“Because none of them has ever refused!”
“How do you know? Have you heard back from anyone you’ve posthumously baptized into the Mormon Church?”
Morgan shook his head.
“Has your prophet, seer, and revelator in Salt Lake City heard back from Anne Frank? From Daniel Pearl? From Simon Wiesenthal? Or from President Eisenhower?”
“No, because no Gentile soul would refuse the offer to accept the True Gospel, embrace the True Church, win exaltation in the afterlife, and be admitted to the Celestial Kingdom of God!”
“You’re certain of that?”
“I am! There’s no doubt that every soul accepts the offer extended through proxy baptizing and posthumous temple endowments! No doubt!”
“Your certainty is born of a twisted logic,” Ben said. “But I’m not here for a theology debate. Not interested.”
“That’s my point!” Morgan smiled with renewed confidence. “You’re not interested in dead souls. Most people aren’t interested in them either. It’s a unique virtue of our Mormon faith. Unfortunately, because of this misunderstanding and prejudice, voters will hold it against me. Is that fair?”
“It’s democracy. Voters are entitled to know the truth about every candidate so they can make an informed choice. And in your case, they have the right to know that you instructed Zachariah Hinckley to copy personal data, which you then used to baptize secretly in proxy some of the bravest American heroes in our nation’s history. Voters deserve an informed choice.”
“Even if it’s a bad choice for America? A choice that will ruin the last chance to save America from socialist annihilation? To save the very soul of this country from the secular, liberal, European-style collectivism?”
“And you happen to be the savior?”
“Yes!”
“The prince on the white horse?”
“Clever play of words,” Morgan said. “Don’t you care about the dangerous policies of the current administration? The huge deficits? The apologetic foreign policy? The sapping of entrepreneurial spirit? The food stamps?”
Ben shrugged. “Not really.”
“That’s the problem with your generation! You’re spoiled and you don’t care about anything! This election is about the soul of America!”
“Spare me the demagoguery. You’re not running for America’s soul. You’re running for personal gratification.”
“Wrong! You think I need a bigger house?” He waved around him. “Or more money? No! I’m running for president on a mission—to save us from the ruinous decline engineered by the liberal elites! America is on the same downward path as ancient Greece and the Roman Empire! Our nation is inflicted with the same cancerous menace that brought down Spain and England, which turned their backs to the values that had made them great! Don’t you see that there’s much more at stake here than the religious affiliation of a few dead heroes?”
“Your actions are the issue here.”
“Why? All I wanted to do was a righteous favor for the dead!”
“Violating their memory by posthumous conversion?”
“You’re contradicting yourself.” Morgan shook a finger. “What do you care about some dead soldiers? Or the Jews from the Holocaust? They’re dead already!”
Ben went to the wall and removed the photo of the Marine captain. He took it to Morgan and placed it on the coffee table before him. “Do you remember this man?”
Morgan shrugged. “It’s been many years.”
“He was the last one, the only name that Zachariah Hinckley kept out of the list. This hero was the reason you sent the floppy disk back to Zachariah with the incriminating note.” Ben patted his pocket with the thin cardboard case. “Rings a bell.”
“So what?”
“This Marine captain received his second Medal of Honor posthumously for driving a burning fuel truck away from a group of American boys—including Zachariah.” Ben pushed the framed photograph closer to Morgan. “Do you remember his name?”
“How can I remember a name after so long?” Morgan hit the armrest with his hand. “What’s this got to do with anything?”
Ben pulled out his wallet and took out a small photo, creased and chafed from years of rubbing against bills and credit cards, yet still clear enough to show the serious face and dark eyes under the Marine Corps cap. He placed it on the coffee table next to the framed portrait from the wall.
“What is this?” Morgan looked closely. “It’s the same person. Who is he?”
“Captain Abba Teller. My father.”
Morgan sat back and exhaled.
“Do you remember him now?”
“So…you’re not here about…Zachariah.”
“No.”
“This obsession…has been about your father.”
“He was a proud Jewish Marine who died courageously for his country while saving the lives of Zachariah Hinckley and his fellow Marines. You stole my father’s soul and defiled his memory.”
“But…it was…so long ago.”
“It’s not long ago that Zachariah Hinckley died at the Camp David Scenic Overlook, destroying the same life that my father had died to save. An irony, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no!” Keera pointed at the rolling lights. “Is this Morgan’s house? Something bad happened! We’re too late!”
Fran hit the brakes, making the tires screech. “Stay in the car!”
Keera ignored the order, jumped out, and followed Fran.
Two state troopers were busy setting up red flares and traffic cones in a wide circle around the entrance to Morgan’s driveway. A man in khakis and a blue jacket was directing a dark SUV that was reversing away from the mansion until it blocked the driveway, its hazard lights flashing.
Fran approached the civilian. “What’s going on?”
