“In other words, obey the Lord when He chooses you to have sex with the prophet.”
“Exactly,” Jacob said. “And oddly enough, the Lord never chooses middle-aged widows, he always chooses nubile young girls.”
“Convenient,” she had repeated.
The conversation had seemed hypothetical at the time. It didn’t now.
The Disciple grabbed Eliza’s wrist, pushed open the door of the trailer, and dragged her inside to meet the others.
Chapter Ten:
Abraham Christianson eyed the woman walking by his side. Sister Miriam looked like a proper polygamist wife (polygamist widow, he reminded himself), with her braided hair, high collar, sleeves to her wrist and dress to her ankles, and hands clasped demurely in front of her. But there was a glint in her eye and he reminded himself that she’d been clever enough to fool the leader of the Church of the Last Days. He needed to be careful with this one.
He didn’t know all the details of the business at the Zarahemla compound, but he knew enough. Miriam had been an FBI agent, infiltrated the compound, and dug around until she exposed the plot to kill a U.S. senator. Somewhere along the line, the lie had become truth, and she’d embraced the gospel. Or so she’d claimed. He didn’t rule out the possibility that she was still deep underground.
“Let me be clear, Brother Abraham,” she said as they stepped across the sluice gates of the irrigation ditch. “I don’t trust you, never have. I’m only here because of your son.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me. You don’t know me, so how could you? I don’t trust you, either, so there you go. Whatever happens, I do expect you to respect the priesthood.”
“I respect the priesthood properly wielded. Now what do you want and why are we out here instead of back at the house?”
“You know the answer to that. I can’t have a bunch of gossiping hens eavesdropping on our conversation.”
“Gossiping hens. Nice.”
Abraham wasn’t laboring under the delusion that women were inferior to men. Elder Kimball and his sons had made that mistake. One of Taylor’s sons was dead, another missing, and the man himself had fourteen more years of a prison sentence to serve. Some of that had been Jacob’s doing, of course, with some help from those rats with the FBI, but Eliza had been the one to crush Gideon Kimball’s head.
And from the look in Sister Miriam’s eye, he wondered if she was imagining herself with a large stone, standing over Abraham’s prostrate body.
“No need to get worked up, it’s just an expression.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then at least answer me this. Why are we keeping this a secret from Brother Jacob?”
“You know the answer to that, too.”
A breeze kicked off the Ghost Cliffs. It smelled like sage and juniper. This would be so much better if he were having this conversation with Jacob, who felt at home here in Blister Creek. Zarahemla was too close to the cities controlled by the LDS, to the gentile influence in the hospital. Bring him out here, put him to work doctoring, or even just spiritual work, let him forget about the outside world. Unfortunately, Jacob was too stubborn, too persistent in his doubts.
Tactics. Be patient, persistent. He will come around in time.
They walked in silence along the irrigation ditches for a few more minutes before he tried again. “Sister Miriam, we don’t have to be enemies. We both want the same thing.”
“No, really we don’t.”
“We both want Jacob to reach his true potential, isn’t that right?”
“I want Jacob to accept his role as the Lord’s anointed,” Miriam said, “to become the One Mighty and Strong prophesied to unite the saints.”
And who the hell are you to talk about what the Lord wants?
Sister Miriam wasn’t even a mainstream Mormon, let alone been raised in a community where plural marriage was still practiced and honored. She was born a gentile, had attached herself to Zarahemla after the FBI. And now she was preaching some pious vision. Jacob accepted her. Fine, but that wouldn’t erase Abraham’s suspicions.
“You make it sound so pure and selfless,” he said, “but I know what you really want.”
“Oh, you do? Why don’t you enlighten me.”
Abraham allowed himself a smile. “You want to marry my son. You were married to the prophet of the Church of the Last Days before he died and now you want the new guy under your thumb. Of course you know, he’s already married to a strong woman. As first wife, Fernie won’t be happy when you muscle in.”
