The Mormon Candidate - a Novel (38 page)

“Tell that to
Fawn
Brodie
and
all the other Mormon historians who
were
excommunicated or
intimidated
into submission. In fact,
in
September
of
ninety-three,
the LDS c
hurch excommunicated six scholars,
who were also fired from their academic positions
. The church
followed up with a massive roundup of documents
. Bishops were told to collect from their wards’ members all the old
family letters
, personal journals,
and
any
thing else that
co
uld contradict the official version
of Mormon history
or reflect poorly on the early days
and thus fail
the
Mormon
test
of truth
. The LDS authorities
locked up all these documents in an underground bunker near Salt Lake City
, outside the reach of any scholar—Mormon or Gentile
—where they remain today
.”

Ben pointed at the easel. “Do you think they’re still baptizing Holocaust victims?”

“
No question about it.
You can look it up on the
International Genealogical Index
website
.
Now it’s all on the Internet.
S
earch for Jewish names and
you’ll
find plenty. I
’
ve found relatives there, also Holocaust victims, who were baptized recently. I complain to my Mormon colleagues
in Salt Lake City, and they are always
friendly,
earnest, and
forthcoming as
they
deny
the facts or claim some imaginative error
.”
Ginsburg
chuckled. “Incredible, isn’t it?”

“It’s incredible that you continue asking.”

“Eventually
we will prevail,” Ginsburg said. “M
aybe not in my lifetime, but some day,
when Christians and Muslims realize that the Mormons are stealing their parents
’
souls
. T
here will be a huge storm, and the LDS
leaders
wi
ll
realize that baptisms of the dead
are
n’t worth it. Their president-prophet will have a divine revelation, and they’ll stop doing it. Same thing happened with the
ban on admitting blacks into the Mormon priesthood.
It became too costly for the Church, and in seventy-eight
,
God told the
LDS leaders that He
had
changed his mind about it
.
”

“What about Joe Morgan?
”

“What about him?”

“Is his Mormon faith relevant to his candidacy?”

“
It
depends
. W
hich party
are you
affiliated with
?
”

“I’m an Independent.”

“
That’s a copout, if you don’t mind me saying.
A person should take
a stand and stick to it
.
”

“What about you?”

“
I
joined the Republican Party while studying constitutional law in my first year at Georgetown
more than fifty years ago
.
It’s the party of Abraham Lincoln, which was—and still is—good enough for me.
And
I’ve never failed to vote in
presidential election
s
since
JFK stole the elections from
Richard Nixon
, which was probably before you were born, yes?”

Ben nodded.

“
As a first-generation American,
I consider voting
to be
both an
honor and a
duty.
But in
a few
weeks,
for the first time in my life,
I w
ill not be
voting
.
” Ginsburg’
s
voice shook with emotions.
“
Have I answered your question
?”

Chapter 42

Still reeling from what he had learned,
Ben
returned to the
GS
in
the visitor
s
parking
of
Shulger Roberts &
Ginsburg
.
The attendant held back pedestrians as Ben rode across the sidewalk and
joined the slow
traffic
on K Street. Sitting high,
his line of vision open over
the roofs of the cars
, h
e glimpsed a white motorcycle a
bout four or five blocks ahead
. Watching more intently, he saw it again.
It was white, b
ut he couldn’t tell whether it wa
s a Ducati or a different kind of motorcycle
.

Twisting the throttle, he sent the GS roaring forward, cutting between lanes of traffic. The light turned red as he approached
the Spy Museum
. H
e turned right,
then
left
at the next intersection, now going parallel to K Street. He
passed a queue of cars and buses
, flew through three intersections, and reached
the front of the line at
a red
light
. Glancing left,
down
the
cross
street,
he saw
it
go fast up
K S
treet
.
Now he was certain—a white Ducati, its rider in a matching suit and helmet!

The Ghost!

