The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (29 page)

“
Same one
,”
Ray
said
.
“
And, not to be too lawyerly,
but our standard agreement says that
we
can
edit and alter
the material
we
buy from you
to improve its accessibility to readers.
And this,”
s
he pointed at the chart, “proves my point. People are dying to see someone
else
dying—it’s a magnet!”

“Where did you get his face?”

“My genius
programmer
unscrambled it.
”

“The Romanian?”

“She’s in Latvia, actually.”
Ray
laughed. “Talk about globalization
.
I’
ve never spoken to her
, but she’s a wiz with images
and
as
cheap as
a wild goat
.”

“How did she do it?”

“
Something about the
original
algorithm
staying with the file. You can ask her.”
Ray
scribbled an e-mail address on a piece of paper. “But be warned—she’ll ask you to sponsor her for a green card.”

Ben
glanced at the piece of paper and dropped it on the desk.
“I don
’t care about the software
.
It’s the principle.”

Ray
maneuvered her electric wheelchair to another
keyboard and
pulled up a
spreadsheet
on
one of the
screen
s
. “Here’s your account. I threw in another two-fifty. It’s only fair.”

“I don’t want the money.
” He pointed at the photo. “
This man
served in the Marine Corps and was
injured
so you can sit here safely and play God.”

“Are you turning Republican on me?”

“I’m an Independent. And you better t
ake
down the photo
, o
r we
’re done doing
business.”

“
I thought we’re just starting. W
hat’s
with
all
the
secrecy?”

Ben sat down and told h
er
about Zachariah’s journal, the meeting with Rex, and what happened at the
Silver Spring Ward
with Palmyra, the bishop, and
the young missionaries.

Ray
listened intently, glancing at the screens every few seconds, but not interrupting. When Ben was done,
s
he leaned back in her
chair
.
“It’s interesting, but where’s the story? You don’t have evidence of anything.”

“I have the journal.”

“
A bunch of text o
n your own iPhone
?
Who said you didn’t write it yourself?”

“I can find evidence.”

“The vanishing Ducati? The floppy disk that never was?”

“
They’re both traceable
,” Ben said. “
But I can’t do it on spec. It’ll take m
oney. I need to set up surveillance on Porter, Bishop Linder, Palmyra, maybe pay off someone inside the LDS
Church
to
steal
copies of their computer data.
There must be a record of Morgan being baptized as proxy for these heroes.
”

“
Pay off someone on the inside?
What are you smoking? Those Mormons are more straight-laced than my grandma.”

“Give me some credit. There’s meat to this story, and
I can dig it out of the freezer.
”

“And then what? Even if you have proof that Joe Mormon was baptized
on behalf of
a bunch of Medal of Honor winners, then what?”

“The guy’s running for president
!”

“So? He’s a religious man, and that’s what they practice. Nobody wants to know the details. There’s no juice in
a story about
some Mormons in a bath, chanting prayers. It’s not interesting, and frankly, there’s something endearing about it. I mean, they’re trying to save th
e
lost
souls
of American heroes
. Even if you don’t believe in it, you can see the good intentions behind it.”

“What about stealing the data from the Department of Veterans Affairs?
”

“
Zachariah
Hinckley stole it fifteen years ago
. Now
he’s dead. Case closed.
”

“Not if I
manage to
retrieve that floppy disk from Porter
with Morgan’s own handwriting on it
.”

“In your dreams. If it ever existed,
which is questionable,
it’s been destroyed
already.”

“
And what
about
Zachariah
’s death
? This thing could
explode
into a
full-fledged
murder investigation!”

“
What murder?
You’re speculating.”
Ray
turned
the wheelchair halfway
to
face
another computer, which had just beeped. “
Hey, l
ook at this
baby
!”

An
incoming e
-
mail brought a photo of a three-car accident in Olney. Two of the drivers
were
hitting each other. With a few key strokes,
Ray
bought the
photo and published it
under the tagline:
Fender-bender turns into bloody fistfight
. Within seconds,
the piece rose into
the
Top-50
news list
.

