Righteous02 - Mighty and Strong (7 page)

“You’re talking about the power of discernment.”

“Exactly.”

The power of discernment was one of the spiritual gifts that the founder of Mormonism, Joseph Smith, had defined in the Doctrine & Covenants, which was the companion book of scripture to the Book of Mormon. A book of revelations for the modern church.

“I’m not asking you to believe it,” Jacob continued. “I’m asking you to remain open to the possibility that someone in the compound used spiritual means to discover your friend’s true identity.”

She didn’t say anything. At last she shook her head. “No, I can’t believe it.”

“I was raised Catholic,” Krantz said. He waved his hand. “Yeah, I know about the communion wafer and wine and all that. My mother had this St. Anthony medal on a chain. When she would lose something she’d rub the medal in her fingers and say, ‘St. Anthony, look around. Something’s lost that can’t be found.’ Silliest thing in the world, but nine times out of ten she’d find what she was looking for. I don’t know, maybe sometimes these things work.”

Fayer snorted.

“I rest my case,” Jacob said to Fayer. “You’re a skeptic. But why not? Haven’t you ever prayed to find lost keys?”

“That’s a little different than believing there’s some guy—St. Anthony, whoever that is—whose job it is to help people find lost stuff, but only if they repeat a silly rhyme first.”

“That’s what I mean about magic unicorns,” Jacob said. “It always seems like mumbo jumbo to an outsider. Look, if you don’t like to think about the power of discernment, how about this? Maybe your friend is a one-in-a-million liar. And maybe for every liar as good as Agent Kite, there’s someone with a one-in-a-million ability to detect lies.”

“If you’d only seen her at work,” Fayer said.

“Yeah, I’d probably find her convincing,” he admitted, “but that only means I’m not one of the one in a million who can tell she’s lying. Maybe Brother Timothy, or someone else in the Church of the Last Days, is that person.”

“I guess that’s possible.”

Was there any difference between that and the so-called power of discernment? If you had a remarkable, one in a million ability, did it matter if you gave that a scientific versus a spiritual name? Yet it was interesting that Fayer dismissed one out of hand and accepted that the other might be possible.

Agent Krantz rose to his feet. “I don’t know anything about spiritual powers, but I can tell you’re hooked. You want to butt heads with these people, see what they’ve got.”

“Maybe a little bit,” Jacob admitted. “And I’m curious about your chameleon. Is she as good as you claim? And can I get her out of trouble?”

“We hope so,” Krantz said.

Truth was, he
was
hooked. If it weren’t for his wife and children, he’d be ready to sign up now.

“No promises. I’ve got to talk to Fernie, first. And I’ll need some help with the hospital.”

“Of course.”

“And protection for my family. You say these guys are dangerous, and I believe it. If they are, I can’t expect to stir the hornet nest and not take chances with getting stung. Any deal involves a couple of your agents watching my house at all times.”

“Fair enough.”

“The apartment upstairs is for rent, if that helps.” Jacob hesitated. “There’s one last thing. You want my help, it’s non-negotiable.”

“What’s that?” Krantz asked.

“Don’t mention my sister again. You try to bring Eliza into this and you’ll make an enemy.”

Chapter Eight:

Emma waited for her chance to ask Brother Timothy to give her Jacob.

It took more patience than she could bear. The prophet had blessings to give, sermons to deliver, bread to break with his own hands. Did he have a moment for himself? Or rather, for her?

She approached for the first time during the communal supper in the courtyard. Brother Timothy ate his soup slowly, his eyes focused on something in the distance.

Brother Clarence sat on the prophet’s right side, and he set down a thick slice of bread when he saw her approach, wagged his finger and shook his head.

“But Brother Clarence…”

“No, Sister Emma. Not now.”

Emma bowed her head in assent and withdrew.

But on the second morning after her trip to the hospital, she found him hoeing in the gardens, back bent beneath the heat of the noontime sun. One of his wives—heavily pregnant—gathered the wilting weeds turned up by his hoe, while another wife watered a row of lettuce. Emma didn’t see Brother Clarence, who would have surely waved her away again.

“Brother Timothy?”

He straightened his back, leaned against the hoe. Sweat trickled through the streaks of dirt on his face, dripped from his beard. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “Yes, Emma?”

