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Summoned? What the hell?
“Summoned by who?”
“By ourdiablero.”
Jesus, this really was some batshit crazy cult. Out of the corner of his eye, Skip saw the guard begin to approach. What didthey want? Power? People groveling and writhing at their feet? He had to think of a way to get out of this.
“I was summoned,” he said, seizing on the figure’s words. “Well then. I… I wish to join.”
“Join,” the figure repeated slowly.
“Yes. Join. I… You said I was summoned. It must have been for a reason.” Skip was thinking furiously. Even fanatics could be reasoned with. After all, the man painted white was surrounded by other followers.Find an opening. “I can offer a lot. I work for the Archaeological Institute. They have collections, wonderful collections. Things you need.”
The figure remained silent. He appeared to be listening. Skip, encouraged, went on.
“And I have a knowledge of ancient things, a deep knowledge that could help you. I want to be part of all this. Become one of you.”
“Is that truly your wish? To become—like him?” And the man gestured toward the guard standing behind Skip.
“Yes.Yes.” God, if he could just prolong this, maybe they’d have a council or something to determine if he could join. The more time he could buy, the better his chances of getting the hell away…
These thoughts were cut short by the leader, barking what sounded like an order to the guard in a strange tongue.
As Skip watched, the guard bowed deeply, walked to the far side of the kiva, and then returned with something wrapped in animal hide. He held it out to the leader with both hands and stepped back.
“Those who join us,” the leader said as he held the raw leather bundle, “must abandon their future and choose our path instead. We will give you something that wasn’t offered to your friend. Are you willing?”
“Yes.Yes.”
“We can trust that you are sincere in making this gesture? If so, it will spare you the agony your friend went through. Can we trust you?”
“You can trust me, I swear I’m sincere. I swear it.”
“Very well.” And the man on the throne unwrapped the hide to reveal an obsidian dagger, long and wickedly sharp, similar to the one used to flay Edison. In fact, it was the one: it was still streaked with blood.
“In that case,” the man said, “you must sacrifice yourself.”
Skip wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”
“You now have the choice to sacrifice your own life. It is my gift of mercy to you—compared to what happened to your friend.”
Skip, staring at the glittering blade, felt sick. “You want me to… kill myself?”
The figure paused. “Of course.”
“No. Hell no. That’s not what I meant.”
“Ah. Not so eager, after all?”
“I want to join, but not that way!”
For a moment, the figure did nothing. Very slowly, he wrapped up the dagger again and handed it to the guard. Then, to Skip’s vast surprise, he raised his hands and removed his mask.
50
THE EVIDENCE ROOMat the Rio Arriba County Sheriff’s Department was hardly, Watts thought to himself, a high-tech affair. It was more like a dusty and abandoned library, with shelf after metal shelf covered with identical cardboard boxes, most of which hadn’t been opened in a decade. For a small county, he had to admit, it seemed like a lot of stored evidence. At least nobody could claim it was disorganized; on the contrary, every box was labeled and recorded and in its proper place, with its own three-by-five card stored in a big oaken antique card catalog. The sheriff’s department had received a grant to computerize the evidence room files, but the project was not yet completed. In a way, this was a good thing: Watts knew the old filing system like the back of his hand, and he felt more than a little apprehension about the new system working—or, as he fully expected, not working.
He went to the catalog and looked up the John Doe homicide of the body found by some hikers at the confluence of the Gallina and Chama Rivers in July twelve years ago. He already knew the victim was not Oskarbi—the body couldn’t be Oskarbi’s,because one glance at the autopsy indicated it was a good five inches shorter than the tall professor. And nothing else about the victim matched Oskarbi: age, hair color, eye color, body type, and so forth. It had been a savage murder. The autopsy Watts reviewed indicated the victim had been tortured, a spiral carved into his torso in vivo, and the man garroted so violently that his neck had been partially severed.