Righteous02 - Mighty and Strong (8 page)

“Don’t you think I know that? You don’t think this is easy for me, do you?”

“No, but—”

“Then why are you trying to talk me out of it?” she asked. Normally, she would have her arm around him by now, as they chatted before drifting off to sleep. She was on the far edge of the bed. “Jacob, I know what you have to do. And yes, I’m scared. I hope you are, too, at least a little bit. But I know you have to go.”

“Is this about the priesthood?” he asked. “I don’t want you to give in just because I’ve got the priesthood. I’m not trying to use my authority. You can tell me no, and I swear I’ll listen.”

“No, it’s not about the priesthood. I know you wouldn’t use it that way.”

“Then why are you giving in so easily?”

“If I tell you, promise you won’t mock me.”

“Mock?” he asked, feeling hurt. “When have I ever done that?”

“Maybe mock is the wrong word. I don’t want you to pick apart my words, over-analyze them. Just listen. Promise you’ll do that?”

“Okay, I promise.”

“I prayed tonight about what you should do, and the Spirit whispered that this was the right thing to do. So I’m already decided.”

“Oh.”

Jacob was suspicious of getting answers to questions via prayer, the Spirit, or any other supernatural means. He was open to the possibility, but too often people claimed to get answers from the Lord that just happened to match what duty told them to do, or what would benefit them personally.

Every single time they approached a young woman about marriage, they would say something like, “The Lord wants you to marry Brother So-and-So.” Nine times out of ten, the girl would bow her head and say, “Thou sayest.” She would go to bed that night, thinking the Lord had already spoken to her father or to the church leaders. Maybe she’d pray and get her own spiritual confirmation.

What she didn’t know was that the night before men had gathered at the church house or in the temple to discuss her fate. “I’ll hand over my daughter, if you’ll give me yours.” Or maybe, “I’ll take your daughter now, and pledge two of my own, once they are of age.”

And of course the girl would get the expected answer to her prayers. She wouldn’t be happy about it, but who was she to question what the Lord had already confirmed to her father, or to one of the church elders?

Was Fernie suffering the same thing? She knew Jacob was set on going, she knew she should obey her husband, and therefore she’d received the correct answer. Jacob remembered his promise and bit his tongue to keep from voicing these thoughts.

“This is the Lord’s plan,” Fernie said. “Not just for the missing woman. For you, too. For our family.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know anything about this Brother Timothy, or his church, other than what I’ve heard. That’s just rumors and gossip. Maybe they’re for real, or maybe this is just another church of the Devil. Either way, this is the Lord’s test for you. And maybe a reward.”

“Reward? I like the sound of that. The FBI offered ten thousand bucks. Is this going to be more than ten grand?”

“That sounds like mocking to me, mister.” There was a teasing tone in her voice and she rolled over now and put her arm around him. “I’m talking about finding another wife.”

“Oh, that.”

She must have felt his body tense. “You know you can’t put it off forever.”

“Watch me.”

“We can’t keep living in the Lone and Dreary World. Sooner or later we have to return to our own people.”

“It’s not so bad, is it? We have good neighbors. They don’t judge us, they don’t force their views or their religion.”

“But they’re not our people, Jacob. Don’t you miss it?”

“Miss what? You want to go back to the days when you were Elder Kimball’s fifth wife?”

“No, of course not. But I miss my sister wives. I miss belonging to Zion. That feeling of community where everybody pulls in the same direction.”

Truth was, he felt it, too. There was a depth in Zion, a solid feeling the world outside didn’t have. Here, there was too much change, too much uncertainty. Even the good people seemed lost sometimes, confused.

“But why does going back have to mean plural marriage?” Jacob asked. “I have one wife already. That’s all I need.”

“Come on, don’t be so proud. It won’t be that bad, you’ll see.”

“I’m not being proud, I just don’t want it. Some people are wired that way, I’m not. I only want you, that’s all.”

She was quiet.

“Don’t you like that?” he asked. “You can have me all to yourself.”

