The Mormon Candidate - a Novel

ALSO BY AVRAHAM AZRIELI

Fiction:

The Masada Complex – A Novel

The Jerusalem Inception – A Novel

The Jerusalem Assassin – A Novel

Christmas for Joshua – A Novel

Non-Fiction:

Your Lawyer on a Short Leash

One Step Ahead – A Mother of Seven Escaping Hitler

AUTHOR’S WEBSITE:

www.AzrieliBooks.com

The Mormon Candidate

A Novel

By Avraham Azrieli

Copyright © Avraham Azrieli 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means whatsoever without
prior
written permission from the author.

Author Photograph by Richard Dalcin.

P
rinted in the United States by CreateSpace, Charleston, SC
(Paperback Edition, 2012)

Disclaimer:
This
is a work of fiction
and is not meant to be construed as real
.

ISBN: 147519451X

ISBN-13: 147519451X

Library of Congress Number: 2012907013

A Note to the Reader

As in every
novel
,
t
he characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination. Other than historic events and figures, any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental, and
statements of fact or opinion should be
treated as
fiction
al
.
However, as far as the factual background against which the story is told, every effort has
been made to remain true to reality
.

More specifically, w
hile the political process of US presidential elections is familiar territory for most readers, the Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter-day Saints (also
known as the “Mormon Church
,
” “Mormonism
,
”
or “LDS”
)
is
a mystery to most outsiders.

Therefore, especially wit
h respect to the Mormon Church,
including
its
theology,
inner workings,
and
religious practices,
this book is based on extensive research. The quotations from
Mormon
scriptures and materials are
correct
, and the descriptions of rituals,
customs
,
and hierarchical structure are based on
authentic documentary sources
.

For readers interested in further explora
tion, a bibliography of primary
research
source
s
is offered at the end of this novel.

How convenient it would be to many …

who, whenever their origin was involved in obscurity,

modestly announce themselves descended from a god.

– Washington Irving,
Knickerbocker’s History of New York

Part
I
:

The
Victim

Chapter
1

The roar of
engines
bou
nced off the storefronts
as
hundreds of
motorcycles
rolled
down Main Street
in a slow-motion stampede.
Most were
Harley Davidson
s
,
rang
ing
from barebones Sp
ortsters
to
specked
-out
Road Kings
,
mixed in
with
Japanese-made
cruisers
that were
chromed up to
resemble
the
Harleys.
A
s far as he could tell,
Ben
Teller
was the only one riding a BMW—a
dual-purpose
R1200
GS
in
black and yellow
that
st
u
ck
out
like a giant wasp
.

He
kept a steady pace
, occasionally
waving at the
spectators
along the sidewalks. Oversized
American flags
flutter
ed
from light
post
s
,
and
loudspeakers played
the Marine Corps cadence
.
Ben sang inside his helmet, “
From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli, we fight our country’s battles…
”

Lined up o
n the front steps of the
Thurmont
Public L
ibrary, e
lderly veterans in
wool
caps and decorated chests saluted
the passing motorcycles. Many of the riders
responded
by touching their helmets in quick salutes
.

At the exit from town, t
wo fire engines
were
positioned
on opposite sides of the road, their
lights rolling
,
sirens blaring,
and
ladders
extended
overhead with a banner tied across:

Marine
Corps Veterans
’
Annual
Ride

The houses
gradually
spread out,
fronted by
manicured lawns and
political
signs
.
The
Democrat
ic
and Republican
partie
s,
more than ever
polarized by
issues small and big, were fighting bitterly
over
e
very elected office
in the country
—s
cho
o
l
board
s,
state and federal legislator
s,
and
the biggest prize of all—the
White House
.
With the elections
only
weeks
away,
voters’ passions ran high, evidenced by
trampled signs and hostile graffiti.

The road
cut a
cros
s a valley of
corn fields
, bare
and colorless with
the early winter,
and swept left toward the hills. The riders
began to form a single column.

Ben slowe
d down to let a
another bike
in
. The passenger pillion was occupied by a boy, perhaps eight or nine,
holding on to his father
.
Ben gave him a thumb
s
up, and the kid grinned ear-to-ear u
nder
his
three-quarters Captain America helmet.

Higher into the hills
, t
he turns
became tighter
, the trees thicker along the
road
. The riders
gave
each other
more
room
.

Ben’s
mind
entered
that
special
zone of riding
, a combination of mental abandonment and total focus
. H
is hands operated the levers on the handlebar, his feet press
ed
and tugg
ed
on the
gear
and
brake pedals, his torso shifted
left and right to force the massive BMW
to lean into each corner
.
It was like a dance rhythm
on
a fast beat—a rush of action, then
a
slow
down
,
a deep
bow
in
to a
turn
,
and a sudden
accelerat
ion
out of
the turn
with
a
n eager
roar from the exhaust
,
up
another
stretch of road
, then an encore—tap the brakes, downshift,
tilt
into
a graceful curve,
and roll back the throttle to straighten up and
accelerate
.
The sensation
was simultaneously intense and tranquil,
a
feeling
of
both isolation and camaraderie
. He was
confiden
t
in his skill yet aware
of
the fragility of
the
balance
between joy and
catastrophe.

An angry snarl tore
Ben
out of his reverie
. H
eadlights appeared in his side
-
view mirror. A second or two later, t
he full blast of
an
exhaust hit him as
a
Harley
flew by
,
ba
rely
a f
oot
from his elbow
. It
was
painted stars
and
stripes, including the full
fairing, backrest box
,
saddlebags,
and even the eggshell
helmet
.
The rider’s
leather jacket wore the emblem of the
Marine Corps
, and
Stephen Cochran
crooned
“
Going down the back roads
”
at full volume from the speakers
.

Passing
the cruiser with the kid and
four
more motorcycles
, the Harley
cut back in just
in time to take
a tight
left
curve
.
Riding a
big
hog
like this
required top skills
, and as the rider
leaned sharply into the turn
,
the chrome
pipes scrap
ed
the blacktop,
shooting off a spray of sparks.