Crossing though the parking lot, where most vehicles were vans and SUVs that could accommodate large families, Ben noticed the abundance of political bumper stickers. It was not unusual to see those around the heavily partisan Washington area, but here there was an odd unanimity to it. Without exception, all the bumper stickers supported Joe Morgan and the Republican Party. At the same time, there was not a single off-color one. Most of them were simple, blue-and-red stickers with a straightforward message from Morgan’s campaign:
Restore America’s Soul!
Boot the Food-stamp President!
Yes, We Believe!
Socialism ≠ American
God + Freedom = American Exceptionalism
Ben crossed the plaza, and his gaze was drawn up to the Angel Moroni, a golden statue that was perched atop the highest spire, blowing a long trumpet. In his pocket, Ben felt the tiny angel on the key ring with the memory flash drive.
The phone rang, and Porter saw ‘HR – Cindy G’ on the caller ID display. She had taken a liking to him when he had first arrived from Colorado and was processed by Human Resources. He knew the type—middle-aged divorcée with one or two grown kids and a pudgy midriff that spoke of long evenings in front of the TV. Being privy to his personnel file, she knew he had no children and was not a heavy consumer of medical services. His family status—Divorced—told her he wasn’t likely to be gay.
He exhaled and picked up. “Porter here.”
“And Cindy is here too,” she said. “I missed you at the cafeteria. Did you go out, like, for lunch?”
“No,” he lied.
“Are you a hungry bear now? If you wait till five, I’ll feed you, like, if you want?”
Her flirtations were clumsy, but he had kept her optimistic, accepting her invitation for a Saturday night dinner in Towson and, another time, for a Sunday brunch at the Inner Harbor. She wanted to “show him around town” and laughed out loud at his humorous teasing and his compliments, which were never explicit enough to ignite an open solicitation on her part. He was careful not to cross the line, keeping her at bay with occasional hints at a painful breakup with his fictional ex.
“Maybe another time. I just had a quick sandwich. My morning appointments ran overtime.”
“Anything fun?”
“Hardly. Traffic planning sessions with local churches ahead of the Christmas season. You know, staggering services so we don’t have to send troopers to multiple locations at the same time.”
“Of course! That’s so important! I remember last year, like, at the end of our Midnight Mass, the traffic on Old Baltimore Road was horrible and—”
“I’ll be right there,” he said toward his closed door and picked up the handset, taking her off speaker. “Sorry. Got to go to a meeting.”
“Oh, sure, I understand. Call me later, okay?”
“Sure. Was there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Not really, except that someone was, like, asking about you.”
“Yes?”
“It was odd.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Someone was asking about your record and your previous postings and, like, any disciplinary proceedings—”
“Really?”
“I made you look good, sweetie. Don’t worry!” She laughed.
“You’re the best.” Porter hesitated. His file had nothing in it to cause alarm, but if someone wanted to dig deeper and started calling people, the record might not hold. “Now I’m curious.” He chuckled. “Can you tell me who it was?”
“It’s confidential!” Cindy giggled. “But you can try, like, guessing?”
“A man or a woman?”
“I knew you’d ask that!”
“A woman?”
“Yes, you could say it’s a woman, like, kind of.”
That was a giveaway. “The butch lieutenant from Hate Crimes?”
“I didn’t tell you!” Cindy laughed. “But you still owe me, like, a dinner or something?”
“You got it.” Porter hid the anger in his voice. “And don’t pay any attention to Fran DeLacourt. She’s just fishing around because I caught a friend of hers messing around with evidence at a fatal accident site.”
“Figures. These people are, like, immoral, you know?”
“I agree. Did she say anything?”
“Not really. I mean, not much to discuss, with your past postings being classified.” Cindy’s voice was touched by awe. “I’d love to hear about it sometime. Will you tell me?”
“Sure, but then I’ll have to kill you.”
“Oh, my God!” She burst out laughing. “You are so funny!”
“Call you later,” he said. “Thanks!”
Porter left his office and walked by Lt. Francine DeLacourt’s office. She wasn’t there. Was she going to meet Ben Teller somewhere? How much did she know?
He kept pacing the hallways until he saw her leaving the ladies room on the second floor. He smiled at her, she nodded curtly, and he stopped, about to engage her in conversation.
His private pager suddenly beeped.
She paused, probably intrigued by the sound, which was different than the standard-issue pagers some of the old-fashioned troopers still carried.
Before she had time to ask anything, Porter entered the men’s room. Inside a stall, he checked the message. It was brief:
Lost BT. He’s too fast.
Porter cursed, and someone in the next stall cleared his throat. Sitting down on the toilet, he typed a response:
Where?
The reply came instantly:
495 W @ Silver Spring
It took Porter a moment to realize where Ben Teller was heading, and then it all became clear. He typed quickly:
He’s @ the temple! Stop him!
Entering the Mormon temple, Ben found himself in an entrance hall that was painted white and furnished with heavy sofas and armchairs. A long reception desk was attended by temple workers, all of them elderly, devout volunteers in white garb. A line of people waited to be admitted, many of them holding bags or small suitcases.
