Brother Pat smiled approvingly and helped him put on the ceremonial hat. Everyone else did too, covering their heads with the puffed-up caps resembling chefs’ hats, yet equipped with a strap and a clip to secure it to the collar and prevent it from falling to the floor.
Continuing the story on the screen, many gods, who all appeared to be strapping white males like those surrounding Ben at the moment, ruled their own worlds while procreating incessantly with their plural wives. Souls in white or dark skin went up and down, and Lucifer played a major role opposite Jesus. But it was hard for Ben to concentrate as the Ghost entered the hall, swathed in a white robe over her lanky figure, a towel pressed to the side of her face, and took a seat on the women’s side of the room.
Brother Pat turned to Ben and held out his hand. On the screen, Elohim instructed everyone to practice a special handshake—The First Token of the Aaronic Priesthood. It was an elaborate maneuver, and Ben struggled to do it with the confidence of a saint who had already done this before and was doing it today only as a charitable proxy for the soul of a dead Gentile. There were other signs and tokens, which were intended to be practiced as well so that, when the great day came, each saint could prove to the angels guarding the Celestial Kingdom that he had indeed achieved salvation through exaltation in the True Gospel of Joseph Smith.
The next oath was to keep all these handshakes and hand signs secret even at the price of life itself. When Ben glanced over to the rear of the women’s section, the Ghost’s eyes were waiting for him over the white towel she held to her cheek.
The men passed first into the next chamber: The Lone and Dreary World. The room was decorated to communicate a desolate, desert-like space, similar to the bleak world that awaited Adam upon his banishment from the Garden of Eden. The women followed, everyone now fully clothed in white robes, which temple workers passed around to those who had not brought their own. The robes were heavy, giving a sense of being laden down with weights. A second movie started playing.
Now it was Satan’s time to play, and Ben absorbed little of the dramatic attempts at corruption occurring up on the screen while the Ghost’s eyes drilled holes in his back. But he was probably safe until she found a way to attack him surreptitiously, and he managed to follow the story enough to understand that Satan was trying to corrupt gullible men by preaching to them the main tenets of mainstream Christianity—that God was one, that He was without a physical body or earthy passions, that He sat on a topless throne, that he was everywhere always but nowhere in particular, that He was big enough to fill the universe yet small enough to live in one’s heart—all of the basic elements of faith held by Christians. But then came the message that Joseph Smith had received from Elohim the Father and Jesus the Jehovah in the First Vision, that all the Christian churches were false abominations perpetrated by Satan, that in truth there were many gods, that the first god—Elohim the Father—was a physical man living on his own planet with plural godly wives with whom he was having regular intercourse and begetting godly children—among them Jesus the Jehovah and Lucifer the Satan, and that He therefore was in one place, not everywhere, and of the same physical size as any saint in this room.
Soon Satan was shooed away by John, James, and Peter, the prophets sent by Elohim the Father, who was now looking like an elderly Mormon man. Upon departing, Satan declared about “these people,” that “if they do not walk up to every covenant they make at these altars this day, they will be in my power!”
An audible sigh of fear sounded in the room, which made Ben cough to hide a burst of nervous laughter.
With this, the ancient prophets taught the mesmerized audience more hand signs. Ben practiced with Pat the Sign of the Nail by pressing his index fingers into one another’s palms, and the Sure Sign of the Nail, which was more complicated, connecting intertwined fingers and pressing against one another’s pulse. The pantomimed penalties were then dramatized, representing the death and mayhem that would come to those who betray the secrets of the True Church.
To facilitate moving to the next room, part of the movie screen disappeared, and as if by magic, a white, wall-sized curtain came down. It symbolized the separation between this world and the next—the exalted Celestial Kingdom awaiting the righteous Mormon saints and their wives too, but only if their husbands chose to bring them through.
