Blasphemy

thicker, spreading out in front of him, waiting for direction. Many were praying, their petitions rising into the night air. Groups of people held hands, their heads bowed. The sound of hymns reached his ears. It reminded Eddy of how he imagined things were when people gathered for the Sermon on the Mount. That’s it. That’s where he’d start his sermon. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God . . . .” No, that wasn’t a good Bible verse to start with. Something more arousing: “ Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.” The Antichrist. That’s what he had to focus on. The Antichrist. Just a few words and he would lead his army forward.

The cop car topped the rim, still stuck in the mass of cars. It came down the stretch of asphalt and pulled off to the side a few hundred yards away. Eddy could see the emblem of the Navajo Nation Tribal Police on the door. A spotlight on the roof shone around; then a door opened. A tall Indian got out, a Navajo policeman. Even from a hundred yards off, Eddy recognized Bia.

At once, the policeman was surrounded by people. From what Eddy could hear, it sounded like an argument was developing.

“What do we do now, Pastor Russ?” people called.

“We wait,” he said in a voice strong and low, so different from his normal voice that he wondered if it was even him speaking. “God will show us the way.”

59

LIEUTENANT BIA FACED THE CROWD, HIS feeling of uneasiness growing. He’d gotten the call about some kind of disturbance at Red Mesa and he’d assumed it was the protest ride, and when he’d seen the heavy traffic on the Red Mesa road he’d joined it. But as he looked around, he could see that whoever these people were, they had nothing to do with the protest ride. These people carried guns and swords, crosses and axes, Bibles and kitchen knives. Some had painted crosses on their foreheads and their clothes. It was some kind of cult gathering—perhaps connected to that television preacher’s sermon he’d heard people talking about. He was relieved to see it consisted of people of all races—blacks, Asians, even a few who looked Navajo or Apache. At least it wasn’t the KKK or Aryan Nations.

He tucked up his belt and put his hands on his hips, facing the crowd with an easy smile, hoping not to spook anyone. “You folks got a leader? Someone I can talk to?”

A man in faded Wranglers and a blue workshirt stepped forward. He had a heavy face burned brown from a lifetime in the fields, a large gut, short thick arms that stood away from his body, and callused hands. An old Colt M1917 Revolver with ivory handles was shoved under his diamondback belt, a polished brass crucifix mounted on its buckle. “Yeah. We have a leader. His name’s God. Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Bia, Tribal Police.” He felt a twinge at the man’s unnecessarily belligerent tone. But he would play it cool, not confrontational. “What person is in charge here?”

“Lieutenant Bia, I’ve got just one question for you: Are you a Christian here for the fight?”

“The fight?”

“Armageddon.”

For emphasis, the man rested a palm on the Colt’s ivory-handled butt.

Bia swallowed. The crowd closed in on him. He wished he’d radioed for backup. “I’m a Christian, but I haven’t heard of any Armageddon.”

The crowd fell silent.

“Have you been born again in the water of life?” the man continued.

From the crowd rose a sharp murmur. Bia took a deep breath. No point in getting in a religious pissing contest with these people. Better to tone things down. “Why don’t you tell me about this Armageddon?”

“The Antichrist is here. On this very mesa. The battle of the Lord God Almighty is at hand. Either you’re with us or you’re against us. The time is now. Make your decision.”

Bia had no idea how to respond to this. “I guess you folks know this is the Navajo Nation, and you’re trespassing on land leased to the U.S. government.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

The crowd tightened the ring around him. Bia could feel their agitation and smell it in their sweat.

“Sir,” he said in a low voice, “keep your hand away from your firearm.”

The man’s hand did not move.

“I said,move your hand away from the firearm.”

The man’s hand closed on the gun butt. “You’re either with us or against us. Which is it?”

When Bia didn’t answer, the man turned and spoke to the crowd. “He’s not one of us. He’s come to fight for the other side.”

“What do you expect?” someone cried, echoed by the crowd. “What do you expect?”

Bia began backing up, slow and easy, toward his vehicle.

The gun came up. The man pointed it at Bia.

“Sir, I’m not here to fight anyone,” said Bia. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to point a gun at me. Put it down.”

An older woman in work boots and a straw stockman’s hat, her face as cured as old leather, put her hand on the man’s arm. “Jess, save your bullets. That man’s not the Antichrist. He’s just a cop.”

The word “Antichrist” rumbled through the crowd. People squeezed in even closer to Bia.

“Sir,I said put the gun down .”

The man lowered it, uncertain.

“Okay, Wyatt Earp, give me the gun.” The woman reached over and took it from his slack hand, shook out the rounds, and slipped the gun and bullets into her shoulder bag.

“There’s no Antichrist up here,” said Bia, disguising his relief. “This is Navajo Nation land and you’re trespassing. Now, if you’ve got a leader, I’d like to speak to him.” As soon as he got back to his squad car, he’d radio for backup. National Guard–level backup.

A voice rang out, “We’re here as God’s army—to fight and die for the Lord!”

Fight. Fight. Fight. The crowd repeated the word like a chant.

A man with a long forked beard pushed forward, a rock in his fist, and shouted, “Are you born again in the water of life?”

Angered at the man’s inquisitorial tone, Bia said, “My religion is none of your business. Lay down that rock, mister, or I’ll charge you with assault.” He placed a hand on his baton.

The man spoke to the crowd. “We can’t let him go. He’s a cop. He’s got a radio. He’ll warn the others.” The man raised the rock high. “Answer!”

Bia released his riot baton. Spinning it up, he swung the stick against the man’s arm, backhanded, as hard as he could. With a sickening crack the forearm shattered and the rock dropped to the ground.

“He broke my arm!” the man shrieked, falling to his knees.

“Disperse now and no one else will get hurt!” Bia called loudly. He took a step back, up against the fender of his car, his baton raised. If he could just get into the car, he’d have some protection—and he could radio for help.

“The cop broke his arm!” a man shouted, kneeling.

The crowd surged forward with a roar. A rock came flying and Bia dodged it. It smacked into the windshield with a dull, cracking thud.

Bia yanked open the door and ducked in, and tried to shut the door behind him, but it was held open by a surge of people. He grabbed the radio, hit the TRANSMIT button.

“He’s radioing out!” someone yelled.

A dozen hands grabbed him, pulling him back, ripping his shirt.

“The son of a bitch ists radioing out! He’s calling in the enemy!”

The mike was wrested from his hand and torn from its mount. Bia tried gripping the steering wheel, but the many-armed mob dragged him back out with relentless force. He tumbled to the ground, tried to stand, but was kicked down to his knees.

He went for his gun, yanked it out. He rolled on his side, pointing it into the crowd. “Stand back!” he