Taking the stairs to the main level, Keera hurried to the elevators and up to the cafeteria on the fourth floor. Buying a cup of coffee and a donut, she found a window table flooded with sunlight. The clouds had moved away, and the warmth of the sun was especially nice after the chill of death in pathology. She turned to face the window while sipping coffee.
Below her, the parking lot was vast, hundreds of cars lined up in rows, waiting out the day. She tried to orient herself and figure out where the Mustang was parked. Tracing her route from memory, she remembered where she had left it that morning—all the way to the side, near the fence that bordered the highway.
Keera was about to turn away and head back downstairs when something drew her attention: Two rows away from the Mustang, in the shade of a minivan, was a white motorcycle.
“I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of it,” Dreyfuss said. “The Strengthening Church Members Committee is a department of the General Authorities of the LDS Church. The term ‘Committee’ sounds benign, but you should think of it in the context of, let’s say, Senator McCarthy’s House Un-American Activities Committee.”
“I beg to disagree.” Powell was scrubbing a pot in the sink. “It’s more like the KGB during Stalin’s days, enforcing the strict dictates of a rigid party hierarchy.”
“But with love rather than torture cellars.” Dreyfuss chuckled. “Working with similar zeal, though, and in total secrecy. The LDS Strengthening Church Members Committee’s mission is to investigate and collect information on every Mormon who is suspected of opinions that deviate from the Mormon faith, contradict Mormon doctrines, or question the total authority of the Mormon leaders.”
“They investigate people’s opinions?” Ben was intrigued. “Everyone has occasional doubts about faith, even the most religious people.”
“Not among Mormons. To maintain one’s good standing, a Mormon must regularly offer testimony of his or her faith that Joseph Smith was a true prophet who received from God the only true gospel. Testimonies are given in front of the congregation at weekly ward meetings. Each local bishop must report to the stake president, and up to Salt Lake City, any saints who deviate in any way. The committee collects files of public statements, such as speeches, articles, or interviews, as well as private letters, and statements from spouses, colleagues, or fellow Mormons who might have overheard the inappropriate statements.”
“It’s true,” Powell said. “I’ve seen it in my own trial. The Strengthening Church Members Committee’s file was thick with every little detail of my life, especially my academic research, communications with colleagues, and the efforts of good Mormons at convincing me to drop the issue. The file was used by my accusers to chronicle my sinful attempts at substantive discussions of the LDS’s racist theology. Based on those files the tribunal found me guilty, declared me an apostate, and excommunicated me.”
“We know,” Dreyfuss said, “that Zachariah stood trial at the DC temple. The committee had transferred his file electronically ahead of time to the chair of the tribunal—the president of the DC temple. We must access the computer in his office and copy the file. Then we’ll have proof of Joe Morgan’s direct involvement in the events leading to Zachariah’s death.”
“A long shot,” Ben said. “Have you tried hacking?”
“No chance. The LDS Church has top-of-the line Internet security. It would be easier to hack into the FBI system. We need to physically enter the temple, sit at a computer terminal, and sign into the system with a valid password. We had hoped Zachariah would agree to do it, but—”
“There was something on the second floppy disk.” Ben turned on the Canon and searched the memory for the photo he had taken of Ray’s computer screen:
User ID: Zachiboy
Password: DCMTDBS
File: BFD111995
Dreyfuss looked at it. “The password is an acronym: DC Mormon Temple Data Base System. And once you sign into the system with the user name and password, you’ll be able to search for the file name.”
“Which is also literal,” Ben said. “Baptism For Dead Eleven Nineteen Ninety-Five.”
“There’s the answer,” Dreyfuss said. “This file is on the system at the DC temple, which would also have files of Zachariah’s trial and evidence.”
“Have you tried to enter the temple?”
“No can do. Each one of us is a known apostate. Security will throw us out as soon as we show up.”
“Have you tried a mole?”
“Twice,” Streep said. “Cost us a pretty penny. The first one was young, single college grad with good computer skills. A nice boy. We trained him for a couple of weeks and sent him to approach Mormon missionaries at the University of Maryland campus at College Park. He pretended to fall in love with the Book of Mormon and agreed to be baptized into the Church.”
“And?”
“We lost him. Tried again, another nice kid, but we lost him too.”
Ben was shocked. “The Danites killed them?”
“Worse. The boys became true believers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s not to understand?” Streep laughed bitterly. “Our well-paid moles drank the same Kool Aid given to three hundred thousand converts who embrace Mormonism every year. It’s a magic potion made of love, community, divine answers to existential questions of why are we here and where are we going when we die. I mean, the promise of godhood, for God’s sake! And don’t forget male hegemony, lots of sex as a divine duty, and a great deal of happiness.”
“Happiness?”
“That’s another interesting statistic,” Powell said. “Mormon men are happier than any other category of men, except perhaps the members of the Saudi royal family.”
“What about Mormon women?”
“The opposite. High levels of anti-depressants usage, compared to other female demographics.”
“Then why don’t you recruit a female mole?”
