“You’re not a member of the church?” Deem asked.
“No, not for many years now,” he said.
“But you obviously keep up on who’s in charge,” Deem said, “if you knew my father was a Stake President.”
“The most powerful force around here,” Claude said, “aside from the radiation fallout, is the LDS church. You can’t know what’s really going on if you don’t know what it’s doing. It’s more powerful than all the politicians down here, ’cause they’re all members. You don’t get elected unless you’re a Mormon, you know that.”
“It’s less that way in Nevada,” Winn said, “but I know what you mean.”
“Are you two LDS?” Claude asked.
“I never was,” Winn said.
“I was raised LDS,” Deem said, “but I stopped going a couple of years ago, after my father died. My mother is still very active.”
“So then you must know what a unique problem you present to them,” Claude said. “Your father was gifted too, right?”
“Yes,” Deem said.
“I thought so!” Claude said. “And you think Brother Dayton might be gifted, too, am I right?”
“Yes,” Deem said. “He and my father were great friends. They spent a lot of time together. I assumed that’s why my father picked him as a counselor when he became stake president several years back.”
“What did Brother Dayton tell you when you confronted him?” Claude asked.
“He said he never saw my father keep a journal,” Deem said, “but that a journal was a personal thing, and if my father kept one, he wouldn’t have seen it. When I started suggesting things about the gift and the River, he acted like I was from outer space. Went into complete church counselor mode, spouting the normal crap. It felt like he was lying.”
“Your father’s other counselor, Brother Linden, became Stake President when your father died,” Claude said, “and Brother Dayton is still a counselor in the stake presidency, now reporting to Linden. He’s in a very powerful role. Do you think he’d jeopardize that by revealing to you that he’s gifted?”
“Why not?” Deem said. “I’m gifted, I get it. He must know I am, I’m his friend’s daughter.”
“You are not very familiar with the kind of secrets Mormons keep, are you?” Claude said. “You dropped out before you went to the temple, am I right?”
“I went when I was twelve,” Deem said.
“Baptisms for the dead,” Claude said. “Yes, all kids do them. But you never went for your Endowment, am I right?”
“Right,” Deem said. “I became heathen long before that.”
“So you at least know that the Endowment is secret,” Claude said.
“Well, they always told us in church that it was sacred, not secret,” Deem said.
“Right,” Claude said. “So sacred that it’s kept secret. So it’s secret, regardless. Every adult Mormon in good standing keeps secrets.”
“If you say so,” Deem said. “I don’t really know the details.”
“I won’t get into them,” Claude said. “I just want you to know what you’re dealing with. Dayton has taken oaths to keep certain things secret. Keeping his gift secret is probably even more important to him, since it isn’t something that normal Mormonism encompasses. If it were to get out that he’s gifted, he’d certainly lose his title, and probably his membership. The church’s rules have no accommodation for the gift. Those who have it must either suppress it, or find a way to use it that keeps it secret.”
“That’s the boat my father was in,” Deem said. “I never understood how he balanced the two. He was obviously successful in the church, but he used the gift too, because he taught me all about it. If he thought it was bad or against the church, he wouldn’t have shown it to me.”
“Did you ever discuss how he managed that?” Claude asked.
“No,” Deem said. “He died before we ever had that conversation. But he never once made me feel bad or ashamed for using the gift. Not once.”
“I think I know why he never talked about it with you,” Claude said.
“Why?” Deem asked.
“You’re a woman,” Claude said.
Deem knew instantly what Claude meant. In the Mormon world, Deem would never run in the same circles her father did – all the leadership roles went to men.
“Then he felt it was something I didn’t need to know?” Deem asked.
“Because you’d never have to balance it like he had to,” Claude said. “He probably hoped you’d get married and start pumping out the babies. Use your gift to keep track of the kids.”
Deem lowered her head and felt like crying. She had always felt that her father wanted more for her, inspired her to go to college and do something great with her life. She never felt that he saw her as a normal Mormon girl; he had always told her that she was special and destined for big things. She remembered the day she had asked him why girls weren’t allowed to hold the priesthood in the church, even though all of the boys got to. He looked pained, like it was a conversation he had hoped he would never have to have. And when he explained to her how God only gives the priesthood to men, she felt slapped in the face. She couldn’t change her sex; by making her female, God had decided she would never be worthy, never as important as men. She knew in her heart, the moment she heard it, that it was wrong, and she saw that her father believed that too, although he was telling her the church line. He wouldn’t look at her as he talked to her about it. He knew what it was doing to her, how his words were sinking into her, teaching her the first of many lessons that women were to be subservient to men, and she knew he felt awful for it, that it was counter to what he really believed about her. Ever since that day, she’d known he didn’t always mean many of the things he said, especially when it related to the church and her sex. Others hadn’t known that he felt this way, but she knew, and she held onto that knowledge whenever misogyny or cruel tradition reared its ugly head. Now, with him gone, she had to hold onto those small signals that he’d sent to her, telling her that she was as good, as worthy, as important as any boy. She had used those signals many times, at critical points in her childhood when she felt beaten down. It made her miss him terribly. She raised her hand to her face, not wanting the others to see her cry.
