The Devil Colony (22 page)

He savored that memory now as he knelt atop a slab of rock that jutted precariously over a deep gorge nicknamed the “Little Grand Canyon.” The valley lay at the heart of the San Rafael Swell, a sixty-mile-wide bulge of sedimentary rock that had been uplifted here by geological forces over fifty million years ago. Since then, rain and wind had carved and chiseled the region into a labyrinth of steep slopes, broken canyons, and rugged washes. Far below, the San Rafael River continued the eroding process, snaking lazily across the landscape on its way to the Colorado.

The red-rock region was mostly deserted, home to wild burros, stallions, and one of the largest herds of desert bighorn sheep. The only two-legged visitors here were the more adventurous hikers, because entry to the remote area required four-wheel-drive vehicles to traverse its few roads. In the past, the Swell’s nearly inaccessible maze of canyons and ravines had been the hideouts and escape routes for many outlaws, including Butch Cassidy and his gang.

And it seemed such was the case again.

Hank and the others had arrived here in the wee hours of the morning, crawling down a rock-strewn track from Copper Globe Road. Their destination was the family cabins of his retired colleagues, Alvin and Iris Humetewa. Hank’s group had barged in without any warning, but as he had known, the couple had taken the intrusion in good-natured stride.

The small homestead of five mud-and-stone pueblos was half commune, half school for Hopi children who were taught the old ways by three generations of the Humetewa clan, all led by Iris Humetewa, matriarch and benevolent dictator.

At the moment there were no students.

Or almost no students.

“You can come out,” Hank said.

A peeved sigh rose from beyond a boulder in the wash behind him. The slim figure of Kai Quocheets stalked out of hiding. She’d been trailing him since he’d left the cabins.

“If you want to see the sunrise,” he urged her, “you’d best come up here.”

With a sullen slump to her shoulders, she climbed to the overlook. Kawtch slapped his tail a couple of times against the sandstone slab in greeting.

“Is it safe out there?” she asked, eyeing the drop beyond the edge of the jutting rock.

“Stone’s been here thousands of years, it’ll probably last another few minutes.”

She looked doubtful about his assessment but came forward anyway. “Uncle Crowe and his partner are putting together some sort of satellite dish tied to a laptop and phone.”

“I thought he wanted to stay off the grid.”

The Humetewas’ cabins had no television or telephones. Even cellular reception was nonexistent in the labyrinthine canyons.

She shrugged. “Should still be safe. I heard him say something about encryption software. Probably acts as a scrambler or something.”

He nodded and patted the stone. “You came all the way up here to tell me that?”

She sank cross-legged to the stone. “No . . .” There was a long pause, too long for the truth. “Just wanted to stretch my legs.”

He recognized the waffling and could guess its source. He had already noted how she shied away from her uncle, circled him like a wary dog fearful of being beaten but drawn anyway. Still, there was no timidity to her. She kept her hackles raised, ready to bite. All this uncertainty must have made it too uncomfortable for her to stay below at the cabins, pushing her to follow after him.

He faced the rising sun as it crested fully and set fire to the red-rock landscape below. “Are you familiar with the
na’ii’ees
ceremony?”

“What’s that?”

He shook his head sadly. Why was it that the most fervent of the Native American activists were so often ignorant of their own heritage?

“It’s the sunrise ceremony,” he explained, pointing to the blazing birth of the new day. “A rite of passage for girls into womanhood. It involves four days and nights of dancing and sacred blessings, imbuing the new women with the spiritual and healing power of the White Painted Woman.”

Answering the questioning lift of an eyebrow, he explained the Apache and Navajo mythology surrounding this goddess, also known as the Changing Woman, named for her ability to shift appearances along with the seasons. He enjoyed how her gaze turned from dull to rapt with the telling, a sign of her thirst for such knowledge.

As he ended his description, she turned to the rising sun. “So do any tribes still perform the ceremony?”

“Some, but rarely. In the early twentieth century, the U.S. government banned Native American spiritual rites and practices, making the sunrise ceremony illegal. Over time, the practice slowly faded, only to return in a weakened version today.”

