Destroying Angel

by Michael Wallace

  “Now, you listen to me.” His tone turned angry, and he grabbed my wrist. I looked away. “You will submit to my will. I am your husband, and I am the head of this family. And the Lord has ordained men—priesthood holders—to rule and reign. Not women. And not you.”

  “Have you finished?” I looked down at his hand on my wrist. His grip hurt, but I didn’t let it show on my face. “Or do you plan to beat me into submission?”

  Hyrum snorted and threw my hand down, then stomped toward the house. He pushed past Laura and let the door bang behind him.

  Laura hurried up to me where I still stood in the middle of the road. “You didn’t tell him. Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “Tell him what?” I looked at her and saw the fear on her face, and then I understood what terrified her. “I didn’t tell him about Maude, don’t worry.”

  “But what about Annabelle? You don’t think she’ll tell? Or Nannie—surely she knows too.”

  “Annabelle can be a coward, and Nannie is only a child.”

  “Then they will tell,” Laura said.

  “They might, I can’t say. But by the time they do, the men won’t have the power to punish you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said with a shake of her head. “We won’t do it anymore. Maude agrees too. It was a mistake. We were weak, and the men so far away. I know what you must think of us, and I hate to disappoint you. I’m so weak. So weak.”

  I took her by the shoulders. “Stop talking that way. That’s not what matters to me—you know that, right?” Maybe before, or maybe in different times, I would have judged her harshly, but how could I now? Not with my own loneliness these past years, the bitter herb that I tasted every day.

  “But what we did—”

  “That’s between you and your conscience. You know what is right, you know what was necessary to survive. I won’t judge you. And I have a little money besides—banknotes I took from van Slooten before we buried him. You have choices.”

  “You mean I could leave?” she asked.

  “You both could. You, Maude, your children. I’ll give you the money if you need it. Forty-seven dollars—more than enough.”

  That money had been my own emergency stores, but it seemed miserly to hoard it now. Hyrum would be furious if he found out what Laura had done, and I could only imagine Jedediah’s rage if he learned the same about Maude.

  “No, I won’t do it,” she said at length. Her English accent sounded especially proper and clipped. “I won’t leave you, not if you need me. You do need me, right?”

  “I do.”

  I glanced at the house. It was quiet, and I imagined Hyrum in the bedroom, on my bed, still brooding. He would try again for reconciliation, I was sure, but he was also a stubborn man, and once he made a decision about something, it would be easier to find the largest rock in Witch’s Warts and try to dig it out of the ground than to change his mind.

  A plan began to form in my mind.

  “Go find Maude,” I said. “Tell her to talk to Annabelle and Nannie.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “Tonight we’ll hold a secret council. When the men go to sleep, we’ll gather in Witch’s Warts where nobody will follow. And then we’ll decide how to handle the men.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jacob put down Grandma Cowley’s diary when he heard the distant sound of an engine. It wasn’t a truck or a Humvee but sounded like a two-stroke motorcycle engine, or maybe an ATV like the ones Krantz, Eliza, and Miriam had taken into the desert. It whined for several minutes before the engine cut out.

  Jacob picked up the two-way radio, intending to call Stephen Paul, but the other man crackled through first. Stephen Paul said, “I’m going to wring that kid’s neck.”

  “Was that Henry Johnson?” Jacob asked.

  “Got to be. He’s patrolling on the other side of the reservoir.”

  “Well, tell him to patrol on foot.”

  “I did,” Stephen Paul said. “He claimed he was moving his ATV over to where he could get a better view, but he’s done now.”

  “That was more than moving. That was a good five minutes. No more engines. I want quiet.”

  “Got it,” Stephen Paul said, and then the radio went dead.

  Moments later, as Jacob was thumbing through the diary to find his place, Stephen Paul called again. “Sorry, but that lady is on the way. One of the boys told her how to find you, and she set off before I could stop her.”

  “What lady?”

  “That woman living out on Yellow Flats. Want me to go after her?”

  “Never mind, it will be all right.”

  Even as Jacob said this, he spotted a flashlight bobbing across the road. He turned up the lantern and waved it in the air to show her where he was. The flashlight swung around to his position, shining first on him, then on his makeshift blind, and finally coming to rest on Grandma Cowley’s diary where he’d dropped it on the blankets. She turned off her light, and he caught Rebecca’s face in the glow of the lantern. She set down a heavy box that landed with a metallic clank, and then unslung a weapon from her shoulder.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “An assault rifle and ammo.”

  “You know I said no military equipment in Blister Creek.”

  “How is that decision looking now?” She sat on the blanket and propped the assault rifle next to his own .30-06.

  “We don’t need any more excuses for a government crackdown.”

  “What government?” she asked. “We’re on our own tonight.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to flout the rules. You’re a guest, remember?”

  “I bet Grandma Cowley wishes she had guns that day in Witch’s Warts, don’t you? Things might have turned out differently.”

  “What day in Witch’s Warts?”

  She thumbed the diary open to his bookmark. “Oh, you haven’t gotten there yet.”

  “Her husband just came back and she called a council of the other women.” Jacob looked at her. “Is that where you got your idea?”

