learning the Indian lore now, looking into the ceremonials as though these foolish practices would give them a glimpse into the beyond that they were incapable of finding in the true faith.
They needed him there, and he had been happy and full of purpose, feeling as though he were the last holdout against the Indians, like the Kit Carson of the stories his father had told him in Ganado when he lived there as a boy. His grandfather had been in the U. S. Cavalry and had filled his father's head with his exploits, and his father, a mostly unemployed house painter, had passed them on to young Alex.
He had quickly become infatuated with the idea of battling Indians, but he knew those days were over. Besides, he was a spindly boy who fared poorly at sports. But he learned there was another way to carry out his grandfather's work, and that was to change the Indians' souls, turn them from their dark gods, their peyote ceremonies, their kivas and their sweat lodges, to the living Christ, through whom even they could be saved.
He brought light to the heathens, but he brought more than that. The church brought education and cleanliness and warm clothing and blankets, taught the Navajo and the Hopi, who were his wards, how to care for themselves and let Jesus care for them. His grandfather, he thought, would be proud of him. While the old man had killed the Indians, his grandson had killed the Indian gods, the things that made them strong. Now they were little more than white men with brown skins, all brothers in Christ.
At the thought of Christ, he remembered what was coming, and he closed his eyes and prayed, asking for the strength to deal with it. The creature had touched him before, nearly seduced him to do its evil bidding, although he had struggled and won through, and no one ever knew how close he had come to sinning. No one ever knew that he had nearly been a murderer.
And now he waited again, here among the steep canyons of southern Utah, for his nemesis to return. He prayed that his years would not tell against him. The first time, he had been young and strong, but now he was old and bent with age. Still, his faith was that much stronger, and that was what was needed to keep the enemy at bay.
That, and prayer.
"W est," Quentin McIntyre said thoughtfully. "Well, that certainly offers a lot of possibilities, doesn't it?"
Alan Phillips, assistant to the FBI deputy director, did not respond, knowing the question was rhetorical. Phillips had just performed the unpleasant task of telling his boss that the three CIA operatives had evaded their surveillance, thanks to a dumbass rookie screwing up royally what should have been as easy a piece of tail as a two-dollar whore, though Phillips hadn't used those particular words. This was, after all, the FBI.
"Skye's running them, damn it," McIntyre went on. "This isn't a rogue operation, at least to the extent that these operatives are on their own. Skye's behind it, steering all the way, but what the hell that bastard's up to I can't begin to guess." McIntyre took a sip from his coffee mug, then made a face.
"Cold, sir?" Phillips said, and, at McIntyre's nod, took the mug, went down the hall, and refilled it with hot coffee. If he was going to be McIntyre's lackey, he'd be a good one. It was one way to rise in the ranks.
"I'd be willing to bet, though," said McIntyre, when Phillips returned, "that it's got some of that psychic crap mixed up in it. Skye's had a hard-on for that ever since that thing with the Russian psychics the sonofabitch disappeared."
"How deep do you want to go looking for them now?" Phillips asked. "They could be anywhere in the States, or out of it."
"Did our people get any photos before they lost them?"
"No. No sooner found than lost."
"And we can't get them from the CIA, that would tip off Skye. So all we've got is that shot of Luciano from the tabloid, that Inner Eye rag. Well, it'll have to do. Have it reproduced and sent to every field agent,
They needed him there, and he had been happy and full of purpose, feeling as though he were the last holdout against the Indians, like the Kit Carson of the stories his father had told him in Ganado when he lived there as a boy. His grandfather had been in the U. S. Cavalry and had filled his father's head with his exploits, and his father, a mostly unemployed house painter, had passed them on to young Alex.
He had quickly become infatuated with the idea of battling Indians, but he knew those days were over. Besides, he was a spindly boy who fared poorly at sports. But he learned there was another way to carry out his grandfather's work, and that was to change the Indians' souls, turn them from their dark gods, their peyote ceremonies, their kivas and their sweat lodges, to the living Christ, through whom even they could be saved.
He brought light to the heathens, but he brought more than that. The church brought education and cleanliness and warm clothing and blankets, taught the Navajo and the Hopi, who were his wards, how to care for themselves and let Jesus care for them. His grandfather, he thought, would be proud of him. While the old man had killed the Indians, his grandson had killed the Indian gods, the things that made them strong. Now they were little more than white men with brown skins, all brothers in Christ.
At the thought of Christ, he remembered what was coming, and he closed his eyes and prayed, asking for the strength to deal with it. The creature had touched him before, nearly seduced him to do its evil bidding, although he had struggled and won through, and no one ever knew how close he had come to sinning. No one ever knew that he had nearly been a murderer.
And now he waited again, here among the steep canyons of southern Utah, for his nemesis to return. He prayed that his years would not tell against him. The first time, he had been young and strong, but now he was old and bent with age. Still, his faith was that much stronger, and that was what was needed to keep the enemy at bay.
That, and prayer.
"W est," Quentin McIntyre said thoughtfully. "Well, that certainly offers a lot of possibilities, doesn't it?"
Alan Phillips, assistant to the FBI deputy director, did not respond, knowing the question was rhetorical. Phillips had just performed the unpleasant task of telling his boss that the three CIA operatives had evaded their surveillance, thanks to a dumbass rookie screwing up royally what should have been as easy a piece of tail as a two-dollar whore, though Phillips hadn't used those particular words. This was, after all, the FBI.
"Skye's running them, damn it," McIntyre went on. "This isn't a rogue operation, at least to the extent that these operatives are on their own. Skye's behind it, steering all the way, but what the hell that bastard's up to I can't begin to guess." McIntyre took a sip from his coffee mug, then made a face.
"Cold, sir?" Phillips said, and, at McIntyre's nod, took the mug, went down the hall, and refilled it with hot coffee. If he was going to be McIntyre's lackey, he'd be a good one. It was one way to rise in the ranks.
"I'd be willing to bet, though," said McIntyre, when Phillips returned, "that it's got some of that psychic crap mixed up in it. Skye's had a hard-on for that ever since that thing with the Russian psychics the sonofabitch disappeared."
"How deep do you want to go looking for them now?" Phillips asked. "They could be anywhere in the States, or out of it."
"Did our people get any photos before they lost them?"
"No. No sooner found than lost."
"And we can't get them from the CIA, that would tip off Skye. So all we've got is that shot of Luciano from the tabloid, that Inner Eye rag. Well, it'll have to do. Have it reproduced and sent to every field agent,
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