Kai’s face turned darker. “They’ve stolen so much from us . . .”

“The past is the past. It’s now up to us to sustain our own culture. We only lose what we fail to nurture.”

She seemed little mollified by this, her words bitter. “What? Like you’re doing? Forsaking your own beliefs for the white man’s religion. A religion that persecuted our people and incited massacres.”

He sighed. He’d heard it all before, and once again tried his best to enlighten the ignorant. “Mistakes are made by stupid men. In the course of human history, religions have been used as excuses for violence, including among our own Native American tribes. But when it comes to
culture,
religion is only one thread in a vast woven rug. My father was raised Mormon, as was my mother. That is as much my history as my native blood. One does not negate the other. I find much in the Book of Mormon that gives me peace and brings me closer to God—or whatever you want to call that eternal spirituality that exists in all of us. In the end, my faith even offers another viewpoint on our own people’s past. It’s why I became a Native American historian and naturalist. To seek the answer to who we are.”

“What do you mean by that? How does Mormonism explain anything about our people?”

He wasn’t sure this was the right time to explain the history that was buried within the pages of the Book of Mormon, a testament of Christ’s footsteps in the New World. Instead, he’d offer Kai some insight into the shadows that still clouded the earliest histories of the Native American tribes.

He stood up. “Follow me.”

With a slight arthritic limp, he hobbled over to a neighboring scalloped-out dome of sandstone. Under a fluted lip of rock stretched a line of chipped stone blocks, marking the ruins of an old Indian home. Ducking his head, he stepped over the threshold and crossed to the far wall.

“There is much that we still don’t know about our own people,” he said, and glanced back. “Are you familiar with the prehistoric Indian mounds found throughout the Midwest—stretching from sites around the Great Lakes to the swamps of Louisiana?”

She shrugged.

“Some mounds date back six thousand years. Even tribes living in the area when Europeans arrived had no memories of those ancient mound builders. That is our heritage. One big mystery.”

He reached the far wall, where some prehistoric artist had painted a trio of tall, skeletal figures in crimson pigments against the yellow sandstone. He lifted a hand over the ancient artwork.

“You’ll find petroglyphs like this throughout the area. Some archaeologists have dated the oldest images here at eight thousand years old. And those are relatively new compared to the Coso Petroglyphs above China Lake’s salt beds. Those go back
sixteen
thousand years, to the end of the last Ice Age, when the continent was still roamed by mammoths, saber-toothed cats, and monstrous Pleistocene bison.” He turned to Kai. “That is how far back our history goes, with so little known.”

He allowed the weight of ages to press down on her young shoulders before continuing. “Even the number of people who lived here has been vastly underestimated. Newest studies from the chemical composition of stalagmites, and the depth and breadth of charcoal deposits found throughout North America, put modern estimates of Native American populations at well over a hundred million. That’s more people than were living in Europe when Christopher Columbus set foot in this New World.”

Her eyes shone large in the shadowy space. “Then what happened to them all?”

He waved to encompass the ruins as he led the way back out. “After the Europeans arrived, infectious diseases like smallpox spread faster across the continent than the colonists, leading to the impression of a sparsely populated American wilderness. But that is a false history, much like the rest of it.”

Kai joined him back on the rocky outcropping, along with Kawtch, who had his nose in the air. She wore a thoughtful expression as she stared out. The skies had shed the rose of dawn for the deeper blue of morning.

“So I get your point,” she said. “We can’t truly know ourselves until we know our own history.”

He looked to her, sizing her up anew. She was far sharper than she let on—proving it again when she turned to him to ask, “But you never did say how the Book of Mormon offered insight into our history.”

Before Hank could answer, Kawtch let out a low growl of warning. His nose was still in the air, sniffing. They both turned to the northeast, to where Kawtch’s nose was pointing. The skies, lighter now, revealed a churning black smudge at the horizon, like thunderclouds stacking up toward a gully-washing storm.

“Smoke,” he mumbled.

And a lot of it.

“A forest fire?” Kai asked.

