Mighty and Strong (The Righteous)

by Michael Wallace

  “So what's your suggestion?” Krantz asked.

  “Narrow our focus. We have no idea where they're holding Fayer. She might not even be in the compound. The longer we spend mucking with this other stuff, the fewer resources we can throw at finding her and the guys who kidnapped her. And what if she's not there at all? What if they've carried her to some spider hole in the hills to rape or torture her or whatever?”

  Chambers spoke in the abstract, his voice matter-of-fact, but Krantz found it easy enough to picture Fayer begging her captors not to hurt her, or stuck in some filthy hole somewhere in the vast Utah wilderness. Never find her out there.

  “Aerial surveillance spotted the pickup truck inside the compound fence,” he said. “Either they've got her inside, or her abductors left her somewhere and came back. Either we get her or we get them, which leads us to her.”

  Chambers shrugged. “Could be a trick.”

  Could be, but he didn't think so. He thought about what Eliza said. These men wanted to be found. They could have hid the truck easily enough, but hadn't.

  “Okay, so how about this,” Krantz said. “One team to sweep the compound, the other to secure the prophet. This so-called Brother Timothy is either the ringleader or he sanctioned their behavior. We take him for leverage, and any other resistance collapses. Leave him free and he's likely to pull a David Koresh.”

  “You mean hole up, have a suicidal fight? They all die, so much the better. A fight to the last man.”

  “A fight to the last wife.”

  “Good point, these polygamists are ninety percent women and children,” Chambers said. “Makes it easier.”

  “Fayer wouldn't like that observation,” Krantz said.

  “Call me a sexist pig,” Chambers said, “but you'll notice they didn't go after the big guy, they went after the woman. You play football in college, that what I heard?”

  “No, I threw the shot put.”

  “Exactly. Followed by Army Rangers. Iraq, war hero, all that shit.” He nodded. “I rest my case.”

  “Look, it doesn't matter. They hit me over the head from behind and I went down just as easily as any other man, woman, or child. Couple more blows and they could have dragged me anywhere they wanted. There were three of them, after all.”

  “Okay, whatever. So we'll capture their prophet and then roll up the whole cult leadership.”

  Krantz wanted to defend Fayer, share examples of when she'd defended herself from perps, kept her cool under stress. But there was probably some truth in what Chambers said. At the least, it illuminated what the enemy was thinking.

  “Only one other thing,” Chambers said. “Agent Kite, the one who set off this whole mess, I don't know her, but I've heard stories.”

  “Yeah, Kite's got a whole lot a stories.”

  “She go in as deep as they say?”

  “She goes all the way,” Krantz said. “It's what makes her so good.”

  “I don't know anything about this cult, or what kind of brainwashing they do, but you've got to assume there's a chance she's gone rogue.”

  “Believe me, I've been suspicious for a long time. She's had chances to make contact, far as I can see, and hasn't taken them.”

  “That could cause problems.”

  “Serious problems,” Krantz conceded. “What if she told them we were watching Temple Square, suspicious about the polygamists who keep coming and going? And what if she knows they've got Fayer? First thing she'd think is that we'll stage a raid. And if she tells them. . .well, they might be awake, armed, and ready for us.”

  Chambers looked thoughtful. “If you're right, there's only one thing to do.”

  “Yeah?”

  He held up his big manila folder. “Like you told the other guys, read up on Waco.”

  Chapter Twenty-four:

  “You have beautiful children, Sister Fernie,” the prophet said. “Your boys will grow into righteous leaders in Zion.”

  “Thank you,” Fernie said. “But what about my daughter?”

  “She is beautiful, too, and will make a fine wife and mother some day.”

  The prophet tore off bread and handed pieces to Jacob and Fernie. The beautiful children themselves were back in the main courtyard, eating with everyone else. If the prophet could see their table manners, he might not be quite so complimentary.

  Jacob wondered if Fernie bristled at that last bit. It was the sort of thing he needed her to remember if he wanted to keep her from places like Zarahemla or Blister Creek.

  Your sons will be great men, oh, and I guess you've got a daughter. Someday, she'll be the wife and mother of a great man!

