Blasphemy

The president dropped his head into his hands. “Nothing about the scientists?”

“Not a trace. Some of them may have escaped into the old mines at the time of the assault, where they were likely caught in the explosion, fire, and collapse of the mines. The consensus assessment is that they did not survive.”

The president’s head remained bowed.

“We still have no information on what happened, why Isabella lost communication. It might have had something to do with the attack—we just don’t know. We’ve been taking out bodies and body parts by the hundreds, many burned beyond recognition. We’re still looking for the body of Russell Eddy, the deranged preacher who incited all these people over the Internet. We may need weeks, even months, before we can locate and identify all the dead. Some will never be found.”

“What about Spates?” the president asked.

“We took him into custody and are questioning him. He’s reported to be cooperative. We’ve also taken Booker Crawley of the K Street firm Crawley and Stratham, into custody.”

“The lobbyist?” The president looked up. “What was his involvement?”

“He secretly paid Spates to preach against Isabella so that he could extort more money from his client, the Navajo Nation.”

The president shook his head in stunned wonder.

Galdone, the president’s campaign manager, shifted his considerable bulk. His blue suit looked slept in; his tie looked like he had waxed his Buick with it. He needed a shave. A truly loathsome creature, Lockwood thought. He was gearing up to speak, and everyone looked in his oracular direction.

“Mr. President,” Galdone said, “we need to shape the narrative. As we speak, the column of smoke rising over the desert is being played on every television set in America, and the nation is waiting for answers. Fortunately, Red Mesa’s remoteness and our quick efforts to close the airspace and block access kept most of the press out. They weren’t able to transmit the most gruesome details. We can still turn this debacle into a voter- friendly narrative that might bring us public approbation.”

“How?” the president asked.

“Someone has to fall on his sword,” Lockwood said simply.

Galdone smiled indulgently at Lockwood. “It is true that a story needs a villain. But we already have two: Spates and Crawley. Picture-perfect bad guys—one a whoring, hypocritical televangelist, the other an oily, scheming lobbyist. Not to mention this deranged Eddy fellow. No, what we really need for this story is a hero.”

“So who’s the hero?” the president asked.

“It can’t be you, Mr. President. The public won’t buy that. It can’t be the FBI Director—he lost his team. It can’t be anyone at DOE, because they’re the ones who screwed up Isabella in the first place. It can’t be any of the scientists, because they appear to have died. It can’t be a political functionary like me or Roger Morton here. No one will believe that.”

Galdone’s roaming eyes stopped at Lockwood.

“One man recognized the problem early. Lockwood—you. A man with great wisdom and prescience, who took decisive action to correct a problem that only he and the president saw coming. Everyone else was asleep at the switch—Congress, the FBI, the DOE, me, Roger, everyone. As events unfolded, you were instrumental at every turn. Wise, knowledgeable, a confidant to the martyred scientists—you were crucial to resolving this situation.”

“Gordon,” said the president, incredulous, “we blew up a mountain.”

“But you handled the aftermath brilliantly!” said Galdone. “Gentlemen, the Isabella debacle was no Katrina, dragging on for weeks. Mr. President, you and Lockwood killed or locked up the bad guys and cleaned up the catastrophe—in one night! The mesa has been secured by the National Guard—”

“Secured?” the president said. “The mesa looks like the back side of the moon—”

“—secured.” Galdone’s voice overrode the president’s. “Thanks to your decisive leadership, Mr. President, and the invaluable, critical support of your hand-picked, trusted Science Adviser—Dr. Stanton Lockwood.”

Galdone eyes rested on Lockwood. “That, gentlemen, is our narrative. Let us not forget it.” He tilted his head, his fat neck bulging with fresh folds, and gazed at Lockwood. “Stan, are you up to the task?”

Lockwood realized that he had finally arrived. He was now one of them.

“Perfectly,” he said, and smiled.

81

AT NOON, FORD AND THE GROUP rode out of the juniper scrub and crossed the outlying pasture of a small Navajo farm. After riding ten hours, Ford’s body felt bruised and battered, his broken ribs throbbed, and his head pounded. One eye was swollen shut, and his front teeth were chipped.

The homestead of Begay’s sister was the incarnation of peace and tranquility. A picturesque log cabin with red curtains stood next to a cluster of heavy-limbed cottonwoods, beside which ran Laguna Creek. Behind the cabin the sister kept an old Airstream trailer on blocks, its aluminum skin scoured by wind, sun, and sand. A herd of sheep milled and bleated in a pen, while a lone horse stamped and snorted in a corral. Four-strand barbed wire enclosed two irrigated cornfields. Creaking merrily in a stiff breeze, a windmill pumped water into a stock tank. Rickety wooden steps led up the side of the tank to a weatherbeaten diving board. Two pickup trucks were parked in the shade. The sound of a radio playing country music wafted out the windows of the cabin.

Exhausted and silent, they unsaddled and brushed out the horses.

A woman in jeans came out of the trailer, slender with long black hair, and hugged Begay.

“This is my sister, Regina,” he said, introducing her around.

She helped them with the mounts.

“You all need to wash up,” she said. “We use the stock tank. Ladies first, then gents. After Nelson called, I rustled up some clean clothes for you all—they’re laid out in the trailer. If they don’t fit, don’t complain to me. I hear the roadblocks at Cow Springs have come down, so as soon as the sun sets, Nelson and I will drive you all into Flagstaff.”

She looked around sternly, as if this was the sorriest bunch she had ever seen. And perhaps they were. “We’ll eat in an hour.”

All day, military helicopters had been passing overhead, going to and from the burning mesa. One passed over now, and Regina squinted up at it. “Where were they when you needed ‘em?”

AFTER THE MEAL, FORD AND KATE sat in the shade of a cottonwood at the far edge of the corrals, watching the horses graze in the back pasture. The creek tumbled lazily over its stony bed. The sun hung low in the sky. To the south, Ford could see the plume of smoke rising from Red Mesa, a slanted black pillar that feathered out to form a brown pall in the atmosphere, stretching across the horizon.

They sat for a long time, saying nothing. It was their first moment alone.

Ford put his arm around her. “How are you?”

She shook her head wordlessly, wiping her eyes with a clean bandanna. For a long moment they sat in the shade, saying nothing. Bees droned past on their way to a set of hives at the edge of the fields. The other scientists were listening to the radio back in the cabin, which was running nonstop news about the disaster. The announcer’s faint, tinny voice drifted in the peaceful air.

“We’re the most talked about dead people in America,” said Ford. “Maybe we should have turned ourselves in to the National Guard.”

“You know we can’t trust them,” said Kate. “They’ll learn the truth soon enough, along with the rest of America, when we get to Flagstaff.” She raised her head, wiped her eyes, and reached into her pocket. She withdrew a soiled wad of computer paper. “When we present this to the world.”

Ford stared, surprised. “How did you get that?”

“I got it from Gregory when I embraced him.” She opened it up and smoothed it out on her knee. “The printout of the words of God.”

Ford didn’t know how to begin what he had been rehearsing in his mind for hours. He asked a question instead. “What are you going to do with it?”