Ben
took off, scaring off pedestrians and a cycl
ist
, who shouted a curse.
Back on K Street,
he
c
ut again between lines of stationary traffic
. He followed it through several turns,
but suddenly, it was gone. Slowing down, he
scanned the road ahead
.
Had he
lost it
?

W
ay ahead
,
on the right, the Ducati emerged from between cars, cut through the opposite lane, and
enter
ed
a parking garage
next to Ford’s Theater
.

Ben raced ahead, avoided
an oncoming bus, cut
off a car attempting a left turn, and swung into the garage entrance.

Delayed by the barrier a
t the
automated
cashi
er,
he
pressed the oversized button and took a ticket. The barrier ascended, and he rode
into the dark interior.

He let
go of the throttle,
and
the GS quieted
.

The
Ducati’s
exhaust note
was
faint, somewhere
ahead.

Moving again, Ben f
ollowed
around the street-level floor
, ma
de
a
right turn
, then another, and another onto the downward ramp.
He followed around
three more
right turns and down another ramp
, deeper
underground
. E
ach level
was
designated by
P-1, P-2, P-3,
etc. The lower levels were
sparsely occupied with parked cars.

P-6
.

This level
was almost empty.

He stopped
the GS
and listened. The
Ducati
emitted a sharp rumble
somewhere ahead
, then silence. Ben sped ahead,
turned right
around
the
corner, and another
.

A
solid wall
faced
him.
He hit the brakes, barely managing to stop.

No Ducati!

On the right was a glass door, propped open
. Above
the stainless steel doors of an elevator
he
could see the numbers on a
red display as they changed in reve
rse order
:
P-
4, P-3, P-2…

There was only one elevator, and he was not goi
ng to wait for it to come down. Unlike the little Ducati,
the GS might be too big to fit in
to the elevator, which was a slow one anyhow.

H
e turned
the GS around
and raced back
, making the left turns around the empty parking spaces of level P-6 and up the ramp to P-5, where about a quarter of the spaces were taken by cars. Left t
urn, then another, and another.

N
ear the
foot
of the
upward
ramp to P-4, a large vehicle was pulling out of a spot. Ben
honked and
aimed to pass in the narrow
ing
space between the vehicle and a concrete column, but th
e driver
didn’t stop
, continuing to
reverse until the rear bumper reached within a hair of the concrete
column
. Ben stopped abruptly
,
and as the bike was
leaning into a turn, he
had to struggle
to keep it from tipping over
, which
was
the reason
he
didn’t
notice
at first
that the vehicle was
a white Suburban
.

The lack of reverse gear on
the GS
had never put him in a worse disadvantage than now. His way blocked by the white Suburban, cars parked on his left and right, all he could do was push backward with his boots and try to turn. But it was a slow pr
ocess, much slower than the person who appeared from behind and shoved something against Ben’s neck.

A
horrible jolt hit him.

Tas
er!

Complete
ly limp, he was fully conscious as a cloth hood was pulled down over his helmet, blocking the
view through the
face
shield. In semi-darkness, he was pulled off the bike,
dragged
into the Suburban
, and pushed
facedown
on
the floor
in front of the middle row of seats
. The vehicle moved forward briefly, the rear doors were opened, and a heavy object was loaded into the trunk—
probably
his GS, which they must have lifted and
shoved
in on its side.
Ben heard t
he rear doors slammed shut,
several people
got in,
and
more doors
were shut. T
he Suburban sped up the ramp.

The whole
operation
took seconds. They were professionals
, executing an ambush that left him no
chance
to resist
.
The initial shock of pain and paralysis was fading.
He felt the
vehicle make
left turns,
go up
the ramps
between floors
,
stop briefly
at the automated cashier,
go over
the bump
at
the curb
,
and join
the stop-and-go traffic. A few minutes later, they were on an open road, rattling over frequent potholes and lane markers.

Ben tried to rise, his muscles barely responding to his will.

One of them placed a boot on his back and pressed down.
His arms were pulled backward and cuffs locked on his wrists.