“I stopped at CVS on the way.” Rex put a shopping bag on the table and removed electric clippers and a box of washable hair coloring.
Ben held up the Temple Recommend Card. “How did you get this?”
“I spent hours,” Rex said, “watching people leave the Mormon temple until I saw a guy about your size and age with similar facial features.”
Dreyfuss looked at the card. “Nice resemblance. How did you steal it?”
“Steal? That would be a sin.” Rex grinned as he took out his wallet and produced a business card. The ivory paper was thick, embossed with a golden Angel Moroni holding a trumpet. Below that familiar logo, the card said:
Josiah L. Luntsman, Jr – Investigator
The Church of JESUS CHRIST of Latter-day Saints
Strengthening Church Members Committee
50 E. N. Temple., Salt Lake City, UT 84150
“I trailed the guy,” Rex said, “to a gas station in Virginia and approached him. He went a little pale at the sight of my business card and had to sit down when I told him that he was under investigation for certain mocking statements he had made. He was contrite, assuming I was after him for telling jokes. But he professed his faith—he’d driven all the way from West Virginia to serve as proxy in receiving endowments for the dead. I assured him that this was a confidential investigation, that he would hear from us within one week, and that most likely he would be restored after proper repentance. But in the meantime, he must hand over his Temple Recommend Card.”
“And he just gave it to you?”
“Mormons are conditioned to obey, especially to an officious saint from the Strengthening Church Members Committee.”
“What if he contacts his ward’s bishop?”
“Not after I made him take an oath of secrecy—normal procedure, I assured him, intended to protect his good name in the likely event that the issues are resolved without further action.”
“Your turn now,” Powell said to Streep. “We have three days to transform scruffy boy here,” he patted Ben’s stubby cheek, “from an individualist photojournalist into a conformist fellow-religionist. Changing his appearance is the perfect starting point.”
“Let’s go.” Streep led Ben to the bathroom and sat him down.
He draped a towel around his neck.
She plugged in the clippers, which started with quiet humming. “Say good-bye.” She ruffled his hair.
Ben sighed. “Easy now. Keera is going to be upset.”
The trooper approached from the rear on the right side of the car while traffic continued on the left. He held up an open wallet, showing her a Maryland State Police badge. “What’s the rush, young lady?”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Keera said. “Really.”
“Did you leave the stove on? Your husband’s dinner’s burning?
“I don’t have a husband.”
“No husband?” He clicked his tongue. “A pretty girl like you?”
“I have a boyfriend. He’s a reporter.”
“Tell him you almost made the news.” He held out his hand. “License and registration, please.”
She handed both to him.
“Thank you.” He glanced at her driver’s license. “Keera Torrens. Occupation?”
“Student.”
“What do you study? Fashion design?”
“Medicine,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll see you one of these days, Officer, on a gurney at the trauma center.”
“Maybe, but for a future doctor you’re showing total disregard for other people’s wellbeing.”
“Excuse me?”
He gestured at the road behind. “Exceeding the speed limit. Passing on the right. Driving on the shoulder. Endangering fellow motorists. Leaving the scene of an accident.”
“An accident? What accident?”
“This.” He pointed at the remnants of the soft top, a few jarred pieces of black canvas still attached to the frame behind the rear seat.
“But I didn’t hit another car!”
“An accident involving a single vehicle is still an accident under Maryland law, and the driver involved may not leave the scene until law enforcement has completed its site investigation or until all debris has been removed and the offending driver has verified that no other motorists require assistance or otherwise require police involvement.”
Keera sighed. “I didn’t know that.”
“Ignorance of the law is not an excuse.” He walked back to his car.
She waited, shaking from the cold.
A few minutes later, he returned. “Miss Torrens,” he said, “seems like you are fond of speeding—this is your third offense in the past five years, which requires mandatory suspension of your license. This vehicle will be towed to the police pound.”
“Oh, no! I need my car!”
“Why don’t you call your reporter-boyfriend. He can meet you at the station and give you a ride home?”
“He’s not available.”
“Can you leave him a message? Surely he’ll put aside everything else in order to help you.”
“He’s away. His phone is off.”
“Where is he?” The trooper pulled out a small writing pad. “I can have our dispatcher contact—”
“I was being followed,” Keera said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s why I was speeding and passing illegally. Someone was following me.”
He looked at her doubtfully. “And you waited until now to tell me this?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“Why would anyone follow you?”
She knew why, but couldn’t tell him. “Maybe he needs a fashion designer.”
The trooper laughed. “Fair enough. I apologize. But really, do you have any idea why?”
“Am I supposed to read every creep’s mind? I’m telling you the truth. Some guy followed me from the hospital.”
“How do you know he was following you and not just driving in the same direction?”
“He was behind me from the hospital parking lot, down ninety-five south, then thirty-two west, and on twenty-nine south. When I slowed down, he slowed down, when I went fast, he went fast, and when I changed lanes, he changed lanes. Okay?”
