Jim McKay had stood by Mitt’s side during the last round of presidential primaries. The same people over there now shaking Mitt’s hand had happily stabbed him in the back to support Huckabee, and then stabbed John McCain in the back during the general. Or rather, sat on the sidelines, which was the same thing.
You reap what you sow, Jim thought. Because now it was almost certain the EVs would be forced to swallow their pride if they wanted any chance of getting back in the White House. The evangelical candidates were a joke, the governor from New England was a RINO—Republican in Name Only. Not to mention too cozy with the media; when the New York Times spoke glowingly of your candidacy, you almost wondered if it was intentional sabotage. That left the conservative movement one of two choices, and both were Mormons.
With all due respect to Mitt Romney, Senator McKay meant to be the last man standing.
“Did I see you talking to Chip Smith earlier?” Parley asked.
“Yeah, what a chucklehead,” Jim said. He refreshed his smile, shook the hand of some guy with a bad suit and worse haircut, then turned to his brother. “Why do you ask?”
“Because one of his assistant ministers—is that what they call them?—phoned me, asking about polygamy.”
Jim couldn’t keep the frown off his face. “Polygamy?”
Chip Smith was the head of a mega-church in Oklahoma. Not quite miracle spring water, or faith healing, but it was all about the charisma of the head minister. Personally, Jim couldn’t see the man’s appeal. Maybe his BS detector was too finely honed, but Chip Smith was five percent man of God, ninety-five percent used car salesman. Point was, the pastor and his minions could raise a million bucks and a thousand rabid volunteers faster than you could say “culture wars.”
Which made his the sweetest, most kissable evangelical ass at the convention.
“Yeah, polygamy,” Parley said.
“What does he care if a man has more than one wife? From what I hear, he’s got a little something on the side. What was it, a love child with the former treasurer at his church?”
“Whoever said these guys have to be consistent?” Another pause to shake hands. “That’s why Chip flipped out over Mitt last time around,” Parley continued when they were alone again. “Not the Mormon stuff, so much as Mitt’s polygamist grandfather.”
The Romneys had fled to Mexico in the late 19th century when the federal government cracked down on polygamy. They’d stayed in the Mormon colonies until coaxed back by the mainstream church when it gave up on polygamy. Romney had made a couple of squishy comments about polygamy and it made Chip Smith think he was a secret sympathizer. Not true; Mitt was just speaking from a misplaced sense of loyalty to his ancestors.
“Do you think he knows about Dad?” Jim asked.
“Someone whispered something in his ear, maybe. Probably one of Mitt’s boys, to throw the dogs off his own scent.”
“Figures.” They passed a display selling Christian treats and he accepted a free sample of candies printed with biblical verses. Ate half of one, then dropped the bag in the garbage. Nasty little things tasted like candy corns, only more cloyingly sweet, if that was even possible.
“Think it could cause problems?” he asked.
His brother was silent for several seconds, then there was another break to shake hands. This time it was a rich LDS rancher from outside Laramie, who pumped Jim’s arm like he was trying to raise water from Wyoming bedrock.
“Maybe,” Parley said at last. “Not in the general, but in the primaries. Soon as this thing heats up, one of the fundies might make a big deal of it. Maybe that rep from Tennessee.”
“No way that would save his pathetic little candidacy. Not only is he flat broke, but his wife had electroshock treatments about twenty years ago. He brings up polygamy, we leak the bit about his wife.”
“Leaving you to spar with the weakest candidate in the race,” Parley said. “And meanwhile, Romney and his glorious hair gallop away with the money and delegates.”
“What we need is a demonstration,” Jim said. “Something we can point to if they ever bring up the polygamists in the closet. Retroactively distance ourselves.”
Parley nodded. “I like it. What are you thinking?”
Jim fixed his brother with a smile. “I’m thinking the Attorney General of the state of Utah needs to crack down on polygamists.”