“No use,” Streep said. “Mormon girls aren’t allowed in the temple until the day of their marriage to a fertile saint in good standing.”
“Why?”
“Because the temple symbolizes the soul’s progression to the heavenly Kingdom of God, and a woman can’t get there without her husband’s ushering. Marriage is a bit much to ask of a hired mole, you agree?”
“So you lost both of them?”
“Not only that,” Dreyfuss said, “but we have to assume that they told the Mormons everything about our efforts. Now the saints are on to us. Our only chance is to move fast, get someone into the DC temple, and expose Joe Morgan and his Danite henchmen.”
“How?”
Powell gripped Ben’s arm. “That’s where you come in!”
Keera wondered why a motorcycle should be parked among the cars. There was a dedicated covered parking area for motorcycles at the front entrance of the hospital. Ben parked there whenever he stopped by to have lunch with her or bring her a treat when she was on call overnight.
Keera walked across the cafeteria and out to the hallway, passing through several nurses’ stations and down two hallways, until she reached the southern end of the floor, which was the closest point to where her car was parked. Entering a patient’s room, Keera smiled at the woman in the bed, who had a tube in her nose, and went to the window.
Much closer now, she saw the motorcycle—a white sport bike—leaning on its kickstand. Scanning the area around it, she finally spotted the rider in the shade of a tree in the green area near the outer fence.
Even from her distant observation spot, Keera could tell he was skinny and tall, wearing a white riding suit and a matching helmet, which he kept on—presumably because of the cold breeze. He was leaning against the tree trunk in a leisurely posture of a guy waiting for his girlfriend to finish working. But Keera knew he wasn’t waiting for his girlfriend, but for Ben Teller’s girlfr
iend. For her!
Her first instinct was to call security. Or the police. But what would she say? Anything she told them would involve Ben, perhaps even risk his life! She tried to call Fran, reaching her voice mail instead.
The white helmet was facing the hospital building. Could he see her among the hundreds of windows? Impossible! The windows were mirrored! But still, she stepped back and left the room.
“Here, read this.” Dreyfuss handed him a book. “Better memorize as much as you can. We’ll test you later.”
Ben looked at the cover. Mormonism for Dummies. “Are you kidding me?”
“It’s a good start. I’ll give you a few more books later.”
“Give me all of them now, and I’ll choose which to read.”
“Trust me. My last job was at the Missionary Training Center in Utah. The secret to the LDS success is that most Mormons don’t know the true history of the Church or the details of its theology. They’re too busy being happy.” He patted the book with the photo of a temple on the cover. “There’s more here than anyone will expect you to know, if they ever question you.”
Opening the book, Ben chuckled at a cartoon that made fun of the Mormon ban on cursing. “Is self-deprecation permitted?”
“Absolutely, as long as it’s light and not directed at the leaders of the Church.” Dreyfuss headed out of the kitchen. “Have fun. Be happy.”
“Hold on,” Ben said. “Why did they kick you out?”
Dreyfuss stopped at the door and turned. “They didn’t. I left of my own accord.”
“After teaching tens of thousands of boys how to convert Gentiles to the True Church?”
“I’m still a believer.”
“Excuse me?”
He chuckled. “True faith is like true love. It makes no sense to others, but when a man falls hard for a woman, or a woman for a man, completely and fully bewitched, it never goes away. Have you ever tried to tell a friend that he’s in love with the wrong woman, that she’s not a good fit for him?”
“Wrong move.”
“Exactly. When a guy’s in love, even if his friends point out the girl’s major flaws, it doesn’t matter. For him, she’s perfect, magical, heavenly. Right?”
Ben nodded.
“Same with faith. It doesn’t need to pass the test of logic or factual accuracy. It’s an emotional thing, a spiritual passion, a conviction that our souls are godly and eternal. It’s the faith I grew up loving, the faith I served with all my heart, the faith I taught to countless students. In my heart, my faith is true. And it never goes away, you know? Even when she gets wrinkles, age spots, and silver hair, you still see her as she once was—the light source of your universe. It’s the same with my faith. I see the warts, but my heart still pounds with awe when I read the Book of Mormon. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“Are you going to quote me in your article?”
“Anonymously, unless you tell me your real name.”
“I can’t do that.”
“If you still believe, why did you leave?”
“Faith is one thing. Church authorities and their heavy-handed tactics are another.” Dreyfuss pulled out a photo of a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, redhead and freckled, smiling into the camera. The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Your son?”
“David was a great kid. He hit all the milestones for the perfect Mormon youth—Aaronic Priesthood, Eagle Scout, Melchizedek Priesthood, sailed through high school with top grades, certified by our local bishop for the honor of a two-year mission. He was perfect in every way…but one.” Dreyfuss pocketed the photo. “He had managed to hide it well. No one ever suspected. But the Mission Training Center is very intense, and a brotherly embrace turned into something more. The other boy reported it, and my colleagues were in an awkward position. But the rules were clear. David lost his mission assignment, his Temple Recommend Card was taken, and he was sent for treatment.”
“Treatment?”
