Blasphemy

“Her dossier says her father was an illiterate laborer who died before she and her mother emigrated from China. Not so. He was a physicist with the Chinese nuclear-weapons-testing facility out at Lop Nor. And he’s still alive, back in China.”

“How’d the false information get in the dossier?”

“Immigration files—and from the interview with Chen herself.”

“So she’s lying.”

“Maybe not. Her mother took her out of China when she was two. Could be her mother’s the liar. But there could be an innocent explanation for the falsehood: the mother wouldn’t have gotten a visa to come to America if she’d told the truth. Chen may not even know her father’s alive. No evidence she’s passing information.”

“Hmm.”

“We’re running out of time, Wyman. You keep pushing. I know they’re hiding something big—I just know it.”

Lockwood rang off.

Ford went back to the window and stared again toward Nakai Rock. Now he was one of them—hiding the secret. But unlike them, he had more than one secret.

23

AT ELEVEN TWENTY, PASTOR RUSS EDDY sped along the brand-new asphalt road that cut across the top of Red Mesa in his battered 1989 F-150 pickup. The wind blowing through his open windows fanned the pages of the King James Bible on the seat beside him, and his blood pounded with a sense of confusion, anger, and anxiety. So it wasn’t Lorenzo after all. Still, he’d been drunk, he’d been insolent—and he’d blasphemed the Lord in the most heinous way. Eddy had had nothing to do with his death—he’d killed himself. But in the end, it was all God’s plan. And God knew what He was doing.

God moves in mysterious ways.

He said it to himself again and again. All his life he had awaited the call—the revelation of God’s purpose for him. It had been a long, difficult journey. God had tested him as sorely as Job, taken from him his wife and child in divorce, taken his career, his money, his self-respect.

And now this thing with Lorenzo. Lorenzo had blasphemed God and Jesus using the most horrific words of vileness, and before his very eyes God had smote him dead. Before his very eyes. But Lorenzo hadn’t been the thief: Eddy had accused him unjustly. What did it mean? Where was God’s will in all this? What was God’s plan for him?

God moves in mysterious ways.

The pickup coughed and rattled along the shining black asphalt, took a broad curve, passed between sandstone bluffs—and there below him lay a collection of adobe houses half-hidden among cottonwoods. To the right, about a mile off, lay the two new runways of the airstrip and a set of hangars. Beyond that, at the edge of the mesa, was the Isabella complex itself, surrounded by a double set of chain-link fences.

Most of Isabella, he knew, was deep below ground. The entrance must be inside the fenced-off area.

Dear Heavenly Father, please guide me, he prayed.

Eddy drove down into the little green valley. There was a log building at the far end, which must be the old Nakai Rock Trading Post. Two men and a woman were walking toward it. Others moved about near the door. God had gathered them together for him.

He took a deep breath, slowed the pickup, and parked in front of the building. A hand-painted sign above the door read, NAKAI ROCK TRADING POST, 1888.

Through the screen door, he counted eight people inside. He knocked on the wooden frame. No answer. He knocked louder. The man at the front of the room turned, and Russ was struck by his eyes. They were so blue, they seemed to jolt you with electricity.

Hazelius. It had to be.

Russ whispered a quick prayer and stepped inside.

“What can I do for you?” the man asked.

“My name’s Russ Eddy. I’m the pastor of the Gathered in Thy Name Mission down in Blue Gap.” It came out in a rush. He felt foolish and self-conscious.

With a warm smile the man detached himself from the chair he’d been leaning on and strode over. “Gregory North Hazelius,” he said with a hearty handshake. “Good to meet you, Russ.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What can I do for you?”

Russ felt panic welling up. Where were the words he had rehearsed as the truck climbed the Dugway? Then his tongue found them. “I heard about the Isabella project, and I decided to come and tell you about my mission and offer you all the benefits of my spiritual assistance. We meet every Sunday at ten o’clock, over in Blue Gap, about two miles west of the water tower.”

“Thank you very much, Russ,” said Hazelius, his voice warm and sincere.

“We’ll visit you sometime soon—and perhaps you’d also enjoy a tour of Isabella one of these days. Unfortunately, right now we’re in a very important meeting. Perhaps you’d care to come back next week?”

Heat crept up Russ’s face. “Well, sir, no, I don’t think so.” He swallowed. “You see, my flock and I, we’ve been concerned about what’s going on up here. I came to get some answers.”

“I understand your concern, Russ, I really do.” Mr. Hazelius glanced at a man standing close to him—tall, angular, and ugly. “Pastor, let me introduce you to Wyman Ford, our community liaison person.”

The man stepped forward, his hand extended. “Glad to meet you, Pastor.”

Hazelius was already retreating.

“I came to talk to him, not you,” said Eddy, the high-pitched voice he hated cracking with effort.

Hazelius turned. “Excuse me, Pastor. We didn’t mean any disrespect. We’re a little tied up right now . . . . Could we meet tomorrow, same time?”

“No, sir.”

“May I respectfully ask why is it so important to deal with this now?”

“Because I understand there’s been a . . . a sudden bereavement, and I think that needs to be addressed.”

Hazelius gazed at him. “You’re referring to the death of Peter Volkonsky?” His voice had become quiet.

“If that’s the man who took his own life, yes, I am, sir.”

The man named Ford stepped forward again. “Pastor, I’d be happy to work with you on these issues. The problem is, right now Dr. Hazelius is about to direct another test of Isabella, and he doesn’t have the time he’d like to devote to you. But I could.”

Eddy wasn’t going to let himself be bundled off to some PR lackey. “Like I said, I want to talk to him—not you. Isn’t he the one who claimed he was the smartest man on earth? The one who said the rest of us were morons? The one who built this machine to challenge the Word of God?”

There was a short silence.

“The Isabella project has nothing to do with religion,” said the PR man. “It’s strictly a scientific experiment.”

Eddy felt his anger swelling—righteous, furious anger at Lorenzo, at his ex-wife, at the divorce court, at all the injustice in the world. This was how Jesus must have felt in the Temple, when he cast out the money changers.

He pointed a trembling finger at Hazelius. “God will punish you anew.” “That’s quite enough—,” said the PR man, his voice sharp now, but Hazelius interrupted.

“What do you mean by ‘anew’?”

“I’ve been reading up on you. I know about your wife, who pornographically bared her body in Playboy magazine, who glorified herself, and lived deliciously, like the whore of Babylon. God punished you by taking her. Still, you did not repent.”

The room went deathly silent. The PR man said, after a moment, “Mr. Wardlaw, please escort Mr. Eddy from the premises.”

“No,” said Hazelius. “Not yet.” He turned to Eddy with a terrible smile that chilled the preacher’s soul. “Tell me, Russ. You’re the pastor of a mission near here?”

“That’s right.”