  “For my first presidency of women? Yes, in part. Or you could say she got the idea from me. Same thing.”

  “It’s exhausting trying to decipher your words,” Jacob said. “I’m not like my father, you know. Or Hyrum Cowley. I’m willing to listen, to consider all sorts of possibilities.”

  “I thought you liked verbal sparring. Am I wrong about that?” She smiled. “What do you think this is about? Do you even know?”

  “I know part of it. I see what you’re trying to do. You want me to sympathize with Grandma Cowley so that I’ll give you some sort of female council to balance the patriarchal power in Blister Creek. Am I right?”

  “In part. Is that so bad, Jacob? Don’t you see a need?”

  “A need for you to take over? No, not really.”

  “I don’t want to be your enemy,” she said. “That was Rebecca Cowley’s mistake. Too aggressive—she should have tried an indirect route first. And the lesbian thing between Maude and Laura didn’t help her cause.” She shrugged. “But yes, that’s what I’m trying to do. There’s no hiding it, not now.”

  “Fine, so I see what, but I don’t see why. Why you?”

  “You mean why me as the prophetess, and not Eliza or Miriam? Or Fernie?”

  “That too, of course. But why do you want it in the first place?”

  “Because I’ve been given a chance to correct a mistake.”

  “You’re trying to atone for Grandma Cowley? That’s why you’ve taken her name?”

  “I’m not atoning for Grandma Cowley. In the first place, it wasn’t her fault. She was too young to understand the depth of human behavior. She got most of it right—she was a bright young woman. But she didn’t know the lengths men would go to in order to cling to power. And she didn’t recognize the weakness of all humans, men and women alike.”

  “So you were simply caught up in the story, is that it? You left Blister Creek as a child, maybe w
ith your parents or when your father was excommunicated, and then you came back as an adult, remembering the injustices. Somehow you got Grandma Cowley’s diaries and started telling yourself stories. What Blister Creek really needs, you told yourself, is a matriarch.”

  “That would be fitting if it were true. Not too different from what you did when you came back after medical school. You were the chosen one, anointed to lead, and you laughed it off. You wanted to be a doctor, and you didn’t want anything to do with the narrow world of your childhood. Or so you told yourself. But then they started calling you a prophet, and now look at you. Here you are, calling the shots.”

  “Is that how you see it?” Jacob found himself bristling. “What should I do? Walk away?”

  “Of course not. But nothing happens without a purpose.” She thumbed through the diary. “I’m not trying to right the injustices suffered by Rebecca Cowley. Or correct her mistakes, for that matter.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m here to correct my own mistakes, Jacob.” She looked up, and her eyes reflected the lamplight. “Rebecca Cowley is me. I did all this. Me. I almost got it right the first time around. I’ll do better this time.”

  He stared at her, blinking, unable to digest what she was claiming. She held his gaze. At last he said, “So you’re my great-great-grandmother, is that it?”

  “I am.”

  “You are Henrietta Rebecca Cowley, born in 1872 on the plains of Wyoming. Died at the age of ninety-seven in 1969, and buried in Blister Creek. That is you.”

  “The same. And that is not all.”

  “It’s not? By all means, tell me everything.”

  “I am the One Mighty and Strong.”

  Jacob grew wary. The story, already ludicrous, had taken a dangerous turn.

  “You don’t believe me,” she said.

  “Of course not. But whether I believe you or not isn’t the problem. It doesn’t take much in Blister Creek for people to line up behind self-proclaimed prophets. Even a woman. Maybe especially a woman, the way things have gone around here.”

  “I already told you I was a prophetess, when you visited me at Yellow Flats. You weren’t alarmed then. More like amused.”

  “Yes, but now you have an angle. The founder of Blister Creek, returned after all this time. And the other claimants are weak, like me. Or evil, like Taylor Junior. There are plenty of strong, cynical women around—maybe you’ll convince a few of them.”

  “You can walk away from Blister Creek at any time,” she said. “You’ve said more than once that you’ll leave as soon as someone better comes along.” A smile played at her lips. “Now is your chance. Take your family and move back to civilization. They’ll still need doctors after the crash.”

  “And that’s what you want? You want me to abandon Blister Creek?”

  “No, I don’t want you to leave. I want your blessing, that’s all.”

  “I can’t give you my blessing,” Jacob said. “I don’t believe you, for a start.”

  “Your father did.”

  “He did? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why do you think he helped me track down Taylor Junior?” Rebecca asked.

  “I have no idea. But he didn’t seem to like you much.”

  “Abraham Christianson didn’t like to share power, not even with his favorite granny.”

  Jacob grew exasperated. “Come on, really? You’re Rebecca Cowley reincarnated?”

  “Not reincarnated,” she said. “Multiple mortal probations. There is a difference. After I lost the struggle with my husband, I withdrew into a shell. I let injustices pass. I grew old and died. The Lord has given me a second chance to make my calling and election sure. Give me your support, Jacob. Be a better man than Hyrum, Joseph, Abraham, and the rest of the men who have led Blister Creek.”

  “I don’t know you,” Jacob said. “And I don’t know what you want, except for power. A lot of people want power. Just because you’re a woman and you claim to speak for your fellow women, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to you.”

