Then she bent, took off Trost’s hat, and put it over the man’s face. He twitched a few more times and lay still. His body relaxed. It was as if his spirit was visibly taking leave of his body, shucking it off like a glove.
“Say a prayer,” Miriam urged.
“Father in heaven,” Eliza said. “Into thy hands we commend this man’s spirit. He was not of our church, but he was thy true and faithful servant. Welcome Brother Trost into thy arms. Let him stand by your right side, raise him up on the morning of the first resurrection.”
“Amen,” Miriam murmured.
Grover tried to say the same, but it came out in a shuddering sob. He turned around, but didn’t look at the dead body. “Shouldn’t it have been me praying? Because, you know, I have the priesthood.”
“You’ve done enough,” Miriam said. Her voice was cold enough to freeze the roasting pavement.
“It’s not his fault,” Eliza said.
“Isn’t it? Why is Trost dead, and not Grover? Because Trost was the one shooting the gun, that’s why. I gave clear orders. And this coward—”
“I’m not a coward. I was the one shooting at the end. That was me.”
“But you weren’t at the gun at first, were you? That’s what I told you to do. You only got behind the gun when Trost went down.”
“He made me,” Grover said. “I tried to do it, but he pushed me out of the way.”
Miriam got in his face. “You could have stood your ground. How about that? You could have followed the orders that I quite clearly gave you. Trost had a broken arm. What was he going to do, fight you for the gun? Dammit, I gave orders. It was your job to carry them out. You didn’t and now he’s dead.”
Grover stared, his eyes wide, his mouth slack.
Looking back and forth, Eliza suddenly understood. Both Miriam and Trost had calculated the odds. Whoever manned the hunting rifle would be the one to face the sniper with his superior arms, his superior position, and his patience. He was likely to die.
“Grover, you stay here,” Eliza said.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To check out the hill. Look for clues. I want you to find the horses. That’s your first job. Then cover Brother Trost with stones. If you’re not finished when we get back we’ll help.”
“You won’t leave me, right?”
“Don’t be silly. We’re not going anywhere.” When Grover looked unconvinced, Eliza took his trembling arm and stared into his eyes. “Grover Smoot, we are not going to leave you. I give you my word.”
When the two women were heading back up the highway, Miriam said, “We may as well. He’s no good to us. Now that we’ve lost Trost, the boy will only be a drag.”
“You were going to sacrifice Grover all along, weren’t you?”
“Don’t make this about me,” Miriam said. “If it hadn’t been for Grover, that sniper would be dead. But I couldn’t stand up and expose myself to Grover’s fire, wasting his ammo, blasting away. I said one shot a minute. By the time I got up, our enemy was galloping down the highway. I didn’t have a chance of hitting him with the pistol. He was too far away.”
“Trost was down,” Eliza said. “Grover panicked. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I did not sacrifice him. Of course that was a risky spot. That sniper had his gun set up and he was waiting for his chance. Grover wasn’t the only one in danger. How about when we came out of the culvert and crossed open ground? And then I made a run for the hill. I wasn’t asking Grover or anyone to take a risk that I wouldn’t take myself.”
“Fair enough,” Eliza said. “But it wasn’t because of Trost’s broken arm that you wanted Grover at the rifle.”
“You are right.”
“I thought so.”
“Broken arm or no, Trost was worth ten Grover Smoots. He was a better shot, calmer in a crisis. Better head on his shoulders. And what about navigating in the real world? You know what Grover told me when Kemp dumped us off the bus? Grover said it was his first time out of the Blister Creek Valley since he was thirteen. Five years ago. Never left the valley in five years.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Eliza said.
“I’m not the one who said it.”
“So you figured he was expendable.”
“Nobody is expendable,” Miriam said in an irritated tone. “But you tell me who we can more easily spare. Is it the former police officer who keeps his head in a crisis? Or is it the naïve, panicky kid? But hey, if you think Trost and Grover are more or less interchangeable, that’s fine with me. Keep telling yourself that. Maybe it will make you feel better.”
Eliza was ready to snap. She pulled ahead so she wouldn’t say anything she’d regret later. The women left the highway. They kept their guns at the ready in case the sniper had decided to double back and retake his position. He had not. They made it to the top of the hill without incident.
“Right here,” Miriam said. “This is where he was dug in.”
The digging was quite literal. Using a spade or shovel, he’d excavated the dirt and rocks and sagebrush roots to the right of the knob to make a body-shaped indentation that would shield him from the road. If not for that lucky glint of sunlight off his scope, they’d have never spotted him.
Eliza thought of Trost and the awful way his fingers had grabbed at the dirt while blood and brains gushed out of his skull.
Two empty cans of chicken noodle soup lay to one side. There was a Ziploc bag that smelled like beef jerky, plus two apple cores, munched so deeply into the core that practically all that was left was seeds. An empty plastic water bottle.
Miriam picked up a shell casing and pocketed it. She lay in the indentation with Eliza’s rifle to sight it north along the highway, as if she were the sniper.