“That was quick,” he said, signaling the driver to stop. “You guys are on the ball today—for a change. Why don’t you take that side.” He pointed to the left. “Make sure they park their vehicles without blocking any—”
“They?” Fran looked around. “Who’s they?”
“The media.”
“Hold on!” She raised her hand. “Did you let in another trooper—Inspector Porter?”
“Yeah. Community Relations or something like that.”
“Shit!” She broke into a run, passing by the SUV.
Keera followed her.
Another civilian came out of the driver’s side of the SUV and grabbed Keera’s arm. “Secret Service! Stop!”
“My boyfriend’s in there!” She pointed. “That Porter guy’s going to kill him!”
“Keep her here,” the Secret Service agent ordered one of the troopers and ran after Fran. His partner followed, and they caught up with her at a steel gate in front of the main entrance to the mansion.
“Please,” Morgan said, “you must understand my position. My faith. Your father was a courageous man. Honorable. Baptism was a way to elevate him. I meant to show him respect by serving as a proxy—”
“Save it for the cameras.” Ben pocketed his wallet. “My job here is not to argue about religion. I don’t believe your bathtub submersion had any effect on my father’s soul, or anyone else’s soul, for that matter.”
“Then what else do you want?”
“You must confess. That’s what Zachariah wanted.”
“And destroy my campaign? Lose everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve?”
“It will be a sacrifice worthy of my father’s memory and that of his fellow Medal of Honor recipients. It’s an opportunity for you to show similar courage by telling the American people what you’ve done to our heroes. You owe it to Zachariah, considering what you did to him.”
“I did nothing!”
“White House residency isn’t intended for murderers.”
“How d
are you?” Morgan stood up. “Brother Zachariah was a sick man who committed suicide—the worst sin! I spent an hour yesterday on the phone advocating for him with our General Authorities in Utah to convince them that his mental illness justifies forgiveness. They restored his status as a saint! His widow couldn’t stop thanking me for taking time from my campaign to do this for her and the children’s celestial future, which is sealed to his.”
“How charitable of you, but Zachariah didn’t commit suicide. He was pushed off the road by the same killer who later came for me. She’s one of the Danites—I had to kill her today at the Mormon temple.”
“My dear God!” Morgan stumbled and held on to the back of the chair. “I had no idea this was going on!”
“Aren’t you a bigwig in the Mormon Church? Surely the Danites don’t engage in blood atonement without explicit orders.” Ben gestured at the envelope he’d brought with him. “Brother James must be part of the chain of command, no?”
“There are no Danites.” Morgan dropped in the armchair, deflated. “It’s an urban legend. They’ve been gone for decades.”
“She fits the bill.”
“No, no, no. Mormon women are wives, homemakers, not killers.”
“This one’s a Danite killer all right.”
“It’s a hoax. A diversion.”
Ben touched the bruise on his forehead. “She was real and deadly, came after me again and again.”
“What did you expect?” Morgan pointed to the elections button on the lapel of his jacket. “It’s my face on the front, but behind me stand very powerful people who have bet billions of dollars on my victory—oilmen, defense contractors, casino moguls—they have fortunes at stake in the elections, huge interests in government contracts, infrastructure projects, energy production. They’re betting on enormous profits, all riding on my election as president of the United States, all dependant on me taking over the administration and appointing thousands of sympathetic officials to countless powerful positions in the federal government. They’re counting on me as the next commander in chief, protecting their global interests. Do you think such men would sit back and let a patsy like Zachariah Hinckley derail my candidacy and ruin their plans over some…posthumous baptisms?”
“Who are they?”
Morgan balked. “I can’t tell you!”
Ben held his thumb over the iPhone screen. “I’ll send off this e-mail!” He pulled the floppy disk from his pocket and showed Morgan his own handwritten note to Zachariah. “This note all by itself will destroy your election prospects! I’ll blow the story right now, unless you tell me the whole truth!”
“I’m telling you the truth!”
“Names! Give me names! Or I’ll press the—”
Porter drew his revolver from its ankle holster, threw the door open, and surveyed the room. Against a backdrop of wall-to-wall books, Ben Teller stood with his iPhone in one hand and the floppy disk in the other. Governor Morgan was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, looking ashen.
“Drop the phone!” Porter aimed the gun at Ben. “And the disk!”
“Stop!” Governor Morgan leaped off the armchair. “Don’t shoot!”
Ben glanced at the iPhone, his thumb hovering over the screen, seeking the right spot to hit send.
Behind him, Porter heard sudden commotion. One of the Secret Service agents yelled something, and then, of all things, Fran DeLacourt’s voice, “Porter! It’s over!”
There was no time left. Porter grabbed his revolver with two hands, bent his forward knee slightly, and slid his finger into the trigger slot. He shot at the reporter’s iPhone, hitting it, and shifted his aim to the face, right between those irritating dark eyes—
“No!” Governor Morgan jumped sideways and collided with Ben just as Porter’s finger pulled back the trigger. A shot sounded, Governor Morgan yelled, and his body twisted, turned like a screw, and fell over, taking Ben down too.
