Righteous04 - The Blessed and the Damned (23 page)

“I parked Taylor Junior’s truck farther in,” she said. “Maybe a mile. If we park here we could go the rest of the way on foot.”

“Going to be hell backing out of here,” Krantz said with a glance in the side and rearview mirrors. “All right, let’s go.”

They grabbed their backpacks and followed Charity on foot. Eliza soon saw that they’d been right to leave the car. A four-wheel drive might have made it up the rock-strewn trail that narrowed as it hugged the hillside in a series of ever-steeper
switchbacks, but in the Crown Victoria, they would have shortly found themselves either high centered on one of the rocks or revving the engine to get out of a rut and with a fifty-foot drop if they slipped.

They reached the fallen tree about forty-five minutes later. Eliza helped Krantz and Fayer drag the tree to the side of the road. The truck wasn’t the new Ford F-150 with the extended cab, but a beat-up Toyota, pounded over dirt roads and baked in the desert sun since sometime in the previous century. Charity said the truck had a fickle transmission and she should do the driving.

“Assuming she doesn’t drive us over the cliff,” Fayer muttered as the woman went around to the driver’s side.

There was room for only two in the cab, and Fayer climbed in front with Charity Kimball. Eliza climbed over the tailgate and sat in the truck bed. Krantz waited until Charity had the truck turned around before joining Eliza in the back. The truck sagged under his weight.

“You’re a big guy, Steve,” Eliza said.

“Useful in college, when I threw the hammer. Not so much when you’re driving along the edge of a cliff in a truck with suspect brakes. I could lose a few pounds, that wouldn’t kill me.”

She looked him over. “You’re solid, not fat.”

“Nice of you to say. Sadly, it takes about three hours a week at the gym to maintain this svelte figure. A few days missed, a few donuts downed, and I’ll be fat, believe me.”

“No doubt the bad guys take one look at you and start crying for their mommas.”

“Or make a run for it, and then I’m in trouble. Good thing I’ve got Fayer to run them down.”

“Well, you look good to me.” She put a hand playfully on his arm and felt a flutter in her stomach. His arm was as thick and solid as a small tree trunk. “I’ll bet you’ve had lots of girlfriends, Steve. Plenty of women like tall, strong men. Makes them feel protected.”

He turned with a curious expression, and she thought she’d misread his signs—plowing her neighbor’s field, as her father might say—but then she saw that his face was flushed. He said, “You don’t seem like the sort who needs protecting.”

She took her hand away and raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about protecting
me
? A guy puts the move, I bash in his skull. Anyway, you’re big enough that we’re having a hard time clearing these rocks. You might have to get out and push.”

“Ouch.” Nevertheless, he looked happy, and even delighted when she rested her hand on top of his. He turned his hand over so that her hand rested on top of his palm.

Eliza laughed. She turned her head so the wind would catch her hair and blow it away from her face, then enjoyed the sunlight and the feel of her hand—suddenly so small—in his. For a moment she forgot their grim purpose.

And then the road grew worse, if that were possible. They rocked and bumped, and a couple of times she didn’t think they’d pull out of a rut. Krantz did, in fact, get out of the truck to give it more clearance. Finally, the road flattened out as they climbed to the top of the ridge. The truck kicked up a cloud of dust that trailed down the hill behind them.

At last, Charity stopped the truck. She leaned out the window. “This is the end. We’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot.”

Eliza was glad to get out. A queasy feeling had settled into her stomach. Much longer and she’d have had to get out of the
bouncing vehicle before she got motion sickness. She cleared the dust from her mouth with a swallow of water from her canteen.

They’d climbed farther, faster, than she could have thought possible. As they adjusted the straps on their packs, Agent Fayer checked her gun and ammunition. Krantz shielded his eyes with his hand and followed the ridges as they cut into the heart of the wilderness area.

It certainly looked like a more direct path. Faster, no doubt, than Jacob and her father’s ad hoc route. But the others had a ten-hour head start. It might be too much to make up.

* * *

“Don’t open the shells or you will die,” Taylor Junior said. “Don’t drop a shell or you will die. If you pull the pin on a triggering grenade, you will kill us all.”

The other three watched him, rapt. He couldn’t rush this. They had been terrified for hours now, and having their souls in turmoil suited his purpose. But only if he didn’t push too far.