  But it's not like the boys had it much easier. Every man in the church married at least two women, and many leaders had a dozen or more. What to do with all those extra boys? Most of them found themselves on the outside, usually against their will.

  The three of them sat in a small interior courtyard, private to Brother Timothy's quarters. One of his older daughters brought more flatbread on a plate and then Sister Miriam came with a large bowl. It held some sort of spicy tomato sauce with chunks of meat and some bright green vegetable.

  “That looks wonderful,” Brother Timothy told her. He turned to the others. “A dish from the Holy Land. Bamya with lamb. Like something the Lord shared with his apostles.”

  “Smells fantastic,” Jacob said. “You're lucky to have a wife with so many talents.”

  Behind Timothy's shoulder, Miriam shot him a look, while Fernie reached beneath the table and nudged him. Miriam dished the food into wooden bowls. The spoons were hand-carved wood. Jacob had skipped breakfast, taken bread and cheese for lunch, and was starving. Anything would have tasted good, but the bamya really was excellent. It tasted like garlic, onion, cumin, and, he thought maybe coriander.

  “Speaking of wives,” Brother Timothy said, “would you like to meet your newest?”

  “I thought we had two to choose from,” Jacob said.

  A shadow passed over the prophet's face. “I'm afraid there's a problem with one of the girls.”

  “Problem, like what?” Fernie asked.

  “Sister Emma has. . .run away. She and her father had a fight and the girl ran off in the middle of the night.”

  “Where did she go, any ideas?” Fernie asked.

  “She's got cousins in northern Utah. That's where the family is looking.”

  Jacob guessed Fernie would remember their conversation about the girl from the hospital, but he hadn't told her about the murder. He needed her calm, unafraid. Tonight, before Sister Miriam came to their rooms. He'd tell her then.

  But this unfortunate charade was a side effect of her ignorance.

  “I wouldn't worry about it,” Timothy added. “We'll find Emma and figure out the problem. Could be she's not ready to get married. I don't know what's going through her head, but nobody is going to push. Anyway, would you like to meet Sister Devorah?” He turned. “Miriam, dear, could you?”

  “Isn't Devorah the granddaughter of Sister Grace Ellen?” Jacob asked. “I met her when examining her grandmother. Good girl.”

  “Yes, a kind and gentle girl,” he said as Sister Miriam led the girl into the courtyard. “She's wonderful with her grandmother. A girl like that will make a good mother. Help you raise a righteous seed.” He stood, smiled at Devorah and put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for coming, sister.”

  Devorah gave Jacob a painful smile before looking at her feet. “Hello, Brother Timothy. Hello, Doctor.”

  “Please, call me Jacob.”

  “Okay, Brother Jacob.” A tremor in her voice.

  Poor girl. She was overweight, had acne issues, and the way she walked, looking at the ground instead of making eye contact, said volumes about her lack of self-confidence. She suffered the sort of complexion that either looked sickly pale or blushing with every emotion.

  “Devorah, you know what this is about, don't you?” he asked.

  “About marrying you, right?”


  “That's right. How do you feel about it?”

  “I don't know. Good, I guess.” She made brief eye contact, then looked away.

  “I'm worried you're not ready. You don't look. . .”

  Brother Timothy must have misinterpreted his tone. “Remember, outward beauty doesn't last. This girl will make a good wife, I promise you. You've seen how she is with her grandmother, and she's just as good with children. More than one woman has asked if Devorah could join their family as a sister wife. Don't look at your feet, sister. Stand straight and smile. There, that looks much more comely.”

  The prophet continued, “It's true that Emma Green is much better looking—if we can ever find her—but the Lord looks on the inner person. That's where true beauty lies.”

  “I saw her with her grandmother,” Jacob said. “She was wonderful. And don't get me wrong, she's a nice looking young woman.”

  Jacob tried to give an encouraging smile, but Devorah stared at her shoes again, face blushing, shoulders hunched. He could tell she didn't believe a word he'd said.

  “And she's nineteen, so she's more than ready, aren't you, Sister Devorah?”

