The Righteous (4 page)

“Enoch’s not a parable from the Bible, Father. He’s my brother. Maybe I could talk to him. He’d listen to me.”

“Eliza, you’re a smart girl. You see. Enoch made his choice. The rest—trial, excommunication, shunning—is just a formality. Enoch buried his talent in the ground.”

They’d called Jacob as a witness and he’d later shared the details with Eliza. The first charge was violation of the Word of Wisdom, the health code that proscribed alcohol, tobacco, and hot drinks like coffee and tea. He’d been caught drinking beer.

The second was immorality; by his own admission, Enoch had participated in “immoral acts” with a gentile girlfriend.

Most serious was the charge of disobedience to a priesthood leader, in this case, his own father. His relationship with Father had been deteriorating for several years. First, he’d lost his scholarship, then he’d disappeared for several weeks; it later came out that he had gone to London, of all places, with a couple of gentile friends, including his girlfriend. Father had called him to repentance. They had argued.

Enoch had ended the fight by making an obscene gesture at Father and his Grandpa Griggs as he’d climbed onto the back of a friend’s motorcycle and roared out of town. The next day, the court.

Eliza had never expected to see Enoch again. Name stricken from the records of the church. Marked for damnation. Last she’d heard, he’d taken up with some Lost Boys in Las Vegas, including Gideon Kimball and Israel Young.

And now he’d been seen in Blister Creek? Surely not.

Charity Kimball must have read the skepticism on Eliza’s face. “The Lord is merciful, and the prophet is just. Perhaps your brother has repented. Like the Prodigal Son.”

But Father had been right. Lost Boys did not simply rejoin Zion. It wasn’t a matter of faith, contrition, and repentance. Who would let Enoch take a wife, when there were so many men who had kept their covenants?

So what had brought Enoch to Blister Creek?

It took a strong man to stand before the prophet and tell him that he was wrong. Jacob didn’t know if he was that man.

Fake it till you make it.

Jacob repeated those words to himself all through the Saturday night priesthood meeting. The meeting itself was more of the same: faith, obedience, and how to be a good husband and father. He’d never heard this particular lesson, but nevertheless knew its mind-numbing details by heart. Instead of listening, he repeated his refrain until he had half-convinced himself.

When Jacob was twelve, and his father was interviewing him for worthiness to receive the Aaronic priesthood and be ordained a deacon, he had confessed his doubts. His testimony was weak, maybe even non-existent. If he applied the same standards to the gospel that he did to any other religion, then The Church of the Anointing would be found wanting.

“Well, of course,” his father had said. “You don’t use logic to measure the truthfulness of the gospel; you rely on faith.”

“But I don’t have any faith,” he had said. “That’s my whole problem.”

“My advice is to fake it till you make it.”

Father had explained. Pray, fast, study the scriptures. Behave, that is, as though he already had a testimony. State publicly his faith in the Lord and his willingness to obey the prophet. Over time, the testimony would come.

It was an odd theory, and one that had never worked, not completely. But he did notice one curious thing in following his father’s advice. As soon as he “faked it,” so to speak, people treated him differently. They admired his knowledge of scripture and the strength of his testimony. Eloquence with words was assumed to be a mirror of one’s convictions.

It was a lesson that had followed him to college and then to medical school. Act as if you know what you are talking about and people will assume that you do. Pretend you have no fear and you will appear confident to others.

And that was what was needed now, Jacob reminded himself as the meeting closed with prayer and a hundred men and older boys dispersed from the chapel. He must confront Elder Kimball in front of the Prophet of the Lord, and he, a young man of twenty-six, must convince them—or the prophet, at least—of his moral authority.

Brother Joseph remained after the chapel emptied, together with Elder Kimball. Jacob made his way through the pews and climbed the stairs to the podium until he approached the prophet. Brother Joseph didn’t rise, but gripped his cane and idly rubbed at the polished brass beehive handle. The cane was said to have belonged to his great-grandfather, Brigham Young. At the age of eighty, Brother Joseph had the look of an Old Testament patriarch: white hair, piercing eyes, and a full beard.

“Jacob, you are looking well,” the prophet said. His voice trembled with age. “I’ve always thought you looked like your father, but just now, as you came walking up through the pews, the resemblance was uncanny.”

Jacob took that as a compliment. “Thank you.”

