Blasphemy (28 page)

Ford refrained from pointing out that they were Anasazi ruins. “If we could have some help identifying exactly where the graves are, we could protect—”

“They’re all over! Everywhere! And the spirits of the dead are unhappy and wandering around. Something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it. Can’t you feel it?” Becenti looked around. “Can’t you
feel
it?”

There were nods, murmurs.

“
Chindii
are all around, skinwalkers. Ever since Peabody Coal gouged out the soul of Red Mesa, it’s been a bad,
bad
place.”

“A bad place,” people repeated.

“This is just one more example of the white man coming in and taking Indian land. That’s what this is. Am I right?”

Louder murmurs, nods of agreement.

“Willy, you have every right to feel as you do,” said Ford. “But let me say in our defense that part of the problem is, the Navajo tribal government made this deal without consulting the local folks.”

“The Navajo tribal government is just a bunch of assholes hired by the
Bilagaana
to do the old step-and-fetch-it. We didn’t have no
Navajo tribal government
before the
Bilagaana
came.”

“You can’t reverse that. Neither can I. But we can work together to make things better. How about it?”

“Yeah, well, my answer to that is screw you!” Becenti advanced threateningly. Ford held his ground, and they faced each other. Becenti breathed hard, his skinny rib cage heaved, his stringy arm muscles flexed.

Ford kept himself loose, relaxed. “Willy, I’m on your side.”

“Don’t patronize me,
Bilagaana
!” He was about two-thirds Ford’s size and half his weight, but he looked like he might start swinging at any time. Ford glanced at Begay and saw from the medicine man’s indifferent face that he would let the situation evolve on its own.

The camera continued filming.

Becenti swept his arm out across the grass. “Look at this. You
Bilagaana
take away our mesa and drill thousands of feet through the rock so you can water your effing fields, while my aunt Emma has to drive thirty miles one way to haul water for her grandkids and sheep. How long do you think it will be before the wells in Blue Gap or Blackhorse go dry? And what about hantavirus? Everyone knows there was never any hantavirus until something happened over there at Fort Wingate.”

Several riders called out their agreement to the old conspiracy theory.

“For all we know, something in Isabella is poisoning us already. Any day now, our kids might start dying.” He jabbed a dusty finger into Ford’s chest, just below the breastbone. “You know what that will make you,
Bilagaana
? A murderer.”

“Let’s keep it cool, Willy. Peaceful and respectful.”

“Peaceful? Respectful? Is that why you people burned our hogans and cornfields? Why you raped our women? Is that why you sent us on the Long Walk to Fort Sumner—in order to be peaceful and respectful?”

Ford knew from Ramah that Navajos still talked about the Long Walk of the 1860s, even if, to the rest of the country, it was ancient history, long forgotten. “I wish to God there was some way to undo history,” he said, with more feeling than he intended.

A cheap .22 appeared in Willy’s hand from out of his jeans. Ford tensed, ready to move fast.

Begay stepped in at once. “Daswood, turn the camera off,” he said sharply.

The reporter complied.

“Willy, put the gun away.”

“Screw you, Nelson, I’m here to fight, not talk.”

Begay replied in a low voice. “We’re going to set up a sweat lodge in the field. We’re going to be here all night, performing
peaceful
ceremonies. We’re going to take back this land spiritually with our prayers. This is a time for prayer and contemplation, not confrontation.”

“I thought this was a
protest
, not a damn squaw dance,” Becenti said, but he nevertheless slipped the gun back into his pants pocket.

Begay pointed to the high-tension wires converging toward the edge of the mesa, a half mile away. “Our fight isn’t with this man. It’s with
that
.”

The power lines hummed and crackled, the sound faint but distinct.

“Sounds like your machine’s up and running,” said Begay, turning back to Ford, his eyes neutral. “I guess this would be a good time for you to leave us to do our thing.”

Ford nodded, turned, and walked toward the Bunker.

“That’s right, get out of here,” Becenti yelled after him, “before I put a cap in your
Bilagaana
ass!”

