“Hallelujah!”
“We also believe,” Ben continued, “that all souls were created by God in pre-mortality and that they are sent here to earth to be born with a chance to embrace the True Gospel and live righteously as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which is the only path to exaltation.”
“Men or women?”
“Both, but they have different roles. The man is the saint, the master who holds the priesthood of God, rules over his family, and goes out in the world to make money and provide for his family. The woman’s job is childbearing. Her duty is to raise the children, take care of the home, and submit to her husband in every way.”
“And the reward?”
“We believe,” Ben said, “that only those of us—saints who follow the True Gospel to the letter—shall pass on to the Celestial Kingdom and live on as gods with our own godly wives who will be pregnant and give birth repeatedly forever—which is why we are sealed for eternity with our wives in the Mormon Temple.”
“Nice, but you didn’t answer,” Streep said. “Are you—the Latter-day Saints—really Christians?”
Chapter 49
Keera had to make a choice: Run for it or pretend not to notice? The neatness of the burglary had given her a weird sense of confidence that these people were not insane criminals, but carefully calculating professionals. In all likelihood, the Ghost was here to watch her in case Ben showed up. They must have learned where she spent her days, but hopefully they didn’t know where she was spending her nights. She decided to play the role of the oblivious babe. She would drive around until the opportunity came to make a run for it and lose the tail. Then she would go to Fran’s place.
The exit road spilled onto I-95, and she headed south toward Washington, her usual commute home. Traffic was heavy, but it was moving steadily. The Ducati stayed way back, its headlight popping in and out of her rearview mirror.
A few miles down the road, approaching the exit for Rt. 32 West, she stayed in the left lane as long as possible, then cut across to the exit ramp on the right. A moment later, as she sped up on the merging lane, the Ducati headlight returned to her rearview mirror.
Traffic was heavier here, with tens of thousands of employees leaving the massive compound of the National Security Agency—the NSA, whose acronym was otherwise known to stand for No Such Agency.
She could stay on Rt. 32, which eventually curved northward and connected with I-70, where she could swing back toward Fran’s place west of Baltimore. But first Keera had to lose the Ducati while pretending to be driving home. Her advantage would come from many weekends of riding behind Ben on his GS through the back roads of Howard County. He was always insistent that they map the ride ahead together, with her choosing the nature destinations and coffee stops. It was his way of making sure that her passive role as backseat passenger wouldn’t make her feel like a needless appendage.
A tentative plan formed in her mind.
The exit for Rt. 29 South was backed up, and Keera kept her eyes on the side mirrors while maintaining enough room behind the next car for a quick lane change, in case the Ducati suddenly opted for more aggressive moves.
Heading down Rt. 29 South toward Silver Spring, she maintained a steady speed. The signs for Rt. 216 appeared. It was a local road that led into densely wooded areas of gradually narrowing country roads, rich with twists and turns, and plenty of places to hide.
From the third lane on the left, she crossed over to the right and slowed down.
About seven or eight cars behind, the Ducati did the same.
She put on the turn signal, veered to the shoulder, and stopped.
Traffic continued to flow. As she expected, to avoid exposure the Ghost kept going, passing by her window, moving apace with traffic—a white Ducati, a white riding suit, and a white helmet that didn’t turn to look at her.
Knowing that he would look at his side mirror in a second to figure out why she had stopped, Keera turned right and held up her iPhone so it was visible through the front windshield. She redialed Fran’s number. Again it went straight to voice mail.
Farther ahead, the Ducati was passing the exit, staying on Rt. 29 South. Keera hit the gas, accelerating at full power, and took the exit onto Rt. 216 West. Catching a last glimpse of the Ducati, she said out loud, “Ciao, asshole!”
“Yes, we are Christians,” Ben answered. “We’re definitely Christians. In fact, we’re the only Christians!”
Streep finally smiled. “That’s what I was looking for. Explain!”
“Those who call themselves Christians—Catholics, Protestants, Lutherans, Evangelists, Pentecostals, Born-againers, and so on—they’re all Gentiles who follow false religions, abominations against God and Jesus Christ. They’re not Christians.”
“How can they not be Christians if they worship Christ?”
“They’re misguided. Their Christ is actually his brother, Lucifer. Only Mormons follow the true Christ.”
“Bravo!” Streep clapped. “Spoken like a true saint!”
“Just in case they ask you,” Dreyfuss said, “about the other churches, here is something to remember.” He showed him a photocopy of a page from a book. “This is the original language of the Book of Mormon, published by Joseph Smith in eighteen-thirty. Look at this, quoting from One Nephi, fourteen, three: ‘…that great and abominable church, which was founded by the devil and his children that he might lead away the souls of men down to hell…’ And continuing here,” Dreyfuss pointed at the next page, “Nephi elaborates about the two choices—the Mormon Church, which is the Lamb of God, and greater Christianity, lumped together as one whore. Here, starting in verse nine.”
Ben held the page and read quietly:
Behold, there is save it be two churches;
the one is the church of the Lamb of God
and the other is the church of the devil.
