Mighty and Strong (The Righteous) Read online

  At least a dozen hands went up. It wouldn't be hard to find women who were happy to get away from the compound for a day, from cooking, mending, child care. The Lone and Dreary World, it seemed, still had some pull.

  Agent Kite would be visiting the town of Price. Away from the men of Zarahemla. Now all Jacob needed was a pretext to get away himself.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Jacob's would-be second wife approached midway through his first clinic at the Zarahemla compound. He saw her as he ushered out the boy with the improperly healed broken arm.

  Emma Green wore a tight, eager smile that turned shy as soon as Jacob glanced her way. She twisted something in her hands.

  He'd commandeered two rooms in the newest part of the compound, set some teenage girls to scrubbing the walls and floor and the benches and tables he'd brought in. He had a small bag of supplies brought with him the previous night when he'd met the men at the pageant. He'd burn through them in about two days. Already, he'd given antibiotics to a child who was suffering an ear infection, and to an elderly woman with an ominous damp cough.

  And then there was the improperly set bone. He'd run his thumb down the boy's radius. There, just before the wrist, near the head of the bone, he could feel the break. He didn't need an x-ray to know it needed resetting. Near the growth-plate, too, so sooner, rather than later. Bottom line, he needed to get the kid to Sanpete County, where he could do it properly.

  A man sat with one of his wives on the other side of the room, then a woman and a child who looked to be suffering from varicella, or some other chicken-pox-like rash. And Emma. He was anxious to see what she needed, then get rid of her.

  “Sister Emma, come back, I'll see you now.”

  She nodded, an eager, flushed look to her face, then gathered her dress and hurried after him into the examination room. Jacob caught himself looking for the nurse, but he was by himself this time.

  Emma closed the door and handed him an embroidered handkerchief, decorated with figures of the Manti Temple in each corner, stitched in gold. In the middle, in smooth, evenly stitched script: “A Family is Forever.”

  “It's lovely, did you make it yourself?” He tried to hand it back.

  “No, please, keep it. I made it just for you.”

  “I can't take this, that wouldn't be right. I'm your doctor, and we can never take gifts from our patients.”

  Jacob pushed it toward her again, more insistent, and she took it back, looking crushed. He felt guily, but he had no intention of giving her a wrong impression.

  “Here, have a seat. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “I need an examination. Like at the hospital.”

  The way she said it made him wary. “But what's the problem?”

  She hesitated and he waited. Maybe it was just training, but he didn't like being back here alone with his patients. Most of them would have done anything he asked, no matter how outrageous. He was a doctor, the prophet had brought him to Zarahemla. His word would be gospel.

  Emma had that look, too. Take off all my clothes, doctor? And yours, too? Lie with you like this? Thou sayest.

  But that wasn't the danger. Jacob had no concerns about his own self-control. It was what a girl like Emma might say to others when she left. What she might remember had happened, or believe through wishful thinking.

  The thing was, he had to see these people alone. Especially the women and children. Ask questions, let them reveal things they might otherwise be afraid to admit. It was the dangerous side of a closed community. Ranks circled to protect an abuser, not to bring crimes to light, and not to protect the vulnerable.

  “If you'll just give me an examination, like the one at the hospital, you'd see.”

  “Emma, I'm busy. I've got thirty-four more people to see today. I can't give you an examination unless you tell me what's wrong.”

  And you'd better make it damn convincing, because I'm starting to doubt everything you tell me.

  “Here, I'll show you, Jacob.” She stood and in a single motion pulled her dress over her head and let it fall in a heap.

  And she wore nothing underneath. Her slender, girlish body shivered in front of him and he looked away. He kept his face neutral, fought down a grimace.

  “Emma, put your dress back on. Now.”

  “But Jacob. You'll be my husband, it's okay to look at me. Like a man looks at his wife. She belongs to him.”

  He turned back with a sharp look and said with an angry edge, “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command thee to dress thyself.”