“Those things are hell to prosecute. Burns up taxpayer money. All those endless loops on CNN of crying kids ripped away from their mothers. And no one will testify. Don’t forget, I need to run for reelection too.”
“That kind of attitude is why we’re still dealing with the problem over a hundred years after the church gave up polygamy,” Jim said.
“You’re wrong. It’s been too long, you’ll never get rid of it. In fact, there are twice as many polygamists in Utah as twenty years ago. Twenty years from now, there will be twice as many again. They breed like rats.”
“What we need is something with a lot of noise and very little risk.”
“Like what?” Parley sounded dubious.
“What about the cult in Manti building the big compound?”
“The Church of the Last Days? You want a Waco-style shootout? Yeah, that will help your candidacy.”
“Arrest that bearded guy with the crazy eyes. Looks like a movie-star version of Charles Manson. That’ll play great on TV and you get him, you’ll kill the whole movement.”
“Kind of like the mob killing Joseph Smith wiped out Mormonism?” He shook his head. “And you really want to tangle with a cult leader who looks like Charles Manson?”
“Touché,” Jim said. “Okay, what about those guys in Blister Creek?”
“The FBI already stomped them. Half their leaders are in prison for fraud or murder. They had to mortgage their temple and sell half their land. They’re bleeding members to other cults.”
“Perfect. They’re weak and broke. And everyone knows they’re a bunch of crooks. You say there’s nothing you could do about polygamy, but you can kick this little cult while it’s down.”
Parley seemed to think this over. No doubt wondering if he could score points for his own political career. Jim knew he was hoping to step into the governor’s mansion in a few years.
“It’s a funny coincidence,” Parley said. “The son of their new prophet lives just a few blocks from my place.”
“In Salt Lake?” Jim asked, surprised. “What’s he doing there?”
“The guy is a medical student or doctor of some kind, believe it or not. Don’t know how many wives he has.”
“Does that mean he went to the University of Utah?”
“I don’t know,” Parley said. “Probably. Maybe he still does.”
“A polygamist, son of the leader of a church the FBI targeted. And getting a medical degree subsidized by the taxpayers of the State of Utah. The public always likes a slime ball like that taken down.”
“You know,” Parley said, “I think you might be onto something.”
Chapter Six:
Jacob had forced himself into an unnatural calm by the time he opened the door of his house and it was the only thing that kept him from doing something stupid. The door was unlocked, he entered.
His hand swung to the right as he entered and found an umbrella in the holder. Voices in the front room. A man’s low, menacing growl, a higher, woman’s voice. No Fernie, no kids.
He came around the corner, into the living room, brandishing the umbrella like a weapon.
Fernie stood backed against the wall while a big, powerfully-built man was in her face. A woman in a jacket stood by the stereo, taut, ready to spring.
The woman turned, eyed his umbrella. “Oh, is it raining? Or were you thinking you could take us with that?”
He realized belatedly the man wasn’t in his wife’s face, he was showing her a picture. He was huge, like a former football player, but his posture wasn’t aggressive.
Jacob looked down at the umbrella, its tip poin
ted at the man’s chest, while he stood in a vaguely fencing-like stance. He felt ridiculous. “En garde?”
The man left the picture with Fernie, then reached into his jacket and showed his badge. “Agent Krantz, FBI.” His voice was low, gravely, the sound Jacob had taken for menacing from the front room. “This is Agent Fayer.”
Jacob lowered the umbrella. “Sorry, overactive imagination. I wasn’t expecting guests.” He propped the umbrella against the wall.
“We showed up unannounced,” said Krantz. “Sorry about that.”
Jacob gave Fernie a hug. She seemed relaxed, happy to see him, even as she’d given him a rather wifely raised eyebrow at his theatrics.
“Where are the kids?” he asked.
“The baby is asleep. I sent the others back to work on their reading. They’ll want to see you.”
“Go ahead, say hi to your kids,” Agent Krantz said. The man turned to Fernie. “Mind if we have a seat?”