“He had a decent shot,” she said. “Could have taken it earlier if he hadn’t been waiting for us to get out from cover. He was greedy—he wanted to kill us all.”
Eliza took back the rifle when Miriam stood up again. “It was a lot of work to dig that hole. How long do you figure he was here?”
“Not long. A day, maybe.” Miriam walked around, then pointed to a smoothed area in the ground. “Here’s where he put his bedroll. I’m guessing he arrived yesterday afternoon. No sign of a fire. Must have eaten his dinner cold. Maybe in the morning he got up and dug himself a little bunker. Yes, I think so. See how the dug-up ground is still clumped from residual moisture? It’s in the shade, but it wouldn’t take long to turn dry in this heat. He dug it today.”
“So his timing was perfect,” Eliza said. “And he got in position to attack the road to the north—the open desert—not south toward Las Vegas. Most traffic—if there is such a thing anymore—would come from that direction.”
“That’s about how I see it, yeah.”
“You think he was looking for us in particular?” Eliza asked.
Miriam found another shell casing. She held it up against the dying light, frowned, then fished the other casing out of her pocket. She handed them over to Eliza. “What do you think?”
The sniper had etched letters into the brass bullet casings: “Christianson I” for the first. “Christianson II” for the second.
“What do you bet that he also has bullets that say Christianson III and IV?” Miriam said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone is hunting us.”
“I get that part. Why? Who?”
“He’s military or former military and is comfortable with a sniper rifle like an M24 or M40.” Miriam took the casings back. “These etched shells are just the sort of thing a sniper does while waiting for his prey. And he knew how to pick his spot. He was patient. Waited to get a good shot on Trost, and wasn’t distracted when we ran from the culvert.”
“He might not have seen us come out,” Eliza said. “He might have been sta
ring down the scope the whole time.”
“Which also speaks to his discipline. But I think he did see us. He waited, took one shot, then ran for his horses, which must have been waiting right down there.” Miriam pointed down the gentler slope on the south side of the hillock. “He was already in the saddle and galloping away by the time Grover stopped shooting.”
“That means he was both hoping to gun us all down on the flats and preparing to run away at the same time,” Eliza said. “He’s not fearless.”
“No, and he makes mistakes. He left these shells. And don’t forget the glint you spotted off the sniper scope. Nice catch, by the way.”
“That was pure luck.”
“You were paying attention. He was not. If he had been, he’d have thought better about the angle of the sun. I’m no sniper, but I did some training in the FBI, and I can tell you that as important as it is to be a good shot, choosing your sniping position is even more critical. He did almost everything right, but not quite.”
“He was good enough to escape,” Eliza said. “And Trost is still dead.”
“There’s nothing we can do about Trost. But we can bring this son of Satan to justice. And by that, I mean put a bullet in him.”
“Forget that. I have no intention of playing cat-and-mouse games. Or looking for revenge. We’re three hundred miles from L.A. We have no food, we’re almost out of ammo. Our horses are scattered.”
“And?”
“And our job hasn’t changed. We’re on a mission to rescue Steve, not run around the desert killing people. So let’s stay focused on that, and on getting home with him.”
“I want to get home too, Liz.”
“Are you sure? I’m not convinced.”
“Of course I do. My baby is back there, my husband. And my job is to stand by Jacob’s side and protect him. Protect our valley.”
Eliza softened at this, particularly the part about Miriam’s baby. But she was still on edge over everything that Miriam had said and done, actions that had contributed to the tragedy of their dead friend.
“Let’s get this on the table,” Eliza said. “Grover is not expendable. He wasn’t before, and he certainly isn’t now. People are not equations. You don’t tally them up and decide who is more important and who can be tossed aside.”
Miriam didn’t respond.
“Either everyone matters,” Eliza added, “or nobody matters.”
“Even gentiles? Even men trying to kill us?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Let me ask you this,” Miriam said. “Jacob planned to send you with Lillian and Stephen Paul. Was he or was he not calculating when he made that decision?”
“He was calculating,” Eliza admitted.
“He wouldn’t send me because of the baby. He wouldn’t send himself because he has to lead Blister Creek. He wouldn’t have sent Sister Charity because she’s old and afraid. He wouldn’t have sent Elder Smoot because he doesn’t trust the man.”
“We didn’t have the luxury to choose. And anyway, I’m not Jacob.”
“You fought my decision-making in the mountains and in Cedar City. Fine, I gave in, because you agreed that when it came time to fight I’d be in charge. So now it’s time to fight and you’re arguing. What is it, what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. I want Trost to still be alive.”
“That’s not my doing, and it’s not yours. It was the sniper’s fault, but more than that, it was the will of the Lord. We can’t change it. We can only adjust.”
Everything Miriam said made sense, but it didn’t ease Eliza’s dejection as they made their way back to where Grover was stacking stones on Trost’s body. Surprisingly, he had managed to retrieve all four horses. He said they’d been frightened and he’d coaxed them to his side with a soothing voice. He’d tied them to clumps of sagebrush while he worked.
