Chopper peered into the depths of his beer glass. “Naw, that ain’t it. I wanted to find out what you know about Metcalf. What’s he got up his sleeve?”
“What you mean, ‘what’s he got up his sleeve?’”
Bowdeen shrugged, trying to appear casual. “He’s got bigger plans than just training kids at the compound. He wants me to train all the kids at all the compounds around the world.”
Leroy let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Sounds like you fell into a pile o’ money. That’s a sweet gig.” He signaled to the bartender to refill his shot glass.
Chopper finished his beer and ordered another. “It would be a sweet gig if I could figure out what he needs all that firepower for.”
Hunt’s eyes narrowed. “Time was, you wouldn’t of asked a question like that.”
“Time was, I wasn’t in the business of training homegrown terrorists!”
Hunt swiveled on his bar stool to stare directly at Bowdeen’s profile. “Now that’s gratitude for you! I hand you a ticket to ride on the gravy train, and all you can do is piss and moan ‘cause you ain’t got all the facts?” Hunt’s voice was getting loud enough that other patrons turned to stare at the pair. “What’s the matter, man? The old preacher’s money ain’t green enough for you?”
Chopper felt stunned by the cowboy’s reaction. “Take it easy, Leroy. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Hunt got off his barstool and grabbed Bowdeen by the collar. He shoved his face in close to whisper, “I swear if you queer this deal for me, I’ll track you down and gut you like a wild hog. And you know I ain’t lyin’!”
Chopper raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Now hold on. I ain’t gonna rock the boat or interfere in your business.”
Leroy backed off a few inches. “That’s more like it. From where I’m standin’ you got no call to bellyache. Just the opposite. Didn’t your momma teach you no manners? When a feller does you a favor, you’re supposed to say ‘thank you’ but I ain’t heard those words come out of your mouth one time yet.”
Bowdeen retreated even further. He decided nothing more could be gained by riling Hunt. “Sorry, man. I got a little sideways. You’re right.”
“Damn straight.” Leroy resumed his seat and downed another shot.
“The next round’s on me,” Chopper added. “Like you said, it’s a sweet gig. Thanks, brother. I owe you one.”
Leroy nodded. “Now that’s proper manners. My momma would’a liked that.”
Hunt lapsed into a mellow silence after a few more shots of tequila. Bowdeen was glad of the conversational lull so he could ponder his problem anew. Rather than getting some answers, he’d been hit with an even bigger and more troubling question. Leroy was obviously working on something else for the old man, and he probably had an agenda that the preacher wasn’t aware of. What deal was he so worried that Chopper might queer for him? Bowdeen sighed and added that mystery to the stack he’d already accumulated.
The only useful bit of information he’d learned tonight was that Leroy had no clue about the diviner’s grand plan, whatever it was. In all the years Chopper had known his cowboy pal, there was one thing you could count on. Leroy only cared about what was good for Leroy. The rest of the world could collapse around his ears, and so long as it didn’t clock him when it came crashing down, he wouldn’t even blink.
Chopper signaled to the bartender and ordered a double shot of whiskey. He was going to start drinking in earnest now. Leaving his contract with the Nephilim was out of the question. He already knew the cult would be after him if he quit but that idea didn’t trouble him half as much as the thought of getting on Hunt’s bad side. He might elude the Nephilim, but he knew for sure he’d never outrun his old buddy. Leroy had a gift that way. He always nailed what he was after. Always. For a brief moment, Bowdeen pitied the girl Leroy was tracking now. She didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 28 – Hex Marks the Spot
Ortzi maneuvered his sedan through the streets of Bilbao and onto the open highway of the surrounding countryside. He had insisted that the pythia take the front seat. Fortunately for her two companions, the back seat afforded a good deal more legroom than Thea’s tiny electric car.
Cassie observed the green valleys and grey mountains that rolled past her window. At regular intervals, a succession of large buildings dotted the landscape. They all seemed to follow the same pattern—boxy design, three stories high, gently sloping red tile roofs. Their facades were a combination of whitewashed stone and painted wood.
“Is there a name for a building like that?” Cassie asked the trove keeper, pointing to one of the distinctive structures as they drove past it.
“Yes,” he nodded. “That is a Basque farmhouse—what we call a basseri. Some of them are quite old, going back many centuries. The farmhouse can be inherited by a man or woman. If it is a man, he is called the etxekojaun or, in English, ‘the master of the house.’ If it is a woman, then she is the etxekoandre or ‘lady of the house.’”
“Isn’t that what you called your Aunt Ochanda?” Cassie asked. “You said she was the etshe... etshe—”
“Etxekoandre. Yes, she is the lady of the house though she will retire soon.”
“The term ‘lady of the house’ is deceptive,” Griffin observed. “In practice, the etxekoandre is something more like the matriarch of the family. She governs all matters related to the kin group and its ancestral home. She even leads some of the religious ceremonies. Basque culture has a long-standing tradition of female authority. Strabo, the ancient Greek historian, said that the Basques practiced a sort of ‘woman-rule’ which he concluded was most uncivilized.”
Ortzi glanced at Griffin in the