Another ping signaled a new e-mail.

“
I have
to
return to
work
,”
Ray
said. “
The people are hungry.”

“For the next pound of flesh?”

“Violence sells.”

“Obviously,” Ben said.
“Will you help me? I’ll give you exclusive on the st
or
y.”

“Not interested.”
She was already working on her keyboard.

“Do you want me to start doing business with the competition?”

“Nobody will front you money for this ghost
hunt
.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Forget th
e
Mormons
.
”
Ray
turn
ed
to face him.
“I’m saying this as your friend, not just
as
your
publisher
. Nothing good will come from it.
Ch
asing Morgan for his church work
smacks of religious persecution. A witch hunt. It’s un-American.”

“It’s my job.”

“
You’
re doing well selling
accident
photo
s
. O
r, better yet,
find me a juicy
murder-suicide
. That would be worth
a pile of
cash
!
”

Ben got up to leave.
“Is it political?
Do you support Joe
Morgan
? I
s that it?”

Ray
laughed. “Get me photos of Joe Mormon screwing a
n
altar boy behind his wife’s back, and I’ll publish it in a second. But this baptizing stuff is
n’t sexy. It
won’t
excite readers
.”

“That’s the only criteria?”

“
Ride safely, buddy.
And say hello to
your better half
.
”

“
You do the same.” Ben gestured at the
Latvian’s e-mail
.

“
I’m waiting for
Keera
’s brother.”

“She’s an only child.”

“
S
till
poling
at Wisteria’s Secret?”

“
Until the spring
,” Ben said
, halfway up the stairs
. “She’s
graduating in May, starting residency at Johns Hopkins.
”

“Better marry her before she becomes a doctor and realizes you’re
an inadequate match
.”

“Ha!”
Ben
walked
u
p
the
stairs.

“
Y
ou could be
come
her house
husband
.
”
Ray’s voice came from the intercom by the front door.
“Show her you can c
ook, clean, wash, change the kids’ diapers.
It’s pretty acceptable these days.
”

“Thanks for the advice.
”

“Don’t mention it.”

Outside
Ray
’s house, next to the driveway, a stream ran down a shallow crevice. The banks were lined with frost where the sun couldn’t reach. Ben watched the dark water running. It was still early, and he zipped up his riding jacket to keep warm. The conversation had not gone the way he had hoped, and
Ray
’s
decisive
re
jection to
the story was unsettling.

The iPhone vibrated. A text message from an undisclosed number. He opened it.

Mr.
Teller
, Please meet me today at the site of the accident. I can be there at noon.
No photos or recordings
please
. God
’s
blessings. Palmyra Hinckley.

It was
half past
ten
a.m. and
Ben realized
he could
easily make it to the
Camp David
Scenic Overlook
on time. He typed a one-word reply:
Confirmed.

Chapter 37

Ben rode down Main Street in
Thurmont
. Be
ing
the only motorcycle in sight,
it
was a very different experience
compared to
riding with hundreds of others on Sunday. A few flags
still
hung
from poles, but the barriers and cheering crowd were gone, and everything else was back to normal
—with the exception of election signs and sti
ckers
all over
town
.

He made the turn onto
the winding road
.
Posted
speed limit
was
4
5
mph
. A
second sign warned against littering—$250 fine!—and a third warned of deer crossing
the road.

Riding
through the hills, now com
pletely alone, he began to relax. The road
did not connect to another town, and the weekend traffic of sightseers was gone. It allowed him to go faster, take the turns with a deeper leaning,
and
accelerat
e
with full throttle. It made him smile.

A light-blue Chevy Suburban was parked at the Camp David
Scenic Overlook
. As Ben was dismounting his bike, Palmyra
Hinckley
emerged from the Suburban, accompanied by an elderly man in a long winter coat and silver-rimmed glasses.

“Hi.”
She
had been crying, but her posture wasn’t bent under the sorrow. She shook Ben’s hand firmly
.
“
Let me introduce
Dr.
Neibauer
.
He’s been
a
great help to us.”