“Neptune suite,” Robert said reluctantly.
“Ah, yes, a suite. Your ship doesn’t leave Vancouver until tomorrow, and I know you didn’t pack enough in that backpack, so your dad will take you shopping at Nordstrom’s.” I smiled again. It was so much fun to see Robert have to part with some of that royalty blood money for his daughter.
“What about school?” Aynslee asked.
“I’ve ordered the homeschool books, and we’ll start on it when you get home.”
“I love you, Mom.” Aynslee hugged me again, careful of my bandaged side.
“I love you—” Emotion seized my throat, preventing anymore words, so I simply kissed the top of her head, picked up my carry-on, and nodded to Special Agent Patricia Pfeiffer. She whisked me through a side door to the waiting plane.
Agent Pfeiffer shook my elbow. “Mrs. Marcey? We’re almost to Salt Lake.”
I rubbed my eyes and shifted in my seat. Bad idea. My stitched-up ribs protested the move. The jet’s landing gear thumped into place and the jet touched down seamlessly. Agent Pfeiffer placed a restraining hand on my arm. “Please stay seated until everyone’s left. I don’t want anyone to spot you.”
I nodded. Even though Dave’s phone call led to the discovery of a bomb set to explode in the tunnels under Temple Square and prevented Mike from wiping out the LDS leadership, the FBI were being cautious. They had no way of identifying Mike’s followers. With his charismatic leadership, direct lineage to Joseph Smith, and Smith’s journal, Mike could have remnant members anywhere.
Then, of course, there was the small problem of the remnant in Zion. I seemed to be the only person who knew of its exact location. And I wasn’t sure I could find it again, nor was I sure I wanted to. I just had this nagging feeling that there were still some loose ends.
“Can I make a phone call while we wait?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I dialed Beth’s number.
“Gwen, you have a very bad dog.”
“You’ve said that before. Now what has he done?”
“After I picked him up from the vet, Aynslee and I took him to the hotel where he proceeded to snatch the steak I ordered from room service and swallow it in one gulp.”
I tried not to laugh. “He deserves it. How is he?”
“The vet said he’d have a slight limp, but otherwise he’s fine. He’s crated at my hotel room. Norm’s home from his fishing trip and invited you to a fish fry.”
My vision blurred and I swallowed before asking, “When are you driving home?”
“Tomorrow. I’m still at Nordstrom’s with Aynslee and Robert.”
“And . . . ?”
She let out a small snort of laughter. “Robert’s platinum card is taking a hit, but I think he’s making a real effort to be a dad. Aynslee is walking on air.”
I cleared my throat. “Mmm.”
“One last thing,” Beth said. “I don’t know how much they’re telling you—”
“Assume little to nothing. I’ve been in seclusion since Mike’s arrest.”
The agent looked as if she’d grab my phone. I turned slightly so she couldn’t reach it without gaining the attention of the departing passengers.
“The FBI arrested three security guards connected to the plot. Mike’s been charged with the murder of the two agents found at your place.”
“Good.” But with that memory, maybe I’d sell the house. In the end, I had no trouble retracing my escape from Zion. SA Pfeiffer, joined by Deputy Oakes of the Sanpete County sheriff’s office, emergency vehicles, and a host of FBI agents, followed my directions. Oakes was an immense man, at least six foot six, with massive shoulders and kind eyes. He spoke sparingly as we traveled, but he’d brought me bottled water and a thermos of coffee.
All that remained of the tent city and vast parking area was flattened grass. In another few weeks even that would be back to normal. The huge food storage buildings held empty shelves and dust. I could see why the structures hadn’t been discovered by searching airplanes. They’d covered the roof in a thin layer of earth and tangled grass like giant root cellars.
I rubbed my arms and thought about the remnant. They’d been lucky. They were drawn in by Mike, a charismatic leader, but unlike the followers of Jim Jones or David Koresh, the remnant survived. They had left this hidden enclave and gone back to their homes. Perhaps they now waited for a new prophet, a new leader to guide them.