“Go right ahead. Can I get you anything? Sorry, we don’t have coffee. I know that’s what people usually expect.”
“Nah, Agent Fayer isn’t a coffee person, so I’ve grown used to suffering my afternoons uncaffeinated. You should hear what she says when I take a cigarette break.”
“Coffin nails, I tell you, coffin nails.” Fayer said the words lightly, but she was studying Jacob as she spoke and he didn’t like the barely-veiled suspicion in her eyes.
“Give me a second,” Jacob said.
Daniel and Leah had their books open at the kitchen table. “Daddy!” they shouted.
Jacob gave each of them a fierce, protective hug. They were bright kids, and better behaved than he would have thought. His wife’s doing. Between medical school and his residency, he never had enough time with them.
It certainly wasn’t good genes. Their biological father was serving fifteen years. Jacob wished it were thirty. Let the bastard rot in prison. Of course, if he’d been a better man, or even a father who gave a damn about his twenty-five kids from half a dozen wives, these kids wouldn’t be wrapping their arms around Jacob’s neck, calling him Daddy.
“Who are those people?” Daniel asked.
“They want to talk to Mommy and Daddy about grownup stuff. Can you guys wait here until we’re done? Then I’ll come back and we can read from our book.”
“And find out what happens to the Snail Riders?” Leah asked.
“Know what? I think the green snail with the missing horn is going to win the race,” Jacob confided.
“No, Daddy! He’s too old and slow,” Daniel said.
“Never count out old and slow. One Horn may be old, but he’s sneaky, too.”
By the time he came back into the living room, he’d regained control of his emotions. The FBI agents had taken seats on the couch and were chatting with Fernie about the weather. Fernie sat in the easy chair.
Jacob stood with his back against the fireplace. “Your timing was bad at the hospital.”
“How so?” Agent Fayer asked. That hard look again. She already didn’t like him.
“I’m going to assume you know about my family background.”
“We do, yes.”
“Not everyone does and I wanted to keep it that way.”
“Why, are you ashamed?” Fayer asked.
“I didn’t choose where I was born,” Jacob said. “So I’m not going to apologize for who I am. But that doesn’t mean I need to tell everyone I meet. Just so happens you questioned Dr. Hess on the same day I saw a polygamist patient. He put two and two together. It’s going to cause me some trouble.” He caught Fernie out of the corner of his eye, chewing on her lip, brow furrowed at the unwelcome news.
Fayer shrugged. “Naturally, being a polygamist, they’re worried you’ll bring home some underage girl and get in trouble with the law. Could look bad for their hospital.”
“Do you see any teenage brides here?” he asked.
“No, but maybe we should consider a more thorough inspection of the premises.”
“I have one wife, Agent Fayer.”
“You’re still young,” she said. “I’ll give you a couple of years.”
Fernie cleared her throat. “Isn’t there some business you wanted to discuss with my husband, Agent Fayer?”
“We do, as a matter of fact,” Agent Krantz said in that low rumble.
“What is it with you Salt Lake Mormons?” Jacob asked Fayer. “Why do you hate us so much?”
“What makes you think I’m LDS?” she asked.
“Come on, you don’t drink coffee, you give your partner grief about smoking. You’ve got a Utah accent. Bet you went to BYU before you joined the FBI. You don’t have to be a trained investigator to figure it out.”
“Jacob,” Fernie said. “Don’t you want to hear what they have to say?”
“Not yet, I don’t.” He was on a roll now, and had found a target for his frustrations. “You do know that Joseph Smith married fourteen year old girls, right? And that some of his wives were already married to other men when he was sealed to them? That’s right, your prophet and mine. Has your family been in the church long? Got any polygamist ancestors? Bet you do.”
“What’s your point?” Agent Fayer asked.