  “Then I’ll take it for myself.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “You are not your father. You are not your father’s uncle Heber. You are not Hyrum Cowley or Jedediah Kimball. In short, you’re not ruthless enough to stop me.”

  “I don’t have to be ruthless. I have other tools.”

  “Oh, so you’ll lift your right arm to the square and condemn me? Lie about the spirit, like you always do, while inside you are consumed with doubt? That might work against the weak-willed and the corrupt. It won’t stop me. I know what you are and what you are not.”

  “It won’t come to that. You have no followers, and once I talk to Eliza, Miriam, Fernie—tell them what I think—you won’t find any. I may even take your advice about a women’s quorum but leave you out of it, at least until you publicly denounce this ridiculous prophetess business. And if you can’t convince the women to follow you, how do you think you’ll manage with men like Stephen Paul Young or Garrett Johnson? They’ll eat you alive. Next thing you know, you’ll be some octogenarian’s eleventh wife. Is that what you want?”

  “Are you threatening me?” Rebecca glared at him. Shadows cast by the lantern danced across her face, making her look dark and brooding. And then, unexpectedly, she let out her breath and the hostility drained from her features. She clutched Grandma Cowley’s diary to her breast, and then slowly, as if it cost her effort, she handed it back.

  “I’ll keep reading,” he said, tucking the diary into his jacket pocket, “but I don’t care what Grandma Cowley thought or what she says. It doesn’t make her—or you—a prophetess.”

  “You say that now, but there’s one key piece you’re still missing.”

  “How it all plays out with the men?”

  “No. You’ve guessed at that already. It ends badly. It’s about the evil spirit. You need to know more if you hope to defeat it.”

  “Come on, Rebecca. I told you already. You can’t tell me these outrageous stories and expect me to accept them with no evidence.”

  “No, I suppose I can’t.” She sighed. “I come on too strong. I always have, even before. You read the diary. You see how I was, how I couldn’t keep my mouth shut even when I knew it was the wrong time to speak out. That’s why your father and I butted heads too. We were too much alike. Too proud, too certain of our own position. But I am sorry. You’re a good man at heart, the best man to ever lead Blister Creek.”

  “I’ll accept that compliment,” Jacob said, “but only because I follow a long line of tyrants and dictators. It’s not hard to be better than that. Truce?” He held out his hand, and she took it. He chose his words carefully. “I was wrong too. I shouldn’t have said that about being some old guy’s eleventh wife. I’d never do that to you. Third wife, no worse.”

  Rebecca laughed.

  “In all seriousness, so long as I’m in charge, no woman will ever get married against her will, whether she’s the first wife or the fiftieth.”

  “Thank you for that. Not that you could have forced me, but I’m glad to hear you say it. So we’re not enemies?”

  “Not enemies,” he said. “What now?”

  “Don’t close your mind. Can you give me that?”

  “Doubt is my default position. So if you want me to believe the Lord has chosen you as a prophetess, make your case. It won’t be easy. And act in good faith. No sneaking around, undermining this community. We can’t afford it. Our position is too precarious.”

  “Fair enough.” She nodded. “Okay, in good faith, here’s something you can use to fight Taylor Junior.”

  He leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

  “There’s another way into Blister Creek. You’ve left it unguarded.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember my employee you saw that day in Dark Canyon?”

  “The guy with the tank top and the muscles, yeah. Who was he, anyway?”

>   “A hired gun from Las Vegas, same man who worked for me when your father and I were trying to lure Taylor Junior out to Caleb Kimball’s cult. Abraham and I had been working together for years, but your father was a suspicious man. He wouldn’t give me any resources. Oh, he was happy enough to use me for his dirty work, like when we scared off Senator McKay when the attorney general’s office was harassing you at the hospital.”

  “That was you who threatened the senator with a gun?” Jacob said. “My father never said that. What the devil were you—no, never mind. We don’t have time. Go on, I need to hear about this secret way into the valley.”

  “It’s a mile, mile and a half east of here. Hundreds or maybe thousands of years ago, part of the escarpment broke loose and collapsed into the valley. It left a steep but passable way for someone to get down on foot.”

  “And nobody else has discovered this thing in more than a century? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Nobody was looking,” she said. “And it’s not easy to find, in any event. About a year ago, my guy was tracking Aaron Young when suddenly Aaron disappeared. If it had been Taylor Junior, we probably wouldn’t have seen the spot at all, but not all of his followers were so careful. Even knowing where it was, it’s not immediately obvious from above that you can get down to the valley that way.”

  “Then how did Taylor Junior find it?”

  “He’s a cunning SOB, and he’s got an eye for uncovering secrets. He found the Anasazi ruins in Dark Canyon, didn’t he? Nobody else had ever seen them. And then he stole a crate of chemical munitions from Dugway Proving Ground. Lost for decades, but he found it. Where is he now? Hiding somewhere with twenty or thirty other people, and nobody can find them.”

  “Krantz, Eliza, and Miriam found their hideout. It’s an abandoned missile base. A secret Cold War thing that didn’t appear on the regular maps.”