“Okay, I’ll admit it, I love hearing you say that. But it’s only the selfish part of me. The rest of me says you need to find another wife sooner or later. It’s the only way you’ll grow to become a true leader in Zion.”

Whoever said I want to be a leader in Zion?

He wanted to help his people, but through medicine, by bringing reason and justice to a closed community. Moderate its excesses. Fight those who lusted for power. A leader? Hah. He didn’t even feel comfortable leading his own family.

“I just know there’s some young woman down there who needs a good husband,” Fernie said, more firmly this time. “S
often your heart, listen to the Spirit, or you’ll miss it. Find her, bring her into our family. It could be the whole reason the Lord is sending you.”

“Fernie, come on, you don’t—”

“Shh, don’t argue. Just stay open to the possibility.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “That’s all I can promise.”

And he did
think
about what Fernie had told him as he faced Brother Timothy at the pageant in Manti. He spotted the other two men who’d trailed him through the crowd. They stood together some distance off, faces blotted by shadows. There were thousands of people here, but Jacob felt alone, vulnerable.

“Only one person sent me,” he told Brother Timothy. “The Lord.”

Brother Timothy searched his face with those penetrating eyes. If he had the gift of discernment, he would be using it now. At last he stood up and held out a hand to help Jacob to his feet.

He put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “Say goodbye to the Lone and Dreary World, brother. Thou shalt never see it again.”

“Thou sayest.”

Chapter Nine:

“Can I help you, officers?” the man asked.

He’d introduced himself to Agents Krantz and Fayer as Erik T. Peterson. For some reason, every LDS church employee Krantz met insisted on using a middle initial: Boyd K., Terrance P., Willard H. And now, Erik T.

“We’re so grateful you could meet us on short notice, Elder Peterson,” Fayer gushed, to Krantz’s annoyance. Normally she was bony angles and spines. She could work an interview until she had what she wanted, and not feel bad leaving her subject smarting from a dozen pricks. The way she spoke to this church functionary, you’d think she wanted to wash his feet.

“Agents,” Krantz said. “Not officers.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry.” The man rose behind an oversized desk and a chair that looked an inch or two higher than the chairs on the opposite side. “My secretary told me that. I should have paid more attention.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Fayer said. “People call us officer all the time.”

“Actually, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard it,” Krantz said. His partner shot him a look, but he ignored it as he accepted Eric T. Peterson’s outstretched hand.

The man was a power shaker, the kind who thinks of a hand shake as a minor struggle for dominance. Krantz normally kept his handshakes to a minimum, but this time he squeezed back. Just enough to let Peterson know he could turn the man’s arm into a pastry bag, if he chose.

You wanna squeeze? Fine, let’s see how you like it when I extrude your bones and muscle through your elbow.

Krantz had thrown the hammer and the shot put for USC. Ten years ago, true, but unlike some of his former teammates, he hadn’t let himself go soft. Well, except for the smoking. Coach would have kicked his ass for that one. He’d picked up the habit in Iraq and it was a hard one to shake.

Once he let go of Peterson’s hand, Krantz glanced out the window. The
elder’s
office was near the top of the church office building and looked down on the spires of the temple and the rest of downtown Salt Lake. It was a great view, and he was not even Mormon.

“Why don’t you tell me about this security threat,” Peterson said, returning to his seat. “You said this has to do with the temple.”

“I don’t know if there’s a threat to the temple,” he said. “We’re more concerned about people coming and going from Temple Square than the facilities themselves.”

This was not about guarding church property, Krantz reminded himself. Let the Mormons worry about that, or local police. Temple Square was a religious Disneyland as far as he was concerned, with perfect smiles, cast members who refuse to deviate from script, and not so much as a flower petal out of place. Mormons and Mickey Mouse fans went nuts for that sort of thing, but it was spiritual Muzak for Krantz. And at least the guys with the mouse ears knew enough to put in cool rides and a gift shop.

Krantz didn’t consider himself a religious bigot. Well, he’d made the occasional remark after having one too many beers, but only when someone else brought up how surreal it was to live in Utah. Like a goddamn foreign country. Watered down coffee, the way people looked at you when you lit a cigarette in front of their kids. Like you were snatching kindergarteners at the bus stop and shooting them up with heroin.

