Righteous02 - Mighty and Strong (32 page)

He looked at his feet, felt a blush at his face.

“Seriously, you saved my life. And more. If you didn’t always have cigarette breath, I’d give you a kiss.”

“Are all Mormons obsessed with smoking, or just you?” He smiled. “Besides, I haven’t had my first smoke yet. My breath is nice and fresh. But I can I pop a Tic Tac if you want to be sure.”

Fayer cleared her throat. “Well, uhm, we’d probably better keep it professional. I don’t want to go all Agent Kite on you.”

“Yeah, good idea. And I was getting ready to hit up Jacob’s missionary sister anyway.”

“I’ll bet you were.”

#

If there was going to be a Mormon president, it wouldn’t be Senator Jim McKay. Two weeks after the raid at the Zarahemla compound, when the national media frenzy was reduced to polygamy escapees appearing on Larry King (for the semi-serious) and Nancy Grace (for the prurient), an article appeared in the Salt Lake Tribune linking McKay and his brother, the Utah State Attorney General, to the notorious Church of the Anointing, in Blister Creek, Utah.

The church’s leader, apparently, was first cousin of the McKay brothers. The presidential candidate’s father had been a younger brother kicked out of the sect, unable to secure a wife, and had eventually joined the mainstream LDS church headquartered in Salt Lake.

Even more strangely, the Tribune hinted there was an ongoing relationship between the mainstream Mormon side of the family and its fundamentalist relatives.

“We have had some difficulties with the McKays from time to time,” the paper quoted Abraham Christianson. “But these are just family squabbles. Privately, Senator McKay has expressed sympathy for our situation and that he expects that the LDS church will re-institute plural marriage in the Millennium. Until then, it is our duty to carry on this sacred responsibility on behalf of all Mormons.”

Senator McKay’s office promptly released the following tersely-worded statement:

“Senator McKay has never had any conversations public or private with the so-called prophet of the Church of the Anointing and vehemently affirms his support for the law of land, which expressly forbids polygamy.”

In the midst of the renewed media frenzy, most of McKay’s rivals for the Republican nomination expressed faux-support along the lines of, “We urge patience and feel sure that Senator McKay will resolve these grave allegations in due time.”

Others were more open and gleeful in their attacks.

Over the next week, Gallup tracking polls showed Jim McKay’s primary support dropping from a dead heat with his two main rivals to the low single digits, sandwiched between two joke candidates: a neo-secessionist from Texas and a rancher from Montana who wanted to pay off the national debt by minting a single, fifteen trillion dollar coin and handing it to the Chinese.

Senator McKay waited the appropriate amount of time to make the claim sound respectable and then released a statement withdrawing his candidacy due to undisclosed “medical considerations.” He had not yet endorsed any candidate, and the Tribune reported that Mitt Romney said “thanks, but no thanks” when offered support.

A week later, his brother, Attorney General Parley McKay, announced that he was not seeking reelection, would not run for governor during the next election cycle, and planned to serve a quiet LDS mission with his wife.

Privately, many on Capitol Hill in Salt Lake wondered if there weren’t more details to the McKay polygamist scandal waiting to come out, that both brothers had meekly surrendered their political ambitions.

#

“Is it true?” Eliza asked. “Are you really the new leader of this church?” She looked around the square with a skeptical look on her face. Fernie and Sister Miriam glanced up at Jacob.

“The leader of the church?” he repeated. “Oh, brother.”

His sister had come back with Jacob and Fernie from Salt Lake the night before. Jacob thought he had everything settled from the apartment debacle.

That jerk, Mr. Hoover. Sexist jerk, at that. Soon as Jacob showed up, threatening legal action, the landlord’s resolve proved as thin as one of his 70s-era leisure suits. “I never wanted any trouble,” Hoover whined. “Don’t you see?”

Still, it wouldn’t have done any good returning to the apartment, so Jacob settled with getting back their full deposit, a credit for rent paid, and nine hundred bucks to cover lost possessions. Didn’t come close to covering the losses, but it gave him a little cash to survive on until he could figure out how to get a paycheck from the hospital.