Wherefore whoso belongeth not to the church of the Lamb of God
Belongeth to that great church which is the mother of abominations,
and she is the whore of the earth.
And it came to pass that I looked and beheld the whore of the earth.
And she sat upon many waters,
and she had dominion over all the earth
among all the nations, kindreds, tongues, and people.
And it came to pass that I beheld the church of the Lamb of God;
and its numbers were few
because of the wickedness and abominations of the whore
which sat upon many waters.
Nevertheless I beheld that the church of the Lamb, which were the saints of God,
were also upon all the face of the earth…’
“You see?” Dreyfuss pointed at the page. “That’s what Joseph Smith taught his followers through the Book of Mormon. All of Christianity was the devil’s whore, but his new church, the Lamb of God, was the only true church. Still is. Those who belong to the Mormon Church are the ‘Saints of God,’ and one day they will replace the rest of Christianity ‘upon all the face of the earth.’ In other words, only Mormons are true Christians. Everyone else—Catholics, Protestants, Baptists—are not Christians but Gentiles and devil-worshipers.”
“Pretty harsh,” Ben said. “Do Mormons still believe that?”
“You betcha!” Streep showed him a cross she was wearing on a plain silver chain around her neck. “No crosses on Mormon temples, churches, or necks, right?”
“Their obsession with secrecy,” Dreyfuss explained, “is not a coincidence. They know how upset all Christians would be if they knew that Mormons consider themselves the only true Christians while all others are Gentiles whose churches are false, abominable, whoring, satanic denominations. It would interfere with the LDS corporate and business activities and hinder the political aspirations of people like Joe Morgan.”
&nbs
p; “That’s right!” Streep tucked her cross back under her shirt. “Would you vote for someone who believes you’re a devil worshiper?”
“Not to mention,” Dreyfuss added, “the interference with their massive missionary work. We trained young Mormon missionaries to start contact with Christian prospects with a mild, friendly sales pitch that the Book of Mormon is nothing more than another testimony of Christ.”
“That’s arguably true,” Streep said. “But who cares about theology? All the kid needs to know is what happens in the temple so he can get through security.”
“What was that?” Ben looked from one to the other. “Have I agreed to infiltrate the temple?”
“It’s the only way,” Powell said. “Don’t you want to find out what really happened to Zachariah, how involved was Morgan, who sent the Danites to kill you?”
“I do,” Ben said. “But I want to confront Morgan myself. That’s my condition, and it’s not negotiable.”
“Why?” Streep looked at him with creased eyes. “It’s going to be risky, even if you manage to get to him.”
“I have my reasons,” Ben said. “Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes,” Powell said. “It’s a deal. We’ll train you and get you into the temple. You’ll steal the files and give us the data. As far as we’re concerned, you can try to confront Morgan face-to-face, though I hope you have a good reasons to take such a risk.”
The road narrowed to two lanes, separated by a solid line. Traffic was heavy in both directions. She couldn’t pass, but there was no doubt in her mind that the Ducati was already catching up fast. If she waited any longer, the game would be lost.
Taking advantage of a lull in oncoming traffic, Keera veered into the opposite lane and pushed the Mustang to go as fast as it could, passing a group of slow-moving cars. A truck appeared around a curve ahead, and Keera slipped back into her lane, winning an angry honk for the car she had cut off. Farther ahead, the light was green at Pindell School Road, but it turned yellow as she approached. With the pedal pressed to the floor, she flew through the intersection.
A minute or so later, she saw the cemetery on the left, which extended all the way to the intersection with Browns Bridge Road, where she would turn right and head north, disappearing into the countryside beyond the Ducati’s reach.
But the light at the intersection ahead was red, a line of waiting cars blocked her way, and oncoming traffic deprived her of a passing lane. Without giving in to hesitation, Keera twisted the steering wheel and dropped to the dirt shoulder, passing the other cars on the right. The Mustang made hellish noises as rocks hit the undercarriage, the tires pounded on the uneven surface, and the steering wheel literally tried to twist out of her grip. Just before reaching the turn, she noticed that part of the shoulder was missing, washed away into the parallel ditch by a recent rain.
It was too late to stop. The right front wheel dropped into the hole, the hood tilted sharply before her eyes, followed by a huge bang as the wheel hit the other side of the hole and sent the right side of the car leaping into the air. And as it came down, the rear wheel dropped into the same hole. The Mustang was caught in a three-dimensional figure-eight, twisting left and right, up and down, and back and forth like a bucking horse determined to throw her off.
Keera gripped the steering wheel desperately to keep the Mustang on its forward velocity on the dirt shoulder toward the stoplights and the perpendicular traffic out of Browns Bridge Road. Suddenly, the latches holding the convertible top broke off and the whole canvas top popped up, filled with wind, and flew backward, tearing away with a sickening sound.
“If I’m going to enter the temple,” Ben said, “I’ll need to know what to expect.” He patted Mormonism for Dummies. “There’s very little about it here.”
