“I guess that’s good news,” Keera said.
“It is. Meanwhile, come stay with us, just in case.”
Keera left the lights on, locked up, and followed them in her Mustang. She kept the iPhone visible between the front seats, Ben looking back at her. “Where are you?” she asked out loud. “If you get hurt, I swear I’m going to kill you!”
Chapter 45
The first thing Ben felt was a twitch, or a sting, a prelude to the horrible jolt he knew was coming. But Rex was swift, tugging on the wires before the full blast of electric current passed through. The clamps slipped off of Ben’s earlobes. The two ends touched each other, causing an eruption of fireworks. Rex flipped back the switch, ending the show, which left a cloud of smoke.
“Wimp,” Streep said. “Why did you do that?”
Rex untangled the wires. “Because I think he’s telling the truth.”
“I am,” Ben said. “There’s four years of my reporting, right there on the Internet! Why don’t you look me up? Ben Teller. Mostly on NewZonLine.com, but I’ve had stuff in the Baltimore Sun and the Washington Post.”
Rex got an iPad from the other room and spent a few minutes on the site. “When you approached me at the pier, I thought you were working for them.” He pushed away the dolly with the car batteries.
“Based on what?”
“The fact that you were able to find me at North Point, the questions you asked me about Zachariah—you obviously knew a lot about his private life. And the location of your meeting with Dr. Neibauer implied secret cooperation. Your actions hardly fit the facade of an unemployed news reporter.”
“Self-employed.”
“Anyway, that’s why we decided to pick you up and question you about their plans.”
Dreyfuss opened a window. “Aren’t you a Mormon?”
“I’m Jewish, though not very religious. Aren’t you Mormons?”
“Ex-Mormons,” Rex said.
“Axed-Mormons,” Streep corrected him.
“We’re apostates,” Powell said, “tempted away by Satan.”
“Idealists,” Rex said, “is what we are. Our mission is to expose the ugly practices of the LDS Church. Zachariah had information we wanted. We tried to obtain his cooperation, but the Ghost got to him first.”
“I don’t understand,” Ben said. “Aren’t you the Ghost on the white Ducati?”
“Mine is a decoy.” Rex untied him. “If you look closely, what I’m riding is a beat-up 749. The real Ghost is riding a brand new Ducati Monster 848. Check your photos.”
“Weren’t you at the overlook? Didn’t you kick me in the face?”
“Not me, though I can sympathize with whoever found it irresistible to kick you real hard.”
“Second that,” Streep said.
“Get dressed before you freeze.” Rex pointed at Ben’s riding gear. “I drove by the overlook while following Dr. Neibauer and took the photo of the three of you, but had to keep going or you’d have noticed me.”
“I did notice the pickup truck go by.”
“That’s why I drive a common model.” Rex chuckled. “Okay. Tell us the whole story from the beginning.”
Ben told them how he had noticed Porter remove a floppy disk from the body, about his own initial search that uncovered the iTouch and some debris from the Harley, including the gas tank cap. He described the main parts of the journal, Porter’s denial of finding a floppy disk on Zachariah’s body, Ironman Cycles and tracking down Rex, the piece of Radio Shack packaging he found on the cliff, and the kick in the forehead. He described the deer hit, the discovery of a second floppy disk inside the gas tank on Zachariah’s destroyed Harley, and the information shared by the attorney, Ginsburg. “Then I chased your white Ducati into a trap.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
“It’s not funny,” Ben said. “And by the way, why did you follow the psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Neibauer,” Dreyfuss explained, “is the LDS point man for handling troublemakers. He’s licensed to practice psychiatry in every state with a substantial Mormon population—Utah, Arizona, Nevada, California, Idaho, Colorado, Massachusetts, as well as Washington, DC, and the region—Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia.”
“And the military,” Streep said. “He’s authorized to treat members of the army, navy, air force, FBI, CIA, NSA, and congressional staff.”
“Correct,” Dreyfuss said. “For decades, young Mormons have been instructed by their bishops to pursue government careers in preparation for the day when, as Joseph Smith prophesied, ‘the Constitution will hang by a thread’ and Mormons will take over the reins of the US government.”
“He said that?” Ben pulled on his riding pants.
“Smith and every succeeding president of the LDS Church have been telling the saints that they are destined to take over the United States, then the whole world.”
“I see why they need a psychiatrist.”
“He doesn’t treat the leadership,” Dreyfuss said.
“Maybe he should.” Ben pulled on his jacket. “Who does he treat?”
“Rank and file,” Dreyfuss said. “When a saint defies the leadership, Neibauer is called in. Usually the problem is solved by convincing the man or the woman—most of them are women—that the problem is their mental health.”
“Why women?”