Prophet Kenyon refused to help authorities in their investigation, but Frances decided to leave the First Born Apostolic Brethren in Christ Church and was providing the link between Kenyon’s and Mike’s groups.
We continued up the road into the small town. For the first time in daylight, I saw the house where I’d been held captive. The porch was smaller than I remembered, the house bigger.
No children played in the road. The clotheslines were empty. A puff of wind stirred baby-powder dust, and a red-tail hawk drifted on an updraft. Tangy cedar perfumed the air. The only sound was the crackle of police radios.
Deputy Oakes waited beside me, leaning against the patrol car, while the agents searched the other boarded-over buildings. The house in front of us was the last to be cleared.
A deputy approached the front door with a crowbar, prying the wood off with a loud screech. The agents forced open the door. Their boots thumped on the uncarpeted hallway and into the downstairs rooms. “Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
My gaze drifted toward the window of my room. A face stared back at me.
My heart skipped a beat. “There’s somebody inside!”
Deputy Oakes radioed the warning and then moved me so I was behind the patrol car. I strained to hear any sounds from inside the structure. The breeze kicked up, whispering through the trees, sending golden aspen leaves flying.
Deputy Oakes’s radio crackled and he acknowledged the indecipherable message. “They want you inside. It’s safe.”
I trudged after him, my feet reluctant to once again enter. We mounted the stairs and turned a corner. It was the old woman’s room. The door stood open. The room smelled of pine cleaner. The dresser gleamed with fresh polish, and starched white curtains fluttered at the windows.
Esther, the young woman who’d helped me escape, stood by the bed, clutching her pregnant belly. She relaxed when she saw me. “Ya came back.”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “Ya ax me what I wanted ta do. I done thought about that.”
“I’m glad you did, Esther.”
“I wanted ta take care of folks. That’s what I wanted ta do. When they said they was leavin, they was gonna leave without her.” She nodded at the old woman in the bed. “That weren’t right. She be Adam’s mom.”
“His mom?” I asked.
“Sure. That’s why she be alive past birthin years. She be The Mother. But when they left, she woulda died.” The young woman paused, then went on. “So I took care of her.”
My eyes blurred and I blinked. “But no one knew you were here. You can’t drive. You don’t have a phone . . .”
Esther pointed. “She says you was comin’ back.”
The old woman was propped in bed with a host of snowy-white pillows. “I told you, child. Lord willing, she’d return.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Esther reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, then offered it to me. “You wrote her name: Mary Allen. Mother said she’d learn . . . uh . . . teach me to read.”
I took the sketch from her. “Mother said teaching was her calling.” The drawing I’d done of Mary Allen had been folded many times and smudged from grubby fingers.
Two EMTs appeared with a stretcher to transport the old woman. I stepped into the hall, leaned against the wall, and thought about the nagging, unfinished feeling I’d had. What if I refused to help law enforcement find this place? Or simply couldn’t find it again?
Beth’s words echoed in my brain. Everything happens for a reason,
Gwen.
I looked at the sketch of Mary Allen. The young girl’s death started me on this path.
No. Before her murder. I wouldn’t have met her had I not been in Utah in desperate need of a job. If Robert hadn’t divorced me.
A voice whispered in my mind. Go further back.
I slowly climbed up the stairs. The dingy hall on the third floor carried numerous footprints of the fleeing remnant members. Pausing, I touched my wig. Cancer came before the divorce, robbing me of my breasts and hair.
But the effects of cancer allowed me to pass for a boy and escape from the remnant.
I walked down the hall. The room where I’d been held captive was on my right, door open. I entered.
The bedding was missing, and the drawer was yanked from the small bedside table. I lifted it and sat on the bed. My words were still inscribed below Mary Ellen’s, My name is Gwen Marcey. I love you.
Aynslee and I had said those words before she’d left with her father. I swallowed hard.
