Mighty and Strong (The Righteous) Read online

  No wine at this table. The building had once been the famous Hotel Utah, but the church had purchased it and done a major remodeling. This room had a fantastic view looking down on the temple and the Temple Square grounds. It would be a great place for a fundraiser for the Salt Lake elites. Make the faithful drool, give them a warm, spiritual glow. That view would substitute for the usual lubricant at such things: alcohol. Church-owned building would never see a drop, nor coffee or tea, for that matter. And you had to have something to get the cream flowing from all those bloated udders.

  “The point is,” Elder Peterson said, “if we turn over church resources to your campaign, we're going to have to answer a lot of critics. For example. . .”

  The words turned into a drone. Jim nodded, looked attentive. He eased the lobster meat from its shell and dipped it in the dish of melted butter. Wow, that was good. Of course, his napkin would be tasty, too, sauteed in so much garlic and butter. Shame that Parley was such a picky—you could almost say ascetic—eater. This was good eats. Instead, Parley ordered some boring chicken thing, and was surreptitiously scraping the butter, herbs and anything else that made the food worthwhile from his potatoes.

  “. . .so-called separation of church and state,” Elder Peterson was saying. “It's not lip-service to some of these people, they really believe it.”

  “Oh, so do I,” Jim said. “At least on the record. But liberals are trying to do more than that. They won't be happy until they can throw you in jail for mentioning God outside your own living room.”

  “Don't get me wrong,” Elder Peterson said. “I'm still on board with what you're doing, that hasn't changed. But some of the brethren are cautious.”

  “We don't want to go against the brethren,” Parley said.

  Jim shook his head. “Of course not. I'm trying to explain my needs and hope the prophet and the Quorum of the Twelve see things the same way.”

  “They do, believe me. But after the Prop 8 mess in California, when the gays picketed our temples, and then the gay lobby took it to court, what a fiasco. What we should have done. . .”

  Peterson's words returned to a drone. Jim grew annoyed. He was a believing Mormon, that wasn't window dressing for the devout. He'd given a lot to the church, so was it wrong to expect something in return after all these years?

  He paid a full ten percent tithing on his gross income. He read his scriptures, fasted the first Sunday of every month and paid a generous fast offering for the poor and the afflicted. He even did his home teaching.

  And when he needed to squeeze money from some rich LDS businessman, he simply rolled up his pant leg and showed the white, hairless scars and told his favorite mission story. He'd put in his papers after his freshman year at BYU and they'd sent him to Bolivia. His first thought upon opening the envelope: Bolivia? Where's that? Africa?

  Turned out it was a poor, oxygen-deprived country in South America. Who knew? He went, learned Spanish, baptized a zillion people who showed up once and were never heard from again. Picked up a parasite or three. And was robbed and beaten while biking through the slums of La Paz.

  Jim's companion had been a huge Samoan who played linebacker at BYU before his mission, and Jim was no wimp either, having wrestled in high school. The skinny dudes with chains and kitchen knives must have been desperate. Or maybe they'd known the two Americans had just arrived in La Paz from the lowlands and at 12,000 feet, it felt like sucking air through a straw. Elder Ma'falo laid out two guys, and Jim took out a third, but by then the oxygen was gone and the skinny guys beat the crap out of them, robbed about eight bucks worth of bolivianos.

  Not so fun at the time, but Jim McKay had milked that story for about a million dollars in political donations over the last fifteen years.

  And now, with Elder Peterson blathering on about how California had investigated the church after it got involved in the gay marriage fiasco, he affected a grimace and held up his hand.

  “. . .so we've got to be doubly careful about staying out of politics. . .” Elder Peterson frowned. “Are you okay?”

  Jim bent and rubbed at his leg. “Sorry, old war wound.”

  Parley rolled his eyes and Jim shot him a “shut up” look that only two brothers would understand.

  “I didn't know you were a vet,” Elder Peterson said. “Gulf War?”

  “No, I was never in the service.” A grin. “But I'm a vet of the missionary wars.” He rolled up his pant leg. “Check this out. Thank goodness the Lord was with me that day, or I'd have been done for. My companion could have been a future NFL first rounder, but never played another down in his life.”

  Elder Peterson leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “There were fifteen of them. La Paz, Bolivia. They lived at the edge of the dump and were like starving rats, didn't care if they lived or died. Or it could be that Satan sent them, because of what one of them said when he was kicking me in the ribs.”

