The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (21 page)

There was no reason for me to doubt that my righteous obedience entitled me to what every Saint expects
after
old age and natural death
:
Palmyra and I w
ould
continue our
eternal
marriage in the next phase of exi
stence, immortal in
the
heavenly
Celestial K
ingdom,
procreat
ing
as a god-father and a god-mother for eternity, while I no longer had to spend
five days a week at
the Department of Veterans Affairs.

But then,
last year,
Joe Morgan announced his intention to
seek the
GOP
nomination again
, and my life took
an unexpected turn for the worse
.

At first I dis
missed his
second
run as a symbolic act, a
nother
futile
challenge to
GOP conservative voters
to get over
their prejudice
and give
a Mormon candidate
a
chance to win the primaries
.

But despite my doubts
,
and
in defiance of
all the
TV talking heads
’
predictions
,
Joe Morgan
used his impressive record as a business leader to establish himself as a credible hope for pulling the country out of its prolonged recession.
It also helped that our leaders in Salt Lake City had invested many millions over the past couple of years in wonderful
“
I am a Mormon
”
TV commercials that featured wholesome brothers and sisters in their regular, all-American jobs, homes, and sports activities, to show that we are just like everybody else and not some odd cultists, as our detractors have always claimed.

It had been a nail-biting experience for all of us to watch Joe Morgan as he
slugged through t
he
mudslinging
of the p
rimaries
, fought
last-minute challenges at
the convention,
and emerged as a
winner, capturing the GOP nomination for the
presidency.

We watched his acceptance speech on a large-screen TV set up in the ward house, and
when the Republican Convention in
Florida
erupted
into
cheers and balloons,
here in
Silver Spring
everyone jumped with joy
. There were
hugs and prayers all around as if it wasn’t just
Joe Morgan
being chosen to lead, but our True C
hurch
was
finally
becoming mainstream
.
T
his legitimacy, for
us
Saints, was not a goal in and of itself, but
a giant step toward
the ultimate goal set by
Prophet
Joseph Smith
—who himself had ru
n for US
p
resident—
to win
recognition
by all Christians that ours was
the
only
True C
hurch.

While everyone was celebrating,
a force of terrible distress gripped me
. I
slipped
a
way and walked home, leaving our car for Pal
myra and the kids.

The floppy disk had spent all these years in the drawer of my nightstand. I slipped it into the inside pocket of my riding jacket.

It was chilly, but I took
my
st
ars
-and-st
ripes
Harley
Davidson
out of the garage and rode it
to a solitary park near the Potomac River
.
Too distraught, I neglected to lower the
kick
stand
, and
the
motorcycle fell over. When I picked it up, the left side was muddied
, soiling the American flag
.

I
walked into the woods
and
stood there among tree
trunks
,
chirpy
birds
,
and
tiny
raindrops
. Tremors passed through me, fear that a great
wrong
was about to
happen because of my failure.
It wasn’t the baptizing
of the dead
. I
had no doubts about
our duty
to
try and save
all
souls
, here and in the afterlife
.
M
y distress had
been triggered by
Morgan’s
presidential candidacy.

But why?

I recalled
the expression
of elation
on
Morgan’s
face as he
stood in the baptismal bath
all those
years
back
.
He was ecstatic. He seemed to
believe t
hat
the ritual imbibe
d
him
with
special powers
, that it
prepared him for a divine destiny. And now, with Morgan becoming the
GOP
presidential nominee, I realized how being baptized in
proxy for
the most courageous men in American history
had fueled his conviction
that
he was destined to reach the
top—t
o become the
c
om
mander in
c
hief
.
This
misguided certainty, which
had
radiated
from
his wet face
back then
,
had been the engine of his ambition ever since
.
And it was my fault, for I had stolen the veterans’ names for him.

I fell to my knees and cr
ied
for God to guide me
.