“A persistent guy.” The trooper gestured at the road behind. “Why did he give up?”
“I tricked him. He passed me, and I took the exit to the two-sixteen west. But I was afraid he would catch up. It’s much easier to go fast on a motorcycle.”
“A motorcycle?” The trooper’s eyes lit up. “What was he riding? Can you give me a description?”
“A white Ducati.”
“Here.” The trooper handed her the license and registration. “Observe the speed limit, okay?”
Keera put away her purse. “That’s it?”
“I heard on the radio that a white Ducati was observed speeding on two-sixteen, heading west. Unfortunately, the officer gave up the pursuit due to dense traffic conditions.”
“Shit!” Keera covered her mouth. “Sorry.”
“You’re safe now, Miss Torrens. Drive straight home. I’ll be right behind you.” He handed her a business card. “Keep this handy. Any time you see anything suspicious, call me.”
“Thank you, Officer.” She looked at the card, which carried the Maryland State Police emblem. The lettering was small, and in the poor lighting she had to look closely to see his name: O. Porter – Inspector.
In the bathroom mirror, Ben’s cropped hair was bleached, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes. His face was clean shaven. He used the towel to brush off his shoulders and chest.
“Wait a minute!” Streep made him turn. “What’s this?”
They congregated around him and peered at the tattoo on the back of his shoulder. It depicted a football helmet w
ith a Bud Light logo on it.
“The real helmet cracked,” Ben said. “It saved my head, but my mom threw it away with the rest of my football gear, which made me real angry when I came home from the hospital.”
“A tattoo,” Streep said, “is a great way to get back at your mom.”
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “She lost her voice from all the yelling. It was great.”
Dreyfuss touched it with a finger. “It has to come off.”
“What?”
“Mormons don’t have tattoos.”
“Why not?”
“What do you think? No coffee, no booze, no cigarettes, but self-mutilation would be okay? Advertising beer, no less? It’ll blow your cover!”
“They won’t see it.”
“In the temple,” Dreyfuss said, “you’ll be taking off your clothes. They’ll see everything.”
“Then let’s paint it over with a black Sharpie,” Ben said. “It’ll look like a birthmark.”
“A black birthmark of this size,” Powell said, “will freak them out. They’ll think it’s the mark of Lucifer. It’ll draw more attention than if you had a third nipple. Security will be called, they’ll contact Salt Lake City to check your personal file—or rather,” he glanced at the stolen Temple Recommend Card, “the file of Sampson Allard—and find out there’s no mention of either birthmark or a third nipple.”
Ben rubbed his shoulder, feeling the skin over his tattoo. “Removing it will take too long. It’s a complicated process. We don’t have time for this.”
“I have just the thing for it,” Rex said. “It’s going to hurt a bit, but you’ll be fine.”
Porter watched the blue Mustang drive away. On his iPad, he activated the tracer he had dropped into Keera’s handbag. The blinking locator beacon moved down Guilford Road and turned right at Great Star toward Rt. 32. He switched screens and typed a text message to the Ghost:
Girlfriend doesn’t know where he is.
Tracer is in her purse. She’ll be home soon.
Watch her until he shows up.
Satisfied, Porter turned off the rolling lights and started after her, providing the escort he had promised.
Fifteen minutes later, the Mustang pulled into the garage. He waited outside until the lights came on inside the townhome. She waved at him from a window on the second floor. He waved back and drove away.
Rex and Powell held his arms, and Dreyfuss gripped his head, keeping it forward, facing him. “Take deep breaths,” he said. “One. Two, three.”
“It’s just liquid nitrogen,” Rex said. “We used it to freeze moles from cows’ udders. It leaves a blister, that’s all.”
Ben heard a hissing noise behind him and twitched involuntarily.
“Breathe,” Dreyfuss said. “Deep!”
The hissing noise changed as Streep adjusted the sprayer.
“Careful,” Powell said. “Layer by layer, or you’ll freeze his muscles.”
“Hold him,” she said.
Ben tried to look over his shoulder. He felt the three men tighten their grip.
“Okay,” Streep said. “Don’t move!”
It felt as if fire touched his shoulder. He struggled to get away. She continued to spray in short bursts, and the pain flared up, radiating throughout his body. He shouted, “Enough!”
“Almost done,” Streep said. “Don’t be a baby.”
Keera watched the Ford sedan drive away. She felt as if a belt were tightening around her chest, making it hard to breathe. Until he gave her his card, it had not occurred to her for a moment that he was anything other than a state trooper on a routine stop of a reckless motorist.
But his name was on the card. O. Porter – Inspector. It was the same guy Ben had seen remove a floppy disk from the body of Zachariah Hinckley, which he later claimed was a porn DVD. Porter’s appearance tonight could not be a coincidence. He must have coordinated with the Ghost, trying to flush out Ben by having her call him for help.