Elder Kimball spoke up. “You’ve seen the body.” He sounded what? Exhausted? Resigned? “I take it you’re agreed, then, that the Mexicans are to blame? Yes, of course,” he said, answering his own question. Kimball turned to the prophet without taking a breath between sentences. “My boys have taken my wife’s body to the house. I’m going to tell the rest of them what happened when I get home. It’ll be good not to keep it secret any longer. Charity will dress Amanda in her temple robes and we can do the burial first thing in the morning, before sacrament meeting. We’ll keep the murder hush, hush, so as not to attract state or federal attention. As for the Mexicans…”

Jacob cut in. “Excuse me for interrupting, Elder Kimball, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.” He was not happy that they’d moved Amanda’s body. What he needed was a professional investigation to catch the things that he might have missed, but at the very least he’d wanted the body to stay untouched while he considered new angles.

He’d planned to boot up the laptop when he got to the Kimballs’ tonight and google a few of the loose ends. Monday, he would send the sample he’d taken from Amanda’s vagina to a friend of his at the University of Calgary, although he didn’t expect that would turn up anything. Maybe he’d take another look at the crime scene to check out the footprints, but there’d been enough traffic at the site to obliterate clues.

Elder Kimball asked, “Ahead of ourselves? Are you suggesting we hold off on the funeral?”

“No, go ahead with the funeral.” There was no way he was stopping it; as the body had been moved already, the site contaminated, it was best not to waste his capital objecting. “But, you’re wrong about the Mexicans. They’re innocent.”

Elder Kimball sputtered, but Brother Joseph lifted a hand to stop him. “Explain, please,” the prophet said.

It was here that Jacob steadied his breathing. He must appear very calm; any doubt would ruin his argument. Memories of Amanda’s slaughtered body were still fresh in his mind. He owed the woman justice.

He chose his words carefully. “The manner of the murder points in a different direction. Her throat was cut from ear to ear and her tongue…” he paused to let their minds catch up, “her tongue had been torn out by its roots.”

The words from the temple endowment came to his mind as they surely did to the other two men.
We, and each of us, covenant and promise that we will not reveal any of the secrets of this, the First Token of the Aaronic Priesthood, with its accompanying name, sign, and penalty. Should we do so, we agree that our throats be cut from ear to ear and our tongues torn out by their roots.

The two men recoiled with visual horror. Elder Kimball, if anything, looked the more stricken of the two, and when he recovered it was only with doubt on his face where once there had been certainty.

The penalties had troubled Jacob the first time he’d gone through the temple, shortly after receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood from his father. They were a relic of an earlier time, when enemies and apostates harassed the church from every side. By compelling the members to take their endowments under covenant, they could ensure loyalty and protect the sanctity of the temple. But until yesterday he had always taken them symbolically, not literally.

“Are you certain?” Brother Joseph asked sharply. “Both the throat and the tongue?”

“I have pictures on my digital camera. It’s in the car if you’d like me to get it.”
“That’s not necessary, Jacob,” the prophet said. “We trust you.”

“So you see,” Jacob continued. “It can’t be the Mexicans. It’s got to be one of the Saints.”

Elder Kimball had nothing to counter this, but Brother Joseph shook his head. “The evidence isn’t conclusive. It might be an apostate. It might be one of the Lost Boys who learned the temple covenants through deceit. It might even be a Salt Lake Mormon. They’ve debased the endowment, but until 1990 the wording was similar in that regard.”

“It might even be one of the Lamanites, still,” Elder Kimball added. He still clung to his discredited, and no doubt racially motivated, theory. “Many Mexicans are Salt Lake Mormons.”

“All possible,” Jacob conceded. “Just barely. But all those others you mentioned. What’s their motive? And it doesn’t matter. There aren’t any Salt Lake Mormons, Lost Boys, or apostates in Blister Creek. That leaves the Mexicans, but enough people have seen them working in tank tops or drinking beer to make it obvious they’re not Mormons.” He shook his head. “No, it has to be a church member.”

“You might be right. Nevertheless, you must rule out these possibilities before we look within our own community,” Brother Joseph said. “Continue your investigation and I’ll pray to the Lord for guidance when I visit the temple tonight.” He fixed Elder Kimball with a sharp glance. “In the meanwhile, leave the Mexicans alone. But we can’t have them around during the funeral. They’ll be curious. And they might talk.”
“I’ve got some flagstone waiting in St. George,” Elder Kimball said. “I don’t usually work them on Sunday, but I could send them out in the morning with the truck. That would take most of the morning.”

Brother Joseph. “Good enough.”

He levered himself to a standing position with his cane. Even diminished as he was by age, the prophet was still a commanding physical presence and Jacob had to look up to meet his gaze. He placed a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “See me after church tomorrow and I’ll give you a blessing to help you in your search.”

Jacob would have rather had more evidence or better, a legitimate suspect or even a few leads, but he would take the prophet’s blessing. “Thank you.”

