Righteous - 01 - The Righteous

by Michael Wallace

  As he finished the prayer, he lifted the wine to his lips. He tilted it back, as if taking a large swallow, but just let a little bit stay in his mouth. The rest washed back into the cup. He passed it to his father, who took a sip. It passed to the end of the line, and returned empty to Gideon’s hands.

  As the cup had passed from one man to the next, Gideon nudged the dimmer switch on the floor with his toe. The light from the chandelier grew faint. He refilled the wine cup behind the chest. He added more LSD. He took a sip and passed it to his father again.

  This time he started to pray. His father had once performed this role, but had grown more hesitant with every angelic visitation.

  “Oh Lord, hear the words of my mouth. Thin the veil and show us Thy servant that we may know Thy will.”

  He prayed in this manner for several minutes. As he did, his voice grew more insistent. Pleading, begging the Lord for guidance. Others joined with their own cries. The goblet made another pass through the group. William Johnson began to speak in tongues, a wild, gibberish that sounded like no language, or all of them at once. Men wept, flooded by the spirit. When the emotions reached a fevered pitch, Gideon flipped the second switch on the floor.

  He’d installed three 1,500 watt quartz floodlights in the ceiling far above the chandelier. The light burned like the sun within the small confines of the previously darkened room. The men, now drugged and semi-drunk, lifted their hands to their eyes. After five seconds, smaller, 300 watt floodlights joined in, or replaced the main lights at random intervals. Gideon saw halos and sunbursts. Some only saw lights, others saw a figure of burning fire. One man said he saw a fire salamander in the light and others the heavenly face of the angel. Sometimes, they would all see the angel; other times just the lights and the voice.

  Gideon looked to his father, who wore a look of perfect ecstasy and terror jumbled together. Every face in the room gazed toward to the ceiling and the heat and light radiating downward.

  Gideon pulled a remote control from his pocket which he hid in his hands. He’d recorded a message earlier that he’d passed through a distorter to deepen and disguise his voice. Speakers hidden behind panels overhead would send down the voice of an angel. Gideon had rehearsed a dialogue with himself.

  “Speak to us,” Gideon called as he thumbed the remote. “We will listen and obey.”

  The voice rumbled down from the lights above. “Well done thou good and faithful servants.”

  Ecstatic cries. Tears flowed down one man’s cheeks.

  “We have obeyed,” Gideon said. “What more shall we do?”

  “The time has come for the winnowing,” the voice spoke. “The Lord shall guide thee, shall fortify thee in the terrible task that awaits.”

  “Mercy,” Elder Kimball cried. “They are good men, all of them. And they mean well.”

  Weak, pitiful fool. Didn’t his father see what danger this so-called mercy would bring? Sweep them aside. Crush them underfoot. And Gideon couldn’t afford doubts. If his father harbored them, so would others.

  “Yes, Father,” Gideon said. His father had deviated from the script and he had to get it back on track so the recorded voice could give its commands. “Mercy for those who beg forgiveness. But God’s way is never the easy way. We must do what is commanded. What the angel tells us.”

  He thumbed the remote again and the voice continued, “Some Saints will refuse to obey the Lord. Others will join the apostate church in Salt Lake or flee with their wives.. After the winnowing, there will be a shortage of men to carry on the work. This is when the Lord’s servants shall take their rightful place among the Lord’s elect.”

  This meant the Lost Boys. Their day had arrived. They would replace those who had expelled them. They would have their wives, their priesthoods, their endowments, and their glory. It was what had brought them to this room.

  Gideon had recorded the next part knowing it would be a risk. “The Lord is most pleased with his servant, Gideon Smith Kimball. It is he who shall lead these events. Accept his counsel. Obey his word as thou would obey the word of the Lord. For God sayeth, ‘by mine own voice or the voice of my servants, it is the same.’”

  And with that, the angel departed. Gideon pocketed the remote. He turned off the lights with his foot. The dreary light of the chandelier replaced it. The men sighed as one.