As Ford approached the Isabella security gate, the crackling and humming of the powerlines got louder, and he felt a faint shiver run down his spine at the eerie noise, which seemed almost alive.

AT FIVE MINUTES TO EIGHT, BOOKER Crawley settled in front of the TV set in the cozy, cherry-paneled den of his house on Dumbarton Street, Georgetown, feeling an extraordinary sense of anticipation. When Spates had said he would give good value for his money, he wasn’t kidding. The Sunday sermon had been a shotgun blast. Now the
Roundtable America
show would unload the second barrel. Amazing that all it had taken was a single phone call and a couple of cash payments. There wasn’t even anything illegal about it, just charitable giving to a 501(c)(3)—tax deductible.

The lobbyist cupped a snifter in his hand, warming it, and took a sip of his customary after-dinner Calvados. With a blast of patriotic music, the logo of
Roundtable America
came on amid a digital swirl of American flags, eagles, and patriotic emblems. Then a cherry roundtable appeared, with an image of the Capitol in the background. At the roundtable sat Spates, with a serious, concerned expression. His guest sat across from him, a white-haired man in a suit, with a deep face, shaggy eyebrows, lips pursed as if pondering the very mystery of existence.

The music died down and Spates turned to the camera.

Crawley was amazed that this man, who was a complete ass in person, a cracker from the backwoods, could have such tremendous presence on television. Even the orange hair looked respectable, muted. Crawley congratulated himself again. What a brilliant stroke it had been to bring the preacher in.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to
Roundtable America
. I’m Reverend Don T. Spates, and I am delighted to have as my guest Dr. Henderson Crocker, Distinguished Professor of Physics at Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia.”

The professor nodded sagely at the camera, his face the definition of gravitas.

“I’ve asked Dr. Crocker here to talk to us about the Isabella project—the subject of tonight’s show. For those of you who don’t know of Isabella, it is a scientific machine the government has completed in the Arizona desert at a cost of forty billion taxpayer dollars. A lot of people are concerned about it. That’s why we’ve asked Dr. Crocker here, to help explain to us ordinary folks just what it’s all about.” He turned to his guest. “Dr. Crocker, you’re a physicist and a teacher. Could you tell us what Isabella is?”

“Thank you, Reverend Spates. I certainly can. Essentially, Isabella is a particle accelerator—an atom smasher. It smashes atoms together at high speed to break them apart and see what they’re made of.”

“Sounds scary.”

“Not at all. There are quite a few of them in the world. They were essential, for example, in helping America design and build nuclear weapons. And they helped lay the theoretical foundation for the nuclear power industry.”

“Do you see a problem with this one, in particular?”

A dramatic pause. “Yes.”

“And what is that?”

“Isabella is not like other particle accelerators. It is not being used as a scientific instrument. It is being
misused
to promote a particular agenda, a theory of creation promulgated by a hard-core cadre of atheistic and secular humanist scientists.”

Spates raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a statement.”

“I do not make it lightly.”

“Elaborate.”

“Gladly. This group of atheistic scientists have as their creed the theory that the universe created itself out of nothing, without any guiding hand or primum mobile. They call this theory the Big Bang. Now, most intelligent people, including many scientists like myself, know this theory is based on an almost complete lack of scientific evidence. The theory has its roots not in science, but in the deeply anti-Christian sentiment that pervades our nation today.”

Crawley took another long, warm pull on the Calvados. Spates was coming through again. This was damn good stuff, demagoguery dressed up in sober, scientific language—and coming right out of the mouth of a physicist. Just the kind of claptrap a certain segment of the American people would eat up.

“Over the past decade, virtually every layer of our government and university system has been taken over by atheists and secular humanists. They control the grant money. They decide what research is done. They choke off any dissenting voices. This scientific fascism cuts right across the board, from nuclear physics and cosmology to biology and, of course, evolution. These are the scientists who have given us the atheistic, materialistic theories of Darwin and Lyell, Freud and Jung. These are the people who insist that life does not begin with conception. These are the people who want to conduct ghastly experiments on stem cells—living human embryos. These are the abortionists and the so-called family planners.”