When his turn came, he handed over Sampson Allard’s Temple Recommend Card, which was about the size of a credit card, with the name and photo of the bearer in the front under the heading: The Church of JESUS CHRIST of Latter-day Saints. On the back of the card were the signatures of the lay bishop and the stake president, who had both verified his good standing as a churchgoer who avoided alcohol and caffeine drinks, didn’t smoke tobacco products, and avoided extramarital sex while remaining compliant with tithing obligations.
“Welcome! Welcome!” The elderly saint smiled.
“Thank you.” Ben returned the smile with as much warmth as he could muster.
“How are you?” He held up the card and compared it to Ben’s face.
Ben forced an even bigger smile. “Wonderful!”
“Hum.” He keyed the information into a computer. “How was your drive, Brother—”
“Samson.”
The man looked up.
“Sampson,” Ben corrected himself. “Sampson Allard. Yes. The drive was okay, considering.” He touched his shoulder. “And you?”
“Good. Good.” He leaned closer to the screen. “Back so soon?”
“I’m not well.”
“Oh?”
“Minor surgery, but…we’ll see.” Ben looked away. “The pathology report will tell. That’s why…I felt the need for…coming.”
“Of course! Of course!” The man’s creased face filled with compassion. He held Ben’s hand between his hands. “I will pray for you, Brother Sampson.”
Touched with guilt, Ben nodded.
“We can always use additional volunteers in the endowments for the dead.”
The comments didn’t surprise Ben because Dreyfuss had explained that they might
assume he had come to the temple to serve as a proxy in the second stage of salvation for the dead who had already had their baptism done earlier in one of the wards by a different proxy. “It’s an honor,” he said.
“Brother Pat will help you now.”
Another temple worker came over. This one was even older, his arms bony and covered with age spots. But he walked with a military posture, and his eyes were bright and intelligent behind horn-framed glasses.
Just as Dreyfuss had described, Ben was given a plastic bag containing the outfit needed for the washing-and-anointing part of the ordinances, and Brother Pat led him to the changing room.
Ben scanned the walls for the fire alarm. Along the way from the main entrance, they passed two fire stations, but he couldn’t trigger either of them in full view of so many saints, as well as Brother Pat, who seemed to take his sacred job with great seriousness.
The dressing area offered limited privacy with white curtains hanging to create small stalls, each with a locker for street clothes and personal possessions.
He took off the white shoes, suit, tie, and buttoned-down shirt, and got out of the holy undergarments, which were moist with his sweat. Everything went into the locker, together with Streep’s bag.
Chapter 56
Keera was standing in the hallway near a nurses’ station with the wife and son of a recently deceased patient. She had spent the whole night in the Intensive Care Unit assisting the resident physician. The patient’s lung cancer had stopped responding to treatment and his oxygen levels refused to rise. He had made it through the night and morning, but shortly after she had come back upstairs with a ring on her finger, the patient’s heart finally stopped. Resuscitation efforts were not successful, as was expected. The patient’s middle-aged son had just arrived from California on the redeye and, as was often the case with uninvolved family members, his reaction was hostile and untrusting. Thankfully, one of the nurses summoned Patient Relations, and they took over.
It was in this hazy state of tiredness and defeat that she found a voice message on her iPhone from Fran DeLacourt.
“Hi, girl. How’re you doing? We miss you.” Fran paused. “Been wondering whether you’re avoiding us. Are you? Anyway, I got your stuff with me in the car, just in case you need a change of clothes. And I’ve done some digging about Porter. Not much to go on, but anyway, call me.”
Holding her iPhone, Keera debated whether or not to call Fran back. But the single shower stall at the medical residents’ overnight room was available, the green scrubs she was wearing stunk, and she had no energy to speak to anyone, let alone a friend who might not be a friend.
In the plastic bag Ben found a folded white sheet, which he shook loose. It had a hole in the middle for his head. The sheet draped his naked body like an oversized Mexican poncho. The Mormons called it ‘A Shield,” but to him it felt thin and scant against his skin. The bandage on the back of his shoulder created an unsightly hump.
He put on the white slippers, which were a size too big.
Also in the plastic bag were a white hat and a green waistband that was cut in a way that formed a large fig leaf in the front, which he knew were for the later rites, only he had no intention of going that far. He stuffed the plastic bag in the locker together with the rest of his stuff. Having no place to carry the Angel Moroni key ring with the memory flash drive, he held it in his fist.
Now he had to get rid of Brother Pat, who was waiting for him with a pleasant smile, rocking back and forth expectantly, his fingers interwoven.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Ben said.
“Of course.” He pointed the way.
Ben walked over to a door marked with a male figure. Inside, two of the ten toilet stalls were occupied, and a young man was washing his hands at the row of sinks. On the wall was a glass-fronted fire box containing an ax, a rolled-up hose, and an alarm handle. A sign above the box read:
In the event of fire, kindly do the following:
1. Open box and pull alarm handle.
2. Assist disabled brothers and sisters.
3. Proceed to the nearest emergency exit.
4. Gather outside for prayer.
5. Await further instructions.
Ben entered one of the stalls, closed the door, and listened.
