"But why the precautions, then, if you're here with the blessings of Homeland Security?" she asked, still stalling. She wondered what exactly he'd told DHS he was doing here. It struck her they were unlikely to be too impressed with a demon hunter. She also knew that since the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II, the Vatican had become obsessive about security. And of course it could afford the best. It was no surprise that Godin, coming from such an organization – not to mention his own background – should be readily accepted by his U.S. counterparts.
"First of all, I imagine you are sufficiently imaginative to envision circumstances in which I might find myself compelled to shoot someone, and your authorities would find it no less in their interests than mine not to be compelled to take official cognizance of the act."
"Yes," she said.
"Also, there are levels and layers within your government, and some very intense rivalries. There are those who would be most eager to cause trouble precisely because of my connections to DHS. Including some of your very most prominent law-enforcement agencies."
"That's hard to believe," she said.
He shrugged. "Naiveté is a charming trait, to be sure. But don't indulge yourself in it to so great an extent. No more delays, my clever girl. Hold still."
He held a rough white motel washcloth tightly against the line of her jaw to prevent peroxide from dripping down and discoloring the bedspread.
She gritted her teeth.
"These are most nasty cuts," Godin said. "Are you certain you won't let me take you to a clinic?"
"No! You aren't the only one who doesn't want to answer questions. Anyway, I'm tough."
"Indeed you are, Annja Creed. But still, it would be a shame to allow scars to disfigure such a lovely face. Especially as you are a popular television personality."
"That's what makeup's for," she said. "And I'm not that popular."
"Do not sell yourself short, my dear," Godin said, swabbing again. "There are fan sites devoted to you on the Internet."
"You're kidding!" Annja laughed and cringed simultaneously.
"Not at all," he said, tossing the used cotton ball into the wastebasket and picking up the alcohol bottle again. "You are not the only one to use the Internet to seek what is to be learned about other players in our little game."
"Great," she said throatily. " That'llmake it easy to keep a low profile."
Chapter 20
The news that morning had been full of the disaster at the candlelight vigil in Chimayó. It even made the national shows.
Impeccably chivalrous, Godin left Annja to sleep in the bed while he stretched out on the floor – somewhat melodramatically, she thought – at her feet. Although in fact the little room was not set up to make it easy to do so anyplace else. She passed a fitful night drifting in and out of sleep. Partly, what disturbed her were the dreams. Part was the sense of his proximity, the sound of his breathing, the illusion that she could feel the warmth of him from down there.
I've been alone too long, she had told herself that morning, brushing her teeth in the bathroom, using brush and paste picked up along with the first-aid supplies. But then, she'd been alone her whole life, in any way that mattered.
She emerged to find Godin doing a yoga headstand in front of the television, his feet pointed in the air, his black trouser legs pooling midcalf. Well, there had to be somereason he stayed so limber. His legs were very white.
"Authorities continue their search at this hour," the newscaster was saying, "for what they describe as either a rabid mountain lion or an illegally owned melanistic leopard – often incorrectly referred to as a black panther – possibly made psychotic by abuse and neglect."
"Do mountain lions get rabies?" Annja asked aloud.
Father Godin lowered his legs and rolled easily to his feet.
"Does it matter?" he asked. "All they need is an explanation other than the truth. A rabid mountain lion is a rational explanation. Who but an equally rabid conspiracy buff would question it?"
Annja made a noise deep in her throat. Her worldview was getting rearranged in ways she didn't much like. Also she suspected she resembled his last remark.
But not even she could believe it had been a natural animal she'd fought last night.
I guess that wasn't an eagle, either, she thought.
After a subdued breakfast Godin drove her back up in the hills to where her car was parked. Dozens still dotted the roads. She wasn't the only one who had left the vicinity without recovering her vehicle, it appeared. The news had spoken repeatedly of three dead and eleven injured. She hoped these vehicles hadn't all been left by people in no shape to reclaim them. She was a lot less complacent right now about trusting what she saw on the news these days.
The sun had come out with New Mexican vengeance. Although the air was chilly the roads were clear, and most of the snow had vanished. Up ahead they could see state police utility vehicles blocking the road to the sanctuary.
Obviously investigations were continuing. She doubted either the state or the county authorities had much to do with them. She did not doubt the Black Hawk she had seen, unmarked and painted midnight-black, had belonged to some federal agency.
Unless it belonged to the security forces of some sinister and quasiprivate secret contractor.
In parting she gave Father Godin a quick but fervent hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. It seemed the least she could do. Then she got in her car and drove back to Albuquerque.
After a shower and a change of clothing Annja rooted around in the litter of random documents and sundry pocket artifacts that always seemed to accumulate on her dresser. She finally came up with the business card given her by Randy West, the burly Kiowa-looking artist who had greeted her at Chiaroscuro. He was on lunch break when she got him on his cell. She had offered, mostly from a sense of guilt, to buy him lunch in exchange for his arranging for her to meet a close friend of Byron Mondragón's at his day job stacking books at a store called Title Wave. Aftereverything got sorted out.
The young man's watery blue eyes darted quickly left and right. He and Annja were alone in the science-fiction-and-fantasy stacks off in the back corner of the cheerfully lit used-book store in Albuquerque's Northeast Heights district. With only four feet of bookshelves to either side of them, making it hard for anyone to join them without being noticed, his caution struck her as excessive.
"Okay," he said. "Listen, though. You're sure nothing bad's going to happen to Byron over this, right?"
Annja had always loved the smell of used-book stores. This one didn't quite have the must of accumulated ages of antique or rare-book dealers. But she found the smell of ink and paper very pleasant. The not altogether subtle scent of weed wafting from her informant did little to detract from the effect.
"I'm not a cop and I'm not looking to cause him any trouble," she said. "And if I'm a crazy stalker, do you really think he'll mind?"
That struck her as bold and egotistical – as well as actively ridiculous – the instant it was out of her mouth.
But it seemed to hit the right chord. The young chiaroscuro art guerilla bobbed his head. He had a stiff brush of what was probably dark blond hair to start with, judging by his pale bluish-pink complexion. But the roots were currently dyed black, and it appeared that yellow paint, more or less, had been daubed on the rest with a brush. He wore a Rage against the Machine T-shirt, jeans almost falling, and rotting, off his near emaciated frame and black tennis shoes that seemed to be held together by sheer force of habit.