is in what we locals like to call the United States of America and in the United States of America we have laws, one of which is that you can’t live in this country unless you’re American.”
She’d blanched at his use of white , but then that’s the reaction he wanted to put her on the defensive and see if she might just unravel.
“Sanctuary, Agent Ortega,” she began, reading his nametag, “is a time-honored tradition and few courts will allow police to break it short of a mass-murderer or a psycho, and in addition—”
Ortega held up his hand and gave her his broad you win grin. He admired her tenacity. What he really needed was a way to get around a warrant. She was right, he did need one and there was little to no chance of a judge providing him one without strong evidence. An invitation to meet the man in charge would be perfect.
“No need to get into a spat about this. We can be civilized, right? Let me just look around here for a while.”
“Why don’t you come inside and talk to John first?”
And there it was.
“All right. If you insist,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “Lead the way.”
She jerked, as if she’d expected him to turn her down and leave. Shaking her head slightly, she spun on her heel and marched toward the cafeteria. Ortega followed at a more leisurely pace.
A lot of work had been done on the old Bible College since he’d last seen it. Not only had all the buildings been painted and repaired, but there was grass growing everywhere. Flowerbeds framed each sidewalk with a mix of small cacti and multicolored perennials. They were on county water so it wasn’t costing them much.
Then of course there were the Indians, especially the crazy Papagos. The Church was right on the banks of the dry bed of the San Pedro River. It had once been deep, wide and swift. He remembered seeing pictures of barges that were used to allow horse traffic to cross. Pretty difficult to imagine when you saw it as it now, nothing more than a wide, dusty ditch. The Papagos blamed the white man. They said that they’d insulted the great serpent who would make the waters disappear. Like everything in the world, this was yet another thing to be blamed on the white man—nevermind it had been an earthquake that had sent the river underground.
Ortega had fallen significantly behind. The redhead was holding the door. He quickened his step and strode into a cool, air-conditioned cafeteria. The room was about half full, most of the people reading or playing games. There seemed to be an energetic board game going on in the far right corner. Two men were arguing loudly and it appeared that at any moment there’d be some blood.
A slight man disengaged himself from conversation at another table and headed towards them. He had closely cropped brown hair. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt.
Ortega crossed his arms and wondered if the display was for his benefit, to maybe keep his attention while they whisked some illegals away. He’d play along, but out of the corners of his eyes he checked outside.
The man held out a hand and smiled. He had a goatee. A gold nose-ring looked slightly out of place in the left nostril. Bright blue eyes gathered him in as the voice embraced him.
“Welcome, Agent Ortega. Welcome to the Church of the Resurrection. I am John. How can I help you?”
The man’s voice was a complex mix of masculine surety and feminine concern. Ortega felt immediately comfortable. The man had a genuine talent. Ortega accepted the handshake, at the same time wary of a double-cross.
“Sorry about the delay in speaking with you. Some of the members had a small argument about capitalism.”
“Capitalism?” asked Ortega, finding himself following John back to where the man had been arguing.
“Yes, capitalism. A true evil that sets man against man, man against woman and people against God.”
“By capitalism, you mean money, right?”
“Yes and no. Money is certainly the way people keep
She’d blanched at his use of white , but then that’s the reaction he wanted to put her on the defensive and see if she might just unravel.
“Sanctuary, Agent Ortega,” she began, reading his nametag, “is a time-honored tradition and few courts will allow police to break it short of a mass-murderer or a psycho, and in addition—”
Ortega held up his hand and gave her his broad you win grin. He admired her tenacity. What he really needed was a way to get around a warrant. She was right, he did need one and there was little to no chance of a judge providing him one without strong evidence. An invitation to meet the man in charge would be perfect.
“No need to get into a spat about this. We can be civilized, right? Let me just look around here for a while.”
“Why don’t you come inside and talk to John first?”
And there it was.
“All right. If you insist,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “Lead the way.”
She jerked, as if she’d expected him to turn her down and leave. Shaking her head slightly, she spun on her heel and marched toward the cafeteria. Ortega followed at a more leisurely pace.
A lot of work had been done on the old Bible College since he’d last seen it. Not only had all the buildings been painted and repaired, but there was grass growing everywhere. Flowerbeds framed each sidewalk with a mix of small cacti and multicolored perennials. They were on county water so it wasn’t costing them much.
Then of course there were the Indians, especially the crazy Papagos. The Church was right on the banks of the dry bed of the San Pedro River. It had once been deep, wide and swift. He remembered seeing pictures of barges that were used to allow horse traffic to cross. Pretty difficult to imagine when you saw it as it now, nothing more than a wide, dusty ditch. The Papagos blamed the white man. They said that they’d insulted the great serpent who would make the waters disappear. Like everything in the world, this was yet another thing to be blamed on the white man—nevermind it had been an earthquake that had sent the river underground.
Ortega had fallen significantly behind. The redhead was holding the door. He quickened his step and strode into a cool, air-conditioned cafeteria. The room was about half full, most of the people reading or playing games. There seemed to be an energetic board game going on in the far right corner. Two men were arguing loudly and it appeared that at any moment there’d be some blood.
A slight man disengaged himself from conversation at another table and headed towards them. He had closely cropped brown hair. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt.
Ortega crossed his arms and wondered if the display was for his benefit, to maybe keep his attention while they whisked some illegals away. He’d play along, but out of the corners of his eyes he checked outside.
The man held out a hand and smiled. He had a goatee. A gold nose-ring looked slightly out of place in the left nostril. Bright blue eyes gathered him in as the voice embraced him.
“Welcome, Agent Ortega. Welcome to the Church of the Resurrection. I am John. How can I help you?”
The man’s voice was a complex mix of masculine surety and feminine concern. Ortega felt immediately comfortable. The man had a genuine talent. Ortega accepted the handshake, at the same time wary of a double-cross.
“Sorry about the delay in speaking with you. Some of the members had a small argument about capitalism.”
“Capitalism?” asked Ortega, finding himself following John back to where the man had been arguing.
“Yes, capitalism. A true evil that sets man against man, man against woman and people against God.”
“By capitalism, you mean money, right?”
“Yes and no. Money is certainly the way people keep
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