Blasphemy

“I’m here partly as an anthropologist, and partly for another reason.”

“I should’ve guessed. So what’s the mission, Secret Agent Man?”

“I . . . was sent here to investigate the Isabella project.”

“In other words, you’re a spy.”

He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Does Hazelius know?”

“Nobody knows.”

“I see . . . And you befriended me because I was a quick route to the information you needed.”

“Kate—”

“No, wait—it’s worse: they hired you knowing of our past relationship, in the hopes that you could blow on those old coals and coax the information out of me.”

As usual, Kate had figured it all out even before he could finish.

“Kate, when I agreed to this assignment, I didn’t realize . . .”

“Didn’t realize what? That I’d be such a sucker?”

“I didn’t realize . . . that there’d be a complication.”

She tugged her horse to a halt and stared at him. “Complication? What do you mean?”

Ford’s face burned. Why was life suddenly so incomprehensible? How could he answer her?

She tossed her hair and brushed her cheek roughly with a gloved hand. “You’re still in the CIA, aren’t you?”

“No. I quit three years ago when my wife . . . My wife . . .” He couldn’t say it.

“Yeah, sure you quit. So—did you tell them our secret?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. Of course you told them. I trusted you, opened up to you—and now we’re all screwed.”

“I didn’t tell them.”

“I wish I could believe you.” She gave her horse a jab and trotted away.

“Kate, please listen—” Ballew broke into a trot, too. Ford bounced up and down, one hand gripping the saddlehorn.

Kate gave her horse another nudge and it began to canter. “Get away from me.”

Ballew broke into a canter, unasked. Ford clutched the saddlehorn, his body joggling around like a rag doll’s. “Kate, please—slow down, we need to talk—”

She kicked her horse into a gallop, and again Ballew thundered after her. The two horses whipped along the mesa top, hooves pounding the ground. Ford held on for dear life, terrified.

“Kate!” he shouted. A rein slipped from his hand. He lunged forward to snag it, but Ballew stepped on the dragging rein and jerked up short. Ford cartwheeled off the back of the horse and landed on a carpet of snakeweed.

When he came to, he was staring at the sky, wondering where the hell he was.

Kate’s face loomed into his field of view. Her hat was gone and her hair was wild, her face in an agony of concern.

“Wyman? My God, are you all right?”

He gasped and coughed as air returned to his lungs. He tried to sit up.

“No, no. Lie down.” When he sank back, he felt his head settling into her hat and realized she must have folded it up for a pillow. He waited for the stars to clear from his eyes and memory to return.

“Oh my God, Wyman, for a moment there I thought you were dead.”

He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He breathed in, out, in again, sucking in air.

She had taken off her glove, and her cool hand patted his face. “Did you break anything? Do you hurt? Oh, you’re bleeding!” She slipped off her bandanna and dabbed at his forehead.

His head began to clear. “Let me sit up.”

“No, no. Stay still.” She pressed the bandanna firmly against his skin. “You hit your head. You might have a concussion.”

“I don’t think so.” He groaned. “What an idiot I must seem. Falling off a horse like a sack of potatoes.”

“You don’t know how to ride, that’s all. It was my fault. I never should have run off like that. You just make me so mad sometimes.”

The throbbing in his head began to subside. “I didn’t betray your secret. And I’m not going to.”

She looked at him. “Why? Isn’t that what you were hired to do?”

“Screw what I was hired to do.”

She dabbed at his cut. “You need to rest a little more.”

He lay still. “Aren’t I supposed to get back on the horse?”

“Ballew took off for the barn. Don’t be embarrassed—everyone falls off eventually.”

Her hand rested on his cheek. He lay still for a moment longer, and then slowly sat up. “I’m sorry.”

After a moment, she said, “You mentioned something about a wife. I . . . didn’t know you were married.”

“Not anymore.”

“Must be hard to be married to the CIA.”

He said quickly, “It wasn’t that. She died.”

Kate covered her mouth. “Oh—I’m sorry. What a stupid thing for me to say.”

“It’s all right. We were partners in the CIA. She got killed in Cambodia. Car bomb.”

“Oh my God, Wyman. I’m so sorry.”

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to tell her. But it came out so easily. “So I left the CIA and went into a monastery. I was looking for something; I thought it was God. But I didn’t find Him. I wasn’t cut out to be a monk. I left and had to earn a living, so I hung out my shingle as a PI, got hired for this job. Which I never should have taken. End of story.”

“Who are you working for? Lockwood?”

He nodded. “He knows you’re hiding something and he wanted me to find out what it is. He says he’s going to pull the plug on Isabella in two days.”

“Jesus.” She laid that cool hand again on his face.

“I’m sorry I lied to you. If I’d known what I was getting into, I never would have taken this assignment. I didn’t count on . . .” His voice trailed off.

“What?”

He didn’t answer.

“You didn’t count on what?” She leaned over him, her shadow crossing his face, her faint scent drifting in.

Ford said, “On falling in love with you again.”

In the distance, an owl hooted in the dimming light.

“You’re serious?” she said finally.

Ford nodded.

Slowly, Kate brought her face closer to his. She didn’t kiss him—she just looked. Astonished. “You never said that to me when we were going out.”

“I didn’t?”

She shook her head. “The word ‘love’ wasn’t in your vocabulary. Why do you think we broke up?”

He blinked. That was the reason? “What about me going into the CIA?”

“I could’ve lived with that.”

“You want . . . to try again?” Ford asked.

She looked at him, the golden light all around her. She had never looked so beautiful. “Yes.”

Then she kissed him, slowly, lightly, deliciously. He leaned forward to kiss her but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest. “It’s almost dark. We’ve got a ways to walk. And . . .”

“And what?”