He read the information twice and gave the paper back to Dreyfuss. “Got it.”
“Tell me.”
Ben recited Dr. Monroe’s address and phone number.
“Good. Now, considering that Sampson Allard was in the temple only a few days ago, someone might question what you’re doing back at the temple so soon. Your response is simple: The pathology results are due in a day or two, and the wound has been bothering you, so where else would you go for comfort and hope but to the temple, where God’s rituals—”
“Ordinances.”
“Correct. Ordinances and endowments. You hope the cancer hasn’t spread, but you feel the need to be in the best position, just in case. Serving as proxy in receiving endowments for the dead will bring you closer to exaltation and help you win entry to the Celestial Kingdom of God.”
“The way I feel,” Ben said, “I won’t be lying.”
“Get a good night sleep,” Dreyfuss said. “Tomorrow is the big day.”
“One way or another,” Streep said as she collected the plates from the table. “Whatever happens at the temple, don’t underestimate the saints.”
A few minutes later, when Ben was already in bed, reading Mormon America – The Power and the Promise, by Richard and Joan Ostling, there was a knock on his door. When he opened it, Powell was there, his hand held forward, his large palm brown and creased and meaty, dwarfing a small box.
“Take it,” Powell said.
Ben looked at him. “What’s inside?”
Powell opened the box. Resting on a felt cushion was a ring. At first it looked like brass, but Ben realized it was gold. The setting was a crown that hoisted the diamond over a circle of blue gems. The band was crafted as a leafy branch, fixed with tiny rubies.
“I don’t understand,” Ben said. “What is it?”
“A piece of history,” Powell said. “The man who owned my great-grandfather had it made in England as an engagement ring for his fiancée, the daughter of another plantation owner in Georgia. The leaves are tobacco, the rubies are drops of slaves’ blood. Three decades later, the owner and his four sons died in the battle of Columbus. After the Confederates lost the war, the wife deeded the land in small parcels to the freed slaves who had worked on the plantation, gifted her jewelry to the house slaves, and drank a jar of lemonade laced with arsenic.”
“A sad ending.”
“And a happy beginning of freedom for our family. Four wonderful marriages started with this engagement ring—including mine, which turned sour only after Mormon racism poisoned it.” Powell held out his hand. “Take it. It belongs on the finger of a beautiful black woman.”
The proper thing to do was to decline, but Ben sensed that this was a test—not a test of his good manners, but of his true feelings about race. Was Keera’s black skin the real reason for his ambivalence about marriage? “Thank you,” he said, taking the box. “It’s an honor.”
Part VIII:
The Candidate
Chapter 53
When Ben woke up, he found a set of white Mormon undergarments neatly folded on a chair. Hanging from a hook on the back of the door, still in plastic wraps from the dry cleaners, were his clothes for the day—a white shirt, a white dress-suit, and a white tie. Before getting dressed, he shaved and asked Rex to change the dressing on the back of his shoulder.
A thin layer of frost coated the seat of the GS, and Ben wiped it off with his hand. The four of them watched him pull on the riding pants and jacket on top of the white suit. Underneath, the Mormon undergarments felt like plastic against his skin, but he didn’t mind. The three layers would keep him warm. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
No one said anything, and the way they were looking at him made Ben realize their feelings were more complex than he had thought.
“Do you miss it?” Ben looked at each one of them. “Do you miss the life among the saints? The shared faith in the True Church? The wholesome community of brothers and sisters on the path to exaltation?”
Dreyfuss took off his glasses and pretended to clean them.
Rex looked around at the quiet farm buildings. “Sometimes,” he said.
“All the time,” Powell said. “I miss it every day, all these years.”
Streep shrugged. “How can you not miss it? There’s so much damn love there, so much kindness and support and joy—if you’re lucky not to fall into the hands of a shitty husband, that is.”
“It’s true,” Dreyfuss said, his voice barely audible. “For the most part, there are no people as good as the Mormons.”
“Now I’m really confused.” Ben pulled on his riding gloves. “If this is how you feel, why are you trying to destroy the Church? Why ruin it for all those good Mormons?”
“We’re not trying to destroy it!” Powell pressed a clenched fist to his chest. “As God is our witness, we do not wish to harm the Church. On the contrary! We wish to save it!”
“It’s true,” Streep said. “By exposing Joe Morgan’s posthumous baptisms of Medal of Honor recipients, the harassment and death of Zachariah Hinckley, and the murderous Danites and their masters, we will shake up the faithful masses. Mormons will congregate in their wards and rise up in protest. They’ll force the sclerotic leadership to let go of the reins of power and step aside.”
“Change will come,” Dreyfuss said. “The saints will rebel against the strict chain of command, destroy the hierarchical Church authorities that dictate everything down from Salt Lake City. And then, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints will cast aside its anachronistic doctrines and come into the modern era.”
“Sounds good,” Ben said. “But how likely is it to actually happen?”