The men began to pass via slits in the heavy curtain and then reached to hold their wives, who remained on the side of the Lone and Dreary World. Ben realized that the husbands, some of whom were grooms in the process of marrying these girls today, tested the women on all the signs, tokens, and oaths taken today before they brought them through the curtain into the symbolic Celestial Kingdom.
Bother Pat passed first and reached through the slit in the curtain for Ben, or rather, for the dead Jew for whom Ben was a proxy. There was more replaying of the hand signs, secret tokens, and whispering of secret names and incantations that Ben didn’t quite follow. He was occupied with watching one of the temple workers go through the routine with the Ghost.
Finally Brother Pat declared, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter you into the joy of the Lord!” He grasped Ben’s arm in one of the secret handshake maneuvers and jerked him forward and through the slit in the curtain into a vast room that was breathtakingly beautiful—and very familiar!
The unnatural magnificence of the Celestial Kingdom hall had an almost bewitching effect on Ben, who struggled to remain focused on the reality of his situation. Craning his head, he was captivated by the ceiling, which was much higher than in the previous room. It was artfully divided into lit-up squares and lined with glistening chandeliers. Around him, the saints and their women, angelically white in their flowing robes, either sat in deep sofas around the walls or kneeled at a leather-padded alter in the middle of the room, engaging in hushed prayers. The walls were mostly windows, not clear but hazy white, which gave the whole space an extra-terrestrial, other-worldly feel.
The Ghost, though, seemed neither mesmerized nor prayerful. Perhaps she had been here before and was impervious to the imitation-Celestial Kingdom effect. It was obvious that all she cared about right now was cornering him for a silent kill. The question was how, and her plan became more apparent as she moved around the room, getting closer. Their eyes met, her gaze dropped to his neck, and he understood what was on her mind: She was going to trip him and break his neck, pretending it was an accident!
Ben kept away from her by pacing between kneeling Mormons and along the sofas. As he reached a corner of the hall, he saw the Angel Moroni standing on the marble floor and realized in an instant that he was looking at the same statue as the one in the photo he had seen on the temple president’s computer screen—the last clue in Zachariah Hinckley’s posthumous treasure hunt!
Angel Moroni was holding the golden tablets of the Book of Mormon in one hand and in the other, a long, straight trumpet, which he was blowing toward the gilded ceiling.
“It’s a simple trumpet.” Brother Pat was shadowing Ben, whispering in his ear. “One day, Angel Moroni will blow the horn to announce Christ’s second coming!”
“Third coming,” Ben said.
Brother Pat blinked rapidly. “Third?”
“Wasn’t the Second Coming when Jesus ministered to the lost tribes of Israel in North America?” Ben peered closely at the statue.
“Well…that’s not how…we count.”
“Really?” Ben pretended to trip and accidently bump into the golden angel, knocking it to the floor with a loud crash. He fell over it, hiding the base of the statue with his body. Women screamed, and men were rushing over.
But Ben had already found what he was looking for—just as in the photo, a cardboard floppy disk case was taped to the bottom of the base. He tore it off and shoved it into his pocket.
Brother Pat was pulling at his arm, helping him up. Other saints picked up the Angel Moroni, who had lost
part of his elbow as well as the top end of his trumpet. Without the flaring bell of the trumpet, the Angel Moroni was left blowing into a long metal rod with a pointy end.
In the commotion, the Ghost made her move, coming at Ben with long strides. He headed for the door, and she shifted direction to block his way. With many of the kneeling Mormons now beginning to leave, the two of them kept moving about the large room as if charged by opposite magnetic fields.
Meanwhile Brother Pat and two other temple workers lifted the Angel Moroni and carried it toward the door. The statue was heavy, and they took a break near the door, placing it carefully on its base, the bell-missing trumpet pointing upward in the direction of Ben, who was at the opposite side of the Celestial Room, having been maneuvered there by the Ghost, away from his only escape route.
Positioned between him and Angel Moroni, she lowered the towel from her face, revealing the left side, between her cheekbone and jaw—bloodied and swollen from his two strikes. The sight of her mutilated face, which she probably exposed to shock him into temporary paralysis, instead served as a clear message of her deadly intentions. The room was almost empty now, and he had to choose between dying and killing.