But it was Aynslee’s rebellion that caused her to steal Joseph Smith’s writings, blocking it from falling into Mike’s hands.
Cancer, divorce, rebellion, escape, death, shooting . . . all combined to prevent a third massacre on September eleventh.
God, I need You. Your will be done. I trust my life, and Aynslee, to You. Amen.
Beth was right. Everything happens for a reason.
AUTHOR NOTE
AFTER READING THIS STORY, THE FIRST QUESTION most folks ask is where does fact end and fiction begin? The simple answer is that fiction is woven between historical and forensic facts. And I found the research riveting.
As a forensic artist, breast cancer survivor, and Great Pyrenees owner, I wrote of what I knew, but I couldn’t say exactly what started the Mormon slant of the story. Possibly an article on the Internet about a Le Fort fracture found on Joseph Smith’s skull. His skull? That led me to an obscure book written by the granddaughter of Hands, the man who dug up the bodies buried in Nauvoo. I’d been thinking about drawing his face from the skull, but the illustrations in the book showed too little information to work with, but it got my mind working.
With the only known documented image of Joseph Smith being a profile drawing and the death mask, I followed up on their origins. My research got more and more interesting.
A vague idea took shape. I had visited the Little Bighorn Battlefield in Montana. An interpretive center was built on the site with reconstructions of some of the men’s skulls on display. Mountain Meadows, a very real place and a very real event, had little to show of the massacre. There had been three settlers formally buried on the location. What if . . . what if a forensic artist reconstructed those long-dead faces? And what if Joseph Smith’s was one of the faces reconstructed?
Then I had to look at how Joseph Smith died. Several LDS members created an online reconstruction of the Carthage jail, and I purchased their findings. I also bought a score of books on the subject. My husband and I had spent years creating storyboards for courtrooms that showed the possibilities for different crime scenes. I simply applied the same approach. The good news for me was the different eyewitness accounts. For every difference, it allowed me to come up with an alternate explanation. The truly eye-opening information was the death of two of the men involved, the handing over of the keys of the Temple to a non-Mormon, Emma’s actions, missing clothing, the poem by David Smith, and the comment in the LDS Church history about the rumor of Smith’s being buried in Utah. There was so much more I could have used but left out to keep the tension high.
I used materials written by the LDS Church, the Community of Christ, historians, and survivor accounts. If you are interested in the materials and sources of my work, I invite you to visit my website at www.CarrieStuartParks.com. There you can sign up for my newsletter and keep up with Gwen Marcey’s next adventure.
One final note: a special thank-you to Carter Cornick, FBI Terrorist Unit (ret.), for his input and suggestions. Dinner coming.
Blessings,
Carrie
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. The prologue opens with a fictionalized eyewitness account of a real event: the Mountain Meadows Massacre. At Mountain Meadows, 120–140 unarmed men, women, and children were killed. Had you heard of this event before? If so, where? If not, why do you think this is not a widely known piece of American history?
2. In chapter one, Gwen notices a CTR wristband on one of the agitators. “Choose the right” is taught to young children by the Church of Jesus Christ Latter-day Saints as a reminder to make wise choices in their lives (and that God will bless you for doing so). The Christian version is “What Would Jesus Do?” Compare and contrast these two different sayings. In chapter twenty-nine, Gwen is trying to sum up her life. She thinks, I could list my achievements. Awards. Friends. Cases. How I always tried to choose the right course of action. Reflect on this.
3. In chapter two, we are introduced to the theme of “everything happens for a reason.” Beth, in chapter fifteen, adds “. . . if in your lifetime you find out why something bad happened, it’s a blessing.” Have you found this to be true in your own life? Why or why not?
4. Gwen is carrying a lot a baggage in the beginning of the story: just two months from her last chemo treatment for breast cancer, double mastectomy, hot flashes, lost income and position, divorce, and guilt over her daughter. How does she handle these setbacks at first? Does this change by the end of the book?