“We know our fellow Mormons,” Streep said. “All they need is a spark to ignite their core of righteousness, to set free their suppressed recognition that the Church must change. They will fight to end racism, to end women’s abuse and subjugation, to end homophobia, to end the dictatorship from the top, and to end the shameful suppression of the Church’s true history!”
“A revolution!” Powell raised his big fist. “Just like the Arab Spring, we will instigate a Mormon Spring!”
Powell, Dreyfuss, Streep, and Rex took turns to shake Ben’s hand. He mounted the GS and released the kickstand. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready to start a revolution. No pressure.”
“You’ll do fine, boy,” Powell said.
Streep winked. “Go get them!”
“I’ll pray for you,” Dreyfuss said.
“Three things to remember.” Rex counted on his fingers. “First, ride straight to the Rockville Metro, leave the bike at the station, and take the train to the temple—no stops or phone calls. Don’t ride this monster to the temple—they might expect you there.” He put his hand on the handlebar. “It’s a beauty, but subtle it’s not.”
Ben nodded.
“Second, when you enter the temple, remember that Mormons smile a lot and never cuss. Third, as soon as you trigger the fire alarm, go straight to the office and download the files.” He handed Ben a memory flash drive on a key ring with a pinky-sized figure of Angel Moroni with his long trumpet.
The helmet felt cold and loose on his short hair. Ben turned the key one click. The gauges lit up, accompanied by the beeps and chirps of the self-diagnostics. He waited, watching the display, and when everything seemed in order, he started the engine. It coughed twice and settled into a familiar exhaust sound.
Rex climbed into the Suburban and headed down the gravel road. Ben followed.
They spent nearly two hours on narrow country roads, passing through farms, vineyards, and small towns. At one point, they crossed the border from Pennsylvania to Maryland. When the signs for I-70 finally appeared, Rex veered to the shoulder and rolled down the window. Ben stopped next to him and raised the face shield.
“Take the first right turn
,” Rex yelled over the engine noise, “toward Frederick. Go west until you see signs for Two-Seventy South.”
Ben held a thumb up.
“Good luck!” Rex made a U-turn. A moment later, the Suburban was gone.
Ben passed by the right turn Rex had pointed out and continued across the overpass above the highway. He turned left, heading east toward Baltimore. Change of plans. It was obvious he didn’t have what it took to be an obedient saint.
The first highway sign told him it was twenty-seven miles to the intersection with Rt. 29 South. He settled comfortably in the saddle, bowed his head slightly to reduce wind noise, and shifted up to sixth gear for a smooth cruising at eighty miles per hour.
Chapter 54
Pulling up in front of the hospital, Ben maneuvered the GS to jump the curb and parked it next to the glass front. The security guard inside the lobby saw him and raised both arms in an Easy Rider imitation. His name was Sam, and Ben knew him from past visits.
Taking off the helmet, he pulled a Ravens hat from the tank bag, put it on, and went inside.
Keera usually left her mobile phone in her purse, which was stashed in her locker while she cared for patients. Sam, a black man with silver hair and a hearty laugh, knew the routine. He pinged three times on the public announcement system and announced, “Miss Keera Torrens, please contact the front desk. Miss Keera Torrens. Front desk. Thank you.”
She called a moment later.
Sam pressed the speaker button. “Happy Monday, Miss Torrens. You have a visitor.”
“Who?”
“A member of the media.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Lucky Dog is here, braving the winter.”
“Ben? Really?”
“The man himself.”
“Thank God!”
“You want him to go upstairs or should I just kick him out?”
“I’m coming down!” She hung up.
Two minutes later, Keera burst out of the elevator and ran into Ben’s arms. It took them a moment before noticing that a handful of staff and guests were watching them, chuckling.
Keera dragged him into a glass-fronted conference room. “What happened? Where have you been?”
He caressed her face, which was almost ashen. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was rebelling against the confines of a bow. “How long have you been here?”
“Too long. I’m afraid to leave.”
“Why aren’t you staying with Fran?”
“I feel safer here.” She touched his bleached eyebrows. “What’s this?”
He took off the Ravens hat.
“Jesus!” Keera covered her mouth. “All your hair is gone! And the color! What in hell have you done to yourself?”
“It’ll grow back.”
“Kind of cute.” She touched his cropped hair. “Are you coming home?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re still pursing that Mormon story?”
He nodded.
“I don’t understand.” She stepped out of his embrace and leaned on the conference table. “How can you do this to me?”
“It’s almost over.” Ben unzipped his riding jacket.
“Why are you wearing a suit and tie?”
He shrugged.
“And it’s all white! Are you trying to look like Michael Jackson?” She tightened the tie knot. “Who shopped for you?”
“They’re borrowed.”
“Are you going to a funeral?”
“Not exactly.”
Keera touched his face. “I’ve never seen you dressed up. Some relationship we have.”
There was a knock on the glass door. Sam came in, holding a small bouquet of indistinct flowers, which he handed to Ben. “As you requested, sir.” He winked.
“Thank you.” Ben handed it to Keera.
