“You’re lying to me, Jacob. Don’t do that.”
“Leave it alone, Liz. I’m not in the mood to analyze my feelings. Go help your mom with the kids. Take them down to the cafeteria or something. They’re probably hungry.”
Her tone remained calm. “You can be as rude as you want, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Why did Father run out of here like that? Talk it out, tell me what’s going on.”
“I told you to leave it alone!”
Eliza looked hurt at his sharp tone, but his sister was nothing if not tenacious. She grabbed his wrist, and even though the contact was unwelcome, he couldn’t bring himself to shrug her away. “Jacob, look at me, look me in the eyes.”
He met her gaze. “I told you, there’s nothing going on. I’m worried about Fernie. I have no idea why Father rushed off. Go ask him if you’re curious, but stop grilling me. I don’t have a clue.”
“I don’t understand. You’ve never lied to me before. Even when everyone else was lying, you always told me the truth.”
“That’s ridiculous. People tell lies every day. We lie constantly.”
“Not this kind of lie, not from you.”
“Go away, please. I need to be alone.”
For a moment he thought she would press, but then she turned and walked away without another word. She pushed through the doors into the night air, and Jacob’s attention returned to chew on his anger and worry.
At last, Dr. Napoli came to verify the news. The first part was hopeful, he said. No need for a crash C-section—in fact, it would be better if Fernie waited the last few days of her pregnancy to give her body a chance to recover from what looked like minor bleeding around the spleen. If spinal surgery proved necessary, the orthopedist would hold off until after delivery.
The bad news was not as terrible as it might have been, but it was grim enough. Fernie was suffering numbness and paralysis of the left leg. The right leg had some partial movement and feeling. Dr. Napoli started to explain long-term treatment options.
“I know all about that,” Jacob interrupted. “And I know she’ll never walk again without assistance.”
“It’s too soon to say for sure.”
“No, but you can say it with ninety percent surety.”
Napoli put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “It’s not easy to hear, but this could have been a lot worse.”
“It’s bad enough.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. You should speak to your wife. She’s taking it better than expected.”
“I’m sure she is. I’ll see her in a minute. I just—I need to get a handle on my emotions first. Can you please…”
“Of course.” Dr. Napoli left him alone.
It took twenty minutes before he worked his way to tracking down Fernie. He waited until the physician’s assistant and nurse left her room before entering. She gave him a wan smile and pulled away the oxygen mask. “Everything will be okay,” she said in a thin voice. “Are the kids…?”
“They’re fine. Your mother is here. Eliza too.”
She gave a feeble nod as she let the oxygen mask fall into place, then closed her eyes. Jacob was too beaten down to look at the chart to see what they’d put in her IV drip, but it had knocked her out. He massaged his temples against a headache that sprang from nowhere.
He thought back to that moment in the canal, with his hands on Fernie’s head. He’d felt something, or was that just wishful thinking flowing through his hands? A powerful, gut-wrenching moment where desperation intersected with faith—what little fragment he’d possessed—to send him spiraling into that place regularly inhabited by drug users and religious madmen. And then, doubt.
Or maybe it really had been the power of God, right there in his fingertips. Rise, Fernie, and walk anew. Thou art healed.
If so, he’d failed. Fernie had not, would not ever rise and walk again. She had become Trauma Patient Beta, and the rest of the case would play out according to the limitations of medical science. If only he’d had the faith of the injured boy’s parents, maybe it would have been different.
A commotion sounded in the hallway, nurses rushing past and the intercom paging doctors. He supposed that a third trauma patient had arrived, and so he turned on the TV in the room to drown out the sound so he wouldn’t have to think about it too hard, wonder whether another child had suffered an injury, or whether it was an elderly woman having a heart attack, or a mountain biker who’d driven off the slickrock to fall forty feet and shatter his pelvis on the handlebars.
But an hour later, unwelcome news came to Fernie’s recovery room. The commotion hadn’t been a new patient, but the sounds of surgery going wrong, a child’s injuries beneath the bumper of a ten-ton semi proving too much for the team of medical professionals to hack apart, fix, and then stitch back together. Jacob knew, when he saw the boy’s stricken parents in the hallway, now surrounded by sympathetic family and friends, what had happened.
