Righteous02 - Mighty and Strong

by Michael Wallace

  He was getting tired of this game. “And what are they going to do? Beat me over the head with a loaf of bread and a plate of homemade brownies?”

  “They’ll hide me and when the police come, they’ll frown and shake their heads and say they have no idea what you were talking about. Sister Miriam? Who is that?”

  “Fine, you do that. My job will be done, I’ll wash my hands of the whole thing.” He turned to go. “Fifteen minutes, that’s all I’m waiting.”

  Chapter Eighteen:

  The Anti-Christ’s agents had picked up Fear-Not’s trail. He was supposed to meet Vigilant and Zeal at Liberty Park, past the arbors and near the fountains. He saw Vigilant sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper. Together they’d walk to meet the younger man near the aviary on the south side of the park.

  Fear-Not had fought an anxious gnawing in his gut all morning. He’d left Zarahemla early that morning, frustrated. The saints weren’t ready. They prepared food storage and an arsenal of weapons to defend the compound against the wicked. Voices broke during testimony meetings as men and women shared their love of the Lord and the prophet and told how eagerly they awaited the Second Coming.

  And yet…and yet he heard people talking about Christmas, about who their young children would marry, about how big the church might be in a year or three or twenty. And he stared at them in bewilderment and growing anger.

  He wanted to stand on the nearest table and shout. Why do you think the Lord sent a prophet, you fools?

  Did the Lord show Moses the burning bush twenty years before leading Israel out of Egypt? Was John the Baptist crying in the wilderness about the coming of the Christ a century before Jesus was born?

  There wouldn’t be another year or three. There wouldn’t be another Christmas.

  He was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he must have overlooked the enemies following in their car. He gave a couple of glances around the park, but didn’t see anyone there either.

  Men could have been hiding among the trees, or strolling along, trying to look inconspicuous. If there were agents, Fear-Not didn’t see them. Suspected nothing, in fact. No attention or signs of danger since they’d abandoned reconnaissance of Temple Square.

  Vigilant sat on a bench, reading a newspaper. As Fear-Not approached, he whistled a few bars from, “Come, Come Ye Saints,” an old pioneer tune. That was the older man’s cue to lower the newspaper, slide to the side of the bench. A few quick words and they’d look for Zeal at the aviary.

  Instead, Vigilant straightened his newspaper, then folded it back and started to read the other side. He didn’t look up.

  It was one of the alternate signs. You’re being followed.

  Followed? The whistle died on Fear-Not’s lips. Had he paid such poor attention that he failed to notice the tail? How had Vigilant noticed the enemy, and he hadn’t?

  He continued without slowing his pace. First, the unwelcome attention on Temple Square, and now they were following him throughout the city. But how did they know where to find him? He must have picked up a tail all the way back in Manti, or maybe they’d bugged his truck, even though he alternated vehicles every time he left the compound.

  Fear-Not had grown more and more cautious. There might be a mole in the compound, maybe that doctor who’d shown up unexpectedly, maybe someone else. The FBI might have other agents in Manti or Salt Lake that he hadn’t noted. No doubt they’d tightened security around Senator McKay.

  Zeal was waiting in the aviary with simple instructions. If Fear-Not and Vigilant didn’t show, he was to return to his motel room and come back the next day. If Fear-Not came alone, then asked for the restroom at the gift shop, it meant Zeal was to return to the motel, but not return until he received new instructions.

  Might be safer to bypass the aviary and circle the park until he returned to the truck, try again tomorrow. But tomorrow might not work either, and he didn’t want Zeal kicking around the aviary for the next hour, attracting attention.

  Couples picnicked around the pond to the left of the aviary. Half a dozen workers assembled a fireworks display. It was almost Pioneer Day.

  A scream startled him as he walked between the pond and the boundary fence of the Tracy Aviary. Sounded like a woman crying out in fear. He was so jittery he almost stopped, turned around, when he realized it was just a peacock. Several walked free on the sidewalk inside the fence.