Brother Pat and another temple worker stood by the door, facing away. It was time to act. Ben leaned forward, inhaled deeply, and broke into a sprint as if a winning ball was cradled in the crook of his arm while this woman in white was the only opposite team player blocking his way to a game-winning touchdown.
Shocked by his sudden mad rush, the Ghost had no time to dodge before his injured shoulder rammed into her chest and propelled her backward. Her hands grasped the air as she fell onto the upturned rod of Angel Moroni’s broken trumpet, which speared her back, pierced her heart, and came out of her chest.
Pain shot through Ben’s shoulder. He grasped it and groaned.
The Ghost’s dying eyes followed him as he left the Celestial Kingdom. Brother Pat said something, but Ben ignored him. In a moment, they would notice the dead woman slumped over Angle Moroni, and all hell would break loose.
To the right, the hallway reached a dead end. There was an emergency exit. He pushed the bar, and a buzzer sounded as he exited into the sun.
Outside the temple, Ben found himself in a vast garden that was groomed to the point of looking unreal. He stripped away the white robe, the green fig leaf belt, and the funny hat. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the thin cardboard case. It was the same brand of floppy disk as the one he had found at the Camp David Scenic Overlook. He examined it, hoping to find the incriminating handwritten note that Joe Morgan had sent to Zachariah Hinckley. But it wasn’t there, which meant that this was not the real floppy disk but another clue on the way to finding it.
He put a finger into the slit along the side and felt for a floppy disk. Feeling nothing, he looked inside. It was empty. No floppy disk!
He turned the square cardboard case over, looking at it closely in the sun. Sure enough, there was a scribble on it—not with a pen or a pencil, but with yellow highlighter, which was only legible by holding the cardboard case at an angle against the light:
JM SS MD
That’s it? Three pairs of letters? Was it an acronym?
The only connection he could make was the first pair of letters—the initials of Joe Morgan. But the whole thing involved Morgan! And what about the second and third pairs of letters?
The third could stand for Maryland, but what about the middle pair?
SS
Then it came to him: SS MD stood for Silver Spring Maryland.
The whole thing was very simple: Joe Morgan Silver Spring Maryland.
But what did it mean? Was Morgan in possession of the incriminating floppy disk? There was only one way to find out.
Ben paused to orient himself. He figured out where the GS was and headed in that direction. His left shoulder was in agony, and he could barely move his arm.
Chapter 59
Porter heard the words “Mormon Temple” on the radio in his unmarked cruiser and jacked up the volume. The dispatcher re-broadcast an automatic notice that an alarm had been triggered by the opening of an emergency door. There was no 911 call from the temple, and no smoke alarms had gone off yet.
He responded on the open channel, addressing the dispatcher while others could hear. “Inspector Porter here, Community Affairs. We handle non-violent incidents at religious institutions. Mormon temple procedure requires their permission to enter the premises. I’m in the vicinity and will handle the situation. I’ll call in for help if needed.”
He waited a moment to see if any other unit responded, which would be surprising. The Mormon temple was treated with wary respect, almost as if it were a Vatican-like territory with its own jurisdiction. Hearing nothing more, Porter turned on the police lights and headed to the temple.
Ben reached the GS through the bushes. Pulling his iPhone from the hard case, he turned it on and checked Morgan’s website. Quote of the Day: Throw Out the Socialist Bums! The candidate’s daily schedule for this Monday included a FOX News morning show, a speech at a Norfolk, Virginia, shipyard, a lunchtime fundraiser with technology executives in Tyson’s Corner, and an NRA-sponsored town hall meeting at the Watergate Hotel. The evening slot was described as Family Home Night, alluding to the Mormon custom. Judging by the time, Ben guessed that Joe Morgan was already on his way home from the Watergate, having completed yet another successful whirlwind day of campaigning for the White House. Tonight’s Family Home Night, though, might not be as successful as Morgan’s earlier events, considering Ben’s planned visit.