“Mormon men are kings,” Streep said. “As boys, they are elevated to priesthood, ordained into the Aaronic Priesthood, then the Melchizedek Priesthood. They’re called elders before some of them even need to shave. The women, however, remain servants of the men. Their destiny is childbearing, cooking, cleaning, washing—everything to improve their chances of convincing their husbands to take them to the heavenly afterlife of the Celestial Kingdom. A woman can only achieve eternal exaltation by the grace of her husband.”
“Let me guess,” Ben said. “Your husband decided he’d rather spend his eternal afterlife without you.”
“My husband beat me almost to death because I sought help for our daughter after I found him in her bed one night. The ER doctor didn’t call the police. He called our bishop, who came to the hospital to pray with me and tell me that it was my fault if my husband wasn’t satisfied sexually. He instructed me to forgive my husband and serve him better so that he wouldn’t have to seek other outlets for his natural urges. When I threw a fit, they called Dr. Neibauer.”
“How did that go?” Ben zipped up his jacket, still shaking with cold.
“He committed me to the Emma Smith Sanatorium for Women while my husband—a prominent LDS leader and businessman—continued to force our eldest daughter to serve him until she ran away. He moved on to our second daughter, a thirteen-year-old. She ended up pregnant, and her older sister came back and took her to California for an abortion.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said.
“Me too.” She wiped tears. “They’re both okay now, at least as okay as they can be after suffering multiple rapes by their daddy.”
“Now I feel bad for biting you.”
She waved in dismissal. “Do you know that, thanks to women, Utah holds the record among all other states in prescription anti-depressants?”
“I didn’t know that.” Ben glanced at the dark windows. “But it reminds me that my girlfriend must be going crazy with worry. Can I have my iPhone?”
Chapter 46
Curled up on the living room sofa at Fran and Lilly’s apartment, Keera held her iPhone to her chest as she fell asleep. She dreamed she was on the back of Ben’s motorcycle, which became airborne, flying high over Washington, DC, then coming in for a landing on top of the White House, where guards sprang out from hiding with machine guns that didn’t shoot bullets but lightning strikes in string-like flashes of electrical currents that hit her chest with strange vibrations and woke her up. It was the iPhone, which sh
e had put on vibrate to avoid waking up Fran and Lilly. Ben’s smiling face appeared on the screen, filling her with a mix of relief and dread. Would she hear his voice when she answered or a police officer telling her about an accident—
“Keera?”
“It’s you!” She ran to the bathroom and closed the door.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said. “I couldn’t call earlier.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“Thank God! I’m going to kill you!”
“Join the club.”
“Oh, no!”
“It’s okay. I’m safe now. You know I would’ve called earlier if I could.”
She choked up. “I’m still…angry.”
“Listen to me. There’s no time to explain, but the business with the Mormons could get ugly.”
“Already has.”
He paused. “What happened?”
“They broke into our place.”
“Were you—”
“I was at work.”
“Pack up and go to Fran’s. Now!”
“I’m already there.”
“Good. She’ll keep it hushed. Last thing I need now is a police investigation. I’ll be the only one they’ll prosecute. No one will look into the Mormons’ actions until I have hard evidence.”
“You can explain—”
“Explain my tampering with the scene of an accident? Removing victim’s belongings? Keeping evidence from law authorities?”
“Fran could help.”
“Yes, with one thing. Tell her I asked that she check out Inspector Porter, look at his record, see if anything smells bad. But nothing else. I don’t want her to risk her job.”
“Why don’t you tell her. Are you on your way here?”
“No. I can’t. Not yet.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure. It might be a few days before I can contact you again.”
“If you stop investigating, wouldn’t they leave us alone?”
“Maybe.”
“Then drop it! Come home!”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Please don’t ask me that. Fran will keep you safe until it’s over. I love you.”
The line went dead.
When Keera got out of the bathroom, she found Fran waiting in the living room, wrapped in a blanket. “Was it Ben? Is he okay?”
Keera dropped on the sofa. “He’s fine, so far.”
“What did he say?”
“Actually, he asked that you check out Inspector Porter, look into his record, sniff around for any suspicious stuff.”
“I can’t do that,” Fran said. “He’s an officer in the state police. There’s nothing suspicious about him. And I told Ben to leave the Mormons alone—this investigation stinks of religious persecution.”
“He’s not imagining,” Keera said. “They did break into our house.”
“They did? How do you know who did it? Ben’s investigations have irritated a lot of people. Maybe it’s someone else he’s crossed? Could be totally unrelated to this investigation. Remember the death threats he received when he was chasing the bridge contractor?”
“Oh, yeah.” Keera groaned. “He didn’t give up, and he’s not dropping this investigation either, no matter what I say. I feel so stuck!”
“You’re not stuck,” Fran said. “It’s your choice.”
“Easier said than done.”
“You got the power. It’s your life, isn’t it?”
“You think? I was in college when we started going out, and look at me now, graduating med school in six months.” Keera held forth her naked fingers. “Do you see a ring?”
“Set a deadline and tell him this is it—propose or get out.”