And then I heard the voice
,
the same voice I had heard
so many years
earlier
,
blessing my enlistment in
the Marine Corps.
Now it was telling
me that
Brother
Morgan must announce proudly his faith in the restored
True C
hurch and
reveal
his service
as proxy in
baptizing
the fallen heroes
who
had
won the Medal of Honor multiple times
.

Perhaps
I should have realized
, based on
my
past experience, what dire consequences might result from
obeying
a
revelation
, but
what choice
did I have?

I returned
to the Harley and
took off for
Florida. I stopped
near Richmond, Virginia
,
to
refuel
and check Morgan’s campaign Internet site. He was on his way to Jacksonville
, Florida
,
for his first event as the GOP nominee
, demonstrating the importance of the Sunshine State in the battle for the White House
. I
call
ed
Palmyra to let her know that I would be away for some time
and
hung up before she could ask anything
. Ducking behind the windshield, I sped south on I-95 while light rain began to fall
.

Chapter 28

Ben put down the iPhone. The mention of the dropped Harley Davidson had bothered him, and now he realized
why: T
he mysterious
imprint left by the
kick
stand
of the
white Ducati near the Camp David
Scenic Overlook
.

In his closet-sized study was a wall of shelves. He pulled out the
Album of Modern European Motorcycles
.

His own bike, a 2011 R1200GS, was featured at the front of the BMW chapter, which came first, followed by Moto Guzzi, Triumph, and Ducati
. He browsed the Ducati models
. Only the
Monster 8
48
was
photographed in
white, and it was impossible to tell whether it was a standard color or a custom paint chosen by the photographer.

The large photo was taken from the side, but a few smaller photos were taken from all ang
les. With a magnifying glass, Ben
peered at
a
photo taken from the rear. In the lower-left
section
, ahead of the rear wheel, the bottom plate of the
kick
stand
stuck out slightly. He turned on his camera and flipped through the photo archive to find the images of the depression left by the
kick
stand
on the dirt-and-weeds path near the
overlook
.
Beside
the winding line along the middle, the depression mark seemed larger and
the shape was oval, not round
like the standard plate
.

Shelving the album, Ben decided that the
kickstand
plate on the white Ducati must have been an aftermarket slip-on, a common and sensible accessory
that
many bikers added in order to
enlarge the footing
of t
heir
kick
stand
s for better
support on poor
surfaces
.

The bottom shelf was lined with editions of
BMW MOA Magazine
, as well as
Rider
and
Cycle World
. The last one was the most promising. He pulled a copy and looked through the advertisements, noting the vendors’ names.

Using
his iPhone, Ben searched each of the vendors’ inventory
of Ducati accessories for kick
stand plates. The fourth website
he visited
offered a whole selection for on-road and off-road motorcycles. Most curiously, some of t
hem had patterns on the bottom
“
for added traction.
”

A mo
ment later, he was gazing at a kick
stand plate
that
, p
hotographed from the bottom, showed a welded-on
realistic-looking
snake
.

With the Canon’s back screen next
to the i
Phone
,
comparing the two images, he couldn’t tell
whether the same snake had been pressed into the ground
, leaving a print in
the weed
s on the p
ath
near the Camp David
Scenic Overlook
. B
ut it looked similar
.

Satisfied with this bit of detective work, Ben replaced the magazine.
He wondered whether
the Ducati rider
had
chosen the snake pattern for a purpose, as a symbol of affiliation of some kind, or as a meaningless decorative touch
.

Chapter 29

Z.H. Journal Entry # 12
:

I
rode south toward
Florida
. A
t a gas station halfway down I checked the news and found out that Morgan would be heading back to Maryland after a
fundrais
ing
breakfast
at the Ritz Carlton in
Jacksonville
.
I still had over five hundred miles ahead of me, which meant I would likely miss him. Heading back north on I-95, somewhere in North Carolina, I left the highway and found a public campground. There was no attendant at this time of night, and I curled on the ground next to the Harley and slept until morning.