  Emma gasped and snatched up her dress and held it in front of her. Her tremble was almost violent, now. She was frozen in place.

  “Put your dress on, Emma,” he said in a quieter, more soothing voice. “Do it now and we'll talk. If you don't, I'll tell your father and the prophet what you tried to do.”

  Her eyes widened, she nodded. And then, to Jacob's relief, she pulled her dress back on. Her lower lip trembled and she kept swallowing as if trying to keep from bursting into tears. One wrong word and he'd send her bawling from the room.

  “Emma, please sit down. We need to talk.”

  She sat down. “What did I do wrong? I don't understand, I prayed. The Lord told me, and then I thought the Prophet—”

  “Emma. Listen to me, Emma. You're only fifteen.”

  “Almost sixteen.”

  “It's so young, you're a child.”

  “I'm not. I feel things, like a woman. Strong feelings, and, and. . .”

  “It's all natural. You're changing from a girl to a woman, but it doesn't happen overnight. You need to give it time, be patient.”

  “The Lord told me—”

  He wasn't getting anywhere. “You know I'm married already.”

  “Of course you are, silly. I'll be your second wife. I would be the second, right? And she will see, I won't be any trouble to her. I'll do what she says, and I can clean and cook, and sew.” Emma held up the handkerchief she'd stitched for him. “See, it's not bad. My mother taught me and everyone says Mom's the best seamstress in Zarahemla.”

  What the hell was wrong with the world? This girl was young, pretty, and sincere. Shouldn't she be shyly kissing her first boyfriend, who would be a young man of fifteen or sixteen? And then she'd learn about love and her body as she matured. Five years, maybe ten, she'd be ready to get married, and to someone her own age, not fifteen years older.

  “There's nothing wrong with you, I'm sure you'll make someone a good wife.”

  “Not someone, you. I'll make you a good wife.”

  “But I told you I'm married already, and I would have to ask her permission, first.”

  “You don't think she'll say yes?”

  “No, Emma, she wouldn't. You know what she'd say? She'd say, 'Only fifteen? Are you crazy? We've already got a baby in the house.'” Jacob smiled and stepped forward to pat her shoulder. “But you won't be fifteen forever.”

  “So when I'm sixteen. . .?”

  “I'll tell you what,” Jacob said. “Keep this to yourself, keep praying about it, but otherwise don't worry about it. When you're seventeen, if you still feel this way, come back to me. I'll pray to the Lord and see what he says.”

  “Oh, thank you! That's not that long. It's only a year and two months, right? I can wait, you'll see.”

  “But until then, nobody can see anything between us. You're just a girl and I'm just a doctor and we have no relationship.”

  “I can do that.”

  Jacob felt like a jerk as he led her from the waiting room. With any luck, she'd forget about him before she turned sixteen, let alone seventeen. But it didn't matter, because he had no intention of being anywhere near the Zarahemla compound or the Church of the Last Days by the time she turned seventeen.

  With any luck, he'd had his last encounter with Emma Green.

  #

  A desperate woman will resort to desperate measures to help her children. And so Fernie decided to use her children as props.

>   She rummaged through the children's drawers until she found a couple of old outfits, the kind that are not quite retired from service, but worn enough, small enough that she kept them in reserve for when she got behind on the laundry. Daniel's shirt, in particular, looked effective, with a twice-mended front pocket and the left sleeve stained from too many wipes at a snotty nose.

  As for the baby, Fernie left rice cereal crusted around his mouth, dressed him in a diaper and a hand-me-down onesie. She hiked him on her hip, pushed the older two kids ahead of her and the four of them made their way upstairs to Mr. Hoover's apartment.

  The apartment building was a converted Victorian mansion in the Avenues. She thought Mr. Hoover had grown up in this house, raised his own children here, and then converted the building, ad-hoc, when he needed retirement money. It must be depressing to have spent his life in the house, know there was a nice brick fireplace behind this wall, or that under this carpet was a hardwood floor your father put down when you were a boy. And now it was filled with tenants.

