The Mormon Candidate - a Novel

by Avraham Azrieli

  Shelving the album, Ben decided that the kickstand plate on the white Ducati must have been an aftermarket slip-on, a common and sensible accessory that many bikers added in order to enlarge the footing of their kickstands for better support on poor surfaces.

  The bottom shelf was lined with editions of BMW MOA Magazine, as well as Rider and Cycle World. The last one was the most promising. He pulled a copy and looked through the advertisements, noting the vendors’ names.

  Using his iPhone, Ben searched each of the vendors’ inventory of Ducati accessories for kickstand plates. The fourth website he visited offered a whole selection for on-road and off-road motorcycles. Most curiously, some of them had patterns on the bottom “for added traction.”

  A moment later, he was gazing at a kickstand plate that, photographed from the bottom, showed a welded-on realistic-looking snake.

  With the Canon’s back screen next to the iPhone, comparing the two images, he couldn’t tell whether the same snake had been pressed into the ground, leaving a print in the weeds on the path near the Camp David Scenic Overlook. But it looked similar.

  Satisfied with this bit of detective work, Ben replaced the magazine. He wondered whether the Ducati rider had chosen the snake pattern for a purpose, as a symbol of affiliation of some kind, or as a meaningless decorative touch.

  Chapter 29

  Z.H. Journal Entry # 12:

  I rode south toward Florida. At a gas station halfway down I checked the news and found out that Morgan would be heading back to Maryland after a fundraising breakfast at the Ritz Carlton in Jacksonville. I still had over five hundred miles ahead of me, which meant I would likely miss him. Heading back north on I-95, somewhere in North Carolina, I left the highway and found a public campground. There was no attendant at this time of night, and I curled on the ground next to the Harley and slept until morning.

  It was late afternoon when I reached the northern VA outskirts of metropolitan DC, just in time for rush hour. Barely able to keep the bike upright through endless stop-and-go traffic, I finally made it to Silver Spring as the sun was setting.

  There was a big crowd at the Morgan home, judging by the number of cars outside. A black Chevy Suburban blocked the driveway. Two men sat inside. One of them came out as I approached and raised his hand. He said something I couldn’t hear—eighteen hours with the Harley engine’s drone in my ears had left me practically deaf.

  He waited as I dismounted the bike and struggled with stiff hands to pull out my wallet. I showed him my driver’s license and my Temple Recommend Card—the laminated card that identified me as a Mormon in good standing who was eligible to participate in Temple rituals.

  “Ch…church business.” I could barely speak after all those hours on the bike.

  He took my identification cards, stepped aside, and spoke to his wrist. After a moment, he handed them back and waved me through.

  My legs ached as I paced up the long driveway and approached the gate, which was part of a wrought iron fence, well-concealed with ivy, that surrounded the house. The gate was unlocked remotely. I pushed it and went through.

  The front door was opened by an aide.

  Clean shaven and wearing a white button-down shirt with sleeves folded to his elbows, Joe Morgan left a room full of advisors to greet me. He smiled warmly, glancing up and down at my riding apparel. “Brother Zachariah, what can I do for you?”

  “Con…gra…tu…lations!” I cleared my throat. “Sorry, I’m—”

  “Dear Lord!” He gripped my hands. “You’re frozen!”

  I nodded.

  He took me to the kitchen, sat me near the stove, and poured a mug of hot cider.

  Emma Morgan must have called Palmyra, who arrived moments later. Morgan didn’t leave my side, even as his advisors kept popping their heads into the kitchen with growing frequency.

  Somewhat recovered, I asked to speak with him in private, and we went to his library. It hadn’t changed much in the years since I had last been there, back when he was the lay bishop of our Silver Spring Ward. The only change I noticed was on a section of the wall between two windows, which was now covered by portraits of men in uniform. On closer examination, I saw that each one had a small brass plate on the bottom of the frame with a name. It took me a moment to realize these were the names on the list I had given him a decade and a half earlier. These were the heroes who had been awarded the Medal of Honor by the president of the United States more than once, the heroes Morgan had served as proxy for in their posthumous baptisms into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

  He stood next to me, smiling brightly. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  I looked away from the portrait of the dark-eyed Marine captain. “A great achievement—winning the nomination.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a gesture at the portraits, I asked, “Do you think they helped you?”

  He smiled. “I needed all the help I could get. Still do. Winning against a sitting president is very hard.”

  “And the heroes have given you courage? It must be hard, with all the nasty attacks and ugly TV commercials.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at the photos. “You know, any man who thinks himself capable of serving competently as president of the United States is either a fool or a madman. What irrational arrogance would it take to think you have the strength to command the largest armed forces in human history? Or that you possess the wisdom required to know when to turn the nuclear keys and unleash hell on earth?”

  His sincerity calmed me down. Perhaps my task wouldn’t be so hard.

  “But someone has to do it, and it is an act of courage.” He touched one of the photos—an Air Force pilot in World War One. “They helped me overcome my doubts and seek the White House despite my human weaknesses.”