Porter followed, trying to get a fix on the reporter, when he heard two pops behind him and felt his own body rise in the air, propelled forward, out of the light and into darkness.
Lying in a heap on the floor with Governor Morgan, Ben’s ears rang from all the shooting. The room smelled of gunpowder. Urgent voices yelled incoherent orders.
Morgan rose on an elbow, his face pale, but strangely humorous. He said something.
“What?” Ben’s own voice sounded as if he spoke through a tunnel.
“Are…you…okay?”
Ben nodded. “I think so. You?”
“Never better.” Morgan cringed as the two Secret Service agents turned him on his back. “Careful, boys!”
“Left arm,” one of them said, tearing off Morgan’s sleeve. “Small caliber. Shallow flesh wound. Get me the first aid kit.”
The other agent ran from the room.
“It’s nothing.” Morgan sat up and held on to the agent. “Help me stand.”
Fran turned Porter’s body over and felt the crook of his neck. “He’s a goner,” she said. Lifting one of his hands, she examined his fingertips. “Prints were burned off. Who the hell is this guy?”
“Another Ghost,” Ben said. “It’s an infestation.”
“And you’re the bait.” She grabbed his arm to help him stand.
“What are you doing here?”
“Saving your ass.” She checked him all over. “No bullet holes?”
“I’m wearing holy underwear.” Ben held up his hand, turning it, finding no injury. Porter was a good shot, but Morgan’s leap had thrown his second shot off target. Searching the floor, Ben found pieces of his iPhone. It was completely ruined.
“Looking for this?” Morgan held up the floppy disk in its cardboard case.
Ben’s initial urge was to step forward and snatch it, but somehow the Secret Service agent sensed his intentions and gave him a hard look.
Morgan tossed the floppy disk into the fireplace, where it shriveled and melted before igniting in a small puff of smoke. “Win some, lose some.”
“I’m not conceding,” Ben said.
“I just saved your life. Doesn’t it count for anything?”
“Why did you?”
“Had to.” Morgan gestured at the photos on the wall, the decorated servicemen looking back solemnly. “Peer pressure.”
Ben nodded.
“Captain Teller is very proud of you today, son.”
“You think?” Ben glanced at the ceiling. “Can they see us from the Celestial Kingdom?”
“I believe they can,” Morgan said. “One day we’ll both find out. But while we’re still in this world, what would it take—”
“I’ve already told you. A confession. You owe it to Zachariah Hinckley.”
Katie ran into the library. “What happened here?” Her eyes landed on Morgan’s bloody arm. “Oh my God!”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Do me a favor. Show this young man a copy of our draft press release about the posthumous baptisms. If it’s okay with him, send it out to our media list.”
The request seemed to shock her even more than the sight of the injury. “Governor, the damage from such—”
“Do it!” Morgan pointed at the door. “Now!”
Ben followed her to an office off the foyer. She sat at a computer, did a quick search, and printed a one-page document on the campaign’s letterhead, which she handed to him.
To: Media List
For: Immediate Release
In response to questions raised by veterans’ families, GOP presidential candidate Joe Morgan confirmed today that, as part of his lifelong commitment to his faith, he has in the past served as proxy in posthumous baptisms. Governor Morgan further stated: “The practice of offering salvation to those who passed on has always been part of the charitable spirit of our Christian faith, inspired by the writings of Joseph Smith. As with every
faithful member of any religion, one cannot pick and choose which tenet to obey and which to skip. Back in the nineties, when I served as lay leader of our Silver Spring Ward, we asked one of our members to assemble a list of names that included winners of the Medal of Honor. I personally served as proxy during the baptism ceremonies—an honor I still cherish. But even though my intentions were charitable, I now realize that, for some, the practice could be offensive. For that, and for any pain caused to relatives of the fallen heroes, my sincere apologies and heartfelt sympathies. We, as a nation, will only achieve a full restoration of our great American future by honoring those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom.” Candidate Morgan directed all further inquiries to the spokesman for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City, Utah.
“Clever drafting,” Ben said.
“Thank you. I’ll send it out now.” With rapid keystrokes she copied and pasted the press release onto an e-mail, addressed it to Media List, and hit send. “It’s going to cost us a lot of votes.”
“How come you had this press release drafted and ready to go?”
“We have many of them.” She gestured at her computer. “We’re prepared for every possible contingency. It’s standard practice in political campaigns. Every candidate has skeletons in his or her closet. The trick is to respond instantly in the event a clever journalist such as yourself manages to dig up something.”
“You want to control the narrative.”
“Of course.” She took the page from him. “We must set the tone, especially when damaging information comes out. We can minimize the negative reaction by dominating the news, presenting the candidate’s version, gain voters’ sympathy right away by emphasizing the—”
“Faith-promoting truth?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ll learn,” Ben said, “when you become Sister Katie.”
The Mormon Candidate - a Novel Page 31