“I’m sorry,” Claude said. “That was rather insensitive of me.”
“No,” Deem said. “I know where you’re coming from. That’s what every girl my age is expected to do. It’s just that my father never said those kinds of things to me.”
“I’m not being fair,” Claude said. “I’m afraid I’ve let my prejudices against the church show through. Your father may not have talked about this balance between the gift and the church because you’re a woman, but he had other reasons, too. Reasons that were probably more influential to his thinking.”
“Like what?” Deem asked.
“I believe that local, influential, gifted Mormons like your father are part of a secret council,” Claude said. “They operate in private, away from the eyes of Salt Lake – or anyone else, for that matter. Your father was likely part of this council. If so, he took an oath that would have kept him from talking to you about it.”
Deem was stunned. She didn’t know if Claude was spouting a crazy conspiracy theory or the truth.
“How do you know this?” Deem asked.
“I can’t say,” Claude answered. “I have to protect the people who keep me informed. But I have, in my files here, plenty of evidence that makes me confident.”
“What do you know about this council?” Winn asked.
“It’s made up of gifted Mormons who’ve achieved higher ranks in the church,” Claude said. “There’s not many of them, but they banded together years ago for support. They have their own organization, with their own officers. All men, of course. And they take an oath of secrecy. Just as none of them would ever break their temple oaths, these people would never break their council oaths, either. So Dayton was never going to tell you a
nything. He’s bound not to. Don’t take it personally.”
Deem found it hard to process. Her father was part of a secret organization? It seemed incredible.
“It’s very possible that his journals, if he kept them,” Claude said, “are the property of the secret council. What he wrote in them might contain things you wouldn’t be allowed to see, even though you’re his heir and by rights you should have them. You’re not part of the council. And because you’re a woman, you never will be.”
Deem sat stunned.
“I think I already know the answer to this question,” Winn said, “but do you have anything to back this up? Any kind of proof?”
“Oh, plenty,” Claude said. “But digging it out to show people is a waste of time. People believe what they want to believe, proof or not. I believe my sources. Whether or not you believe them is up to you.”
“I just…” Deem said, halting. “…just find it so hard to believe.”
“What, that there’s a secret group of Mormons with the gift?” Claude said. “If you’re gifted, as you claim, I expect you’ve seen some incredible things in your time, stuff that other people would find unbelievable. Am I right?”
“That’s true,” Winn said. “Stuff we don’t discuss with other people because they’d think we’re crazy.”
“Welcome to my world,” Claude said, rising up out of his overstuffed chair. “Listen, this is going to bounce around in your head for a while. You’ll decide it’s true, then it’s bullpucky, and back and forth. That’s what always happens.”
He walked to the filing cabinet and pulled their phones out of the box. “Once you realize that a group of secret Mormons isn’t so implausible in light of the ghosts and other weird stuff you normally deal with, you’ll want to talk to me again. So I’m gonna give you my phone number.”
He handed Deem and Winn their phones and then walked to his desk, where he scribbled a number on a piece of paper. “If you decide that I’m not just an old man sitting here throwing crap against the walls, give me a call.”
He handed the paper to Deem, who took it. She stood, and extended her hand.
“That just spreads germs,” Claude said. “How about a pat on the back?”
Deem smiled and turned her back to Claude. He gave her three quick slaps. They walked to the door.
“You both be careful about telling other people what I’ve told you today,” Claude said. “I don’t broadcast about the secret council. Lots of people around here take oaths very seriously and I’m already in enough trouble with the town. And please don’t share my phone number with anyone.”
“I won’t,” Deem said. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, even though I’m not sure what most of it means.”
“Keep in mind,” Claude said, “if you decide to pursue this, it’s dangerous. It’s worth some serious thinking before you go any further.”
“Why do you do this?” Deem asked as she opened the door. “If it’s risky, why would you help me?”
“’Cause you’re being lied to,” Claude said, “and I hate that. I don’t call it ‘The Hour of Truth’ for nothing.”
Chapter Five
After leaving Claude’s, Deem drove to the abandoned house south of Mesquite to see Sagan. She parked her truck just off the road by the house, and she and Winn walked to the back. The wind had picked up and was blowing sand. Deem tried to cover her face with her hand.
Winn lifted the plywood covering and descended into the basement. “Sagan!” Winn called, dropping into the River.
Sagan appeared, hunkered in a corner.
There you are, Winn said, walking over to him. Well? Did you track him?
Yes, Sagan said, I know where he lives. But my price has gone up.
What do you mean? Winn asked.
I mean, Sagan said, standing up to face Winn, the guy you had me track was a fucked up skinwalker. You didn’t mention that.
What’s his name? Winn asked.
I want double, Sagan said.
Don’t be ridiculous, Winn said. That wasn’t our deal.
I don’t care, Sagan said. If you want to know who it is, I want double.
So I offered you a dozen corpses, Winn said. You want two dozen?
Yes, Sagan said, and I want your word that if he or his creator decides to attack me, you’ll defend me.
Why would he attack you? Winn said. Did you fuck up? Did he see you?