  She gave a feeble nod.

  “Absolutely nothing wrong with her,” Jacob said. “We're just so new here, I don't want to rush into anything.”

  It was the polygamist version of 'it's not you, it's me.' Trouble was, nobody was buying it.

  “Take her,” Brother Timothy urged. “I promise you'll find her easy to live with.”

  “Well, whatever you men decide,” Fernie said, “for heaven's sake, don't make her stand there like a breeding cow and you two farmers haggling over the price. Seriously, you men are the worst. Here, sister, have a seat. Here's an extra bowl. Take some of this. And the bread, too. It's good, try it.”

  “She's virtuous,” Brother Timothy added. “Aren't you, Devorah?”

  “I think so. How do you mean?”

  “You are pure, right? Have saved yourself for your wedding night. A virgin.”

  “Oh, please,” Fernie said. “Leave the poor girl alone. Devorah, you don't have to answer that. The way you take care of your grandmother is more than enough of a character reference, right Jacob?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Devorah was beet red, looked like she wanted to sink out of her chair and hide beneath the table. But it wouldn't be the sort of question she could refuse to answer. She nodded her head. “I'm a virgin.”

  “She seems like a lovely girl,” Jacob said. “But it's all so fast. How about you give us a few weeks, let us get to know each other.”

  “Here's the thing,” the prophet said. “You're my counselor, I need you fully invested in the church. People want to know you're serious about the gospel, you're here for good. A new marriage will seal that.”

  Jacob looked to his wife for help. “Fernie?”

  “Are you ready?” Fernie asked the girl. “Seriously, Devorah, do you think this is what the Lord wants?”

  “Well, I guess so.”

  “If there's anything holding you back,” she said, “even if you just feel too young, tell us. We're not going to pressure you.”

  The girl didn't say anything, just looked down at the food in her bowl.

  “Sister Devorah?” Brother Timothy asked. He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a look that was not unkind.

  She cleared her throat. “It's just that I'm so worried about my grammie.”

  “We'll take care of her, don't worry about that,” Fernie said.

  “But she needs things just so, and she has trouble at night. Who's going to get up with her when she needs help to the toilet? I'm afraid it would be too hard for her to adjust to someone else. Maybe in a few years, after she has. . .after, you know. . .”

  “When I said we'll take care of her,” Fernie said, “I meant we'll take care of her. She can move in with us. With you. We'll put her in a room right next to yours.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. We're not like gentiles, we don't put our grandparents in nursing homes. Nobody loves your grandmother like you do, so why find someone else to take care of her? As far as your grammie's concerned, nothing will change.” Fernie smiled. “So long as she doesn't mind a bunch of kids underfoot.”

  “She's right,” Jacob said. “We'd never separate you from your grandmother.” He turned back to Brother Timothy. “But here's my concern—”

  “Hold on,” Fernie said. “I think Devorah wants to say something. Go ahead.”

  “No, nothing. I was going to say that if I can take care of my grammie, that I'd be, uhm, I'd be honored to be selected as your eternal companion, Brother Jacob.”

  Devorah didn't look honored. She looked backed into a corner. She wasn't the only one. Jacob tried to figure out how to wiggle free, convince any one of these people it was a bad idea.

  He caught Sister Miriam, standing back by the doorway, watching. Her brow furrowed.

  “Great, then it's settled,” Brother Timothy said. “First thing tomorrow we'll seal you for time and all eternity. Congratulations, all of you.”

  “Fernie?” Jacob asked. “Are you sure about this?”

  “You have my permission.”

  “That's not what I mean.”

  “Stand up,” Brother Timothy said. “Let me give you both my blessing.”

  He took Jacob's arm, urged him to his feet, took Devorah with his other hand. When they were both standing, he put their hands together. Devorah's palm was cold, sweating. She looked at her feet. Jacob fought the urge to do the same.

  “May you raise up a righteous seed to serve the Lord.”

  “Thou sayest,” Devorah said. She looked at Jacob when he didn't answer.

  “Okay,” was all he could manage.