And speaking of the hospital, Dr. Hess was starting to grovel. For some unknown reason the Attorney General’s office had backed off, even called Sanpete County to admit they’d made a mistake. Unlike the landlord, Hess didn’t need the word ‘lawsuit’ voiced aloud, merely implied.

There would be no suspension of pay. He resumed work tomorrow.

“That’s right,” Eliza said. “The leader of the church. President, prophet, whatever you want to call it.”

Eliza was still on furlough from the mission. Two weeks since the attack on the FBI van outside Temple Square and he hadn’t asked, but she didn’t seem anxious to get back to work. But the FBI started making noises about kicking her from the FBI safe house, so she’d have to do something soon. So long as she didn’t come to Zarahemla.

Jacob forced a laugh. “Come on, Liz, seriously?”

Two women swept the square on the far side, while another woman and her young son—ten, eleven maybe—painted one of the tables. Some women and a pair of girls were on the roof, sweeping.

Women, everywhere. He hadn’t seen a man between the ages of seventeen and seventy since breakfast. The noise of banging hammers and clanking winch chains came from the repair work on the east side of the compound, and he knew at least three men were supervising the work, but even there, most of the labor was women. If there were any justice, God would call a woman to lead His church.

“Every true prophet is reluctant to accept the call,” Miriam said, addressing Fernie and Eliza rather than Jacob. “You could even say that it’s a requirement of the job.”

“Nice, so the harder I protest, the more it proves I’m really the prophet.”

“I guess you could go back to Salt Lake,” Miriam said. “Take on a worldly lifestyle, fall into sin.”

“Or you could accept the calling,” Fernie put in. “See where it leads.”

“Why not?” Eliza asked.

Jacob turned to his sister. “I can’t believe you’re on their side. Last night you were wearing jeans—although I notice you put your dress back on when we came down here. Looks to me like you’re on your way out. Are you even planning to return to Temple Square?”

He regretted the words and the hard tone, but his sister just smiled. “We’re talking about
your
life, not mine. The way Fernie tells it, these people need a leader. Are you going to abandon them in the hands of the typical power-hungry jerk shows up about now? Item one, declare yourself prophet. Item two, scoop up the single girls to be your wives.”

“Forget finding a new prophet,” Jacob said. “It’s women doing everything anyway. Why not cut out the middle man?”

Fernie put a hand on his arm. “You know the answer to that, dear. Don’t you?”

Well sure, as long as everyone insisted they were God’s one and only chosen people, and that there was this thing called the priesthood that gave men—and only men—all God’s magical powers, then yeah. But wasn’t the solution obvious? Couldn’t you form Zion, a community of people all pulling together, seeking a divine path—without accepting the theology with such deadly earnestness?

“Okay, so what if I accept?”

“Father is going to be mad,” Eliza said. “He wants you to lead his church, not this one.” She smiled. “Or maybe he’ll see an opportunity for a merger.”

“You’re a lot of help.” He turned to Fernie and Miriam. “Well? Let’s say I do take the job. What first?”

“Legal stuff,” Miriam said. “The property is held in trust, but your name isn’t on the paperwork. You’ll have to take care of that.”

“I don’t know the first thing about it. But if the property is held in common by the church, everyone could get together and vote. Maybe some people want to leave. If they do, they should be compensated.”

“A vote,” Sister Miriam said. “That’s funny.” She shrugged. “Well, why not? Are you going to call a vote? If you do, we’ll go along. Once we know how the Lord wants us to vote, I mean.”

“And I suppose you want me to interpret the will of the Lord so you’ll know.”

“That’s what it means to be prophet.”

“So what if I take the job, but only on an interim basis. Secular leadership only, to help resolve property issues and the like. People can stay or go and if they go, we’ll help. We’ll run things by vote and my job will be to give things a nudge, make sure nobody seizes power. Do you think people would go for that?”

“That would be enough for now at least,” Miriam said. “Eventually, I’m sure you’ll grow into the calling. That’s how God works.”

He let out an exasperated laugh. “This is going to be fun.”

“Don’t look so glum,” his wife told him. “You’ll do fine.”