  The meeting broke up quickly. The men would leave at intervals, via the back entrance where they would not be seen. In the past, they had left town at once when these meetings had ended. Not today. The time for leaving town had ended. They would find their way to safe houses, wherein lived allies, secret girlfriends, sympathetic older brothers or uncles. And here they would wait for Gideon to direct their final actions.

  Soon, only Gideon and his father remained, and they too, prepared to leave. “Courage, Father. We will do what must be done.”

  “And Jacob Christianson?” Elder Kimball asked. His hands trembled. “He’s getting too close.”

  “We have to kill him.”

  “Kill him? Is there no other way?”

  “There is no other way.”

  “I don’t like this killing. Gentiles is one thing. But killing Saints?”

  “You heard the angel. And doesn’t the Book of Mormon say, ‘it is better for one man to perish than a nation to dwindle in unbelief?’”

  “True.” An elder of Israel could not argue with the Book of Mormon. “Okay, Jacob Christianson. But then it stops.”

  “And then it stops,” Gideon agreed. He needed to placate the old man. Elder Kimball was fooling himself if he thought that men like Abraham Christianson or William Young would step aside without a fight. They, too, would go. And Elder Griggs, who had the ear of the prophet.

  His father nodded. “Do what needs to be done. But get it over with quickly.”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter Seventeen:

  It had been six years since a gathering of the Quorum of the Twelve. It was never safe to have the entire Quorum in one location. The church had enemies. Foremost was the government. Both Canada and the United States staged periodic anti-polygamy crack-downs. Having everyone in one spot made a tempting target. Worse still were the apostates and heretics.

  In 1962, an apostate had kidnapped the prophet and the entire Quorum at gunpoint as they emerged from the temple. Brother Heber had refused to accede to the man’s demands that he be anointed the prophet. The gunman had killed two members of the Quorum and injured a third before a church member with a deer rifle had shot him in the head from sixty yards.

  The outside authorities had never known about the incident.

  But it had shaken the church and Brother Heber and his successors now gathered in one spot only to appoint a new member of the Quorum. That is what they faced now. Elder Johnson lay dead and the Quorum moved quickly to fill vacancies. The Lord’s house was a house of order.

  The remaining eleven members gathered from Harmony, Blister Creek, and the smaller settlement in White Valley, Montana. It took less than twenty-four hours to bring them together in Southern Utah, no mean feat when the average age of the members was over sixty-five, with Elders Pinnager and Finn pushing ninety.

  Elder Abraham Christianson, father of Jacob and Eliza and thirty-one other children, had chartered a plane from Cardston and landed in St. George two hours earlier.

  The first Jacob learned of his father’s arrival had been when Abraham Christianson called him from Blister Creek. They had a few hours before the temple endowment that afternoon and were halfway to Panguitch when the call came.

  They could no longer stay at Stephen Paul Young’s house, nor would Jacob risk leaving Eliza with the Kimballs. He’d found a motel near the Panguitch library where he could get internet access. He hoped to spend some time googling the murders in California.

  Jacob pulled over to take the call. He frowned when he saw the number. The last thing he could take right now was more pressure about Eliza’s marriage.

  “Who is it?”
Eliza had asked. Her face fell when he told her. “Don’t answer it. Let him leave a message.”

  “You know I have to.”

  “Where are you?” Abraham Christianson asked when he picked up.

  “We’re in the Ghost Cliffs. Why?”

  He needed only delay Father a few more hours. Meet with Enoch and solve the murders. Present his findings to the prophet. Discredit the Kimball family and the issue with Taylor Junior would resolve itself.

  “Can you please be specific? Where in the Ghost Cliffs?”

  “Past the reservoir, on my way to Panguitch. Why?”

  “Because I’m in town.”

  The news left him off balance. “In town? You mean, here? Blister Creek?”

  “Yes, of course,” Father said in an impatient voice. “I want you to meet me at the chapel. Can you get here in half an hour?”

  “Maybe forty minutes.”

  “Then hurry. The entire Quorum will be here.”