Trauma Patient Alpha—Jacob Henry Harris—had died on the operating table.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Eliza didn’t make the call, not right away, even though she had the cell phone in hand the moment she stepped out of the hospital. She left from a side entrance, so she wouldn’t have to face worried comments from the others about why she shouldn’t be outside, alone, while their attackers were still on the loose.
She passed through the cars in the lot, crossed the street, and found herself in the deserted parking lot of an LDS chapel. Beyond the chapel, a dark road cut south along the eastern edge of town. Panguitch wasn’t much larger than Blister Creek, and the houses were a mix of late nineteenth-century brick and 1970s split-levels, spaced about a half block apart.
She walked down the road, her concern deepening with every step. Jacob had scared her. She’d never seen that holy rage burning in his eyes before. It was the look she’d seen a dozen times on her father’s face, and was a close cousin to Caleb Kimball’s zeal as he’d tried to rape her. The look of a man who is swept up in emotion and stripped of logic.
And Jacob had lied. About something important. It shook her, but her initial surprise and subsequent anger—and feelings of betrayal, to be honest—faded as she walked, replaced with worry.
Oh, Jacob. What did you do?
Something stupid. He’d been speaking to Father, and Abraham Christianson had taken advantage of Jacob’s inner turmoil to press…what, exactly? She wasn’t sure, but she had a good idea.
She made the call. The phone rang twice. “Hello?” came the deep, familiar growl.
“Steve, it’s me, Eliza. We need to talk.”
She prepared for his good-natured teasing, but he must have heard something in her voice. “Are you okay?”
“Where are you? You’re not in Utah by any chance?”
“No, I’m in Reno. A detour from the investigation.”
“Reno? What are you—no, never mind. How fast can you get here? Agent Fayer, too. I need your help to get to Taylor Junior.”
Krantz sighed. “Eliza, I’d love to spend a couple of weeks hunting this guy down. Not to mention see you again. But I’m up to my balls—sorry, up to my eyeballs—in a current investigation.” When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Eliza?”
“Something has happened. Everything is about to blow up.”
She told him about the truck that had tried to run them off the road and about the car that had barreled down the road straight at them. About the accident. He interrupted to ask in a sharp tone if she was okay.
“I’m fine, but Fernie—”
“And you’re sure this was Taylor Junior?”
“I saw him. He was trying to kill my sister, I’m pretty sure. Maybe her kids, too. My father and brother showed up and scared him off.”
She headed off his questions to finish the story, telling him about Fernie’s injury and the strange way Jacob had behaved when she’d confronted him. She left out the part about the failed blessing—Krantz wouldn’t understand why that was
important in explaining her brother’s behavior.
“And what, you think Jacob is hiding something?”
“My father said something. It set him off. And Jacob—Steve, I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Who was this other guy?” Krantz asked.
“Stephen Paul Young, do you remember him?”
“Tall guy, midthirties? One of Abraham’s elders, right?”
“That’s right. He’s a devoted follower. He’ll do anything the prophet says.”
“Of course he will,” Krantz muttered. “So what’s going on?”
“I can guess. David and Miriam are in Dark Canyon, spying on Taylor Junior’s followers. There’s no cell service up there, so Jacob has no way of knowing what’s going on. Maybe they’re just watching.”
“Just the two of them? That’s insane. It’s dangerous up there, and not just the Kimballs. It’s high in the mountains, there are snakes, cliffs, cold, and dehydration to worry about.” Krantz, in spite of his earlier denials, had obviously done some research about the area since they’d last talked.
Eliza said, “Don’t worry about that. David and Miriam know what they’re doing.”
“Okay, let’s talk about Jacob, then. He’s found their camp, now what?”
“I don’t know. He lied to me. Father ran off, and Jacob said he didn’t know why. And my brother had this scary look, like he’s not thinking rationally.”
