The Mormon Candidate
A Novel
ALSO BY AVRAHAM AZRIELI
Fiction:
The Masada Complex – A Novel
The Jerusalem Inception – A Novel
The Jerusalem Assassin – A Novel
Christmas for Joshua – A Novel
Non-Fiction:
Your Lawyer on a Short Leash
One Step Ahead – A Mother of Seven Escaping Hitler
AUTHOR’S WEBSITE:
www.AzrieliBooks.com
The Mormon Candidate
A Novel
By Avraham Azrieli
Copyright © Avraham Azrieli 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means whatsoever without prior written permission from the author.
Author Photograph by Richard Dalcin.
Printed in the United States by CreateSpace, Charleston, SC (Paperback Edition, 2012)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not meant to be construed as real.
ISBN: 147519451X
ISBN-13: 147519451X
Library of Congress Number: 2012907013
A Note to the Reader
As in every novel, the characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination. Other than historic events and figures, any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, and statements of fact or opinion should be treated as fictional. However, as far as the factual background against which the story is told, every effort has been made to remain true to reality.
More specifically, while the political process of US presidential elections is familiar territory for most readers, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (also known as the “Mormon Church,” “Mormonism,” or “LDS”) is a mystery to most outsiders.
Therefore, especially with respect to the Mormon Church, including its theology, inner workings, and religious practices, this book is based on extensive research. The quotations from Mormon scriptures and materials are correct, and the descriptions of rituals, customs, and hierarchical structure are based on authentic documentary sources.
For readers interested in further exploration, a bibliography of primary research sources is offered at the end of this novel.
How convenient it would be to many …
who, whenever their origin was involved in obscurity,
modestly announce themselves descended from a god.
– Washington Irving, Knickerbocker’s History of New York
Part I:
The Victim
Chapter 1
The roar of engines bounced off the storefronts as hundreds of motorcycles rolled down Main Street in a slow-motion stampede. Most were Harley Davidsons, ranging from barebones Sportsters to specked-out Road Kings, mixed in with Japanese-made cruisers that were chromed up to resemble the Harleys. As far as he could tell, Ben Teller was the only one riding a BMW—a dual-purpose R1200GS in black and yellow that stuck out like a giant wasp.
He kept a steady pace, occasionally waving at the spectators along the sidewalks. Oversized American flags fluttered from light posts, and loudspeakers played the Marine Corps cadence. Ben sang inside his helmet, “From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli, we fight our country’s battles…”
Lined up on the front steps of the Thurmont Public Library, elderly veterans in wool caps and decorated chests saluted the passing motorcycles. Many of the riders responded by touching their helmets in quick salutes.
At the exit from town, two fire engines were positioned on opposite sides of the road, their lights rolling, sirens blaring, and ladders extended overhead with a banner tied across:
Marine Corps Veterans’ Annual Ride
The houses gradually spread out, fronted by manicured lawns and political signs. The Democratic and Republican parties, more than ever polarized by issues small and big, were fighting bitterly over every elected office in the country—school boards, state and federal legislators, and the biggest prize of all—the White House. With the elections only weeks away, voters’ passions ran high, evidenced by trampled signs and hostile graffiti.
The road cut across a valley of corn fields, bare and colorless with the early winter, and swept left toward the hills. The riders began to form a single column.
Ben slowed down to let a another bike in. The passenger pillion was occupied by a boy, perhaps eight or nine, holding on to his father. Ben gave him a thumbs up, and the kid grinned ear-to-ear under his three-quarters Captain America helmet.
Higher into the hills, the turns became tighter, the trees thicker along the road. The riders gave each other more room.
Ben’s mind entered that special zone of riding, a combination of mental abandonment and total focus. His hands operated the levers on the handlebar, his feet pressed and tugged on the gear and brake pedals, his torso shifted left and right to force the massive BMW to lean into each corner. It was like a dance rhythm on a fast beat—a rush of action, then a slowdown, a deep bow into a turn, and a sudden acceleration out of the turn with an eager roar from the exhaust, up another stretch of road, then an encore—tap the brakes, downshift, tilt into a graceful curve, and roll back the throttle to straighten up and accelerate. The sensation was simultaneously intense and tranquil, a feeling of both isolation and camaraderie. He was confident in his skill yet aware of the fragility of the balance between joy and catastrophe.
An angry snarl tore Ben out of his reverie. Headlights appeared in his side-view mirror. A second or two later, the full blast of an exhaust hit him as a Harley flew by, barely a foot from his elbow. It was painted stars and stripes, including the full fairing, backrest box, saddlebags, and even the eggshell helmet. The rider’s leather jacket wore the emblem of the Marine Corps, and Stephen Cochran crooned “Going down the back roads” at full volume from the speakers.
