Earthway (26 page)

“There’s no one at the gate,” Ford said, “and if we can’t see them, they can’t see us.”

Ella drove a little closer. “Look at the left-hand gatepost. There’s a video camera inside the shadow. They can see us, so let’s do this Navajo style. We’ll just park out here and wait until they get tired of staring and come out to check.”

“That could take a long time,” Ford said slowly.

“Fortunately, if there’s one thing a cop and a preacher have in common, it’s patience,” she said, leaning
back against the seat.

It took over forty minutes, but finally the green-painted gate slid open. A muscular man wearing a communications earpiece, olive green T-shirt, and camouflage jacket stepped out and came over to the driver’s side. A leather strap on his chest and the bulge beneath his arm indicated he was armed.

“You’re trespassing,” he said. “Move on.”

Ford smiled up at the man. “I’m
Reverend Tome. The
Good Shepherd Church in Shiprock is conducting the sacraments of evangelism and community service, and we’re soliciting donations for our youth program. We’ve come to Camp Freedom with fellowship in mind, and have something to offer you, and your children,” he said, mentioning the Bible camp scheduled for fall.

“Sorry, Reverend, we’re just not interested,” the man said, shaking
his head. “There’s nothing for you here.”

“At least let us introduce ourselves to those inside and invite them to The Good Shepherd services,” Ella said, leaning forward.

The man took a step back, touching his earpiece and turning his head as he spoke into the microphone. After about a minute, he stepped up to Ford’s open window. “You’re welcome to come inside. Park in the center, next to the
barrier.”

As the gate slid to the right and they were waved inside, Ford glanced at Ella. “That was an unexpected reversal. Stay on your guard,” he said quietly.

The compound, only visible from higher elevation and a considerable distance, was larger than she’d expected. There were six metal portable buildings of various sizes surrounding a central, larger two-story cinder block structure. Three
large vans were parked at the barriers. A simple playground lay beyond the last row of buildings, flanked by two flourishing vegetable gardens. A line of concrete barriers, like those in business parking lots, kept vehicles from getting close to any of the structures.

They came to a stop before a barrier in the center. A man wearing a sidearm and headset exited the central building and walked
over to join them as they climbed out of their car. He was older than the one who’d greeted them at the gate, but similarly attired.

“Excuse me sir, ma’am. I’m required to screen for weapons before you go any farther.”

Playing their roles, they both managed a look of surprise. “You’re kidding,” Ford responded after a beat.

Ella sighed loudly. “Here. Start with my purse,” she said, handing it
to the man.

He looked inside, handed it back, then expertly patted Ford down. When he turned toward Ella she stiffened and raised her eyebrows.

The ruse worked, and he smiled, stepping back with raised palms. “That’s good enough. Please follow me, sir, ma’am.”

He led them to the rear of the compound toward one of the largest portable buildings. Ella saw two boys about eight years old playing
catch beside a swing set, and a woman, armed with a pistol at her waist, walking from one building toward the other carrying a basket of laundry.

They finally stepped inside. The room they entered, judging from the portable chalkboard, textbook-filled shelves, and student desks, served as a school, though at the moment it was unoccupied. Across the room, through an open doorway, Ella saw two
men in desert-camo fatigues with pistols at their thighs, military style. The guards were standing in a narrow hall, watching them.

“These men will take you from here,” their escort said.

When the men motioned them forward, Ella’s body stiffened.

“We’re here to do the Lord’s work, sister,” Ford said, placing a hand on her shoulder as they circled around the rows of desks. “Don’t let their appearance
concern you. Our Lord protects His own.”

The guards exchanged a quick look, but neither commented. The man who’d escorted them to this location didn’t follow. After saying something into his headset, he turned and exited the building without further comment.

Ella was acutely aware of the .22 Derringer nestled in a custom holster between her breasts, and felt a certain degree
of comfort from
the weight. Despite years of undercover work, back in the days when she’d been Special Agent Clah of the FBI, the passive demeanor she was being forced to maintain was now starting to wear on her. She was itching for some action, and distracted herself by formulating a strategy for their defense, if it became necessary.

“Down the hall and into the office at the end, on your right,” one of the
men in fatigues said, pointing.

Ella walked ahead, though Ford tried to step past her. There was nothing noteworthy in the hall except for a half dozen children’s watercolor paintings on construction paper taped to the walls. Each depicted a smiling, tall, muscular, short-haired man standing in front of the chalkboard, and was titled “Father Frank.” For some reason the presence of this particular
art gallery made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Perhaps it was the pistol on the hip of every Father Frank painting—or maybe it was his exaggerated smile.

Before they reached the door at the end, a tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped brown hair stepped out. The leader matched his photo perfectly—and, to varying degrees the watercolors of Father Frank. He was clean
shaven and was, as accurately depicted in the juvenile art, carrying a .45 Colt auto at his hip.

“I’m Frank Atwood,” he said, smiling and waving them inside. He nodded, but didn’t offer to shake hands, apparently familiar with traditional Navajo customs.

“I understand you’re here to ask for a donation for your youth program,” he said as they took a seat in simple wooden chairs across from his
heavy metal desk. “The Freemen aren’t wealthy, Reverend, but we’re God-fearing people who value the religious education of our children. I’ll make the check out to the Good Shepherd Church, if that’s correct.”

Ford nodded. “On behalf of our youth program, we thank you.”

Atwood wrote out the check and handed it to Ford.

Ford stared at it in surprise, then glanced at Ella.

She could see enough
to note that it was for five hundred dollars. Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. She wasn’t sure how Atwood defined wealthy, but in her book, and by reservation standards, someone who could casually give away that much money was certainly prosperous.

