"Yes. Building all those brand-new fusion warheads, of which there apparently can never be enough."

The archbishop's pale amber eyes blinked rapidly behind his horn-rims. Normally he wore contacts, but for the occasion he had donned the eyeglasses. He felt they gave him gravitas.

Now he felt back on his heels again. He's the bloody-handed ex-mercenary and spook – and if half the rumors are true, some of the blood on his hands is of much more recent provenance than the end of the Cold War. How did I wind up on the defensive about the bomb?

They strolled a pathway of crushed pink gravel that ran right along the edge of the bluff above the Rio Grande. Across the river Albuquerque spread like a toy city, looking much neater than it did closer up, tucked away between the tree-lined valley and the foothills of the rather abrupt Sandia Mountains, rising in a blue wall to the east. García was glad the students were all in class at the moment, although usually they stayed north of the center unless they were jogging the path for P.E. The campus had once belonged to the now defunct University of Albuquerque, and was quite extensive.

"Father," he said earnestly, "to be candid, I fear what you may represent."

To his amazement Godin laughed. He had an easy laugh, easy as the lope with which he walked, loose-limbed as an adolescent. He seemed for a fact to be made out of rubber. And steel.

"I'm no witch-hunter, Your Excellency," the Jesuit said. "In fact some very good friends and professional associates of mine are witches. They can be very useful allies sometimes, in my line of work."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," García said.

"I'm not here to validate the sightings of the Santo Niño. I'm not the devil's advocate on the miracle case. My concern is to establish whether the apparitions might be demonic in origin, and in that case, whether they pose a danger to the church. And to the human race, for that matter."

"Preposterous," García blurted before he could catch himself.

Godin laughed. "As preposterous as being a high-ranking executive in an organization that explicitly teaches the reality of demons and miracles?"

García frowned. "We of the more moderngeneration – if I may speak frankly, Father – prefer to think of such things as allegories. Metaphors for the human condition. We much prefer to leave the biblical literalism to our, shall we say, more zealous Protestant brethren."

Godin nodded. "Fair enough. You've been spared certain experiences that would remove a lot of doubt in no uncertain terms. I have not. But after all, Your Excellency, I do not ask for your belief, nor even your cooperation. Merely your permission to operate within your archdiocese."

"But some of your experiences give me pause, Father – again, speaking candidly. Not as an exorcist, or whatever you may be – "

"Not that, either – thank God."

" – but rather your past, shall we say, political experiences. You have been a fairly active exponent of, even a warrior for, the forces of reaction. I can only be concerned as to what sort of methodology you might find appropriate to employ in pursuit of your mission."

Godin stopped and took off his glasses and polished them with a spotless white handkerchief. "You will believe this or not as you choose, Excellency," he said, "but I am, and always have been for all practical purposes, apolitical. When I fought against the followers of Pierre Mulele, I saw myself fighting against sadistic murderers, rapists, torturers. The fact that the Soviet Union chose to use them as counters in their great game made little difference to me. Fighting evil – evil I could see, and hear and smell – that was my role."

García shook his head. No point in getting drawn into a protracted wrangle, he told himself sternly. "I fear the very mission you've been sent upon indicates a strain of reaction within the church herself," he said, trying for more sorrow than anger. "Like much of the world, the church seems to have taken an alarming turn to the right of late."

He knew he skirted the edge. He was of course speaking to an inferior, hierarchically speaking. But the man was a direct representative of the Vatican. And a Jesuit. Some – most – of the Jesuits he knew were all-right guys, down with liberation theology and the true mission of the church in the modern world, which was to spread social justice and environmental enlightenment.

But the church still harbored deep, dank recesses of reaction, some even within the Society of Jesus.

Godin had started walking again, north toward the cluster of not particularly attractive flat buildings with flaring, slanted tops that made up most of the campus. "I'm not interested in heresy, either, Your Excellency. Either professionally or personally. My own faith's likely little more orthodox than your own."

"You – a Jesuit?"

The priest laughed again as the archbishop, cheeks burning, had to trot to catch up.

"You should read more history of the church. We Jesuits have often been accused of unorthodox views – though nowhere near as often as we're guilty of it."

"What do you want of me, then?" García asked at length.

"As I said, your permission to operate freely."

"Under the circumstances, the archdiocese can take no official cognizance of your activities."

"Meaning what, if I may be so bold as to ask, Excellency?"

"Meaning that what you do here is your own concern. I do not give permission. It is not in my purview to deny, much as I might wish otherwise. You enjoy the same rights and privileges – and responsibilities – as any other communicant, and any other ordained priest. But the archdiocese will extend no cooperation."

"That's fine, Excellency," Godin said easily. "I'm used to operating on my own."

García felt his thin cheeks grow hot. "And if you violate the laws of the land, the archdiocese will have no choice but to repudiate you. Should you break the law, and should I find out about it, it will be my pleasure to report you to the authorities."

To García's amazement the priest turned to him with an engaging, boyish grin. "Sure, sure," Godin said, patting his shoulder. "You'd be shirking your responsibilities to do otherwise. And don't worry. Over the years and the miles I've gotten pretty adept at not getting caught."

Such was the twinkle in the man's eyes that García found himself able to believe the words were spoken in jest. Almost. It was impossible, he found, to dislike Godin as a person, much as it may have been his duty as a progressive Christian to do so. He hoped God would forgive him.

"I will take up no more of your time, Excellency. I thank you, and trust that this is the last time I bother you."

"For both our sakes," García said gravely, "I hope so."

Without being entirely sure why he did so, he extended his hand. Godin bent to kiss the ring. Then he turned and strode off toward the parking lot at a land-devouring gait.

Archbishop Daniel García stood staring after him with the wind snapping his cassock like a sail. He is a dinosaur, he thought in wonder. And quite possibly dangerous.

So why do Ifeel shame?

Chapter 5

"I have to admit," Dr. Lauren Perovich said, "that it's an exciting place and time to be a professional student of folklore. I'm actually getting to see it in action – see folklore made." She smiled and shook her head. "Then again, New Mexico's seldom a dull place. Not for anyone with a taste for the strange."