  “And I’m going to meet with the entire Quorum of the Twelve?” Jacob asked, off-balance yet again.

  “Isn’t that what I just said? We’re meeting with the prophet to choose Elder Johnson’s replacement. They want an update on the Amanda Kimball matter. I’ll tell them you’ll be here in forty minutes.” He hung up.

  Jacob turned the car around at once.

  “No mention of your marriage,” he said to Eliza. “Looks like you’ve dodged that bullet.”

  She was watching him with a curious expression, no doubt drawing her own conclusions from what she’d heard. “You sure? They’re not calling you back to talk about the weather.”

  “He said they wanted an update on the murder investigation. Sounds reasonable. I’m going to take it at face value.”

  He drove quickly, even across the stretches of dirt road. Even so, it was almost forty-five minutes before they pulled into the chapel parking lot. Other cars had gathered, some with Alberta or Montana plates. Young men milled outside, together with a few wives and their children. Jacob saw several relatives from Harmony. The newcomers mingled with the residents, catching up with people they saw only rarely. Children ran and played, making friends with seldom-seen cousins. Other people came walking down the street to join the impromptu reunion now growing on the chapel grounds.

  Jacob left Eliza with the gathering; Fernie and Charity had come, and there was their sister Grace from White Valley, who had married just two years earlier to Elder Pinnager of the Quorum; she must have accompanied him. Probably even drove him the entire way as Elder Pinnager was nearly ninety and half-blind. It hadn’t stopped him from fathering a child by Grace, though; from the looks of it, she was about eight months pregnant.

  Inside, the halls of the church sat empty except for two of the prophet’s sons who stood watch outside the bishop’s meeting room. Jacob walked to where they stood in their dark suits, expecting to be challenged. But they just nodded and one of them opened the door for him.

  The bishop’s meeting room was a simple room, with a big, boardroom-style table in the middle. Here the bishop organized the ward for weekly services, met with members to discuss building projects or tithing, and interviewed members for worthiness to attend the temple. It was also the room where the bishop directed church courts—adjudicated by a member of the Quorum of the Twelve—to disfellowship or excommunicate wayward members.

  The bishop was not present now, but the prophet and the Quorum of the Twelve sat in chairs around the table. There was Brother Joseph, with his beehive-handled cane, and Jacob’s Grandpa Griggs—make that Elder Griggs in this room, at least—Jacob’s father, the younger members and old. Allies, long-time rivals. Everyone.

  Men had loosened their ties, and empty or half-empty water cups sat around the table. Some men had notebooks, others open scriptures, as if they had been consulting specific verses.

  And here came Jacob into the middle of their meeting. He felt like a boy, and a dirty, underdressed one at that. The other men wore suits and ties while he wore jeans and a gray, button-down shirt. His boots were dirty and scuffed.

  Abraham Christianson rose first, extended his hand and clapped him in a hug. As he did, he whispered, “Be sharp.”

  The other men rose and they shook his hand one by one. Some, mainly his father’s friends, but also the prophet, greeted him warmly and by his first name. Others, with a terse, “Brother Christianson.” To his surprise, there was little hostility from Elder Kimball, though the man sat as far from Abraham Christianson as possible.

  His father directed Jacob to the empty seat. Jacob sat, uncomfortable. The men settled down and the prophet addressed him.

  “Let me get right to the point. Do you know the identity of the murderer?” Brother Joseph asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m drawing close.” He arranged details in his mind as he considered how to reveal what he’d learned without giving away too much. Especially since a prime suspect sat in this very room.

  “And your preliminary analysis?”

  “The killer himself was most likely one of the Lost Boys,” he said. “He might have had inside help.” He watched Elder Kimball from the corner of his eye. The man looked uncomfortable.

  “I’m going to be blunt, Jacob,” Brother Joseph said. He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward. “Your work in this matter has been invaluable. And I think you should move forward until you’ve found the killer and he can be brought to justice.” He hesitated. “But not now.”

  The news drew him short. “Not now? You want me to drop everything?”