Ford was placing the check in his jacket pocket when one of the men in fatigues appeared at the door. He was holding a printout of some sort,
and promptly handed it to Atwood.

Atwood read it over quickly, then looked back at his man. “Alert the gate to watch for intruders,” he said, clipping his words.

Then Atwood trained his gaze on Ford. “I know that there are people in this area who have recently made you a target, Reverend Tome. Yet I was willing to invite you into our compound, and I was going to offer you our help. But I feel
nothing but contempt for people who try to trick me,” he added, his tone and gaze as cold as ice.

“There’s a problem? I assure you that I am who I’ve said,” Ford answered calmly—a direct counter to the anger in Atwood’s voice.

Atwood’s gaze was as cold as ice. “What kind of church business requires you to bring along a cop?”

F
rom the second the guard had stepped into the room, Ella had known they were in trouble. The guard’s body language—his stare, his stance, the way he rested his hand on the butt of his pistol—had signaled her in advance. Hopefully their backup outside the compound was well hidden from Atwood’s lookouts, otherwise she and Ford could become hostages in
an instant.

Knowing that diplomacy and training, not firepower, would be their best chance now, Ella smiled at Atwood. To keep the situation from escalating she had to convince Father Frank that no Waco-type raid was forthcoming. “I
am
a police officer, but we also have lives
away
from our jobs. I’m here on church business, and my defense at the moment is the Good Book.”

Atwood stood, then took
a step back, positioning his right hand within a foot of his holstered pistol. He nodded to the guard, who whistled. The second man in fatigues appeared, carrying a riot gun at quarter arms. “Convince me,” Atwood said.

“My father was the pastor of The Divine Word Church until he died several years ago. This is his Bible. His name, Raymond Destea, is engraved on the front,” she added,
showing
it to Atwood. “There’s a lot more to my background you might want to read before you . . . overreact.”

She wanted to demonstrate anxiety and uncertainty—not that difficult really, at the moment—but it had to be subtle and believable. Playing a role that didn’t fit her background would simply make him more suspicious.

Atwood gave the man who’d brought in the printout a nod, and the underling
left. The guard with the shotgun remained, not taking his eyes off of Ella and Ford.

“I greeted you as a friend, Reverend, and I’d sure hate to be proven wrong about you,” Atwood said, his gaze flat and hooded.

“You won’t be,” Ford said easily. He turned to Ella and nodded, placing his right hand over her left.

Atwood took a step forward, his own hands resting atop the desk now. “You’re a very
attractive woman, Officer Clah.”

“One of many reasons why I’m courting the lady, Brother Atwood,” Ford answered while her jaw was still dropping.

Recovering quickly, Ella managed a composed nod and smile, though she would have much rather punched Atwood in the nose. Playing the lamb while among wolves went against her nature.

The man who’d left moments ago returned and gave Atwood another printout.

Atwood read the text, motioned with a simple gesture for the two guards to leave, then relaxed and eased back in his chair. “You have quite an interesting past, Investigator Clah. You even brought your father’s killer to justice. I’m glad to see that you share The Freemen’s concept of loyalty to family,” he added, his annoying smile back again.

Ella met his gesture with a nod, but said nothing.
She could almost hear Teeny breathing again, back in his compound. Atwood had no idea how close he’d come to a face-to-face meeting with the gate crasher from Hell.

“You mentioned something about Reverend Tome’s enemies
before, Mr. Atwood,” Ella said, working to produce a pleasant conversational tone despite the tension in her gut. “What did you mean by that?”

“Like everyone else, I’ve heard
the news about the attempts on Reverend Tome’s life,” he said, focusing on Ella. “We may have chosen to remain separate from the largely Godless, secular world, but we still have our sources. It’s a matter of survival—our own.”

“So what I’ve heard about Freedom Camp is true. You have very few dealings with the community outside these grounds?” Ford asked casually.

“It’s better for us to keep
to ourselves,” he said. “That’s why we have to decline your invitation to bring our children to your youth camp. But I would like for you to come to our compound and give our young people Bible lessons.”

“I would be happy to do that,” Ford answered without hesitation.

Ella wanted to take advantage of Atwood’s apparent shift in attitude. There were questions that needed to be asked, but she had
to go about it indirectly. “I’m curious. You mentioned that to survive, you have to be aware of everything that happens on the outside. But why not join the rest of society and help define what happens? You and your people could influence your neighbors more through direct contact, couldn’t you?”

“Not as much as we need, unfortunately. There are things we’re already forced to accept that may
end up causing great damage to us.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Your new Hogback power plant, for one,” he answered. “Your tribe claims it’s doing a good thing, something that’ll benefit everyone. It’s supposed to be safe from catastrophic accidents, and non-polluting. All we hear are promises.”

“You think tribal employees lack the competence to operate the generating station safely?” she asked.

“In matters like these there are things that are always kept secret. That’s the nature of the beast, you see,” he added. “I’d be willing to bet that it’s nowhere near as safe a design as they’ve been claiming. Think of Three Mile Island or, much worse, Chernobyl. Nuclear power can be dirty and extremely dangerous.”

“So you’d like to see it shut down?”

He shook his head. “No, not shut down, just
closely monitored by local residents who have a vested interest in keeping their community safe. But there
are
people who want to see the plant shut down for good.”

“Like who?”

“If the rumors are right, your enemies are in your own backyard, not out here. Haven’t you noticed that all the protests have suddenly stopped? I’m reminded of a mountain lion—quiet but closing in, waiting for the right
moment to strike. I hope your security is up to the task.”