“Because temple rituals are secret,” Dreyfuss explained. “Mormons are sworn on their lives never to reveal the rituals to Gentiles. Temple participation itself is restricted to Mormons in good standing—men who have attained priesthood, married in a temple, obey their bishop, and follow all the rules, such as to abstain from tobacco, caffeine, and alcohol. They also must be tithing in full, which means that one dollar in every ten they earn must go to Salt Lake City.”
“You should know,” Powell said, “that saints are often called back to the temple to serve as proxy for the dead. With hundreds of thousands of dead Gentile souls awaiting salvation, the LDS Church faces a challenge of efficiency, because posthumous conversions have two parts. The immersion in a baptismal bath can be done in any one of the hundreds of wards, but posthumous endowments can only be done at one of the forty or so temples. Before leaving the Church, I spent many days serving as a proxy. It’s a wonderful experience.”
“Same here,” Dreyfuss said. “Mormon temples are heavenly places for the faithful. As a member of the missionary training leadership, I was fortunate to live near a temple and serve often as proxy for the dead. Even now, when I think back on receiving the endowments and practicing the rituals, I wish for one more opportunity to participate.”
“I feel the same,” Powell said.
“Suit yourselves,” Streep said. “The whole thing makes me want to puke.”
Ben laughed. “I’m with you, but if entry criteria is so tightly supervised, how am I going to get in?”
“Don’t worry.” Powell chuckled. “We’ll take care of that part.”
“And then? Once I’m in, what happens then? I don’t want to look like an idiot.”
“Patience,” Dreyfuss said. “The first thing you want to understand is that the Mormon temple is designed to resemble the phases of rising through salvation and exaltation to the ultimate godhood. In other words, you’re in for a treat, Mr. Teller.”
Shocked by the hurricane of cold air, dazed by the jerky, roller-coaster ride toward the stoplights and cross-traffic, Keera’s next move was born out of survival instinct rather than skill. As soon as the front wheels reconnected with asphalt, she twisted the steering wheel to the right and held on while the Mustang screeched and groaned and attempted to stand on its left wheels.
Somehow, despite the forward momentum, the car made the turn onto Browns Bridge Road. The sudden change in direction cut down its speed, bringing the storm of wind and noise to an abrupt calmness.
But not for long.
A cacophony of car horns came from behind, amplified by the missing roof. Keera knew she should stop and find the soft top. As aged and cracked as it was, a new one would cost a small fortune. But she was too shaken to do anything but continue north on Browns Bridge Road, away from the scene of her nearly calamitous crash. Besides, the Ducati must have scrambled to turn around and chase after her on Rt. 216, and its mosquito-like agility would allow it to pass through traffic much more rapidly than her Mustang.
She sped up.
Driving with an open top under the darkening sky would have been pretty if not for the frosty air that swirled around her, reducing the ambient temperature to arctic levels. She cranked up the heat to maximum and crouched as low as possible in the seat, peering above the steering wheel at the road ahead—a two-lane twister that Ben loved to tear through on his GS, with her grasping his skinny hips for dear life.
She planned ahead in her mind. Two more turns, a total of less than three miles, and she would reach Rt. 32 West. From there, it would be twenty minutes to Fran’s place.
Keera pulled her sleeves down to cover her hands, gripping the steering wheel as tightly as she could. Her hair was flying around. She reached across to the glove compartment and found the wool cap that had been there since the fall, when she occasionally enjoyed open-top driving.
Approaching a stop sign at Guilford Road, she downshifted, slowed down, and after a quick glance to the right, made the left turn and accelerated. Another minute or two, and she would be in the thick of commuter traffic on 32 West-North, lost to her pursuer. She imagined tel
ling Ben about this little adventure, watching his bemused expression turn to concern and alarm at how close she had come to—
“Blue Mustang! Stop on the side of the road!”
Keera sat up and looked over her shoulder.
“Stop now!” The man’s voice on the loudspeaker was now accompanied by rolling lights—not on the roof, but on the dashboard inside the car, which was a large sedan of the type used by unmarked police. “Blue Mustang!”
She hesitated, asking out loud, “Who the hell are you?”
As if answering her question, the loudspeaker announced, “Maryland State Police. Please slow down, get off the road, and come to a full stop on the shoulder!”
She obeyed.
“Turn off the engine and keep your hands on the wheel!”
In her haste and cold, Keera released the clutch while still in gear, and the engine died. “Here,” she said. “Happy now?”
Rex came in, wearing a dark suit and a tie. “Blessings unto you, Brothers and Sister!” He pulled a laminated card from his pocket and set it on the table. “Welcome aboard, Sampson Allard!”
“You got him a Temple Recommend Card?” Streep examined it. “The face is similar, but the hair is wrong.” She clasped Ben’s dark mane with her hand. “You’re not too attached to this, are you?”
“My girlfriend is,” Ben said. “Can we just color it?”
“Have you ever seen a Mormon with long hair?”
“Joseph Smith, Brigham Young—”
“Long hair,” Streep said, “had gone out of fashion together with plural marriages and horse wagons.”
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