  By the time he finished, Elder Peterson was on the edge of his chair. Parley rolled his eyes so many times that Jim half expected them to pop out of their sockets and bounce around the room like a pair of super balls.

  Okay, so he embellished a bit, but that was just style. Go find Harvey Ma'falo—now a high school football coach on the North Shore of Oahu—and you'd get more or less the same story. Besides, he couldn't get too carried away. Soon as Jim declared his candidacy, the media would be all over the story. Any time he was tempted to make his own role more heroic, he remembered that.

  Elder Peterson was quiet for a long moment when he finished. “What exactly did you have in mind for Temple Square?”

  “I don't want the church too involved,” Jim said. “Bad politics, for one thing. But if we're going to get this thing rolling, put the first Latter-day Saint in the White House, we need the movers and shakers of the church behind us.”

  “What is the church planning for Pioneer Day?” Parley asked.

  “The usual thing,” Elder Peterson said. “A satellite broadcast, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, you know. We'll of course have state officials and politicians at the tabernacle. It's not just a church holiday, since the arrival of the pioneers on the 24th of July marked the start of state government.”

  “I would like to speak at the broadcast,” Jim said.

  A frown passed over Peterson's face. “We usually stick with ecclesiastical leaders.”

  “But not always. You had someone from the Daughters of Utah Pioneers last year. Did you know that Parley and I are descendents of Brigham Young?”

  “I did. So am I, as a matter of fact, through a different wife. I think we're third cousins, once removed.”

  Jim grinned. “I knew there was something I liked about you. Anyway, as direct descendents of Brigham Young, we feel a special connection to Pioneer Day. Our dad always staged a reenactment at family reunions up Emigration Canyon. He'd put on one of those Brigham Young beards without the mustache, lean out of a jury-rigged wagon, like he was sick and say, “This is the place,” while waving his hand over the Salt Lake Valley. All very hokey, but gave me chills when I was a kid.”

  “So you both want to speak?”

  “Sure, why not? I'll do the history stuff, Parley will give a religious talk. He's the spiritual giant of the family.”

  “Giant is probably putting it too strongly,” Parley said.

  “Don't worry,” Jim said. “No politics. I promise.”

  “But what do you get out of it? Just exposure?” Elder Peterson asked. He'd only eaten half of his steak, and now pushed away his plate.

  “Never hurts to get my mug in front of the camera,” Jim said. “But what I'm thinking is we'll get all the big names in town for the commemoration by promising a personal tour of the temple and Temple Square with the president of the church afterward.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Again, no politics, I promise. Just a tour with the prophet. He'd love it, you know he loves to tell stories about the construction of the temple, show off artifacts from th
e archives.”

  “That's true,” Elder Peterson said. “But I still don't see how this helps you.”

  “That's why it's perfect. It's subtle, no one will accuse you of anything improper. But a tour with the prophet? The big Mormon players will eat it up. And once I've got them in town, I'll stage a dinner, slash, fundraiser right here, in one of your banquet rooms in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. Your best, most exclusive room with a view of the temple. Don't worry, I'll pay the going rate.

  “Point is, everyone will be receptive to my pitch. And think about it. From the martyrdom of Joseph Smith in Nauvoo, and then arriving penniless in the desert wilderness. What better way to frame Pioneer Day than help me become the first Mormon president of the United States.”

  Elder Peterson was quiet for a long moment. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his plate, then looked out the window, down at temple square. At last he nodded and turned back to the table. “I'll talk to the prophet.”

  All three men stood, as if Peterson's words had signaled a close to the lunch meeting. The McKay brothers took turns shaking Elder Peterson's hand.

  Jim felt a self-satisfied glow. “You know, just last week I was pressing the flesh with a bunch of fundies in Denver. I can't tell you how much more appealing it is to work with my own people.”

  “For a bunch of self-proclaimed Christians, they're pretty judgmental,” Parley added. “They use our votes, but they don't respect us. Don't even consider us Christian, when you get right down to it. It'll be good to get one of our own into power.”

  “I'm flying back to Washington for a few days,” Jim said to Elder Peterson, “but I'll give you a call by the end of the week. Soon as you give me the green light, my people will want to sit down with your security team.”

  For a moment, a shadow passed over Elder Peterson's face, but then he smiled and nodded. “Okay, shouldn't be a problem. Hope we talk again soon.”