“Give me a break!” She dropped the bouquet on a chair. “You think a bunch of flowers will pacify me?”
“Oops.” Sam retreated.
“I’m sick of it,” Keera said. “I’ve been living here for days and nights, worrying sick about you— about us!—and all you’re doing is running around, risking everything for…what? I don’t even know! You’re obsessed!” She pushed the chair, and the bouquet fell to the floor.
Ben picked up the flowers. “I didn’t ask him to get these.”
She rolled her eyes.
“It’s going to be over today. I promise.”
“I have to go.” She went to the door. “They’re waiting for me upstairs. We’re in the middle of rounds.”
“Keera—”
“Don’t!” Her voice was breaking. “Go away! Investigate! Have fun!”
“It’s not fun.”
“I’m not having fun either! How do you think I feel—my home broken into, afraid to leave the hospital, not knowing who’s really a friend and who’s an enemy, and the guy who’s supposed to love me more than anything else is out there chasing ghosts!”
“I’m here, am I not?”
“And why is that? Why did you come here? To check that I’m still hanging around like a dumb broad who can’t see the writing on the wall?” She pulled at the strands of her loosening hair. “Look at me!”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“Liar! I look like shit! And smell like it too! Is that what you came here for?”
“I came for this.” He pulled Powell’s small box from his inside pocket.
“What’s this?”
Ben opened the box, held it forth, and kneeled. “Will you marry me?”
Keera’s jaw literally dropped.
“I know this is not the most romantic setup, but, still, will you?” He picked the ring out of the box and held it between a finger and a thumb. “Will you?”
“No!” She clenched her fists and looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head. “This is not happening!”
“Please forgive me—”
“Hell, no!”
“I’ve been a complete schmuck, taking so long to realize how lucky I am.”
“I’m going to kill you!”
Ben hopped toward her, still on his knees, and looked up. “Keera Torrens, I love you.”
“I hate you!” She couldn’t help but look down at the ring. Her face softened. “What…what is this?”
“It’s your engagement ring.”
“Don’t say that.”
He held up the ring. “It comes from a long line of happy marriages.”
“It’s…beautiful.”
“I promise to be a good husband—despite evidence to the contrary.”
She groaned.
“Will you spend your life with me?”
She unclenched her left hand and stuck it downward. “I bet it doesn’t fit.”
All he could do was pray that Powell’s wife possessed a finger of Keera’s size. He held his breath and slipped the ring on. It resisted around the second knuckle, but he forced it all the way.
Keera couldn’t take her eyes off the ring. She touched the diamond and the gems around the band, raised her hand against the light, and turned the ring from side to side.
Ben stood. “May I kiss the bride?”
“Yes.” She sniffled. “You may.”
Outside the glass wall of the conference room, a half-circle of spectators began clapping. The P.A. system crackled, and someone started whistling a vague rendition of The Wedding March.
Porter was in his office, scanning the last batch of reported traffic accidents and violations involving motorcycles in the past forty-eight hours, covering Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and the District of Columbia. Only four came up, and of those, none was listed as yellow or black.
His private pager beeped. He grabbed it and read the message:
Bikerboy @ hospital 2 C
black chick.
Exhaling in relief, Porter contemplated the message for a moment. He brought up the tiny keyboard on the beeper’s touch-screen and typed with the tip of his forefinger:
Follow @ distance; wait 4 opportunity 2 finish off; report when U R done.
Chapter 55
Having lost an hour or so, Ben decided to ride straight to the Mormon temple. He took Rt. 29 South and then the 495 beltway toward Rockville. Traffic was moving at a snail’s pace, all five lanes filled with vehicles. Impatient, he sped up, cutting between the lanes of cars and trucks, threading the large motorcycle through tight spaces, avoiding side mirrors that jutted out at face-level. Urban riding was an art, built on years of experience of calculated risk-taking, and he was very good at it. Two or three miles later, the clump of dense traffic thinned out, and he was able to go really fast. The heated handgrips kept his fingers from freezing, but the space between his collar and the bottom of the helmet allowed some air to enter, and he felt his neck beginning to hurt. But as the road curved to the right, farther ahead, the familiar sight of the Mormon temple came into view.
Approaching an overpass, he noticed a line of graffiti above the highway:
We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!
A moment later, the white castle appeared, dominating the skyline ahead. The DC Mormon Temple was enormous, its towers and spires rising high above the treetops, reaching for heaven.
As he took the exit, Ben hummed, “We’re off to see the wizard, the wizard, the wizard…”
He followed the signs to the access road, which was perfectly landscaped with shrubs and flower beds that seemed to belong in spring, not in winter.
Advancing slowly down the access road, he veered right, across the shoulder and through the knee-high flower bed, into a wooded area thick enough to shelter the GS. He took off the riding gear, which he rolled up and tied with a bungee cord to the seat. After lacing up the white dress shoes and straightening up the suit, he shouldered the bag Streep had packed for him and walked the rest of the way.
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