Passing the cruiser with the kid and four more motorcycles, the Harley cut back in just in time to take a tight left curve. Riding a big hog like this required top skills, and as the rider leaned sharply into the turn, the chrome pipes scraped the blacktop, shooting off a spray of sparks.
By the time Ben followed the others through the turn, the stars-and-stripes Harley was way ahead, back in the left lane, blowing by a bunch of other bikes, its engine howling angrily.
Moments later, the road flattened out, passed by a modest church, and crossed a meadow whose green had turned dull and pale with the season. A few cows grazed behind a fence, and a lone farmhouse sat next to a muddy pond. The side of a wooden barn served as a makeshift billboard for a mural artist, who depicted the incumbent US president smoking a cigarette, grinning crookedly under a red beret marked with the Communist hammer-and-sickle symbol. A moment later, Ben caught a quick glimpse of the other side of the barn, where Joe Morgan, the GOP challenger for the White House, appeared in a checkered red-and-blue shirt, his smile pearly and his hair coifed, holding a book with a white cover.
The string of motorcycles disappeared into the next range of hills, and Ben downshifted in preparation for the tight twists ahead.
A challenging mountain road, with other vehicles to consider, demanded full concentration. The bike became part of him, or maybe it was the other way around. As they emerged from a tight turn, Ben twisted the throttle, and the GS leaped forward with the power of one hundred horses at the rear wheel. The rapid acceleration sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins and an involuntary grin to his face.
Farther up the hill, he came around another turn an
d began to speed up when he was startled by the sight of brake lights coming on one after the other in front of him.
Ben pressed hard on the foot pedal, which operated the rear calipers only. It was an old habit from the days of his small Yamaha, a precaution against locking the front wheel and entering an irreversible slide, which was unlikely on this ABS-equipped bike. Sure enough, the telling grind of rapid brake clasps indicated that the electronic system was preventing a slippage while the bike decelerated harshly.
But the ability to stop on a dime came with no assurance that those who followed close on his heels could do the same. A second later, he heard from behind the sound of rubber grating on the asphalt.
The sharp decrease in speed matched the hard pushback of the handlebar on his arms. Momentarily paralyzed by the certainty of impending disaster, Ben’s mind flashed visions of last winter’s deadly pileup on I-95, especially a photo he had snapped of a bloody hand sticking out from a wrecked Honda. The photo had won him a three-figure fee from NewZonLine.com and a second-place Lifelike News Photography Award from the Maryland Association of Freelance Journalists. All this went through his head as he forced his foot off the brake pedal and maneuvered onto the gravel shoulder, passing the others on the right, his ears filled with the sounds of rubber squealing, followed by banging, metal scraping, and cursing.
Meanwhile, the GS went off the paved asphalt, lurched sideways, descended into the drainage ditch, and leaped over the opposite bank toward a cluster of young trees. Ben rose to stand up on the pegs, which separated his own weight from the bike’s center of gravity, and defied every natural instinct by twisting the throttle and sending power to the rear wheel while focusing his gaze back at the road, where he wanted to return. The massive motorcycle responded by straightening up and obeying Ben’s leftward tilt enough to avoid the woods. The momentum helped the tires keep traction while plowing the dirt and weeds on the way back to the gravel shoulder.
He didn’t stop, though, but kept going at low speed, standing on the pegs to maintain control as he passed by everyone else and reached all the way to the top of the hill, where he finally stopped, set down the kickstand, and killed the engine.
Pulling his Canon Rebel from the backpack, Ben snapped a bunch of photos of this rare traffic jam, hundreds of motorcycles on a mountainous road.
The cause, he found out, was a tragic accident at the highest point, where the road twisted left to begin its descent on the other side of the hill. A sign directed at a dirt parking area on the right: Camp David Scenic Overlook
A group of bikers stood at the edge. Ben joined them.
Panoramic views of Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Maryland surrounded the overlook. Closer in, nestled among the trees five or six miles away, a few red roofs indicated the location of the presidential retreat at Camp David.
But no one was looking at the views because, down below, at the bottom of the steep, rocky precipice, rested a stars-and-stripes Harley, smoke rising from its motor. The rider was sprawled on a boulder near the bike, his helmet askew yet still strapped on.
A couple of riders ran to a trailhead at the far end of the overlook while someone phoned the police.
Ben gazed through the viewfinder, zooming in on the rider’s face.
The man’s eyes were open and his lips moved.
Ben took a rapid series of photos.
Suddenly the man’s mouth opened wide and his chest heaved as if trying to rise. But the brief effort was cut short, his body slumped, as if deflated, and his head fell sideways.