“You’ve got a guess, I can hear it in your voice.”
“They’re going after the Kimballs,” Eliza said. She hadn’t allowed herself to think it consciously, but now that it was out, she knew she was right. “It’s just the sort of thing my father would want. Go in with torches and gasoline and burn out the whole rattlesnake nest. And now that Jacob is…unhinged, he’s going along with the plan. They’re going to kill Taylor Junior and break up the whole band.”
“Shit. You’ve got to stop them.”
“Stop them? You think my father will listen to me? Maybe Jacob could, but my brother won’t tell me anything. He knows I’ll try to talk him out of it. I might get Miriam or David to listen to me, but they’re gone, heaven knows where. Jacob knows how to find them, I don’t.”
“There has to be someone else.”
“Really, there’s not. Fernie is in a hospital bed, drugged, nine months pregnant, and with a spine injury. Who else is there? My mother? Jacob’s mother? The sister wives?”
Krantz said, “I don’t know, but someone’s got to do it. I’ll call the San Juan County Sheriff’s Department, maybe highway patrol, get them out there. They’ll stop your brother before he gets into the wilderness area.”
“How are they going to do that? There are a dozen ways into Dark Canyon. And even if they set up checkpoints along the highway, what are they going to do? Besides, in Jacob’s current state of mind, he might say or do something stupid. Not to mention my father will be there. Do you trust local law enforcement not to go into some macho act and set off a shootout?”
“Okay, then. Someone Jacob knows and trusts. Someone to talk some sense into him.”
“Exactly,” Eliza said. “That’s what I need you for, Steve. I need you to go in there with me and stop this thing before it blows up.”
“Why would he listen to me if he won’t listen to you?”
“Because you and Fayer will be there not to talk Jacob down, but to bring Taylor Junior to justice. He’ll listen to that.”
She didn’t state the obvious. If Krantz and Fayer had gone after Taylor Junior a week ago, none of this would have happened. But surely, he’d be thinking that now.
He didn’t answer for a long time. Eliza had walked to the end of 400 South and stood against a metal fence, looking over a darkened pasture. Cows lowed and came toward her from the darkness, apparently thinking she’d come to feed them.
She stepped back from the fence and shifted the phone to her other ear. “Steve?”
“I’m trying to work it out in my head. And on my smart phone.”
“Work out what?”
“Crap,” he said. “I was afraid of that. It will be quicker to drive than to catch the earliest possible flight, battle our way through airport security, fly to St. George, and drive over from there. Nine hours to drive from Reno to Panguitch. Another three hours to Blanding once we pick you up. Fayer and I can tag-team drive. She’ll love that.”
Her heart leaped. “Does that mean you’re coming?”
“Yeah, we’re coming. It’s an emergency. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. If everything goes perfectly, I might still have my job a week from now. Stay right where you are.”
“I can’t wait,” she said.
“We’ll come as fast as we can, be there by…let’s say six a.m.”
“I’m not going to sit here doing nothing.”
“You’ll be staying with Fernie,” he said. “That’s not nothing.”
“My mother is here. She can stay with my sister. Half the women in Blister Creek will drive up to help, not to mention doctors and nurses. I’ll stay where I have cell coverage. Call me when you get to Panguitch.”
“Eliza, you’re scaring me. What are you thinking?”
“I’ve got to try. I’ve got to go back to Blister Creek and try to stop them.”
And with that, Eliza hung up, before Krantz could voice another protest. She stared at her phone as the display stayed lit a second longer, then went dark. She expected him to call back. He didn’t.
She’d see him in the morning. For now she was on her own.
* * *
A man is dead.
The words came into Taylor Junior’s head the moment he heard the first rifle shot echo up the canyon.
The shooter wasn’t hunting deer—they’d brought in plenty of food and supplemented their diet with fresh meat from rabbits and quail, brought down with slings or trapped with snares. The camp bristled with weapons and ammunition, but he’d prohibited the discharge of any firearm except in an emergency. Too risky. It may be a wilderness area, but a gunshot carried for miles across the thin desert air. No hunting, no target practice.
