sharply. “And I think you should consider what this project has to offer. And if you can’t lend your support, that’s fine. The White House feels that it’s on firm scientific footing here, and that the American people will support this bold initiative. There’s no need for anyone on this task force to demonize the energy industry over this.”
“In other words,” the goateed environmentalist said, “the White House already ran focus groups and found that this would look like a splashy move right before election day.”
“I know of no such focus group,” Percy said.
“Of course not,” Norris snapped. “Because then you wouldn’t have deniability. Reynolds has got to know that most of us are not going to back this. He’s first and foremost a political realist.”
“The president and I both trust that you’ll consider this a worthy project.”
Or, at the very least, keep quiet about it. But even as Jenna thought this, she realized that she wouldn’t make any public statements against the “very limited experiment.” While she felt professionally insulted by the energy industry’s maneuvering, she could not see any harm in the proposed test. It could have real benefits.
But the next instant, Jenna remembered the ominous words of the highly regarded oceanographer, John Martin: “Give me half a tanker of iron oxide and I’ll give you an ice age.”
They don’t have half a tanker, Jenna said pointedly to herself. They have a full supertanker—five hundred thousand tons.
The vice president asked the task force to stay on the line for his chief of staff, Evan Stubb. Then Percy bid them good-bye.
What’s Stubb here for? Jenna wondered. She didn’t have to wait long for the answer: to do the president and vice president’s dirty work.
“I want to remind all of you of the confidentiality pledge that you’ve signed,” Stubb spoke slowly and clearly, “and advise you to keep in mind that we expect you to abide by its legally enforceable provisions.”
* * *
Half an hour before sunset, the forest clearing grew crowded with Pagans and witches from all over the Eastern seaboard, plus network camera crews and curious onlookers.
Forensia held Sang-mi’s hand as they walked toward the gathering. The young Korean had been shaking almost continually since she’d discovered GreenSpirit’s mutilated body. Twice she’d said the killing reminded her of the terrible butchery that she’d seen in North Korea.
“What they did to GreenSpirit was so terrible.” Sang-mi sounded shattered by fear. “They can do it to anybody.”
“No, that won’t happen. See, the police are here,” Forensia assured her.
“In North”—she meant North Korea—“police do the killing.”
“But not here. I promise.” Forensia nodded at the New York State Police officers whom Sheriff Walker had requested to protect his villagers. “There’s no reason to worry.”
Her friend’s hand tightened on hers as they wove through the crowd toward Richtor; Forensia’s tall, dreadlocked boyfriend stood with other Pagans near a tree-stump podium.
Sheriff Walker was dressed in a jacket and tie. His tiny wife stood by his side, along with their two daughters. The older girl, Suze, looked away when Forensia smiled at her. Two nights ago, Suze had been naked in the moonlight with the rest of the Pagans, only feet away from where she and her fundamentalist Christian family now waited for the service to begin.
Forensia didn’t have any more regard for Sheriff Walker’s religious beliefs than he probably had for hers, but she greatly appreciated his presence as an officer of the law and as a member of the local community gravely concerned about a horrific killing.
That’s how it should be, Forensia thought as daylight dimmed. She was grateful for Sheriff Walker’s attendance because it sent a reassuring message to the Pagans and witches that law enforcement would protect them.
Forensia also figured that Sheriff Walker was there to study the crowd. Sometimes a killer really does return to the scene of his crime; that wasn’t simply a Hollywood cliché. She scanned the gathering, but didn’t see Jason. Maybe they’ve already arrested him.
The witch who’d driven down from Ithaca for Forensia and Sang-mi’s initiation stood before the large group of Pagans. A black robe draped her short, fragile-looking frame. Her eyes looked bright, alive—indomitable. Richtor took Forensia’s hand as the gray-haired older woman began to read a statement:
“We gather under the most trying and grievous circumstances. We are here to honor the memory of a great witch and a great woman, and to decry the violence that took her from this earthly plane—the hatred and prejudice that murdered our beloved leader to render her