Pulling the GS out of the bushes and onto the road left him panting and in pain. But there was no time to waste. He put the helmet on, mounted the bike, and rode off.
Moments later, Ben merged into the heavy traffic on the 495 beltway, which carried him toward Silver Spring.
Just off the exit was a Walgreen’s drugstore. He parked, went inside, and bought a bottle of water and a dose of Motrin.
There was no one at the photo development counter. The computer was on. He connected to the Internet, signed in to his g-mail account, and composed a new e-mail titled: Marine Vet Zachariah Hinckley: A Victim of the Mormon Church or of the Morgan Campaign? Fitting the memory flash drive into one of the USB slots, he attached to the e-mail a copy of the folder named Zachariah Hinckley – Trial Evidence and Proceedings and sent the message to himself. A moment later, it appeared in the mailbox on his iPhone. He signed off and pulled out the memory flash drive.
Locking himself in the men’s room, he swallowed the two Motrin pills and washed the blond dye from his hair and eyebrows. In the mirror, he was still pale, and his hair—while back to its original dark color—was still too short, making him look fifteen. But he didn’t look like Sampson Allard anymore, which was good because he wanted to look like himself—to be Ben Teller—when confronting Joe Morgan.
As Porter turned toward the Mormon temple, he saw that the opposite lane of the access road was lined with cars. The worshipers were departing the temple, which usually closed early on Monday afternoons in consideration of Family Home Night. But he was the first on the scene, no fire engine in sight, and that was good news.
A visibly distraught elderly temple worker was waiting. “I’m Brother Pat,” he said.
Porter shook his hand. “We received an automatic message that an emergency door was opened. Did you have a burglary?”
“No. Someone opened it mistakenly after the accident.”
“Accident?”
He held forth a pair of white slippers. “We just called it in. Let me show you.”
Porter removed his shoes, put on the white slippers, and followed the elderly man
down the hallways to the very last set of doors, which led them into the hall representing the Celestial Kingdom.
Expecting to see the dead body of the pesky reporter, Port
er balked at the sight of the Ghost. He gripped the doorway, taking in the gruesome scene, and held back a curse.
“How did this happen?”
“The statue broke.” Brother Pat held up the bell end of the trumpet. “People were leaving the room, and no one noticed the poor sister. She must have tripped and fell on it. Perhaps she was dizzy from her earlier injury.”
“She had been injured before?”
“We don’t know how it happened. She had arrived at the temple after being injured elsewhere, though no one noticed.” He pointed to a bloody towel. “She was covering that part of her face.”
“Anything else?”
“In terms of the media…all this could be misinterpreted.”
“How do you interpret it?”
“It’s all pre-ordained, of course.” Brother Pat closed his eyes and quoted. “‘But their garments should be made white through the blood of the Lamb.’ Alma, thirty-four, thirty-six.”
“Very nice,” Porter said. “Did you see, by any chance, a young man interacting with this woman?”
Brother Pat made as if he was trying to remember. “I’m not sure. Everyone was in great distress.”
“Did you see who triggered the emergency door alarm?”
“No. I’m sorry. And about the media—”
“I’m here for the state police, not the news.” Porter stepped closer and peered at the sharp rod that remained of Angle Moroni’s trumpet. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”
“God bless you, Officer.”
“I need a few minutes alone here.”
“Of course. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Chapter 60
Pulling up to the curb behind the state police cruiser, Ben was impressed by the massive brick mansion at the top of a circular driveway. Illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun, the lush shrubbery and flower beds bloomed with rainbow colors, reminiscent of the landscaping abundance at the Mormon temple. But the grandeur of Morgan’s residence had none of the fairytale whimsy of the temple. Rather, it evoked a British manor house with its sheer size, straight lines, and a slate roof whose long watershed was punctuated by several stone chimneys. The place projected an image of great wealth and power.
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