“Why should I stoop to arm twisting?” Keera pulled the blanket over her legs. “I don’t want to get a ring by ultimatum.”
“Does it matter?”
“To me it does. I want him to propose because he wants to, not because he has to.”
“He’s a man. They don’t know what they want or what’s good for them. They need to be manipulated. Like children. Or dogs.”
Keera laughed. “You’re not objective.”
“On the contrary.” Fran grinned. “I’ve tried both. Have you?”
“Ha.”
“I can introduce you to a lovely girl. You might fall in love.”
“I’m already in love. And I know he loves me too.”
“But not enough to marry you?”
“Enough. He really does love me to death. But he’s got some kind of a block, like he’s afraid of marriage.”
“Afraid?” Fran raised her eyebrows. “Ben?”
“Yes. I think it’s about his dad. They rarely talk about the man, Ben and his mom, but I can read between the lines, see their pain. It’s like they’ve never gotten over the loss, both of them. Ben carries his dad’s photo in his wallet, you know?”
Fran shook her head. “It’s sad, but what’s the relevancy? Your clock is ticking, not his.”
“But that’s why Ben is afraid—not of being married to me, not of commitment, but of becoming a father.”
“Afraid of doing the same thing?”
“That’s right. Of having a son and then—”
“Everybody’s carrying some painful baggage. If you make Ben feel the pain of your absence, he’ll fear losing you even more than he fears hurting his future kids.”
“No. I’m not going to manipulate him. If I leave Ben, it will be without notice, and I’ll never see him again—no pressure, no negotiations, no second chances.”
“Just like that?”
“I’m too crazy about him. If I start down that road, I’ll go back and forth like a yo-yo. No. I’d rather suffer once and be done.”
“Then set a deadline for yourself.”
“I already have.” Keera’s tears were flowing again. “But now he’s out there, risking his life for a stupid news story, which readers will forget the next day.”
“That’s his choice,” Fran said. “You should make yours.”
“How can I leave him while he’s gone?”
“Why not?”
Porter sat in his unmarked Ford in the back of the parking lot at a Lutheran church in Rockville. The clock was approaching midnight. He tilted the bottle of apple juice all the way up, but nothing came out. Radio communications crackled back and forth between dispatchers and cruisers all over northeast Maryland, mostly traffic stops exacerbated by alcohol or stupidity, domestic violence incidents in areas not covered by local police and, every hour or so, a prostitution bust along the state highways and rest stops. Not a single mention of a motorcycle, let alone a black-and-yellow BMW. Ben Teller had disappeared without a trace.
The bang on his window made Porter reach for his sidearm, but he relaxed when he saw the white figure seated on the white motorcycle. It appeared out of nowhere—the only entrance into the parking lot was straight ahead, and the lamps were off.
He lowered the window. “How did you get here?”
The Ghost turned off the Ducati motor and leaned closer until the helmet almost touched the top of the window, watching Porter through the dark face shield, saying nothing.
“You lost him?”
The Ghost nodded.
“I was told you’re the best.”
No response.
“Have you put a trace on the girlfriend’s car at least?”
A nod.
“What about their place? Did you search it?”
Another nod.
“No floppy disk?”
Head shake.
“Did you find anything else?”
The white glove reached into the jacket, pulled out s
omething, and handed it to Porter. It was a passport.
Porter opened it and saw Ben Teller’s photo. “That’s a relief. Now we only have to hunt down the prick within the continental United States. Congratulations.”
The Ghost held out a hand.
“Right.” Porter collected a bundle of cash and a texting pager from the passenger seat and handed them over. “The pager is a prepaid piece. I don’t think it’s traceable, but only turn it on to check for messages every hour or so.”
The Ghost pocketed the money and the pager.
“The black bitch is the key. I have a plan. We’ll double up in a pincer to squeeze her bad enough to draw Teller out of hiding. Then you’ll arrange an accident, but do it somewhere isolated, so you can remove and destroy his iPhone, camera, and anything else he carries that could hold data. If an accident is impractical, make it look like a robbery gone bad. And finish him off this time. I don’t want Teller climbing out of a gorge again, okay?”
There was no response from the dark face shield.
“I’ll send you a text message with instructions.” Porter rolled up the window.
The Ducati motor came to life, and the Ghost eased away with the lights still off. Once on the main road, the Ducati raced away.
Part V:
The Apostates
Chapter 47
After a night of deep sleep, Ben woke up stiff and achy. The last three days had not been kind to his body, and the old shoulder injury was acting up again. He lingered in bed until late in the morning. When he came out of the tiny bedroom, there was no one in the house. Stepping outside, he noticed a mark on the doorjamb, about two-thirds of the way up from the floor with a little hole at each end. It looked like the discoloration left after removal of a mezuzah—the traditional Jewish ornament in the form of a tube containing a scribed scroll and attached to the doorjamb with two nails. Someone must have removed it recently, just like the family photos inside the house, leaving an off-color shadow in its stead.
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