The prophet’s eyes hardened. “I have faith that God will deliver this evildoer into your hands. And then we will exact the Lord’s vengeance.”

#

The angel came to Elder Kimball that night while he was in bed trying to fall asleep. There came a bright light, so strong that it hurt even though his eyes were closed. They flew open in terror. For a moment it was so bright that he could see nothing, and then the angel came into view.

It had been a rough couple of days since they had discovered Amanda’s murdered body. Taylor Young Kimball was not a sentimental man. He had lost three children under the age of five and his wives had suffered half a dozen miscarriages over the decades. The first loss had been the one that had almost destroyed him. He’d had two children already, both by his first wife Marielle. Gideon and Taylor Junior. Both were colicky, unhappy children to match their mother’s sour disposition.

His love had been Charity, his second wife, and the first of his own choosing. These days Charity had long been his senior wife (Marielle had died of breast cancer in 1988), but the early years had been a trial. Charity had been like Rachel from the bible story, with Marielle as Leah. Bullied, hated by the first wife.

Charity had borne him a beautiful son named Parley. The boy, only a toddler, had fallen into an irrigation ditch when it was swollen from a storm. They’d found his body wedged in a snag of sticks.

Kimball had thought his heart would burst from his chest. For two weeks he had retreated from Zion and had pointed a gun at his own head on more than one occasion, knowing full well that God would not forgive him for taking his own life.

At last, his uncle, Brother Heber, the prophet of those days and father of Brother Joseph, had come into Kimball’s bedroom where he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Some of your cattle are free in the Ghost Cliffs,” Brother Heber had said. He’d been born and raised in the days when the Saints would have scoffed at modern conveniences like indoor plumbing and air conditioned pickup trucks. Together with his father, two uncles, a handful of family friends and a number of wives, the Kimballs and Christiansons had forged the community of Blister Creek and done so in the face of betrayal and excommunication by the Salt Lake church, federal opposition, and the brutal realities of the desert itself.

“Your brother was going to round them up for you,” continued the prophet, “but I told him it was time you got off your sorry ass and got to work. It’s a hundred and ten out there and those cows are too dumb to find their way to water.”

Kimball had said nothing. Let the cows shrivel and die for all he cared. It would not bring back his son Parley or erase the bitter words he had spoken to Charity. It would not undo the hatred he felt for Marielle and her two sons.

“Life is pain and hardship, boy. This isn’t the first time God has tested his elect and it won’t be the last. Now, I’m not going to leave this room without giving you either a blessing or a horse whipping. It’s up to you. After that, you can decide if you’re willing to obey the Lord or if you’ll fall away and suffer eternal damnation.”

He’d chosen the blessing. He still remembered some of the words. “And bless you, Brother Kimball, that you will discern good from evil, according to your faithfulness. Let the Lord stiffen your resolve against the suffering of the world, that you remember the eternal perspective.”

Kimball had left that room a new man. He never again forgot the eternal perspective. He had lost a child, but only for this life. He would have that child again in the next life, and the other children that he had lost. Amanda would belong to him in the next life as well. He would right all of the wrongs in the next life, when his work here was done. He would be the father and the husband that he could have been had he not spent his life building Zion.

Nevertheless, he felt pangs of guilt and sorrow when he thought of Amanda’s murder. Had he not feared that something like this was coming? The path they’d chosen had not been without risks and his actions had put his wife in danger.

It took an angelic visit to set him straight. When his eyes adjusted and he saw the angel in all its dazzle and glory, he felt terror. Had it come to punish him for Amanda’s death?

“Elder Kimball,” the angel said. Its voice was cold. “The Lord is greatly displeased.”

Kimball had been ordained to receive the ministering of angels when he joined the Quorum of the Twelve, but had never expected to actually see one. The first time, there in the temple with his son, had been a surprise, and not altogether a pleasant one.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he might be hallucinating. Prophets and apostles had seen angels, even Heavenly Father and Jesus face to face, but he also knew the world was full of crazies who claimed to have seen everything from aliens to the Virgin Mary.

Still, he didn’t think he was crazy. He had a more fundamental fear. Kimball did not feel holy or righteous whenever it appeared. Perhaps it was Satan, or one of his minions. Would he know the difference?

There was a scientific answer to that question. Joseph Smith had received instructions on this matter which he’d recorded in the Doctrine and Covenants thusly,
If it be the devil as an angel of light, when you ask him to shake hands he will offer you his hand, and you will not feel anything; you may therefore detect him.

Nice, in theory. What the scripture didn’t account for was the sheer terror a man felt in the presence of an angel armed with a sword. Who had the courage to demand that an angel shake his hand as some supernatural lie detector test?