Only one reason to break his law—to shoot a person. It was a single shot, so not an outside attack. It meant someone in the camp had turned a weapon on a fellow saint.
Taylor Junior eyed the wooden box in the corner, plundered from the Dugway Proving Ground. Was it time to empty its contents? Time to bring the others into his confidence? The gunshot might be the sign he’d been waiting for.
But who had died? His father? Was Elder Kimball even now lying on the ground, blood burbling from his mouth while Charity Kimball bent over his body, screaming? Brother Stanley? Aaron Young? Eric Froud? It might even be a woman or child.
Taylor Junior turned to the chest in the corner. He stripped out of his dirty denim shirt and put on a white shirt, clean and smelling like baking soda and borax. Finally, he tied an apron made of black velvet around his waist. He drew back the blanket over the chest, put on leather gloves, and pulled one of the shells out.
He’d put this particular shell inside a black garbage sack, then stuck that one in another sack and then another sack and so on until he’d wrapped the shell in ten different layers. The smell of geraniums had diminished when he’d done it, and he was reasonably sure this was the one that had started to leak. The plastic wouldn’t stop it, not entirely, but he thought it would be safe for a time. He stuck the entire mass into a specially prepared backpack, which he’d lined with gauze soaked in bleach, then zipped up the pack and took off the gloves. He put on the backpack.
Still taking his time, Taylor Junior picked his way from his hiding place and made his way to the fissure in the sandstone. Another gunshot rolled through the canyon like a crack of lightning from a dry thunderstorm. He braced for a third. It didn’t come.
The camp was in an uproar when he arrived. They’d lit a bonfire. Eric Froud and Phillip Cobb—the latter still favoring his left arm from when Eliza had beaten him with a steel baton—h
eaped dead branches onto the fire. Women clutched their children or held each other. Taylor Junior’s father stood with his wife, Charity. They stared into the shadows beyond the fire.
Aaron Young was shouting. “Nobody moves until I say so. Nobody touches him. Did I say you could stop? Keep building that fire!” He waved a rifle at one of Taylor Junior’s wives. She looked momentarily defiant, then picked up another log and threw it on the fire. Flames licked six feet into the air.
As Taylor Junior’s eyes adjusted, he saw what everyone was staring at. Stanley Clawson slumped on the ground. Firelight played across his face, which contorted like the face of a damned soul trying to drag itself from a lake of fire. He clutched his shoulder, marked with a bloody hole.
Stanley was the first to spot Taylor Junior. The mask of pain dropped and triumph crossed his face. “Now you’ll see!” he cried to Aaron Young. “Now you’ll get what’s coming to you!”
Their eyes turned toward Taylor Junior, and Aaron lifted his gun. Eric Froud dropped the branch in his hand and reached for something.
“It’s just me,” Taylor Junior said in a calm voice. “I apologize for abandoning you, but I needed to consult with the Lord. Now I know what to do.” He slid out of his backpack and let it drop at his feet, then held out his hands to show he was unarmed.
Aaron narrowed his eyes and didn’t lower the gun. Taylor Junior met his gaze. I see what you’re doing. And I know why.
Eliminate the why and the what would disappear as well.
“What is that apron?” Aaron asked.
“It represents my powers and my priesthood. The time has come to anoint my counselors, and they shall get aprons, too. And then we move.”
“He shot me!” Stanley burst in.
“I gave you a warning shot,” Aaron said calmly. “It wasn’t enough.”
“He started ordering people around, and when I told him he wasn’t the prophet, he tried to kill me.”
“He didn’t try to kill you or you’d be dead,” Taylor Junior said. He looked around the circle, met the eyes of one of his wives, of his father, of his young son, then looked at Eric, Aaron, and Phillip, and many of the others of the nearly thirty people around the fire. He returned to Brother Stanley. “When the prophet leaves and the people murmur, it is up to his disciples to quiet them. Moses went to the mountain and Aaron needed to maintain order. Sometimes harsh measures are needed.”
The Blessed and the Damned (Righteous Series #4) Page 16