  Mr. Hoover opened the door, seemed to take them all in with a single glance. He wore a bathrobe and slippers. “Well hello, I didn't expect you. Don't usually see you before the first. You're two days early.”

  Normally, he was offering the older kids a candy from his bowl, making grandfatherly noises at the baby. Never mind that his house was crammed with Mormon knickknacks, and he seemed aware that Fernie and Jacob were something different. But today, for some reason, he was frowning, as if he already knew that Fernie was about to fall behind on rent.

  Fernie cleared her throat. “Mr. Hoover, you know we always pay our rent on time. And we're good tenants, nobody ever complains about us. I weed the front flower beds and I bring in your mail when you're out of town. And remember when your wife was in the hospital?”

  She'd never done these things expecting a reward, but she had to use them now. For her children.

  “I don't want any trouble, I never did,” Mr. Hoover said.

  “We don't want trouble either, we're good tenants. And this is just for a few weeks, maybe less, until I can figure something out. I promise, I'll get you the rent as soon as we can and we'll pay a late fee if you need us to.”

  “What do you mean, rent?” Mr. Hoover asked.

  “The rent, we don't have a paycheck coming this week. Isn't that what you're talking about? I was counting on that money to pay our bills and now it looks like it's going to be late and—”

  “Rent? That's not what I'm talking about. Why is your rent going to be late? No, never mind. What I'm talking about is that the Attorney General called me this morning.”

  She felt like someone had punched her in the gut. “He did?”

  “Said he suspected you were involved in illegal activities—very vague on that, I don't like it. You haven't, uhm, kept assault rifles or anything in your apartment, have you?”

  “What? I've got kids in the house. We don't have guns, we're not like that. And we're good people, no problems at all.”

  “Right, right, of course you are. The thing is, I don't want any trouble in my building. It might be better if you, if all you just. . .”

  “What?”

  “Isn't there somewhere else you could stay?”

  Her legs felt weak, she wobbled and gripped the baby so tight, afraid she was going to fall, that he squawked. “This is our home. Where would we go?”

  “Somewhere else, maybe with family or something. Surely you have some relatives or friends in the area, somewhere you could go.”

  “No, nobody,” Fernie said. “I don't even have a car, I can't get our things out and my husband is out of town and I. . .and I promise, I'll get the rent as soon as I can. You just have to give me some time, that's all I need.”

  “This isn't about rent, it's about whatever you're doing in that apartment. I know what you people do, and I didn't say anything because I thought I'd help you out, and now look where it's got me.” He ran a hand through his white, thinning hair. “Now, just go, I've got to think about this. And call my attorney,” he added in a mutter as he shut the door in her face.

  #

  The move to Salt Lake City had torn Fernie up by the roots. No family, no friends, just acquaintances.

  The FBI had torn through the Church of the Anointing like a rototiller, ripping apart families and relationships. Men landed in prison, the elderly prophet died within a year, no doubt thanks to the stress of the trials, both literal and figurative, suffered by his people. Someone said the entire east side of Blister Creek lay abandoned, with tumble weeds piling against front doors and gardens returning to sage brush.

  Jacob's father was in charge of the church and normally, she'd be on the phone with Abraham Christianson. If he wouldn't help, she'd call one of her old sister wives. But the church was bankrupt, and with their former husband in prison, her sister wives had nothing. They sometimes asked her for money, in fact.

  She had a half-sister in California somewhere—an apostate—who had sent a couple of letters, telling Fernie to get out of polygamy, and away from her abusive husband. As if the woman had any idea what kind of man Jacob was or was not. Briefly, it crossed Fernie's mind to call the woman and make up a story about needing to leave in the middle of the night. I've got to get out, can you send money?

  She couldn't do that, no, never.

