared.
They shook hands and introduced themselves.
“Willy Becenti said to say hi.”
“You know Willy?” She seemed surprised—and pleased.
“In a way.” Ford gave a sheepish laugh. “He loaned me twenty bucks.”
Atcitty shook her head. “Good old Willy. He’d give his last twenty to some bum, then stick up a convenience store to reimburse himself. Come on in and have a cup of coffee.”
At a coffeepot on the counter they collected mugs of weak Navajo coffee, then followed Atcitty into a small office heaped with paper.
“So, what can I do for you folks?” she said with a big smile.
“Well, I almost hate to admit this, but we’re from the Isabella project.”
Her smile faded. “I see.”
“Kate’s the assistant director of the Isabella project, and I’ve just arrived as the community liaison.”
Atcitty said nothing.
“Ms. Atcitty, I know people are wondering what the heck is going on up there.”
“You’ve got that just about right.”
“I need your help. If you can get people together here at the chapter house—say, some evening this week— I’ll bring Gregory North Hazelius down in person so he can answer questions and explain what we’re doing.”
A long silence, then, “This week is too soon. Make it next week. Wednesday.”
“Excellent. Things are going to change. From now on, we’ll be doing some of our shopping down here and over at Rough Rock. We’ll gas up our cars down here, buy our groceries and supplies.”
“Wyman, I really don’t think—,” Mercer began, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“That would help,” said Atcitty.
They rose and shook hands.
As the Jeep left Blue Gap behind in a cloud of dust, Mercer turned to Ford. “Wednesday next week is too late to stop the ride.”
“I have no intention of stopping the ride.”
“If you think we’re going to shop in that store and eat Doritos, mutton, and canned beans for dinner, you’re crazy. And the gas down there costs a fortune.”
“This isn’t New York or Washington,” said Ford. “This is rural Arizona, and these people are your neighbors. You need to get out and show them you’re not a bunch of mad scientists about to destroy the world. And they could use the business.”
She shook her head.
“Kate,” Ford said, “what happened to all your progressive notions? Your sympathy for the poor and downtrodden?”
“Don’t you lecture me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you need lecturing. You’ve become a member of the big bad establishment and you don’t even know it.” He concluded with a little laugh, trying to keep it light, but only too late realized he’d scored a direct hit on her feelings.
She stared at him, white-lipped, then looked out the window. They drove up the Dugway in silence and headed down the long blacktop road for the Isabella project.
Halfway across the mesa, Ford slowed the Jeep and squinted through the windshield.
“Now what?”
“That’s quite a column of buzzards.”
“So?”
He stopped the car and pointed. “Look. Fresh tire tracks going off the road to the west—right toward those vultures.”
She wouldn’t look.
“I’m going to check it out.”
“Swell. I’m already going to be up half the night doing calculations.”
He parked in the shade of a juniper and followed the tracks, his feet crunching in the crusty dirt. It was still blazing hot, as the ground gave up the heat it had sucked in all day. In the distance, a coyote slunk away, carrying something in its mouth.
After ten minutes, Ford came to the edge of a deep, narrow arroyo and looked down. A car rested at the bottom, upside down. Buzzards were perched in a dead pinon, waiting. A second coyote had his head stuck through the broken windshield, jerking and pulling at something. When it saw Ford, it let go and ran off, its bloody tongue dangling.
Ford climbed down the sandstone boulders toward the car, holding his shirt over his nose to soften the stench of death, which mingled with a strong smell of gasoline. The buzzards rose in a flapping, awkward mass. He crouched and peered inside the smashed interior.
A body was jammed sideways on the seat. The eyes and lips were gone. One arm, flung out toward the broken window, had been stripped of flesh and was missing its hand. Despite the damage, the body was recognizable.
Volkonsky.
Ford remained very still, his eyes taking in every detail. He backed away, careful not to disturb anything, turned, and scrambled up the side of the arroyo. When he could, he took several slow, deep breaths of fresh air, then jogged back toward the road. In the distance, silhouetted against a rise, he could see the two coyotes yipping and squabbling over a floppy chunk of meat.
He reached the car and leaned in the open window. Resentment etched Kate’s face.
“It’s Volkonsky,” he said. “I’m sorry, Kate . . . . He’s dead.”
She blinked, gasped. “Oh my God . . . You’re sure?”
He nodded.
Her lip twitched. Then, in a hoarse voice, “Accident?”
“No.”
Swallowing a feeling of nausea, Ford slipped his cell phone out of his back pocket and dialed 911.
15
LOCKWOOD ENTERED THE OVAL OFFICE, HIS shoes soundless on the thick carpet. As always, being so close to the still point of power in the turning world gave him a thrill.
The president of the United States came around from behind his desk, hand outstretched, giving him a real politician’s welcome.
“Stanton! Good to see you. How’s Betsy and the kids?”
“Just great, thank you, Mr. President.”
While continuing to clasp his hand, the president grasped Lockwood’s forearm and directed him to the chair closest to the desk. Lockwood sat, placing the file on his knees. Through the east-facing windows, he could see the Rose Garden settling into a mellow late-summer twilight. The president’s chief of staff, Roger Morton, entered and