Stepping aside, Ben used a USB cable and an adaptor to save the photos to his iPhone. With the last photo opened in an editing application, he blurred the rider’s face, saved it again, and attached it to a text message to Ray Burr, the editor at NewZonLine.com, who was paying him $1,000 per month for being first to be offered anything Ben reported:
Ray, do you want this for $250? (You have 60 seconds.) Follow-up updates at the usual $50 apiece. Here’s the text for the news flash:
Ben Teller reporting live: It’s 1:28 PM at the Camp David Scenic Overlook near Thurmond, MD. A participant in the annual Marine Corps Veterans’ Annual Ride lost control of his Harley Davidson and fell over a steep hillside. Other riders are climbing down to perform CPR. This is breaking news. Watch for updates.
Back at the edge of the overlook, Ben watched the men reach the body below. They pulled him off the boulder to a flat clearing and removed the riding jacket, revealing a khaki, military-style undershirt. One of them began pressing the chest while the other did mouth to mouth. Ben snapped more photos.
His iPhone pinged.
There was a reply text from Ray: I accept. But where’s the face?
Ben typed quickly. Where’s your heart?
The answer was typical Ray: My heart is in driving online traffic to NewZonLine.com. This is hot stuff. I’ll give you an extra $250 for the face.
After a brief hesitation, Ben replied: The guy’s still warm. His family doesn’t know. How about one hour?
Ray’s retort was: How about one dollar?
It was painful to let go of the extra $250, but publicizing victims’ faces, while not illegal, was beyond his boundaries. Ben groaned and typed: You’re a vulture. Watch for updates.
Chapter 2
First on the scene was a Ford sedan with dark windows and a few antennas—an unmarked police cruiser that was as easy to spot as if it had a bar of rolling lights on the roof. It arrived from the opposite direction, where the road wasn’t blocked. The driver, a state trooper in uniform, stepped to the edge of the overlook and glanced over the side. Ben did the same. Down below, one of the men looked up from the body and shook his head.
The trooper returned to his car and used the radio to report. Ben trailed him and caught the last few words: “…lost control. Not surprising. We had reports of drinking at the launch site.”
“Excuse me,” Ben said, “I was there. Didn’t see any drinking.”
The trooper put away the radio. “Thank you, sir.”
Ben made a point of gazing at his nametag. O. Porter – Inspector. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“I’ll put it in the report.” The trooper got into his Ford and shut the door.
By now the area was crowded with bikers who had left their stranded machines and walked up the hill to find out what had happened. A few congregated around a heavyset woman with bleached hair and pink boots. “He was flying,” she said. “We were leading the ride, but he passed us real fast, like a bat out of hell.”
Ben elbowed his way closer.
“Must have lost it on the turn,” someone said.
“There was another bike,” she said, “a little one, right?”
“Yup.” Her partner was a burly man with a bushy beard and a beer belly that filled a tight red t-shirt with crosshairs over the words Battle for the soul of America! “Some piece of shit sport bike,” he added. “One of them Italian lawnmowers.”
Ben asked, “Ducati?”
“That’s it.” He spat on the ground by his woman’s boots. “Her son got one of those. Always in the shop.”
“He’s your son too,” she said.
Everyone laughed.
Ben asked, “What color was it?”
“White.” She pointed downhill in the direction they had come from. “Came out of nowhere, like a ghost. Must’ve freaked out the Harley speeder, made him lose control.”
“That’s bull,” another rider said. “That idiot was an accident waiting to happen, the way he was going.”
There was a round of approving grunts from the riders.
“Whatever.” She made a rolling motion with her hands toward the overlook. “Poor bastard.”
Sirens sounded in the distance. A few minutes later, an ambulance arrived, followed by a fire engine and several police cruisers. The officers sent everyo
ne back to their bikes and set up a perimeter with red flares.
Ben sent off a news update to Ray, reporting that the injured veteran was presumed dead, and attached photos of the emergency vehicles and the covered body at the bottom of the precipice.
He stepped aside and stood by the GS to watch the ride get back underway. The roar of engines shook the air. After a while, among the column of slow-moving bikes, he recognized the boy in the Captain America helmet, who wasn’t smiling anymore. Neither was his father, whose motorcycle seemed to have suffered nasty scrapes and a broken signal light. He veered toward Ben and stopped.
The father reached to shake Ben’s hand. “Thanks!”
Ben shook his hand. “What for?”
“For getting out of the way. I expected you to slam into us like the mother of rear-enders.”
“No sweat.”
His eyes scanned Ben’s motorcycle. “A twelve-hundred GS, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet.”
“Thanks.” Ben looked at the boy. “Hey, pal. How’re you holding up?”
“We fell,” he said in a thin voice, struggling not to cry.
“Captain America doesn’t get scared easy, true?”
The boy nodded and sniffled.
Ben reached into the pouch mounted atop his gas tank, fished out a replica of a Marine Humvee, and handed it to him. “Here, that’s for you.”
The boy took it and tried the wheels on an open hand. The inner springs made the wheels spin back, generating sounds of popping gunfire. “Cool!”
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