No, Sagan said. I don’t think so. But I saw his place, and he’s seriously twisted. And he doesn’t act like a normal skinwalker, he’s faster. Whoever made him is a powerful motherfucker, and I don’t want to anger the guy.
Alright, Winn said. Two dozen corpses, but that’s it.
Sagan eyed him suspiciously. No, I want protection, he said. If this comes back on me, I expect you two to help me out.
You’re a Caller, Deem said. Why would you need our help?
‘Cause I like my life, Sagan said, such as it is. I got this pad to myself, I get to scare little kids at the bus stop, peek in people’s windows at night when they can’t see me, go along on some good hum busts.
Hum busts? Deem asked.
I’ll tell you later, Winn said to Deem.
So I assume you’re gonna take this guy down? Sagan asked. If you do, whoever created him will know. They’ll wonder if you’re going to take down more. They’ll hunt you down. I don’t want to be part of that.
You already are, Winn said. If we run into trouble, yours is the first name I’m giving up, unless you tell me.
That’s not fair, Sagan whined. That wasn’t the deal.
Oh, so now you want the original deal? Winn asked. Fine, a dozen corpses. Give it up, Sagan, or I swear to god I’ll find where you’re buried and dig you up.
You really are an asshole, you know that? Sagan said. If you’d seen this guy’s house, you’d know I’m right. You’d be paying me a hundred corpses!
You went in his house? Winn asked.
Yeah, Sagan said. Well, his garage. After I tracked him, I watched for a while. He left again, so I went inside. And I’m telling you, you’d best just walk away from this guy. He’s seriously fucked up.
Just tell me his name, Winn said. Name and address. That was the deal. We’re not leaving until you do.
Sagan waited. Three dozen, he said.
Two, Winn said, and you can contact me if you get in trouble. No promises about what I’ll do, if anything.
Alright, Sagan said. He lives south of Hurricane on 59.
Where on 59? Winn asked.
Don’t know exactly, I didn’t see a number on the house. Ten miles out, before Apple Valley.
What’s his name? Winn said.
I don’t know, Sagan said.
Goddamnit, Sagan! Winn said. You’re pissing me off!
I can tell you which house, Sagan said. You should be able to figure out his name from that. It’s red brick and there’s a large yellow garage in the back. A couple of pecan trees out front. Off 59 on the left side if you’re going south.
That’s right on the tour bus route, Deem said to Winn.
Yeah, makes sense, Winn said.
So now, my corpses please, Sagan said.
I didn’t get a name or an address, Winn said, so no corpses until we find the place.
There was a red Suburban in the driveway, Sagan said. Yellow garage in the back, and a horseshoe pit. Two ATV’s under a blue tarp next to the garage. And there was this cement lizard thing by the front door. You just drive south on 59, count off ten miles out of Hurricane, and keep looking to the left. You’ll see it.
OK, Deem, Winn said. Let’s see if we can find this place.
Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, Sagan said.
▪ ▪ ▪
Deem drove the fifty miles from Mesquite to Hurricane after stopping at 7-11 to get a Big Gulp. Winn smoked while she was inside. He asked her to buy him a bottled water.
The sun was pounding down as they started up the little highway that lifte
d behind the Hurricane fire station to go over mountains and down into a neighboring valley. Deem checked her odometer.
As Hurricane was falling away in her rear view mirror, her phone rang and she pulled it from her pants pocket.
“Oh, it’s Eliza,” Deem said, reading the caller ID. “Here,” she said, passing the phone to Winn. “Take the call, would you?”
Winn took her phone and pressed a button. “Hello?...Oh, hi, Eliza!”
Deem listened, hearing a buzzing coming from the phone but not able to make out what Eliza was saying over the noise of her truck.
“It’s good to hear your voice, too,” Winn said, looking at Deem and smiling.
More pausing while Eliza spoke to Winn.
“Uh huh,” Winn said. More pausing. “Uh huh.”
Deem regretted not turning on the speakerphone before she handed it to Winn.
“What’s your address, Deem?” Winn asked. “They’re going to FedEx it.”
“They found something?” Deem asked.
“Yes,” Winn said. “What’s your address?”
Deem gave Winn her address and he relayed it to Eliza.
“Thank you,” Winn said. “No, we will…yes, I’ll make sure she calls you…please thank your friends for us…alright. Bye.”
“Well?” Deem asked.
“It’ll arrive tomorrow. She said it looked almost exactly the same as your picture.”
“What a relief!” Deem said. “At least we can stop the attacks.” She looked down at her odometer. “Nine miles,” she said. “Keep an eye out.”
“He said left side, right?” Winn asked.
“Correct,” Deem said. “Red brick house, yellow garage in back.”
Although she was doing seventy-five, a car sped around her, passing on the left. She slowed to sixty so they wouldn’t miss the house.
They could see Apple Valley ahead in the distance, with Smithsonian Butte rising behind it. Houses were sparse along this stretch of road. She saw her odometer cross the ten mile mark.
“That’s it,” Winn said, pointing to a house still too far in the distance for Deem to make out.
“You can see that?” Deem said.
Blood Oath, Blood River (The Downwinders Book 1) Page 7