“Fernie and I are friends and believe me, she wants nothing more than for Jacob to take a second wife.”
“But you?”
“Would I marry him? I don’t see why not. He’s a kind man, intelligent. Handsome, too. But it’s not my decision to make. Besides, what does that have to do with wanting Jacob to take his rightful place at the head of the church?” she asked. “I want him to lead. You want to control Jacob yourself, to groom him to take over your church, to unite the two churches under your leadership. Can you see how that’s the opposite thing? If you control Jacob, how can he possibly be the Lord’s prophet?”
“But we both want him to reach his spiritual potential. If he doesn’t soften his heart to the Lord, how can that ever happen? He’s only half a leader until he accepts that he is a leader.”
“Jacob’s doubts are more fundamental than that,” Miriam said.
“He’s my son, don’t you think I know that? That kid has never fully believed in the Restoration. Even if he managed to fool everyone else, he never fooled me.”
“And we’re going to make Jacob a believer with secret meetings?”
“We’re not going to make him do anything. Only the Lord can turn Jacob into a believer.”
Miriam stopped, looked up at him. “Brother Abraham, that’s the first thing you’ve said that I agree with. But that still doesn’t explain why you asked me to come to Blister Creek.”
“We can’t make him believe, or give him a spiritual experience, but we can create the kind of painful, difficult situation that leads to a spiritual experience. And if the Lord is on our side, he will feel the spirit, whether he wants to or not.”
“By creating a difficult situation, you mean something like the LDS who trek across Wyoming, pulling handcarts?” she asked.
“Never heard of that.”
“They feed them short rations, put a few blisters on their hands, tell them how their ancestors suffered crossing the plains and they come back with a testimony.” Miriam shook her head. “It wouldn’t work with Jacob.”
“No, it wouldn’t. What my son needs is a terrible trial. He needs his child to get sick, nearly die, then be healed by the power of the priesthood.”
“You can’t be serious. What, are you going to poison them or something?”
“What? No! What kind of monster do you think I am?” He fought down his anger that she’d even think such a thing. “But I’ll admit, I’ve prayed for the Lord to send my son some trial, to lay him low, humble his heart. He’d come out of it stronger, and with a belief that no man could break.”
“Or woman.”
“Or woman,” he conceded. “But listen, there’s someone he cares about who is already near death. I’ve seen it in my dreams. So has Sister Fernie. The Adversary has possessed him. If we do nothing, he will die. It could be the perfect way for the Lord to intervene.”
“You mean David Christianson.”
“You know him?”
“Never met him,” Miriam said. “But Jacob and Eliza set off in a hurry a few days ago, and his wife told me they came to convince you to show mercy toward David before he died of a drug overdose.”
“They confronted me, if you’ll believe it. Made an ugly scene, and for what? David is just another wayward son. I’ve got a dozen of them,” he added with a bitter note.
More than a dozen, if he were honest. Some of the younger ones were already gone, spiritually dead. It came upon a boy when he was a teenager, like
a beast after prey, took hold of him and shook him in its mouth. And Abraham was the one to cut the boy off, drive him out of town with a few bucks and a promise he’d see the boy beaten to unconsciousness if he ever came back. It was ugly work. But if Abraham didn’t, the boy would hang around, poisoning the younger ones, spreading sin through the community. Look at Taylor Kimball’s sons.
“That’s why Jacob is so important to me,” he added. “There are a few others. Joshua is a pretty good kid, and so is Zeke, but nobody like Jacob.”
“And you want to what?” Miriam said. “Use David as bait?”
“Yes, after a fashion.”
Miriam was quiet for a long moment. Her foot kicked at the edge of the embankment and a clod of dirt fell into the irrigation ditch, swirled into a muddy streak, and then disappeared. At last she looked up and shook her head. “Sounds like a corrupt and evil plan.”
“No, not really.”
“David is your son, too. Shouldn’t you be helping him? What kind of man are you?”
Abraham grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. She tensed and for a moment looked like she was going to knee him in the groin. He’d almost forgotten her background in law enforcement.