  As she thought about her problems, one subject became the focus of her attention and anger. The Attorney General, Parley McKay. Good Mormon name, wasn't it? There were McKays in the Church of the Anointing; the man and his senator brother were probably even relatives of hers on some line or other. So why did Parley McKay have it in his cold heart to stomp on Fernie Christianson and her little family?

  Fernie scrounged grilled cheese sandwiches for the older children, mashed up banana for Nephi, and then sat with the phone book. The Attorney General's office was at the capitol building, about a mile and a half from here. Would he be working? Probably. He'd called Mr. Hoover just that morning.

  She went into the kitchen. Daniel and Leah were doing more chattering than eating. Nephi had finished, was nodding in his high chair. Nap would have to wait.

  “Come on kids, go to the bathroom and get your shoes on.”

  “Where we going?” Leah asked.

  “For a little walk to the capitol building.”

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Fernie was tired, frustrated, and angry by the time she reached the capitol building, found the Attorney General's office and pushed the stroller into the reception.

  The baby had fallen asleep during the walk, and she rolled into a waiting area in the corner. The older two immediately set to playing with a wooden peg puzzle.

  Fernie made her way to the receptionist. She was hot, sweaty, and panting. The woman frowned behind a big, official looking counter. Her fingers flew over the keyboard of her computer and she took calls through a headset.

  You've got to do this. For your children. For the new baby.

  “May I help you?” the woman said in a bright voice. Her eyes remained narrowed, suspicious.

  “Parley McKay, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then you'll have to—”

  “Sorry, it's very important. Can you please tell him that Fernie Christianson is here to see him?”

  “With regards to. . .?”

  “He'll know what it's about. Please, call him.”

  “I'm afraid Mr. McKay is in a meeting at the moment, but I'll be happy to take a message.” The phone rang and the receptionist pushed a button on the switchboard, then spoke into her headset. “Attorney General's office. One moment, please.” She turned back to Fernie. “Now, what did you say your name is?”

  “I'm not leaving until I see him.”

  “And I told you, that's impossible.”

  “Then I'll find him myself.” Fernie turned from the reception and started toward the back offices.

  “You can't go back th
ere!”

  She stopped. “Why, because then I'll see that Mr. McKay is not in a meeting?”

  “Ma'am, if you don't leave, I'm going to call security.”

  “That's going to look good on the evening news,” Fernie said. “Because you'll be carrying me out, screaming for my children. They'll be crying, begging for Mommy. And there's even a news crew downstairs interviewing legislators. They'll be sure to hear the commotion.”

  “Nobody wants that,” the woman said. “Look, why don't you give me your name and I'll tell Mr. McKay that—”

  “Just tell him I'm here. Please. He's taken an interest in my family, I'm sure he'll want to meet me in person. You know he called my landlord and now I'm about to be evicted? I have nowhere to go.” She gave a significant look at her children. “We're going to be in a homeless shelter and all because your office told them I might be doing something criminal. What? I have no idea, so I need to talk to him. It's got to be a mistake.”

  The woman looked uncertain. At last she pulled off her headset and made her way into the back offices. The phone started to ring. Fernie hesitated, and then followed. She rounded the corner just as the woman made her way into a room with a plate on the door saying it was the attorney general's office.

  She heard raised voices.

  “Yeah, I'll see her,” said a man's voice. “And I'll have a DCFS social worker with me. Let's see how she likes that.”

  Fernie pushed open the door. “Mr. McKay?”

  He stood behind a huge desk. Plaques, degrees, and other honors and official, intimidating papers and pictures covered the walls

  “What do you think you're doing?” he snapped.

  Fernie found her courage. “I'm a mother. I'm trying to keep my children fed and off the street. You seem bent on making sure they're hungry and homeless. Just leave us alone, Mr. McKay, that's all we're asking. Leave us alone.”

  “Excuse me,” the receptionist said, and ducked out.

  “Leave you alone? Your entire lifestyle is illegal. It's wrong and immoral. Maybe if someone had told you that at some point, you wouldn't still be living in these nasty little cults.”