The voice droned on, sounding like the very embodiment of reason. Crawley tuned it out to fantasize about the moment when he would sign up Yazzie at twice the retainer.

The show continued with more questions and answers, variations on a theme, then the usual appeal for money, more talk and more appeals. The voices went on and on, rising and falling like a chant. Repetition was the soul of Christian television, Crawley thought: pound it into their thick heads—and take their money to boot.

The camera tightened in on Spates as he took over the commentary. Crawley was only half-listening. Spates had put on a good show so far, and the thought of the Tribal Council watching it brought him great delight.

“. . . God is clearly withdrawing his protective hand over America . . .”

Crawley sank into a state of warmth and relaxation. He couldn’t wait for that four o’clock call Monday. He would extract millions from those apes.
Millions
.

“. . . To the pagans and the abortionists, to the feminists and the homosexuals, the ACLU—all who are trying to secularize America—I point a finger in their face and say, ‘When the next terror attack comes, it will be
your
fault . . .’ ”

Maybe he could even triple his fee. That would be something to tell his friends at the Potomac Club.

“. . . And now they’ve built a Tower of Babel, this
Isabella
, to challenge God on His very throne. But God is no pansy: He will strike back . . . .”

As Crawley sank further into delicious reverie, a word jolted him awake. The word was “murder.”

He sat forward. What was Spates talking about now?

“That’s right,” Spates said. “Through a confidential source, I have learned that four nights ago, one of the top scientists on the Isabella project, a Russian named Volkonsky, allegedly committed suicide. But my source indicates that some police investigators aren’t so sure it was a suicide. It’s looking more and more like murder—an inside job. A scientist killed by his fellow scientists. Why? To shut him up?”

Crawley sat forward, fully alert, watching keenly. What a stroke of genius to hold this bit of news for the end of the show.

“Maybe I can tell you why. I have another piece of news from my source that is truly shocking. I can hardly believe it myself.”

With a manicured hand, in a slow, dramatic movement, Spates picked up a single piece of paper and held it up. Crawley recognized the trick—Joseph McCarthy had pioneered it back in the fifties—in which information, by virtue of being on paper, acquired the solidity of truth.

Spates gave the paper a little shake. “It’s right here.”

Another dramatic pause. Crawley sat up, his drink forgotten. Where was Spates going with this?

“Isabella was supposed to be online months ago. It isn’t. There’s a problem with it. Nobody knows why—except my source and me. And now
you
.”

Another dramatic shaking of the paper.

“This machine called Isabella has, as its brain, the fastest supercomputer ever built. And this Isabella is claiming to be . . .” He paused dramatically. “
God
.”

He laid the paper down, his eyes straight at the camera. Even his guest seemed shocked.

The silence crawled on as Spates glared at the camera—the man knew the power of silence, especially on television.

Crawley sat at the edge of his seat, trying to fit this bombshell in. His exquisite internal radar for political trouble was illuminating something big and fast coming in out of nowhere. This was sheer craziness. Maybe it hadn’t been so smart after all, passing the ball to Spates and letting him run with it. Maybe he should have faxed Yazzie a new contract for a quick signature that morning.

Finally Spates spoke.

“My friends, I would not make such a statement if I wasn’t absolutely sure of my facts. My source, a devout Christian and a pastor like myself, is onsite—and he got this information directly from the scientists themselves. That’s right: this gigantic machine called Isabella is claiming to be God. You heard me:
claiming to be God
. If my information is wrong,
I challenge them to publicly refute me
. ”

Spates rose from his chair, a gesture made all the more dramatic by expert camerawork. He towered over the viewers, a pillar of controlled fury. “I ask—I
demand
—that Gregory North Hazelius, the ringleader of this project, appear before the American people and explain himself.
I demand it
. We, the American people, have spent forty billion dollars building that infernal machine in the desert, a machine specifically created to prove God a liar. And now it is claiming to
be
God!