“Listen to me. David is already damned. Jacob and Eliza aren’t the only ones keeping an eye on the Lost Boys. I’d be a fool not to, after Elder Kimball’s sons attacked us. David is way beyond drinking and smoking pot, he’s hitting the hard stuff now. It’s only a matter of time. We’ll bring him back—that’s a mercy!—and keep him supplied.”
“Keep him supplied? You mean feed him drugs. That’s not a mercy.”
“He can’t live without his drugs. If we don’t give him drugs, he’ll just run back to Las Vegas anyway, so yes, it is. Satan has him, there’s nothing we can do. We’ll let him kill himself, and when he’s almost dead, we’ll call Jacob.”
“And then?” she asked.
“And then Jacob gives him a priesthood blessing to cast out Satan and the addiction to drugs. He’ll be healed like that.” Abraham snapped his fingers.
“Or not.”
“Or not, if that is the will of the Lord. The Lord works a miracle, or he doesn’t. If He doesn’t, David will die, just like he’s going to die if we do nothing. If the priesthood blessing works, not even Jacob will be able to deny that it’s a miracle.”
“Jacob will find a way to question it. Science yes, maybe even luck. But not a miracle, no, not necessarily. I can hear his voice, see the cynical glint in his eye.”
Abraham shook his head. “Not this time. David will be too far gone to write it off that way. The miracle will be too instantaneous.”
“Fine, let’s say it works. Why do you need me?”
“You’re former FBI, you’ll know how to get all the worst drugs. And you’re a pretty young woman, so David will trust you. And if trust doesn’t work, lust will. David is overcome by carnal passions.”
“Great, just wonderful.”
“Think of it as going undercover.”
“I’ve done worse. Doesn’t mean I liked it. Okay, I’ll do it, but if I see a way to help this boy, I’ll do that, too.”
“You’ll see. It’s hopeless.” He smiled. “Except for the Lord. For Him, nothing is impossible. Not even softening Jacob’s heart.”
“True.” A smile. “So we agree on two things, Brother Abraham.”
“Apparently, we do.”
“I’ll leave first thing in the morning for Las Vegas,” she said. “If David is as far gone as you say, I’d better get to him before it’s too late.”
“Don’t worry so much about that. He’s going to suffer and that’s okay. Remember, for our plan to work, David must be utterly destroyed.”
#
Madeline lay on the filthy mattress at the bottom of the pit. She’d drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming about her mother. She came to in a cold sweat once, her fingernails tearing at her neck and breasts. She started in on the Twenty-third Psalm, but before she reached the part about the Lord preparing a table in the presence of her enemies, the evil spirit left her.
In its place, an overwhelming sense of guilt. She thought about her mother, heroically trying to keep it together after her father abandoned them. Madeline was twelve when he left, and adored her father. He was supposed to take her to see the Blazers play the Lakers at the Rose Garden that night. Her mother had come home early from work to get dinner on the table in time for Madeline and her father to make the game, but he simply never came home. Not that night, not ever. For two weeks, Madeline ran to her window every time she heard a car pull onto her cul-de-sac, sure he was returning.
He stopped by once on her seventeenth birthday, during that time of day when Madeline was home from school and her mother still at work. She’d stared at him from the front door with her hands on her hips, her heart pounding.
“Hi, Maddy.”
“What do you want, are you selling something?”
“It’s me, don’t you recognize me?”
“Nope. Sorry.” She moved to shut the door, but he blocked it with his foot.
“Come on, Maddy. Can I come in and talk? At least let me explain.”
“About what? My mother is at work and my father died, quite suddenly and tragically, so I’m alone. I’ve been told not to let strangers in the house, especially not lying, rat-bastard strangers. Now move your foot before I call 911 and tell them there’s a strange man trying to break into my house.”