And what about Fran? She’s also a state trooper. Are they working together, some kind of an operation to protect the presidential candidate? The discussion last night, when Fran made a case for Keera to leave Ben, suddenly took an ominous light. Was Fran trying to cause a crisis so that Ben would be forced to show up? Keera felt helpless. Fran had gone to high school with Ben, and they had reconnected when Ben was investigating a case involving a rigged state police bidding process. At the time, Fran had tried to dissuade Ben from investigating it, but when he found the dirt, she had apologized. Was this another case of conflicting loyalties? Was she friend or foe?
Keera closed the curtains and sat on the bed. “Goddamn you, Ben!” She hugged his pillow. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
The phone rang—not her iPhone, but the land line. She checked the caller ID. Johns Hopkins Medical Center. She answered.
It was a classmate, Jerry, who was taking overnight call with the chief resident in the Critical Care Unit. He had a question about a patient they had seen together during morning rounds.
She answered his question, but then an idea occurred to her. “Are you tired?”
“Very funny. It’s not just tonight. I’m looking at three nights in a row—payback time for all the calls I switched with others when the baby was coming. And the chief resident is overloaded, so I’m getting—”
“Then you’re in luck. My boyfriend is away. I hate being alone at home. Do you want me to take over?”
There was silence on the other side. “Really?”
“Say yes before I change my mind.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“You’re an angel!”
Next she called Fran and left a message. “I have to go back to the hospital, take over for a friend. He’s on this weekend too, so I might be staying continuously through Monday. I’ll let you know. Thanks for having me over last night.”
After calling for a taxi, Keera packed an overnight bag. She left a bunch of lights on, as well as the radio in the kitchen.
Part VI:
The Mole
Chapter 50
When Ben woke up, he was lying on his belly. The pain from his singed tattoo was dull thanks to a dressing smeared with topical anesthetic, but a deeper throbbing reminded him of the long recovery from his football injury a decade earlier.
“Good morning!” Powell entered the room and pulled aside the curtains. It was dark outside. “Or rather, good night again.”
“How long was I out?”
“Twenty-four hours, give or take a few bathroom breaks. How are you?”
“Terrible.” Ben sat up and lowered his legs to the floor. “It’s like someone took a torch to my back.”
“It’s the price of perfection.”
Ben cleared his throat. “What’s next?”
“Study. Study. Study.” Powell handed him two books. “The more you know, the better prepared you are to pass for a real saint.”
“Yes, General!” Ben saluted and looked at the books. The Mormon Mirage, by Latayne Scott, and One Nation under Gods, by Richard Abanes. “Do real saints read books like these?”
“No. Books that criticize the Church or contradict the official line are considered satanic and are banned. You’ll have to be smart about how you answer questions when you’re at the temple. ‘Know thy enemy, and you shall prevail.’”
“It takes a lot of anger and bitterness to lead this team of avenging ex-saints. What happened to you?”
“A great life happened to me.” Powell coughed, but was able to stop. “Do you really want to know?”
Ben beckoned at a chair.
He sat down. “I was a graduate student at Nevada State. Part of my scholarship was for serving as a teaching assistant. I fell in love with a freshmen girl fro
m Utah. Sarah Benson. The most beautiful thing you ever saw in your life. She was reluctant, but I was determined, and it helped that she was having difficulties with math and statistics, which are my strong areas. Finally she started going out with me. We went to her parents for Thanksgiving, and I asked for their blessing in marriage.” Powell sighed. “Have you ever watched Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?”
“I saw the remake.”
“They were horrified. But it was the eighties, and the Church had just changed its policy to allow blacks into the priesthood and was eager to show its new tolerance. Sarah’s parents were instructed by their bishop to accept me, provided I embraced the True Gospel.”
“Did you?”
“I had been raised Southern Baptist, but didn’t care much—we all worship the same Jesus Christ, right? When I called my mama, she warned me that Mormons didn’t like blacks. But the bishop explained that it was part of a bygone past, that in ’seventy-eight, the LDS President, Seer and Revelator had a divine revelation that all men were eligible for priesthood and full status as saints, even those with dark skin who had been banned from the priesthood until then. And, sure enough, I was baptized, received my Temple Recommend Card, had my endowments and ordinances, and our marriage was sealed for eternity in a strange but uplifting ceremony in the Mormon temple. Two years later, with a doctorate in mathematics, I got a teaching position at Brigham Young, we had two boys, and life was happy.”
“Until?”
“Until my son came home from Cub Scouts crying because a friend had told him that his soul was evil. I phoned the troop leader, an ophthalmologist I knew well from the ward, and he explained that my son, at six years of age, should already know that his dark skin was evidence of his soul’s sins against God in the pre-mortal life. When I explained the change of nineteen seventy-eight, which was ten years earlier, he laughed and told me that the race manifesto was issued to get the Gentiles off the Church’s back with all that civil rights craziness. But all the underlying doctrines had remained in place.”
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