The sun was too hot, too bright. She shielded her eyes. “Brother Timothy, please, I need your help.”

Brother Timothy studied her with a gaze so penetrating it almost hurt. “Are you in trouble?

She thought about why she’d gone to the hospital and started to look away in shame, but managed to check herself. “Brother Timothy, I’m ready to get married.”

He blinked. “Sister Emma, the Lord makes that decision, not you.” His wives stopped what they were doing, stared.

“I felt the Spirit. When I was in bed last night, it came upon me and I felt it burning inside me. It told me I needed to get married and who to marry.”

“The Spirit told you.”

“I know it, Brother Timothy. I just do.” He didn’t answer and she stammered. “I-I don’t know. I’m just a girl. My father said girls don’t choose, but I felt, I thought I…”

“Your father is right,” Brother Timothy said. “It’s usually the father, together with the prophet who chooses. Usually.” A thoughtful note entered his voice. “I’ll need to take it to the Lord in prayer. Who is this man?”

“His name is Jacob Christianson, and he’s a doctor at Sanpete County.”

“Who?” A sharp edge entered his voice and he fixed her with a piercing look that made her shrink.

“My mother said he was the son of a polygamist leader in Blister Creek, that he was a good man, ready for the Gathering, and I thought if you spoke with him, he could, well, you know, you could tell him…”

Brother Timothy turned back to his hoeing and Emma watched him for a long minute, afraid, and uncertain if he was done with her and if she should turn and go. But then he stopped and leaned against his hoe again.

“Yes, I’ve heard of him. Brother Clarence and I were discussing him just the other day. Jacob Christianson is a proud man who puts himself above the Lord.” This confused Emma, who couldn’t square that with the gentle, kind man she’d met at the hospital. “But he’s a good man, if you could just talk to him, I know he’d listen.”

“Why is this man here, so close to the church, yet he hasn’t gathered with the saints yet?” The prophet voiced the question, but it didn’t seem directed to Emma, so she didn’t answer. He turned to his pregnant wife, Sister Karen. “Get me Brother Clarence. Tell him we have to talk about Jacob Christianson.”

He walked over to Emma once Sister Karen had gone. “There’s something more here than just a girl who is ready to get married. What could that be?”

“I don’t know, I-I thought I was doing the right thing. I felt…I mean the Spirit…”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Shh, you did the right thing in coming to me.”

“Does that mean that you’ll tell Jacob to marry me?”

“I don’t know yet, but I do know the Lord will give you what you deserve, Sister Emma.”

#

The wolves picked up Jacob’s scent as he made his way through the crowd. He felt them hunting him, the alpha male snarling to keep his lieutenants in line.

He was at the Manti Pageant, surrounded by thousands of Mormons, all come to see the spectacle on the hill. Floodlights dramatically lit the fortress-like temple and the wall that stretched across the hilltop. The pageant was a rough retelling of Mormon history, from the Angel Moroni leading Joseph Smith to the Gold Plates to scenes from the Book of Mormon, to the travails of the Mormon pioneers.

At the moment, a group of actors portrayed pioneers struggling across the frozen plains with handcarts. Some would die, others would emerge with strengthened faith. Melodrama. Monologues. Poignant moments.

Jacob didn’t stay still. He walked through the crowd, chatted with a couple who’d just returned from a mission to Nauvoo, Illinois, volleyed Biblical verses with the evangelical Christians who’d staked a position across the street to witness to the Mormons attending the pageant. The night was cool, with a breeze from the west that smelled like the desert: sage and sand and sun-baked rock.

Before long, he could see the two men. Jacob spotted the third about twenty minutes later. This last man seemed to be directing the other pair.

A gay roommate at the U (now
there
was an eye-opening experience for a young man from a polygamist family) had once told Jacob he possessed an ability he called gaydar. It was his supposed ability to pick a fellow gay man from a crowd based on speech and mannerism.

Short of a gay pride t-shirt, Jacob had no clue about gaydar, but he could spot a Mormon at a hundred yards. Accent, mannerism, the “Mormon smile” of religious undergarments beneath a white shirt. And he was doubly sensitive to fundamentalist Mormons. Cut a man’s hair, his beard, get the woman out of the prairie dress and put her in jeans and a tank-top. Didn’t matter. A child raised in plural marriage carried a mark for life.