  “You're officially engaged now. Go ahead, Jacob, give your betrothed a kiss.”

  Jacob gave Fernie a desperate look and in return, she widened her eyes, gave him a nod, as if to say, Hurry up, you fool. Don't make the poor girl suffer.

  Jacob bent down while Devorah formed a huge pucker and leaned forward with her eyes closed. Her hand was trembling in his.

  He kissed her, just long enough that it didn't looked like he was disgusted.

  Brother Timothy was beaming, Fernie looked content. Devorah, relieved that it was over. And Sister Miriam, at the edge of the courtyard, met his gaze and gave a cryptic shake of the head.

  Not one more day, Jacob told himself. We are leaving. Tonight.

  #

  In spite of everything—9/11, the Kennedy assassinations, his polygamist relatives, even the periodic death threats via email or poorly scribbled notes—Senator Jim McKay found himself surprised when the attack came.

  One minute he was reading tripe from The New Republic that dismissed his candidacy as, “The last, desperate hope of the would-be Jesusocracy.” The next minute, a gun barrel at his forehead. He had a startled moment where he felt like he was dreaming. And then thought this must be a joke. And saw the grim expression on his attacker's face and he knew it wasn't.

  Two days earlier a woman had called his campaign headquarters, purporting to be the secretary of a well-known reporter from USA Today. They were doing a comparison piece on the primary contenders, one of those things that lined up candidates on issues like abortion, global warming, and free trade. Could he answer the enclosed questionnaire and write two to three sentences illuminating each viewpoint? But in the same issue they wanted to run a feature on how Senator McKay's moral values would shape his future presidency.

  USA Today meant pure fluff, with no risk of a hatchet job. Of course someone from his staff checked out the reporter, made sure he was legit. But no return call to USA Today; too much was going on with the upcoming Pioneer Day celebration.

  When the woman arrived, together with the supposed reporter—a respectable-looking man of fifty-five, maybe sixty years old—he'd felt no misgivings. Senior reporter and his attractive young assistant. Probably the woman was the real writer, the man the res
pected byline.

  Jim shook the reporter's hand. It was large, callused, like what you'd find on a man who worked with his hands. Maybe that should have given him pause, but he was distracted by the low cut of the woman's blouse and her coquettish smile. He knew the type, attracted to power. Loose Washington morals.

  He forced himself to look away. No way, no scandals. He would not be derailed by Clintonesque bimbo eruptions.

  “Senator McKay,” the man said, “I'm Todd Brenslow and this is my co-writer Katy Smart. She's the one who called.”

  “Welcome. Would you like anything? Bagels and donuts in the break room. I can have my staff make some coffee if you'd like. Don't drink it myself, but I've got staff to smuggle it into Utah.” He winked at the woman, who smiled back.

  “Maybe later,” Brenslow said. “Mind if we ask a few questions first?”

  “Sure, come on back.”

  This Brenslow guy had a slow, rural accent, like the type you heard in southern Utah or southeast Idaho. Maybe he was from this part of the world. Come to think of it, hadn't Jim's secretary remarked about the woman's accent when she'd called? Something about these two looked familiar.

  She shut the door behind them and Brenslow pulled a laptop from its case, then fished out a power cord. He had his back turned.

  Jim sat at his desk and waited for the man to get to it. So much going on with a speech and fundraiser in Provo tonight, then all the fun tomorrow. The Pioneer Day speeches, the Temple Square Tour, fireworks and the late-night rally.

  And the following morning he'd make the official announcement. A speech at the State Capitol with his brother, then fly to Washington that evening to make an appearance with the party graybeards. The headline of the press release would read: “Fiscal Conservative Vows to Return America to its Roots.”

  That would be the theme of the campaign: America's roots. Sound fiscal policy, pay as you go, energy security. No bailouts to banks, no new social programs to ring up on the big national credit card. Manufacturing jobs kept in the U.S. instead of shipped off to China. An end to the farting around in the Middle East. Let the Israelis and the Iranians and the Saudis solve their own troubles. Fight terrorism by keeping crazy Middle Easterners out of the country in the first place. Who could argue with that?