Taylor Junior had led the men to his secret sanctuary late the previous night, feeling their way by touch through the narrow walls of the slot canyon, then picking their way foot-by-foot up the box canyon with no more than the light of a crescent moon and a clear sky of stars. The last hundred yards, up what Taylor Junior had come to think of as the Hidden Staircase, was harrowing, and the other men repeatedly lost their nerve. He coaxed, bullied, and threatened until they regained their courage. At last they made their way into his inner sanctuary. Once inside, he risked lighting the Coleman lantern.

The men looked around, marveling. “How did you find this place?” his father asked.

“An angel showed it to me in a vision. The Lord kept it hidden from the eyes of men for a thousand years. Since the days of the Lamanites.”

He hadn’t shown them the crate, not at first. It sat in one corner, covered by a blanket. Instead, he opened a duffel bag and removed three black aprons, which he tied around their waists. The aprons matched his own. “The symbol of your new powers and priesthoods,” he said. He sat the men on the floor, placed his hands on their heads, and ordained them as his counselors: his father as first counselor, Aaron as his second counselor, and Eric the third counselor.

When he was done, he stood them up and formed a prayer circle. “Oh Lord, hear the words of my mouth. We are empty vessels—fill us with thy Spirit. Give us strength to smite our enemies, yea, even unto death and eternal damnation. Behold, thy servants, Elder Taylor Kimball, who has humbled himself before thee, thy servant Aaron Young…”

He continued to pray, to make promises to the men, to ask the Lord for blessings, to call upon the angel that the Lord had sent to guide them. When the others could no longer stand from exhaustion, he gave them blankets and let them sleep. They woke by midmorning, broke bread together, and then Taylor Junior ventured a look down at the box canyon. He saw nothing.

But his enemies had arrived. He could feel their presence around him, just like he could feel the angel, or feel the box in the corner like a deadly beast, slumbering. He could detect his enemies not with his physical senses, but with his spiritual eyes. The
apostates watched, they plotted their attack. If he showed himself, they’d try to kill him.

Now was the time. His enemies had abandoned their defenses, and his own men were spiritually and physically prepared. Taylor Junior threw the blanket off the crate and lifted the lid. The others watched, frowns deepening from concern into fear.

He lifted the first shell out of the crate. It was painted green, a bullet shape about the length of his forearm and weighing eight or ten pounds. He’d duct-taped a grenade to its surface. He handed the first shell to Aaron Young. The man shuddered, took it like he was handling a rattlesnake.

“Each one of these is death. Your death, a dozen men, a thousand. It depends on who is nearby. The first will die quickly. The rest, more painfully, lingering.”

Aaron turned it over in his hands. “What is it? High explosive?”

“No. The explosive is only the means of delivery.” Taylor Junior handed shells to his father and to Eric Froud. “These are chemical artillery shells. We don’t have field guns, of course, so I’ve taped on grenades to act as detonators. You pull the pin, the grenade sets off the explosives in the shell, which disperses the gas. A cloud will rise from the shell and kill anything in its path.”

“Shouldn’t we have gas masks?” Elder Kimball asked. “And couldn’t we get big garbage sacks to hold them in, like you had last night? In case one of them opens.”

“It wouldn’t work. Not for long. This is Lewisite.”

“Lewis-what?” Kimball asked, licking his lips and leaning his head back from the shell in his hands.

“Lewisite,” Taylor Junior said. “It’s an organoarsenic chemical weapon, developed at the end of World War I. A blister agent. It
will penetrate clothing, rubber, and I believe plastic. It will burn out your corneas, raise blisters on your skin. You’ll die a horrible death.”

Aaron and Eric listened with lips pressed tight, as if afraid the things would suddenly explode and that keeping their mouths shut would keep them safe if they did. Pointless. If one of the shells exploded, there were enough conventional explosives inside to turn the four of them into a cloud of vaporized blood and bone.

“What’s that smell?” Aaron asked. “It’s like my mother’s flower garden.”

“Geraniums,” Taylor Junior said. “The dew of death. That’s the Lewisite you’re smelling. The shells are old and leaking.”

Aaron thrust out his hands. “Take it! Take it!”

“Calm down. It’s not dangerous like that. And I’ve rubbed the surface with bleach, to neutralize the effect as much as possible. If you feel burning on your skin, put it down at once. If the smell of flowers becomes overwhelming, you need to get away in a hurry. Put down the backpack and take off all your clothes. Although, if either of those things happens, it’s probably too late anyway.”