“That maybe you should look to the beam in your own eye before you pick at the mote in mine. You think it’s funny you got me in trouble with the hospital? I’ve got a wife and three kids. I’m trying to put food on the table. And you know what, I testified against people from my own church. I had a deal with the FBI—not that I needed a deal, since I was clean. So what the hell makes you think you can come around here, now? You just hate polygamists and figured out I was living nearby, is that it?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong impression,” Agent Krantz said. He rested one of his huge, linebacker hands on on his partner’s shoulder. She was visibly seething. Good.
“You’re not here to investigate me?”
“No,” Krantz said. “We’re not.”
“Oh.”
“We came to ask for help.”
“Funny way to do it, coming on like that.”
“I do apologize, Dr. Christianson,” he said. “That wasn’t our intent.”
“What kind of help?”
“Have you seen this woman?” Krantz asked.
He handed Jacob the paper he’d been showing Fernie earlier. It was a high-quality printout of a young polygamist woman, maybe nineteen, twenty years old, in a prairie dress. Pretty, bright eyes.
“What’s her name?”
Krantz and Fayer looked at each other. “Sister Miriam,” Krantz said.
“She doesn’t look familiar. What church does she belong to, not ours, right?”
“Independent. She’s recently joined the Church of the Last Days, in Manti.”
“She hasn’t been to the hospital that I know about.”
Agent Fayer said, “But maybe you’ve seen her on the streets. Dr. Hess said you get lunch at that sandwich shop near the Manti Temple. Is that so you can watch the polygamists?”
Jacob wasn’t the only one with deductive abilities, he saw. That was exactly right. He took his lunch in Manti to watch the polygamists in the park across the street from the temple. They were doing something there, almost like a prayer circle. There was some resentment from the fundamentalists in that part of the state that they couldn’t enter the temple their ancestors had helped to build. More than one had prophesied it would return to their control during the Millennium, after the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.
“That’s right. I’m curious.” He shook his head. “But I’ve never seen this girl, or at least not close enough to recognize in a picture. Who is she?”
The two FBI agents looked at each other again. “We’re wasting our time here,” Fayer said.
“He could help.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Need to go outside and talk?” Agent Krantz asked her.
“Unnecessary. Let’s ask the girl. We can work with her.”
“It’s not good cop, bad cop,” Agent Fayer said. “I really don’t like you.”
“Give us a minute,” Krantz said. The two agents stepped into the hall, near the front door, where they had a heated argument in low voices.
Jacob looked at Fernie and winced at the angry look on her face. “Sorry I lost my temper,” he said. “That was stupid.”
“Of all the rude things. I can’t believe she…to come into our house and…the nerve!”
He laughed. “And I thought you were mad at me.”
“Darn straight, mister. You made a bad situation worse.”
He laughed again. “I love it when you’re angry. ‘March right up to your room young man. You’re in trouble, mister.’ You sound like a Mom from a 1950s TV show.”
“That would be something, since I’ve never seen one.”
Jacob still held the girl’s picture and now looked down and studied it further. There was something in her expression that was hard to put a finger on. Reminded him of his sister, Eliza. This girl had the same alert look. Someone who could take care of herself.
The two FBI agents returned. “Here’s the deal,” Krantz said. The couch groaned as he took a seat. “We’ve got someone else who might help, but I want to talk to you, first.” Jacob had made a decision. “I’ll help.”
“You will?” Agent Fayer asked. She remained standing, but the sour expression eased.
“Sure. This girl is missing and I’ll assume there’s a good reason you want to find her. I can’t guarantee results, but I’ll dig around at the hospital and keep an eye on downtown Manti, see if she shows up. I might even take a few pictures of the polygamists at the park, if I think I can get away with it. The only thing I’m asking is that you call Dr. Hess and make it clear I’m not the target of any investigation. You do that, I’ll watch the Church of the Last Days and tell you everything I find out.”
“That’s great,” the big man said. “But we don’t want you to watch the Church of the Last Days.”
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