  Fear-Not paid his money, entered the aviary. He stopped in front of the map, as if studying it. And there were the agents. How had he missed them earlier? A man and a woman, like a couple, late twenties, no children, dressed casually. Trim, athletic, like people who spent winters skiing and their summers mountain biking. Or rather, FBI agents who kept in shape to physically abuse the Lord’s servants. And if that failed, pull out guns and shoot them without second thought.

  What good are your guns against angels and the priesthood? You cannot thwart the will of the Lord.

  No sign of the big, hulking man he’d seen once on Temple Square. Probably the man thought he’d be conspicuous, and with good reason.

  He spotted Zeal browsing the gift shop. The younger man thumbed a handbook on birds, then picked up a plush song bird that launched into a series of whistles. He tossed it back into a bin of similar toys, picked up another. A different song.

  A young, heavy-set woman behind the counter with garish, dangly earrings and even more garishly painted fingernails—long enough it must have been hard to write or type—watched Zeal with a suspicious expression. Fear-Not wondered how long he’d been standing there, grubbing up books and making toys chirp and whistle.

  The door opened at Fear-Not’s back as two other people entered. He didn’t dare turn to look and he didn’t look at Zeal either. Instead, he approached the counter. “Excuse me, where are the restrooms?”

  She turned and fixed him with the same annoyed look. “Didn’t you see the sign? It’s around the corner to your left.”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Well, it’s around the corner.”

  He left the store without acknowledging Zeal. That was another signal.

  Peacocks walked freely in the aviary. A clump of ducks waddled after him with wagging tails, quacking for food. Geese honked from ponds, no doubt after the same thing. They left their messes all along the paths. A clump of screaming kids ran past. Their teacher called them to a cage of parrots, with limited success.

  Fear-Not found the restroom, entered a stall and sat down to think. The door opened, closed. Children came and went, two men chatted about the fireworks while they first urinated and then washed their hands and left.

  After a minute it came to him. The problem wasn’t the senator. Yes, the man was wicked, an agent of the Devil. But the Lord would take care of that in due time, if not by their hands, than through some other servant.

  Ruining an enemy of the church was only secondary. The key was to follow the prophet. And what had Brother Timothy said, when he’d called them to perform this great and terrible duty?

  “A catalyst, an event that will provoke the enemy,” the prophet said. “For whether they know it or not, all men, even the wicked, must serve His purpose.”

  The key was the FBI. If the FBI could target the Lord’s servants, than the Lord’s servants could return the favor. It was the perfect way to set events in motion.

  Heavenly Father, Fear-Not prayed silently, tell me if this is how we should obey thy will. And help me not be afraid.

  The Lord did not wait to give him a sign. Fear-Not knew he had chosen correctly as soon as he exited the restroom to see the suspicious couple waiting outside. They pretended not to notice him. But the tension in their bodies was unmistakeable.

  “Sure you don’t need to go?” the man asked his companion.

  “Nah, I’ll wait here.”

  Neither of them looked at Fear-Not. He bent to tie his shoe a few feet away and saw the woman was still waiting while the man searched the bathroom for anything he might have left behind, or
any reason other than the obvious he might have gone inside.

  Bent over, tying his shoe with his head upside down, he studied them and knew how to destroy them. And he feared not.

  #

  Jacob waited next to a house with a real estate sign and a lawn turning yellow from lack of water. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk. It was a good place to talk, assuming Sister Miriam showed up. He kind of hoped she didn’t. No idea what she was playing, but he’d done his duty. The police part was bluff. Better to call Krantz and Fayer, let them handle it. If she was deep underground, a visit from the cops wouldn’t help.

  He didn’t have a watch, but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before Miriam came around the corner. She glanced over her shoulder, then to either side of the street.