  #

  Jacob had seen polygamist women and he'd seen FBI agents. Watching Sister Miriam in action, he'd have sworn she was the former and not the later.

  He'd driven to Price, Utah, and now lurked at the edge of the farmers market, studying her. The park was a New England-style green, complete with a bandstand and shaded with hundred-year-old cottonwood trees. It was still, cloudless, the kind of day that started pleasantly in the dry air of central Utah, but would turn witheringly hot by afternoon.

  Miriam busied herself unloading boxes from the truck, setting up the booth, and then helping the first few customers buy produce and baked goods. Everything about her said polygamist wife, from the way she wouldn't meet the eyes of male customers, to how she held her hands or absentmindedly straightened the collar of her prairie dress.

  As the park filled with vendors and customers, Jacob took a pass through the market, cautious. Had the women come alone, or did they have minders?

  He'd stopped to pick up a tourist t-shirt and baseball cap, which he'd changed into before leaving the supermarket parking lot. He couldn't see anyone watching. The women had apparently come on their own.

  Sister Miriam measured a bushel of pickling cucumbers, made change, then turned to Jacob as he took the place of the departing customer.

  “May I help you?” She didn't make eye-contact.

  “Good morning, Sister Miriam.”

  Her eyes flicked to his cap and t-shirt before settling on his face. “Oh, it's you. Jacob, isn't it? How come you're here?”

  “Are you alone?”

  She glanced to the other women with a frown. They sold bread and pies on the other end of the table. “You mean are there just the three of us?”

  “Right. It looks like you're alone, more or less.”

  “Ah, you mean we didn't bring any priesthood holders. No, they've got more important things to do. Why are you wearing that crazy getup?”

  “So nobody is watching you. Seems like it would be easy to say, 'Excuse me sisters, I'm going to go find a bathroom. Can you watch the stall for a minute? And then you keep walking.'”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “And instead of finding a bathroom, you look for the police station. It's only three blocks from here. Or maybe even pick up the phone and call the FBI.”

  Something flickered across her face and for an instant Jacob saw a crack in her mask.

  “Is this a test?” she asked. “Did Brother Clarence set you up for this?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea. He's protective of the prophet and I'm the newest wife. But the police? I don't understand. About what? I haven't seen anything illegal.”

  Jacob felt a flicker of doubt. This wasn't an FBI agent. If there were such a thing as a fundy radar, everything about this woman would have set it off: her mannerisms, her prairie dress, even by her accent he placed her childhood within fifty miles of the Utah-Arizona border. Possibly Colorado City, which meant she'd grown up FLDS.

  She's a chameleon, Agent Fayer had said. Can blend into any social situation. You know the type of person who visits a friend in South Carolina for a weekend and comes back speaking with a drawl? That's Haley.

  He tried to remember the picture Krantz and Fayer showed him, but it was blurry in his memory. There had been no question the first time he saw Sister Miriam. That recognition had been like a shock. He had to trust it now.

  No mistake. This was his woman. A customer came, inspected the tomatoes before wandering off. The distraction gave him a chance to gather his thoughts.

  “If you haven't seen anything illegal, why haven't you left?”

  “Brother Jacob, thou art confused. Why should I leave my husband and my church?”

  He glanced at the other women to make sure they were too far away to hear. “Because, Haley Kite, a certain Agent Krantz and Agent Fayer are wondering about you.”

  “What?” The confusion on her face looked genuine.

  “You heard me. I know exactly who you are. You're an undercover FBI agent who hasn't made contact with her handlers. I have no idea why, but that's not my job. I'm here to make sure you do and then I'm done.”

  “Brother Jacob, what is this? It's such an outlandish story, I'm not sure who put you up to it or whether you invented it whole cloth. It's insane.”

  “What are you afraid of? Is someone watching? Brother Clarence, is he a threat? Brother Timothy? Who?”

  “Nobody is watching me,” she snapped. “Now go away, before I tell my husband you've been harassing me.”

  “Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to walk down 100 East, then turn the corner to the left. I'm going to wait fifteen minutes. If you're safe, you'll make some excuse about finding a bathroom. If you don't show up in fifteen minutes, I'll know you're in trouble, and I'll make my way straight to the police station, tell them you're being held against your will. They'll be sure to send someone out.”

  “And when the police come, I'll tell them you're absolutely nuts. No, better yet, as soon as you're gone, I'm going to tell Sister Andrea and Sister Hazel that you've gone to the police.”

  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.