  “Not permanently. Maybe later, we can take a fresh look. Now, if you say a Lost Boy did it, then fine, we’ll tell the Saints to be on the lookout for anyone who doesn’t belong in Blister Creek.”

  Right, except the Lost Boys had shown their ability to move about town with impunity. Someone was harboring these men. And for all their beliefs in the Kingdom of God on earth, what would they do if they found a Lost Boy in town? This was America, after all, and you couldn’t ban someone from a public street. The only tool was shunning, and what good was that with murderers?

  Jacob looked at his father, surprised. He’d thought that Father, at least, would insist that the investigation continue. And Elder Pratt, Amanda’s father. Not to mention Brother Joseph, her uncle, and the spiritual father of every man, woman, and child in Zion. Few looked pleased at this turn of events, but not a single man voiced disagreement.

  “The problem is,” the prophet continued, “your arrival stirred things up in Blister Creek.”

  “It wasn’t my arrival that stirred things up. It was the murder of Amanda Kimball.”

  “Jacob,” his father warned.

  “It’s okay, Elder Christianson,” Brother Joseph said. He turned back to Jacob. “You’re right. It’s not your fault. And we’re not stopping you forever, just for now. Later, when we’ve resolved other matters, you can continue your investigation.”

  He still couldn’t believe it. “And you’re serious?”

  “I’m afraid so, Jacob,” Brother Joseph said.

  Jacob stared for a long moment, then unclenched his teeth long enough to say, “Thou sayest.”

  He said the words, but he didn’t mean them. He would defy them in private. They left him no choice. And then, when he had his evidence, he would present it. It would be too late to stop him. He glanced at Elder Kimball. The man looked troubled rather than smug or triumphant, or any other emotion that Jacob might have expected.

  “Good,” said the prophet. “Now we can move on to the business of confirming Elder Johnson’s replacement.” His voice wavered and Jacob thought he sounded tired. “As we are all agreed on a course of action, can we now agree to heal the rift that has developed between us?”

  Jacob took his cue. He had been dismissed without the bother of a dismissal. He rose to his feet, growing angrier by the second.

  The prophet motioned for him to sit back down. “This concerns you, Jacob.”

  Another surprise. “Me?
How so?” He returned to his seat.

  Brother Joseph said, “You will be the newest member of the Quorum of the Twelve, Jacob Christianson.”

  Jacob gaped. “How is that possible? I’m twenty-six. I’m not even married.”

  “Not yet,” his father put in.

  “Not yet, fine. But there are others more worthy than I am, who have more experience and stronger testimonies. Men who are spiritual giants compared to me.”

  “All of which may be true,” Brother Joseph said. “Nevertheless, you are my choice and the choice of the Quorum. Will you accept this calling?”

  Someone else—Taylor Junior, certainly—would have grabbed the prize. Jacob knew it for the burden that it was. A man didn’t gain strength by gaining power, though that seemed a contradiction. Look at the prophet. What man carried a heavier burden than Brother Joseph? He was responsible for the souls of four thousand men, women, and children. Lead them astray and God’s condemnation would fall upon his head.

  Jacob spoke slowly. “There’s something else happening here, isn’t there? Some other arrangement.” He looked from one man to another around the room, and stopped when he reached Abraham Christianson. “Dad, what is it?”

  His father sighed. “These are difficult times, Jacob. There has been discord among our ranks. It’s come to the point of tearing apart Zion. This is the solution to which we have consented.”

  “This sounds like part of the solution,” Jacob said. “But nothing comes without cost. You’ve promised something in return, haven’t you? If I’m going to join the Quorum, I have to know what.”

  His father said, “You will take this position and Elder Kimball’s son the next opening in the Quorum. Elder Young’s son will take the next opening after that.” He didn’t need to mention the age of several members of the quorum, including the two nonagenarians. Those next openings would not be long in arriving.

  Taylor Junior as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve? Appalling. Stephen Paul Young? He was a good man. So Father would take a son and an ally in trade for one treacherous son of his enemy. A devil’s bargain.