Unfortunately, Trost’s horse had taken a bullet to the shoulder. Under normal circumstances, it was hardly a fatal wound. It was hobbling, it had lost blood, but it was alive. What the horse needed was a veterinary surgeon to remove the bullet and sew up the wound, then a week or two of recovery time like any injured person or animal. But that was impossible here.
After they finished covering Trost, Eliza came over to where the horse sat on its quarters. She rubbed its trembling neck. It was weak; it could neither handle the road nor survive being turned loose in the desert. Time to make the call.
Why now? Why can’t I wait until morning?
Too many blows, too much turmoil. The problem would be the same in the morning, and then she’d have more strength to do what needed to be done.
But that wasn’t fair either. Leave the horse suffering all night? No.
Miriam came over to her side. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it will solve the food problem.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Let me do it,” Grover said. “I’ve put down an injured horse before.”
“No, Grover,” Eliza said. “My father said that if you have to do something hard, be man enough—well, woman enough—to do it yourself. Don’t force someone else to do your dirty work.”
“I want to, though. I need to do it.”
She looked him over. His face was earnest. His motives came into focus. Grover wasn’t much good in battle, he had a tender sensibility at a time when the world demanded ruthlessness, but he could do his duty without flinching.
At last she nodded. “Get my rifle.”
“We can’t spare the bullet,” Miriam said. “It will have to be with the knife.”
Eliza closed her eyes and put her hand on her forehead. It was too much to bear. And yet Miriam was right. They had two rifle shells left and one more bullet in the pistol.
The horse was weaker than she thought, and didn’t struggle as they tied its hooves together with the reins. Miriam led the three able-bodied animals down the highway and around the rock where the two women had taken refuge earlier.
When Miriam returned, the women held the injured horse’s head back to expose the neck while Grover took a deep breath and approached with the knife clenched in trembling hands. No more than thirty minutes had passed since they charged the hill, but it seemed like hours.
“Keep your hand steady,” Eliza said. “Don’t flinch or hesitate. You owe it to the animal to do it confidently and quickly.”
Grover nodded grimly. Miraculously, his hand steadied. He found the vein and began. It took too long, involved too much blood and struggling. But at last the awful task was over.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jacob entered the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum of the temple. The quorum stood, and the dozen men already waiting greeted him with murmurs of “Brother Jacob.” It was a solemn meeting and they wore their white robes, white sashes, white hats, and green aprons.
The men looked tense and frightened. From the older men his father’s age with their slate-gray beards halfway to their sternums to younger men like David and Stephen Paul, not one of them looked like he’d slept well in days.
David leaned in. “I was at the cliffs all day. Any word?”
Jacob knew he meant Miriam. “No, I’m sorry.”
David gave a tired nod.
In fact, there had been nothing from Eliza, Miriam, and the others since they disappeared in the wake of the drone attack a full week earlier. David had a baby in the house without her mother. And his second wife, Lillian, was now pregnant. Or so Fernie had suggested, and Jacob’s wife was never wrong about such things.
Jacob turned from his brother to address the group. “You know why I’ve called you.”
“The Blister Creek Legion is ready,” Elder Smoot said. “They await your orders.”
“Not yet we don’t. Everyone sit down.”
The men took their seats on t
he wooden benches. The Holy of Holies was a windowless room beneath the temple spire, with high, cathedral-like ceilings. The brass chandelier overhead had once decorated Joseph Smith’s temple in Nauvoo, Illinois, before the prophet died at the hands of a mob. Varnished wainscoting covered the lower half of the wall.
A four-feet-by-six-feet cedar chest sat in the center of the room. It was carved with the compass and square, a moon with a face, all-seeing eyes, and other symbols. Carved wooden cherubim, their wings overlaid with gold leaf, perched on either end of the chest. And what about the contents of the chest? Jacob had never opened it and never heard of anyone who had. His father claimed that among its treasures were the sword and breastplate of Laban, ancient relics mentioned in the Book of Mormon. Some claimed that in the Last Days, the One Mighty and Strong would wield them and lead the saints into battle against the very forces of Satan.
Jacob didn’t know much, but he was convinced that part was nonsense, as was much of the other lore surrounding this room. If not for tradition, he’d have held this meeting amidst the rock spires of Witch’s Warts instead.
Eight years ago, when Jacob was still a medical student trying to solve his cousin’s murder, this room had been the site of horrific violence at the hand of the Kimballs, pursuing their vision of the end of the world. At the time, Jacob had wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole church. Marry Fernie, help his sister Eliza escape the community, and get as far from Blister Creek as possible. Now he was its leader.
The men formed a prayer circle and Jacob offered a plea for divine aid. When he finished praying, he remained standing while the others took their seats.
“Before we move,” he said, “we must exhaust all possible alternatives.”
“We did,” Smoot said. “We warned them, they attacked us, and we warned them again. Four days later they’re more numerous than ever. They’re digging in for the long haul.” Smoot thumped his cane against the floor. “Now it’s time to act.”
Jacob glared at him. “Elder Smoot, would you like to lead this meeting? In fact, if you can get the votes, I will step down as head of this quorum and you can take my place.”
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