“Of course.” Dreyfuss chuckled sadly. “Homosexuality is a curable mental disease.”
“He didn’t have to go, did he?”
“He was a good boy. He did what his father told him to do.”
“You had him committed?”
“I trusted my Church. Dr. Neibauer ran a clinic in Utah. It was very effective, according to him. Unfortunately, my David wasn’t part of that statistic.” Dreyfus removed his glasses and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “He wrote me a letter, apologizing for being a sinner, for succumbing to Satan’s temptations. He was determined not to ruin our family’s prospects of spending eternity together in the Celestial Kingdom, to which he could not rise to join us unless, of course, he was purified through the ultimate ritual.”
“Blood atonement?”
“Exactly.”
“He killed himself?”
“Suicide wouldn’t work.” Dreyfuss turned away and held on to the door frame. “He made a fake gun from wood in the arts and crafts room, went into the office during dinnertime, and called the police, telling them there’s a young man who’s gone mad and was shooting at staff members and patients. When the police arrived, he ran at them, aiming the gun. They shot him thirty-seven times. My poor David…”
Back downstairs, the hours passed slowly. Keera barely managed to answer the professor’s questions about her dissection methods. His expression was even more dour than usual. He marked something on his pad and moved to the next cadaver. They continued dissecting up the shin and around the knees. Each time the professor returned, she had to force her mind to focus, setting aside the thought of the white Ducati that was waiting for her outside. She kept thinking of ways to get her car and speed away before he could catch up, but every idea failed in the details. Like in a game of rock-paper-scissors, a sport bike always beat an old Mustang. But when the three-hour class was finally drawing to a close, Keera looked at the skinned foot and came up with an idea that might just work.
On the way out, she grabbed a bundle of white cotton dressing. Crouched in the stairwell, she took off her left shoe and bandaged her ankle.
Limping through the lobby, Keera approached the security desk.
Sam saw her and got up. “What happened to you?”
“I tripped on the stairs,” Keera said. “Stupid me.”
He came around the security desk. “Are you okay driving like this?”
“Driving isn’t the problem. Walking is.” She fished her car keys from her pocket. “My car is all the way at the end. A blue Mustang convertible. Would you—”
“You got it!” He signaled the other guard, who nodded.
Moments later, her car pulled up in front of the building. Keera limped out and thanked Sam, who held the door open for her. She could tell he was wondering how she planned to drive a manual transmission in her condition, but she had bigger things to worry about. A dot of light appeared in her rearview mirror—far back, near the end of the parking area, the single headlight of a motorcycle.
Through the afternoon hours, Ben had been reading Mormonism for Dummies. It was jovially written and interesting, and he found similarities to other religions in the various myths, rules, and rituals. Eventually, when the sun was setting, smells of cooking drew him to the kitchen.
Powell was stirring a steamy pot. “Ready for a test?”
“A testimony,” Ben said, “is the correct term.”
“Very good! So…what is the First Vision?”
“Joseph Smith was fourteen when he went into the forest in upstate New York to pray for guidance about which church to join. God came down with Jesus. They told Joseph that all the existing churches were false abominations and that he must restore the True Church, which is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Correct,” Powell said. “Between us, though, Smith’s letters
and writings tell an evolving series of stories about that event, starting with a mere dream, then something about an angel, or a personhood, and finally, in the last version, published after his death, it became God and Christ in actual bodies. But you should answer simply if the temple workers test you. Now, how about the Book of Mormon?”
“It’s the True Gospel,” Ben said. “An angel named Moroni told Smith to dig up golden tablets that had been buried by the last survivor of an ancient civilization of Israelite immigrants to North America a millennium earlier. Smith also found Urim Vetumim, a device that turned him into a seer—a man capable of translating the tablets from Egyptian to English. The book tells the story of how the lost tribes of Israel came to America and how Jesus Christ ministered to them before they were destroyed by the dark-skinned descendants of Lucifer, who are the ancestors of today’s Native Americans.”
“You’re generalizing.” Dreyfuss entered the kitchen and sat down. “Also, your tone isn’t very convincing.”
“Wait till he explains godhood,” Streep said as she joined them.
“I’m not mocking,” Ben said. “Mormonism isn’t less plausible than other religions. If you believe that Christ rose from the dead in Jerusalem, why couldn’t he have risen in America too and ministered to the natives?”
“Mormon boy!” Streep pointed at him. “Are you a good Christian? Are you?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “I am. We believe in Jesus Christ and his mission of salvation and redemption.”
“So what’s the difference between you and a Protestant, a Catholic, or a Lutheran?”
“We believe that the Book of Mormon is divine scripture, that Joseph Smith was a true prophet of God, and that every successive head of our church, including our current church president, is also a prophet, a seer, and a revelator of God’s messages.”
“Go on,” she said.
“We believe that God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are separate physical beings, just like men of blood and flesh. They’re elevated humans who look and walk like us. God, for example, lives on his own planet with his godly wives. And all the saints who have achieved exaltations have also become gods and live with their own godly wives on their own planets and procreate many godly children.”
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