“Fine, but don’t expect much.”

The two women shared a smile and then Eliza joined with a laugh. He had no idea what they found so funny, but maybe this whole leadership thing was a ruse to give men the illusion of control. That women were really running the show and making men
think
they were in control. Look how easily they’d maneuvered him.

Well, whatever. He wasn’t going to play along.

“And there’s one other condition. Absolutely non-negotiable.”

“What’s that?” Fernie asked.

“No more wives, I mean it.”

“We’ll see dear, we’ll see.”

-end-

Following: Author Bio, Book Group Discussion Questions, Excerpt from Devil’s Deep.

About the Author:
Michael Wallace has trekked across the Sahara on a camel, ridden an elephant through a tiger preserve in Southeast Asia, eaten fried guinea pig, and been licked on the head by a skunk. In a previous stage of life he programmed nuclear war simulations, smuggled refugees out of a war zone, and milked cobras for their venom. He speaks Spanish and French and grew up in a religious community in the desert. His suspense/thrillers include The Devil’s Deep, State of Siege, Implant, and The Righteous, and he is also the author of collections of travel stories and fantasy books for children. His work has appeared in print more than a hundred times, including publication in markets such as The Atlantic and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Discussion Questions for Book Groups:
1. What is more important for a religious community, the belief of the members, or the desire to belong to a cohesive, close-knit group, all pulling in the same direction?
2. Is there a place for fundamentalist religious groups such as Mormon polygamists, Orthodox Jewish sects, and the Amish in American society, or are they always destined to be outsiders in the larger culture?
3. What is it about the desert or wilderness that has attracted small religious groups throughout history? Is it nothing more than isolation, or is there something about the harshness of the landscape that is important?
4. Is it possible to change one’s religious faith without being cut off from an important part of one’s inner beliefs? Is loyalty to your family and heritage important to you, even if it means continuing on a path you might not have chosen for yourself?
5. Is there a place for a doubter within a religious community?

The Devil’s Deep (Excerpt: Chapter One)
by Michael Wallace

Chapter One:

It was ten minutes to midnight when Rosa Solorio entered the darkened room to kidnap the retarded man.

She found Chad Lett twitching in his bed, his arms curled into clubs, biceps stretched like cords. His hands formed claws. Muscles strained on his neck and his eyes fluttered. No sound came from his mouth, but it grimaced as if in pain.

“Dios mio,”
Rosa whispered under her breath.

She knew Chad’s every spasm and moan. Three other beds lined the room. They held the other residents of Team Smile and after five years she could recognize each of their cries, moans, or screams from the other side of the facility.

But eighty minutes had passed since night meds. Team Smile took theirs ground into applesauce and spooned back until reflex made them swallow, and one of Chad’s pills was a muscle relaxant. He should have been asleep by now. Instead, that grimace, the right eye rolling, but the left staring straight ahead.

Rosa hesitated, doubting everything. Every question she’d asked herself, every time she’d studied Chad on nights like this, his face in shadows cast by the sterile, fluorescent light coming from the hallway. Maybe she was wrong.

She couldn’t pull her gaze from Chad’s eye. Not the rolled-back right eye—
the evil eye,
she thought—but the left. The
living
eye.

It had begun as a fantasy, spun in her own head. She’d dreamed about Chad Lett, not the profoundly retarded man warehoused at Riverwood, but a man who had walked by her side along the beach.

“Are you sure?” the man in her dreams had asked. “Absolutely sure? Look me in the eye, Rosa. Look! Then tell me that you’re sure I’m gone.”

And she found herself watching his eyes while she bathed him or fed him. The right showed only the glassy stare so typical of the lowest-functioning residents. But she couldn’t help but watch the left, wondering and afraid, as it blinked.

She stood over his bed one shift after Riverwood sank into its nighttime slumber. “Are you alive? Blink if you can understand me.”

And the left eye had answered.
Blink.

He was alive. Not just a body that breathed and a heart that beat while the brain sat cold and still. But a man, alive inside that body. A man who had just blinked his answer. As if to say,
Yes, I’m alive. I’m alive and trapped in this hell. For God’s sake, help me!