  “The house is for sale and looks empty,” Jacob said. “Wait in the back yard and I’ll get my car from the park, be back in five minutes and we can get out of here.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Oh, are you still pretending? Silly me, I thought you were being reasonable.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but whatever it is, I don’t need it.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to blow your cover,” he said. “But it’s your fault for not calling in. If you’d told them you were okay, they’d have never sent me in the first place.”

  “I didn’t call them because I’m done,” she said.

  “You’re done.”

  “I’m done. Done with the job, done with the FBI. I’m just done.”

  “What do you mean done? You’re quitting your job, and you’re going to stay at Zarahemla, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, exactly?”

  “My husband told me about you, so I don’t expect you to understand. That’s right, I know you don’t believe he’s the prophet. You’re a doubter, you don’t believe.”

  “And you do? You believe all that?”

  “I don’t cast my pearls before swine.”

  “And what does that mean? I’m not good enough to share your beliefs with?”

  “You’re a scoffer and a mocker. How could I share my beliefs and deepest feelings with you? Whatever for, so you’ll laugh and sneer?”

  “Brother Timothy told me what he believed, why shouldn’t you? Are you better than the prophet?”

  Sister Miriam shook her head. “I feel sorry for you. You’ve been given so much. Born under the Principle and raised by believing parents. And now you have an opportunity to sit at the feet of the Prophet. No, better than that, to become one of his generals. That’s right, he told me what he had planned. And all you have to do is let go of your doubt. You’ll have everything.”

  Jacob put his hand to his forehead. “Hold on a second. I need to back up, get things straight. You came here as an FBI agent, undercover, to root out some sort of conspiracy. Don’t give me that look. I’ve seen the gun training, I’m not naive about what’s going on at Zarahemla. And then, sometime during the last few weeks, you suffered from some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. Became one of them.”

  “Like I said, pearls before swine.”

  “I’m listening, I’m trying to understand. Explain it to me.”

  “I wasn’t brainwashed, so you can forget that Stockholm Syndrome crap. I felt it before I ever came to Zarahemla. Haven’t you felt it when you read the Book of Mormon, prayed to know if it was true? It’s like a glowing feeling, hot, right down here.” She put her hand across her breast.

  “The Still, Small Voice. Burning in the Bosom. You don’t have to explain it to me.”

  “I started studying,” Sister Miriam said, “and I wanted to get into the proper frame of mind and so I prayed and fasted, and read the scriptures. Like method acting. I wanted to feel what they would feel, because I had to get right into this role, as deep as I possibly could. Only something happened I wasn’t expecting. I started to feel something.”

  “You started to get into the role, in other words. You were method acting.”

  “It’s not a role,” she said. “A role was the girlfriend of a drug dealer. That was a role. I played it well, but I never forgot for one minute what I was doing. Do you know what kind of degrading things he made me do, what terrible, humiliating sexual acts I had to perform?”

  “And you did it for your job? Doesn’t the FBI have rules about that kind of stuff? Seems beyond the normal list of duties.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I volunteered.”

  “So instead you’re the Nth wife of a polygamist prophet. Another volunteer job, I suppose. Have you slept with him?” The look on her face was answer enough. “Of course you have. He’s a calm, gentle man. I imagine he’s a better lover than your drug dealer. Probably doesn’t make you snort lines of coke, either.” He shrugged. “But what’s the difference? You’re playing a different role, that’s all.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not a role. Maybe it was at first, but it isn’t now.”

  “You prayed, you got a warm, fuzzy feeling. Take a step back. Consider it from an outsider’s perspective and you’ll see what it looks like. You got into the role, that’s all. You worked so hard to fool these people you managed to fool yourself at the same time.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I’ve heard enough. Go back to the market and sell your produce. I’ll tell your FBI friends you’ve gone Patty Hearst. Maybe they’ll stage a raid or something.”

  “You do that and I’ll tell Brother Timothy you’re an FBI plant.”

  “And I’d just deny it,” he said. “I’d say the Lord came to me in a dream and told me you were false. That you were sent by the government to destroy us. You’re the FBI plant. In fact, I’ve got a car. By the time you come home, I’ll have had all afternoon to fill in the details.” He shrugged. “See how easy that was.”