  “That’s…humble.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Remember what the Book of Mormon says in Ether, twelve? ‘I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.’ Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “The real challenge begins now. The fate of the country will be determined in November. But we have faith that God is on our side, don’t we, Brother Zachariah?”

  “I had a revelation about it.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  “Also from Ether, an earlier verse, in chapter four: ‘For the Lord saith unto me: They shall not go forth unto the Gentiles until the day that they shall repent of their iniquity and become clean before the Lord.’ God wants you to give testimony to the Gentile voters.”

  Morgan looked at me politely, waiting for an explanation.

  I gestured at the heroes’ portraits. “About them. You must confess before the elections.”

  To my surprise, he didn’t seem upset at all. In fact, he laughed.

  Fearing that my words were not getting through to him, I spoke more slowly and deliberately. “Tell the American people about the posthumous baptizing of the Medal of Honor winners. You must give testimony to the Gentiles, whose votes you are seeking. Thus saith the Lord!”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Could he have forgotten? But here were their faces, looking back at us from his library wall.

  “I’m talking about them.” I pointed. “Tell the voters how you ordered me to extract these heroes’ names and copy their personal files from the database of the Department of Veterans Affairs. Tell the voters how you immersed in the sacred water for these heroes, how you were baptized in proxy for and on behalf of each of these heroes, how you saved these heroes’ souls by giving them the True Gospel in the afterlife. And also, tell the voters what it meant for your own soul.”

  “I
have no idea…what you mean.”

  The slight hesitation was like a hairline crack in his smiling mask, a glimpse of the truth, which made my self-doubts disappear, now replaced by incredulity: How could he lie so blatantly to another Saint?

  “Brother Morgan!” I pulled the floppy disk from my inside pocket and held it out for him to see his own handwriting on it, demanding that I add the last name to the list. “Remember now?”

  His cheerful expression disappeared. He leaned forward and looked closely.

  “Well?”

  He straightened up and looked away.

  “God wants you to come clean to the Gentiles. God spoke to me. It was a revelation.”

  “Who are you to receive such a revelation? Have you forgotten the sin of presumption and arrogance?”

  “I am a man of the priesthood, a Latter-day Saint, and therefore have the power of God’s revelation.” Again I quoted from memory. “It says in Doctrine and Covenants, sixty-eight, four: ‘And whatsoever they shall speak when moved upon by the Holy Ghost shall be scripture, shall be the will of the Lord, shall be the mind of the Lord, shall be the word of the Lord, shall be the voice of the Lord, and the power of God unto salvation.’ Do you question the right of every Saint—including me!—to receive the Lord’s revelations?”

  “You had a false revelation,” Morgan said. He reached up to the high shelf, opened the glass door that protected his collection of old books, and pulled out the leather-bound first edition of the Book of Mormon. “Let me read to you what the prophet said about false revelations—”

  “You should fast and pray,” I said, repeating the advice he had given me in times of distress. “Fast and pray, and God will tell you as well.”

  He put the book down on a side table. “You’re crossing a line of secrecy that must not be crossed by a good Saint.”

  “This should not be a secret.” I raised the floppy disk. “Your own handwriting. Do you want me to hand it over to CNN?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You must give testimony to the Gentiles. Thus saith the Lord!”

  “Any fact that doesn’t promote the True Church is a lie.”

  “The truth cannot be a lie, and hiding the truth cannot be a virtue. Gentiles are God’s children too. They’ll respect you for confessing.”

  “You’re naive! We’ve been at war with the Gentiles since they exiled the Prophet Joseph Smith from New York, Ohio, in Missouri, Illinois—until they finally lynched him and chased us all the way to Utah! And they still await the opportunity to pounce on us again! But in a matter of weeks, as I become president-elect of the United States, it will be the realization of Joseph Smith’s prophecy that the Saints shall rule over America!”

  “God told me clearly that you must—”

  “Why would God want to destroy our True Church’s chance for a divine victory over the Gentiles?”

  “The truth must be told.” I shook the floppy disk before him. “Thus saith the Lord!”

  “Let me look at it again.” Morgan reached for the disk.

  Stepping backward, I held it to my chest. It was understandable that he would want to possess the only hard evidence of his involvement in assembling the list. I had to keep it out of his hands, or else Satan would make him defy God’s will.

  “Brother Zachariah!” Joe Morgan held out his hand. “Give it to me now! In the name of the Prophet, as your apostle and church authority, I order you!”

  “Tell the truth to the Gentiles,” I repeated. “Thus saith the Lord!”

  “Stop saying it!”

  “Thus saith the Lord!”

  Recognizing my determination, Morgan turned and left the library—to call for reinforcements, I assumed. His only alternative to confession was to take the incriminating floppy disk from me, by force if necessary, and destroy it so that no physical evidence remained to support my story. I had to hide it somewhere safe, a place that he and his people would never think of looking.