The water kept running for a minute or two. Finally it stopped, and the paper towel dispenser buzzed.
Throat-clearing in another stall.
In the crack between the door and the frame, Ben saw a figure pass toward the exit.
A toilet flushed.
Ben exited his stall and walked between the row of sinks and stalls to the opposite wall. He pried open the glass door and grabbed the handle of the fire alarm.
A stall door creaked behind him.
Gritting his teeth, Ben shut the box, swiveled to the last sink, and turned on the water, pretending to wash his hands. From the corner of his eye he saw a figure leaving a stall and stepping to another sink.
In the mirror, Ben hardly recognized himself—the short, bleached hair framed a pale face, except for his cheeks, which had a reddish hue from a close shave—something he usually did once a week, at most. The bleached eyebrows stood out even more because of his dark eyes. But the most appalling was the loose white poncho, which completed the hospital-like appearance of a sickly guy in desperate need of a beach vacation and free supply of red meat and beer. Or at least a cup of steaming coffee.
Waiting in his office at the state police headquarter in Pikesville, Porter kept glancing at the pager on his desk, willing it to beep with a new message from Ghost. Finally it did:
U R correct. Found his GS @ temple access rd.
This was it! Porter rubbed his hands, contemplated for a long moment, and typed a final set of instructions.
Send him 2 the Celestial Kingdom.
Search 4 disk/other devices & destroy.
The reply was exactly what Porter wanted:
OK. Consider it done.
Porter removed the battery from the pager, dropped it on the floor, and drew his service revolver, which he unloaded. He kneeled down, held the revolver by the short barrel, and used the butt to smash the pager repeatedly until no piece was larger than a penny. After reloading and holstering the revolver, he collected all the pieces of the pager in a paper tissue, went to the bathroom, and flushed it down the toilet.
Just as one saint was leaving the men’s room, two others entered. A toilet flushed in one of the occupied stalls. Ben realized he had no hope of being left alone long enough to trigger the fire alarm. Giving himself a last glance in the mirror, he walked out. But just before turning the corner, he reached over his shoulder, peeled off part of the sticky tape that held the bandage to the singed tattoo, and reapplied it over the key ring and memory flash drive. It felt very big to him, and as he rearranged the white poncho over it, Ben hoped the bulge wouldn’t stand out to the casual observer.
“Ah!” Brother Pat cheerfully greeted him. “Feeling better?”
“Thank God.” Ben followed him, memorizing the way.
They made two turns down wide hallways, passed by several doors, and entered a large room. The space was divided by white curtains, similar to the changing room, creating cubicles with a limited measure of privacy. But here the activity was more intense, and as they walked across the room, Ben heard murmuring and splashing behind the partitions.
Pat held aside the curtain for Ben, and they entered a cubicle. The hushed male voices now came from all directions, pronouncing rapid incantations that merged with each other into an incoherent stream of words.
A stool held a container and a folded white towel.
After positioning Ben before him, Pat unhooked a small rubber hose, glanced at a piece of paper, and said, “Brother Sampson! By the authority of the True Church, I now wash you for and on behalf of Aryeh Leib Belin
ski, who is dead, and you take the endowments for him.”
Squirting water from the hose on Ben’s forehead, he continued, “I now wash your head so that your brain and intellect may be clear and accurate.” Wetting each of Ben’s ears, he said, “I wash your ears so that you hear the words of the Lord clearly.” Continuing to Ben’s eyes, he said, “I wash your eyes so that you see clearly and walk in the way of the Lord…I wash your nose so that you may smell…your lips…that you may never speak evil…”
Too shocked by this flow of water all over his head and face, Ben barely followed the words while Pat reached under the white poncho and washed his shoulders, spine, and chest—“that your shoulders be strong…your spine carry you…your heart be a receptacle for pure and righteous thoughts…”
His ribs, internal organs, and bowels received their due blessings for and on behalf of the dead Belinski, “that they perform their bodily functions,” as did his arms and hands, “that they may be strong and do the work of the Lord…”
Pat lifted the bottom edge of Ben’s white poncho and said, “I wash your loins so that you may multiply and replenish the earth and sow your seed for your posterity.” The stream of cold water made Ben flinch, earning a disapproving glare from Pat, which instantly turned into a grandfatherly smile.
As soon as Pat completed the washing and blessing of Ben’s legs and feet, another man materialized from behind the curtain
In a scripted ritual they must have repeated hundreds of times, both of them dipped their fingers in the container of oil, laid the dripping hands on Ben’s head, and recited a blessing that repeatedly included the word “Sealing.” They made him sit down and continued anointing him with “consecrated oil” that was turning Belinski—by proxy—into a member of the Church and elevating him to priesthood. They proceeded to oil Ben’s body parts in a manner resembling the earlier washing part.
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