The three men dressed in white shirts and ties, but the beards—close cropped though they were—gave them away. Jacob pretended he didn’t see them. He found an empty spot on the grass, sat and watched the pageant for a few minutes. Shortly, one of the men came and sat a couple of feet away.

“What do you think of the pageant?”

“Not bad,” Jacob said without turning from the show. “Except they’ve turned Joseph Smith into a Hollywood caricature.”

“Most of these people wouldn’t recognize a real prophet if he parted the Red Sea.”

“Maybe because they’ve spent too long following a false one.” Jacob turned and looked at the speaker. It was dark, and hard to pick out the man’s features. “I’ve met several prophets. Some are more impressive than others.”

“Careful, brother. That sounds like blasphemy.”

“Many men are called to prophesy,” Jacob answered in an even tone. “But only one is ever called to lead the Saints.”

“Who are you?” the man asked. “And what are you doing here?”

“I am waiting for the One Mighty and Strong.”

The man drew in his breath. “Who told you to say that?”

“Nobody told me,” Jacob said. He thought about the missing woman, Sister Miriam. She had studied, she was good. But could any of that replace a lifetime of drinking scripture and prophecy? Of waiting for the end of the world?

“Then why did you say it?” the man asked.

Jacob decided to press. “I’ve studied the scriptures, prayed to the Lord for guidance. Look at these people. They’re lost, confused. They let go of the iron rod and they need someone to bring them back.”

The iron rod, from the prophet Lehi’s dream in the Book of Mormon, was the only way through the mists and darkness of the world. The evil sat at a distance, in a great and spacious building, mocking the believers, many of whom would let go of the iron rod and be lost. Isn’t that what had happened to the LDS church? The world had mocked and persecuted until the church surrendered its true principles. Not only did it give up plural marriage, it now condemned those who’d held true.

“Someone to bring them back?” the man asked.

“The One Mighty and Strong. Joseph Smith prophesied he’d come in the last days to gather the saints, bring them back to the Lord. I think that day has come.”

“And you are looking for him?”

“I don’t need to look for him,” Jacob said. “When the time comes, he will find me.”

The man was quiet. Jacob could almost hear him thinking. When he spoke, his voice was low, with a sharp, tight edge. “Thou art in great danger, Brother. Thy soul is at risk, as is thy mortal existence.”

“By what authority do you threaten me?” Jacob asked.

The man moved closer until he sat with his face intimately close to Jacob’s. A sudden illumination from the hillside, together with the sounds of simulated battle and a voice crying out to God. In the light, Jacob could see the intensity burning in the man’s eyes. A hunting wolf, closing in on his prey. He was bearded, with full lips and a prominent nose, slightly askew. And young, maybe no older than thirty.

Brother Timothy.
He was speaking to the prophet himself.

“Tell me truthfully,” Brother Timothy said. “Who sent thee?”

After Jacob and Fernie put the kids down last night, he prepared a speech for his wife. It was a terrible thing to ask.

Dear, I’m going to vanish for a while. How long? Hard to say. Days? Weeks. What’s that? No, I can’t call to let you know I’m okay. Too dangerous.

It was obvious throughout the evening that Fernie knew the conversation was coming. She was quiet, pensive. After the older two went down, they bathed the baby together and he watched her out of the corner of one eye, wishing he knew what she was thinking. Inside, he prepared all the arguments. About protecting his sister, Eliza, about the missing young woman. Sister Miriam—make that Agent Kite—had friends and family, too. They loved her, worried about her.

As they crawled into bed, Fernie asked, “Are you leaving in the morning?”

“I was going to ask your permission, first.”

“You have it.”

“Don’t you want to discuss it, hear the reasons I want to go?”

“I already know the reasons,” Fernie said. “You’re going because you’re a good person and you want to help.”

Jacob wished he were as confident of his own motives. He’d love to tell himself it was about helping others. But Agent Krantz had been right; Jacob wanted to match himself against Brother Timothy and his men. He wanted to meet this self-proclaimed prophet for himself.

“It’s dangerous,” he said, “and I have to leave you and the kids behind. That’s going to be hard. Really hard.”