  “They wouldn’t believe you. If I was good enough to fool them the first time, I’d be good enough to do it again.”

  “The minute you stepped into Zarahemla, Agent Kite, you stepped into the 19th century. And in the 19th century, you’re not some super-spy FBI agent who can lie her way out of any situation. You’re just a woman. A descendent of Eve, cursed to bear children in pain. Commanded to obey her husband. Brother Timothy might be inclined to believe you at first, but at the end of the day, I’m the one with the priesthood, not you. And Timothy has other wives. He’ll get over it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No we won’t,” Jacob said, “because I’m not going back to Zarahemla. So you can tell them I’m a space alien, for all I care.”

  “After everything you’ve seen, you’re just going to walk away?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I came, did my duty, and now I’m getting out while my sanity is intact.”

  “What about your wife and kids?”

  A cold anger slipped into his voice. “What about them?”

  “My husband said you were bringing them to Zarahemla. Aren’t they on their way already?”

  “Trust me, my wife isn’t coming anywhere near that place. That goes doubly for my children.” He glanced over her shoulder and she turned to follow his gaze with a worried expression. “Guess you’d better get back,” he added, “before the other sisters miss you. Goodbye.”

  He felt her gaze on his back. About fifteen feet away, he couldn’t resist turning with a parting shot. “Tell me this, Sister Miriam. If Brother Timothy is really a prophet, how come he didn’t use his gift of discernment to see that you’re a big, fat fake?”

  Chapter Nineteen:

  Jacob collected his car and drove away. He felt paranoid, worried that maybe the sisters had minders after all. So he got on Route 6, headed north. A few miles from Price, he pulled off the road in Helper and looked for a pay phone.

  Helper was a beat-up railroad junction. Even beyond the ramshackle nature of much of Carbon County—its coal industry mostly mechanized, and its population stagnant—this part of the state
felt less Mormon. Getting off the highway, he first passed a Catholic church and then a faded Methodist chapel before he saw a typical, cookie-cutter LDS church.

  Dry cliffs loomed to the east. The mountains to the west were higher, gray-green with scrub oak and sage. They were the same mountains you saw from Manti, just from the other side. From Helper, the road choked to a narrow pass as it made its way past coal mines, into the higher plateau and then split. The first branch continued north toward Provo and the second looped around the mountains to come back south, into Manti.

  He made his first call from a gas station pay phone. He wanted to hear Fernie’s voice. I’m done, I’m coming home. Yes, tonight.

  A harsh tone sounded, then a voice: “The number you have reached: 801-555-3795, has been disconnected. No further information is available.”

  Jacob frowned, tried again. Before he could make the call, he had to wait while a train chugged by, laden with coal. It whistled hard and long as it crossed one road and then another. By the time it was gone, a worm of fear gnawed at his gut. A second time: the harsh tone, the recorded dismissal.

  Why would Fernie have disconnected the phone?

  Jacob had memorized Agent Krantz’s number and dialed it now. Krantz picked up on the second ring. “Krantz here.”

  “This is Jacob Christianson.”

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, have you talked to my wife? There’s some problem with the phone.”

  “Have you found out anything about Agent Kite?”

  The fear burrowed deeper. “Agent Krantz? Is something wrong?”

  An awkward pause. “Your wife is missing.”

  “Missing?” He grabbed the edge of the phone booth. “What the hell is going on? You said you’d keep an eye on her.”

  “Look, don’t stress out. She’s probably okay. We stopped to check in and all her stuff was on the curb.”

  “Her stuff was on the curb,” he repeated stupidly.

  “Turns out her landlord evicted her. He freaked out about polygamy, a call from the state or something and he paid her a few hundred bucks to move out. Guy claims she agreed to it, took the money and left with the kids. Didn’t say anything about coming back for her stuff.”