“I don’t think so.” His heart thudded with a growing sense of dread. “We should head back down.”

6:38
A.M.
Provo, Utah

Rafael Saint Germaine sat enjoying a tiny porcelain cup of espresso in the mansion’s massive and extravagant kitchen. The absurdity of the room amused him. What the Americans considered to be the epitome of class struck him as ridiculous, living in homes of cheap modern construction, decorated to evoke faux–Old World charm. His family’s château in Carcassonne dated back to the sixteenth century, surrounded by fortified walls atop which battles had been fought that changed the course of Western civilization.

That was the true mark of aristocracy.

He stared out the kitchen windows and across the sprawling lawns to the helicopter as a crew prepped it for departure. Across the table were reams of biographical data. He’d read them with his breakfast and saw no need to peruse them again. He could recite most of the details by rote.

On the top of the stack rested the photograph of the man who had thwarted his actions at the university last night. It had taken only a short time to put a name to the face. It ended up being someone well known to his organization. If the photo hadn’t been so grainy and shadowy, he wouldn’t have needed the facial-recognition software to identify him.

He whispered the name of his adversary, “Painter Crowe.”
The director of Sigma.
He shook his head—both dismayed and amused—and stared down at the photo. “What are you doing out of your hole in D.C.?”

Rafe had not anticipated that Sigma would be so quick to respond to the events that had occurred here. It was an underestimation he intended not to repeat. But such a miscalculation was not entirely his fault. It had taken much longer to connect the pieces together. Their target—the lithe thief with such sticky fingers—was indirectly related to Crowe, sharing the same tribal clan. She must have called upon family ties to enlist his aid.

It was an interesting development. He spent the rest of the night, except for a short nap, incorporating this new variable into his equations and running various permutations through his head.
How best to play this out? How to turn this to his advantage?

It had taken until this morning to tease out a solution.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, passing through the butler’s pantry to reach him. “Sir. We’re ready to depart.”

“
Merci,
Bern.” Rafe tapped his Patek Philippe wristwatch. The timepiece included a tourbillon movement, the French word for “whirlwind.” That’s what they needed to be this morning. “We’re running late.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll make up time in the air.”

“Very well.”

Rafe took one last sip of his espresso. He pursed his lips at the taste. It had gone lukewarm, bringing out a sharp bitterness. It was a shame, as the discovery of the coffee beans here, an expensive import from Panama, had been a pleasant surprise. He had to give the owners of this monstrosity some points for taste, if only for their beans.

He stood up, feeling generous.

“Is Ashanda still with the boy?” he asked Bern.

“They’re in the library.”

This elicited a smile. Without a tongue, she certainly wasn’t reading the child a story.

“What do you want me to do with the boy after you leave?” Bern’s manner stiffened, perhaps knowing what the answer must be.

Rafe waved an arm dismissively. “Leave him here. Unharmed.”

Bern’s brows lifted ever so slightly. For the stoic man, it was the equivalent of a gasp of surprise.

Rafe turned away. Sometimes it was good to act unpredictably, to keep your subordinates on their toes. Using his cane, he crossed through the house to collect Ashanda. The library was a two-story affair, filled with leather-bound books that were likely never read, only showcased as ostentatiously as everything else in the home.

He found Ashanda seated in a plush wingback chair. The child was asleep in her arms as she gently brushed her long, impossibly strong fingers through his blond curls. She hummed tunelessly deep in her chest. It was a comforting sound to Rafe, as familiar as his mother’s voice. He smiled, drawn momentarily into the past, to happy summer nights, sleeping on the balcony under the stars, warmed by the presence of Ashanda next to him in a nest of blankets. He’d often heard her hum like that, holding him as he recovered from some break in his brittle bones. It was a balm that soothed most aches, even the grief of a child.

He hated to disturb her, but they had a schedule. “Ashanda,
ma grande,
we must depart.”

She bowed her head, acknowledging the command. She rose smoothly, turned, and gently placed the boy onto the warm cushion, curling him into place. Only then did Rafe notice the bruising around the boy’s thin throat, the odd canting of his neck. He had not been asleep after all.