Page 91 of Badlands

They descended the ladder, with Bromley and several cult members following after them. Four torches, burning low, illuminated the space, and Nora was momentarily astonished: the curving wall of the kiva featured a fresco of the Feathered Serpent of Aztec mythology. Carved niches called nichos under the eaves protected various ancient treasures—pottery jars, fetishes, clubs, bone flutes, a bow with arrows, and other artifacts, well preserved and of inestimable archaeological value. In another nicho, all by itself, stood a large, painted pottery bowl brimming with prasiolite lightning stones.

She was abruptly brought back to reality by Bromley, who had seated himself in a ridiculous sandstone throne. “Bring out thehikuri.”

Two cultists fetched a mortar, from which Bromley removed a waxy substance that he rolled into a large greenish-brown lump. A cult member grabbed Nora from behind, and she felt the cold edge of a stone knife against her throat.

“Take,” Bromley said, rising and approaching her, the greasy ball held out in one hand. She felt a concomitant tightening of the knife against her skin. She opened her mouth and he put the disgusting ball in.

“Chew and swallow.”

Nora chewed up the horrible stuff, then swallowed, trying not to vomit, knowing that would only mean a second helping.

Next came a bowl of some foul soup, with bits of dead insects floating in it. “Here comes the happy juice,” Skip said loudly.

“Drink.”

This procedure was repeated with Corrie. They left Skip alone.

Following this nasty ceremony, Bromley stood back, staring at them through his mask while his followers kept the knives at their throats.

“Well, Professor,” said Nora. “What now?”

“What now,” spoke Bromley, “will be a demonstration of power so incredible that—though you witness it with your own eyes—you will not believe it.” His voice fairly quavered in triumph. “Nevertheless, you will be given the privilege of seeing it… before your passing to the higher plane.”

Nora began to reply, then stopped herself. It was all too obvious, from his tone and the bloodshot, maniacal eyes behind the mask, that the man was beyond all powers of persuasion—or mercy.

“Yeah?” said Skip, still high. “And meanwhile, you can go fuck yourself.”

Rather than doling out another blow, Bromley turned to him. “Evenyouwill be rendered speechless. But there is one final step. Tie their hands again.”

Their hands were rebound behind their backs. Bromley made a gesture, and one cultist removed the torches from their wall niches and doused them, plunging the kiva into darkness. After a moment, Nora heard a faint clicking noise, then saw flashes of green light as a whispery chant began to rise before them. Bromley was rubbing the lightning stones together, causing them tosparkle and flash in eerie green light, as he chanted. He was mad, Nora knew—mad with the lust and power that drove all cult leaders, made all the more dangerous here by the actual scholarship of Oskarbi, and the treasures of the Gallina that surrounded them, from which Bromley had gleaned God knew what. But that very madness made what, in a very different context, might be risible into something terribly lethal.

Now the others took up lightning stones in turn, and a chorus of chanting began as they moved around the three prisoners, the soft clicking of the stones and the flickering of lightning like green fireflies drifting through the darkness.

There has to be a way out of this, Nora thought. These people were not only crazy, but—Bromley excepted—potentially malleable, gullible. That was one weakness of cults… and it just might give them an opening.

But what?

57

ANOTHER BUFFETING OFthe chopper that threw them all sideways—harder even than before—was followed by a sickening drop and then gravel blowing against the helicopter’s Plexiglas canopy that sounded as violent as birdshot.

Abruptly, the pilot spoke through their earphones. “We’re close to Gallina, but the terrain is such that we’re in for a lot more turbulence. These freak dust storms, coming out of nowhere, can wreak havoc with everything from navigation to rotor lift. Our comms have been dropping out, too—I’ve been in and out of touch with base. I’m going to try an approach from another angle. But we may have to abort.”

“That’s not acceptable,” said Sharp, opening his eyes.

“As captain, it would be my decision,” came the chilly response.

“We’ve got an agent out there in trouble.”

“I’m acutely aware of that, Agent Sharp.”

“You said it yourself: we’re almost there.”

This clipped exchange ended when the pilot didn’t reply. Nervous as he was, Watts hoped to God they didn’t abort. He hada bad presentiment about what might be happening in Gallina Canyon right now, his imagination made all the darker by his feelings for Corrie.

The helicopter continued over the dark terrain, pitching and yawing—sometimes to a terrifying degree—but always managing to recover. Watts didn’t know how much longer he could take this endless battering. He tried forcing himself to think of other things besides pancaking in a ball of fire. Cleaning his revolvers. Riding his horse. Eating a hot chili. When none of those worked, he escalated: a toga party at Hugh Hefner’s mansion, with champagne fountains of vintage brut. That didn’t distract him, either.

The headphones crackled, then the pilot’s voice came on again. “I just received a report from our ground team. A haboob is now being tracked in the badlands.”

---