  Palmyra arrived home shortly after me. They must have told her that I had slipped out via the library window, but she dared not say a word. I showered, ate a meal with my children, and went to bed. As far as I was concerned, I had delivered God’s command to Joe Morgan, and he had to comply.

  For the first time in years, I slept peacefully, secure in the knowledge that I had finally put things right. And if, by the time you read this journal, Joe Morgan has not complied with my Medal of Honor revelation, please do whatever you can to force him to confess publicly of his deeds. I believe his confession is essential for my salvation—the key to my entry into the Celestial Kingdom.

  Chapter 30

  Ben moved his thumb over the screen, trying to bring the text forward, but there was nothing more. The journal ended there, on the day after the GOP Convention. But what had happened in the weeks between the convention and Zachariah’s death on Sunday? Morgan had not confessed to any posthumous conversions of US war heroes. He had not spoken of any details of his Mormon faith, for that matter. Had he managed to locate the floppy disk that Zachariah had hidden—or was it the item Porter had pulled from Zachariah’s body? Had Morgan somehow succeeded in silencing Zachariah to cease his demands for a public confession, or was Zachariah killed in order to silence him?

  Ben picked up the iTouch and searched for additional journal entries. There were none. Whatever events had led to the violent end of his life, Zachariah had left untold. It was now up to Ben to uncover the facts and find out whether Joe Morgan was involved. He hesitated. The harassment of Keera outside the club last night seemed to have been a meaningless prank by one of the customers. But what if it had been the Ducati from the overlook?

  Dismissing the idea as preposterous, Ben began packing up his gear for the day ahead. The story had become irresistible.

  Chapter 31

  It was too early to go to Fran’s office, so Ben rode first to Ironman Cycles in Gaithersburg. He had been there before to buy accessories, but today he went straight to the service entrance and asked for the Harley Davidson technician.

  The lanky, gray-haired man was wiping his greasy hands on a blue paper towel as he glanced at Ben’s GS. “A BMW? How about switching to a real motorcycle?”

  “My girlfriend already owns a vibrator.”

  “Ouch!” The technician made as if he was cowering. “That hurt!”

  They laughed, and Ben asked, “You heard about the accident at the vets’ ride?”

  “Tragic,” the technician said. “Always happens to the nicest guy.”

  “You know him?”

  “He was a customer with a very special bike. We took care of him. Good guy. Real good. What a shame. Are you a friend of his?”

  “Not really. I’m a reporter, and having witnessed the tragedy, I thought it would be worthwhile to write a piece in his honor.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I’m looking to speak with someone who rode with him regularly, learn more about him, what he was like, and so on. Any idea?”

  “Let me ask.”

  Ben waited.

  The technician came back a moment later. “My manager says you should talk to Rex. They rode together.”

  “Do you have a last name or a phone number?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t give it to you. Privacy, you know?”

  “Can you tell me anything about Rex?”

  “He works at Best Buy in Gaithersburg. But don’t tell him I said so.”

  “Understood. Is he riding a real motorcycle?”

  The technician laughed. “Dyna Super Glide, full dress, black with solid chrome wheels, lots of electronics.”

  Ben rode around Best Buy to the rear. The employee parking was almost empty, only a used Kia and a small pickup truck. He realized the store wasn’t open yet and waited. A while later, more employees arrived. Finally a motorcycle showed up—not a Harley,
but a skinny motocross with a tall seat and a symbolic headlight. The rider, a teenager carrying a Mac backpack, waved at Ben and yelled, “Nice ride, man!”

  “Thanks. I’m waiting for Rex.”

  The kid changed direction and came over. “They texted me to come in to cover for him. He called in sick or something.”

  “Really?”

  “Lame. Probably gone fishing.” He caressed the yellow gas tank of the GS. “Smooth baby. Didn’t know Rex rode with Beemer guys.”

  There was no easy way to answer this implied question without lying, so Ben just said, “Do you?”

  “Are you kidding?” He pointed at his motocross. “This piece of crap won’t keep up with real bikes. See ya!” He headed for the service door at the back of the store.

  “Hey,” Ben said, “what’s Rex’s sweet spot?”

  “North Point.”

  The sky was heavy with clouds. It was going to rain, and the temperature was dropping. Ben plugged North Point into the GPS, slipped the helmet back on, and rode off.

  Chapter 32

  It was drizzling at North Point, which reached into the flat expanse of the Chesapeake Bay east of Baltimore like a thumb that had been flattened by a roller. Ben rode through the main part of the state park, which was completely deserted. A second area, northward on the park’s shore, had a parking lot and a jetty reaching into the bay. There was no Harley in sight, only a beige Chevy pickup truck. Ben rode toward it, making a round detour. It was an older model, but in spit-and-shine condition, with new tires, dark windows, and a few antennas on the roof. A single sticker on the rear bumper showed a Harley Davidson logo with the word Freedom! Ben parked next to it, got off the bike, and replaced his helmet with a Ravens cap.