5. Gwen and her husband, Robert, are divorced. What things can you point to that each of them could have done differently? Would you recommend that they make different choices where Aynslee is concerned?
6. Gwen encounters several groups in this story: Prophet Kenyon’s “The First Born Apostolic Brethren in Christ,” Adam’s “The Remnant Latter Day Saints of Zion,” and mainstream members of the Latter-day Saints Church. What seem to be the differences between them? What is the same?
7. Beth is Gwen’s positive friend, supporting her and helping her at every turn. Is this what Gwen needs during this tumultuous time in her life? Why or why not?
8. Reflecting on Prophet Kenyon, Gwen thinks, could a leader inspire both kindness and destruction? What do you think about that? Can you think of any examples?
9. In chapter eight, Frances, a member of Prophet Kenyon’s flock, makes the comment, “God can change His mind.” How would you respond to this if you’d been sitting there?
10. Aynslee runs away from the school, and then thinks about running away from her parents. Is that what she really wants? How do her actions show her real feelings?
11. While locked in Mary Allen’s room, Gwen attempts to sum up her life in twenty-five words. If you were to do the same, what twenty-five words would you choose?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’D REALLY LIKE TO THANK THE WHOLE WORLD for this book: thankyouthankyouthankyou . . . oh wait, that might take more time than I have, especially if I want to finish the second book of this series. So, specifically I’d like to thank Frank and Barb Peretti. You both believed in me from the start. And you sat through years of my painful growth as a writer. Frank, thank you for your humor, kindness, gentle suggestions, and not-so-gentle cries of horror at times at what I wrote.
To my husband, Rick, and your endless “Are you done with that novel yet?” Yes, darlin’, I’m finally done. I love you for waiting. A grateful and appreciative thank you to my agent, Terry Burns of Hartline Literary Agency. You believed in the project and took the chance. A big thank you to Amanda Bostic, Editorial Director, who made me feel as if I were coming home at Thomas Nelson from the very start. Thank you, Natalie Hanemann, for your spot-on editing. How could I have made so many mistakes? Thank you, Jodi Hughes and Laura Dickerson, for all your hard work and caring.
I wish to send out a great big hug and thanks to the folks who helped with this book—some of you without even knowing how much you helped. Dave and Andrea Kramer, Larry Frowick, Bentley and Aynslee Stuart, and the rest of
my great family. Scott, hang tight. Next book. Thank you to my critique group with their bloody, red pens: Steve, Steve, Steve, Pat, Carol, Bruce, Carrie, and Joyce. Thanks to all my forensic students for providing suggestions from your vast pools of knowledge, with a special thanks to Craig Faga and Cris Harnisch. Thank you, Kerry Woods, Lori Bishop, Michelle Garlock, and everyone else who provided much needed insights as beta readers. Thank you to Winnie, Maria, Bonnie, Munchie, Tawney, Woodruff, and all my beloved Great Pyrenees over the years for providing the template for Winston.
Mom and Dad, I wish you could have been here for this. You were such inspirations. I miss you every day.
Finally, and most importantly, thank you to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. To You goes all glory and honor and praise.
Carrie Stuart Parks
Philippians 4:8–9
An excerpt from Playing Saint by Zachary Bartels
PROLOGUE
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
DANNY SAT QUIETLY IN THE PEW AND WAITED for his exorcism.
It wasn’t scheduled, but it would happen. He would make it happen. He’d been down this road countless times before—enough to know that all the elements of the equation were present here this morning. He would be delivered; at least that’s what they would call it. He’d probably fall to the ground and writhe for a few seconds. He’d own the moment, milk it a little.
The prospect failed to thrill him. It had become banal, like waiting to be called in to the dentist’s office, flipping through ancient, dog-eared magazines, or sitting at the DMV, fiddling with that little numbered tab of paper, willing your turn to come. And yet, a certain dampened twinge of excitement persisted. Not butterflies in the stomach. More like a tingle of expectation somewhere deeper.
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