He stepped back with a hurt expression, then let her close the door. But as she did, she saw him glance down to her arms. Madeline had come home, taken off her hoodie and her forearms were bare and visible, and with them the gouges from the end of a bent paperclip. And she could see judgment in his eyes. The jerk, judging her.
She turned the lock, then leaned against the inside of the door and sobbed, not caring if he were still on the other side, listening. Let him.
That fall it was almost like there was a conspiracy to pump Madeline with self-esteem, as if she would fill up with happy, self-affirming thoughts until she floated above the street like a giant, grinning Mickey Mouse in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. At church, they claimed that Jesus loved her. Motivational speakers came to the school to insist that all the students were happy and popular, but if they were miserable losers they should get help. A little counseling and voila! Happy and popular again. Whenever she turned on the TV, there were self-affirming teen shows and self-affirming infomercials. It was going to be a wonderful, joyous, self-affirming holiday season.
Madeline’s best friend killed herself on Christmas Eve.
After her parents went to bed, Ettie Spinoza went past the Christmas tree, surrounded by a mountain of presents, past the stockings hung by the mantle with care, and into the kitchen where she broke into the liquor cabinet. Ettie locked herself in the downstairs bathroom, filled the tub and climbed in fully dressed, and proceeded to wash down sleeping pills with vodka until she passed out. They found her the next morning, face down in a tub filled with cold water. She’d scratched, “Send me to hell,” on her forearm with a razor.
Somehow, Madeline survived until college. Midway through the first week after Christmas break, a black mood came over her and didn’t leave. It was after she’d committed her darkest sin and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She locked herself in her dorm room and ignored the pleas of her roommates until her mother showed up. Allison Caliari coaxed her daughter out, coaxed her to visit the campus psychiatrist, coaxed her to accept a prescription of smiley pills. Suggested, innocently, that she join a campus Christian organization, that maybe she could find her answers in the Bible. For some reason, that last suggestion had seemed almost reasonable.
And before she knew it, she had, in fact, found all her answers. If Madeline could survive this trial of purification, she’d be okay, she knew it. She just had to have faith. And stop thinking about home. About Mom, worrying, maybe even looking for her somewhere. Imagining how much pain she was causing her mot
her brought an ache to her gut very different than the hollow gnawing of hunger.
Someone banged on the refrigerator overhead to indicate that another day had passed. Madeline rose from the mattress, stopped to fight the lightheaded swoon, then groped around the edge of the pit until she found the box. She pulled out a head of lettuce with shaking hands and ate.
Chapter Eleven:
“Eres de aquí, o nacíste en México?” Eliza asked.
“Speak English,” Benita said. “I have no idea what you’re babbling about.”
“Oh, sorry,” Eliza said. “You just looked. . .I mean, I thought. . .”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
Maybe it was partly exposure to so much sun, but Benita certainly looked Hispanic. Her skin tone, yes, but also the eyes and something about the facial structure.
“Your family isn’t from Mexico originally?”
“My mom was born in Honduras, but my dad is from Idaho, and I never went back to the so-called old country. I probably speak like ten words of Spanish. Grab the other end of that tire.”
Together, they dragged the tire, tipped it over to knock out some of the dust that had accumulated in the well over the years, then rolled it around the other side of the trailer, where two guys were stacking them. Others were stacking tires around back, just a few feet from the overturned sofa where Eliza had hidden the cell phone. The two women said nothing until they got back to the other side.
“So what are you trying to speak Spanish for anyway?” Benita asked.
“Just practicing, you know. It’s a pain to learn a language, but you lose it if you don’t pull it out whenever you’ve got the chance.”
“Stick to English. The Disciple won’t like it if he can’t understand you.”
Which was exactly why Eliza had tried the Spanish, not because it was a pain to learn (though it was), but because they’d be able to talk without anyone else listening in. She could ask casually about Madeline when the time came. No sign of the girl yet, but two people had left the dump that morning, one of them returning with three newcomers a few hours later. She had a feeling that if she were patient, Madeline would appear sooner, rather than later.
The Wicked (The Righteous) Page 9