“I don’t like this,” Eric said. His voice was high and pinched. “Can we put them back now?”

“No. Each of you take your shell and store it in your backpack. I’ve lined the packs with gauze soaked in bleach. Unless the shell actually breaks open, you’ll be fine.” He gestured to the backpacks. “Load them up now. It’s time to get out of here.”

Taylor Junior’s father waited until the others were outside, then put a hand on his son’s arm. “There’s one thing that concerns me.”

“Yes?”

“We’re supposed to pull the pin, and then the grenade goes off, right? And that will explode the artillery shell and send out the poison gas.”

“That’s right.”

“But when you pull the pin on a grenade, you have to throw it. These shells are too heavy to throw. And you can’t just run away. You’d only have, what? Four or five seconds?”

“These grenades detonate in seven seconds.”

“Seven seconds, then,” Father said. “How far can we run in seven seconds? Not far enough, I’d think.”

“No, not far enough,” Taylor Junior agreed. “I don’t suggest you try.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and smiled. “But this isn’t a suicide mission—the Lord will provide a way. Trust me.”

“Trust you? After the last couple of days, you expect that? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“I don’t know. That’s for the Lord to decide. Maybe a handful. Maybe none. Maybe all of them.”

“All of them? There will be nobody left to lead.”

“The apostates who don’t repent will die.” He allowed himself to smile. “And there’s always your spawn, remember? How many children do you have? The Lord can create a new people, if he needs them.”

Father stared. “Is it power you want? Do you think you’re really a prophet?”

“Why don’t you answer that question? You’re the one who showed me the angel. You’re the one who gave me life. I’m only following the path that you set me on.”

“You’re no better than Gideon. And you’re crazy, like Caleb.”

“If there’s one thing I’m not, Father, it’s crazy.” Taylor Junior shook his head. “That’s what makes me different from my brothers. That’s why I’m going to do what they couldn’t manage. That’s why I’m going to win.”

Father must have noticed Taylor Junior looking at the final shell, still sitting at the bottom of the chest. “What is that? Backup?”

“Not a backup,” Taylor Junior said. He pulled on his gloves. “Not exactly. More like completing the circle. There’s one thing missing in our plan to attack the enemy. If Abraham, Jacob, and the others come looking for us here, they’ll still be around after we finish our attack. They’ll come after us, and there won’t be any women or children or anything else to hold them back.”

“That seems like a fatal flaw.”

“Tell me, Father. How smart is Jacob Christianson?”

“Brilliant.”

“I’m brilliant, Father. So was Gideon. Eliza too, for that matter, and you always told me that Abraham was a cunning son of Satan. Blister Creek is full of intelligent people. Is Jacob smart like that, or smarter?”

“I don’t know. What are you getting at?”

“Will he find this place on his own, do you think?”

“How would he?” Elder Kimball asked. “Nobody else did.”

“That’s exactly my point. Does he need a clue, or is he smarter than the rest of you? One way or another, we need to be sure he finds this place.”

“We do? Why?” his father asked, proving that he wasn’t, in fact, particularly brilliant, no matter the intelligence of any of the other interested parties.

Taylor Junior lifted the last shell. “Because we’re going to close the circle. We’re going to leave Jacob Christianson a welcome gift.”

At one time in Jacob’s life, a rifle had felt like an extension of his own arm. But given how he’d avoided firearms for the last dozen years, it surprised him how comfortable he felt with the .30-06 tied to his backpack.

As a child, he’d hunted everything from small game like rabbits and quail, to deer. He remembered the day he’d lost his enthusiasm for hunting. He’d been seventeen and with his brother Enoch and his Grandpa Griggs hunting deep in the Ghost Cliffs. It was a cold day in mid-November. They’d been out for twenty-four hours before they spotted any does, let alone a buck. It was late afternoon when they found the tracks in the snow.

Grandpa was the best tracker of the three, but his eyes couldn’t see well in dim light and there was a thick, oppressive cloud cover threatening more snow, so Jacob did the tracking. They’d been
following several sets of tracks with droppings for about an hour when he differentiated a more promising set of prints among the group. They were bigger, with a more pronounced dew claw. When the larger tracks veered from the others, he was sure they had a buck. Better still, the trail didn’t move in a straight line as it crossed a meadow, but meandered, meaning the animal was moving at a slow pace. Periodically, they came across a place where the deer had cleared away snow to get at the grass.