Utah hadn’t been his first choice. He respected the LDS agents. Like Fayer, they were honest, sharp, and worked their asses off. But he’d put in for Vegas, where you could blow off some steam at a casino after work, and get a drink without submitting a fingerprint, two forms of ID, and a criminal background check.

But what really chapped him was the lack of boundaries. Perfect strangers felt free to ask his religion. He must have been offered a Book of Mormon half a dozen times. He begged them off by saying, “You know, religion just isn’t my thing.”

The one benefit of growing up Catholic was it had inoculated him against other strains of religious nonsense. Inoculated against, or made him allergic to, depending on your point of view. People started preaching and it was like those old Peanuts cartoons. All he heard was, “Wa wa, wa wa wa.”

He’d thought it would blow over, but it never did. Take Fayer. Ninety-nine percent of the time she was so logical he thought she’d have made a good prosecutor. But every once in a while, she’d get some religious epiphany and would bring up Joseph Smith and his gold plates. Oh, and did Krantz want a free copy of the Book of Mormon?

After about the fifth time, he said, “Jeez, Fayer. When are you going to give it a rest? I’m not interested in Joe Smith’s gold bible.”

“Why are you so damn sensitive?” she’d asked.

“‘Cause religion’s a private matter. You don’t bring up church with your coworkers.”

“So it’s inappropriate, is that it? What about last week, when you went on about how the doctor lanced that boil on your ass? That’s the sort of thing you mention in polite company? Or the garlic farts conversation, remember that?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “Okay, you got me there.”

“Tell you what. I’ll nod and listen when you talk about your bodily functions, and you can nod and listen when I mention my church.”

“Or we can both shut up about it.”

“Or that.”

That was two months ago. So far, they’d each kept their promise. No more religion, no more bodily functions.

But the way she fawned over this church guy, good chance he’d have to listen to Book of Mormon talk as soon as they left. Fayer had explained to him the importance of the Quorum of the Twelve on the way up, how they were “set apart” as prophets, seers, and revelators.

“What’s a seer, anyway?” he’d asked. “They like, see stuff?” He remembered a South Park episode he’d seen once. “Like magic rocks in hats?”

She told him to shut the hell up, then explained how when the prophet of the church died, one of these guys would step into his place. He could receive revelation for the whole church. These men would actually communicate with God.

He forced himself to listen and nod, but what he really wanted was for that polygamist guy, Jacob Christianson, to come up to the church office tower with them. He’d have put up a good argument, Krantz bet, and would know enough to cut them down to size.

And if that makes me a religious bigot, you can sue me,
he thought. No, that’s not what they did to scoffers, not these days. They invented an imaginary hell for people like him.

The thought made him smile and he heard Fayer clear her throat. He looked up to see that she’d already sat down across from Elder Peterson, who watched him with a frown.

He took a hasty seat.

“So we don’t know the threat level at this point,” Fayer said. She’d been talking and Krantz had missed some of it. “High enough to commit resources. We’re going to station a panel truck on the north side of Temple Square. It’ll look like a furniture delivery van or something, but stuffed with surveillance equipment.”

“We have surveillance around the temple grounds already.”

“This is an extra layer,” she said. “Krantz and I will be passing through regularly, so we’ll need to meet with your security.”

“Of course, we are happy to cooperate in an way,” Peterson said. “And thank you for the warning. But there’s the question of blending in on Temple Square to consider.” He glanced at Krantz.

Krantz looked down at his clothing. Jeans, light jacket to conceal his firearm. “I can wear a suit, if you need me to.”

“I’m thinking more about the issue of tobacco consumption.”

“What? Oh, don’t worry. I won’t smoke on church property.”

“But there’s an odor hanging around your clothes.” Peterson shook his head. “It’s not the sort of thing you smell around here very often. And sometimes with non-members there’s the problem of coarse language to worry about, as well.”

Agent Fayer’s voice tightened. “With all due respect, Agent Krantz is the best at what he does. He’ll be professional, you can count on that.”