Mighty and Strong (The Righteous)

by Michael Wallace

  “That's what I told you.” Jacob rose to his knees. “We're trashing all sorts of evidence.”

  “You don't think I know that? Sheesh. Come on, let's get this over with. Any luck, we'll find an innocent explanation.”

  “And maybe the Angel Moroni will cook me waffles for breakfast.”

  “You're so sacrilegious.”

  “I'm sacrilegious, you're sanctimonious. So what?”

  Miriam pulled back the girl's hair and he felt a flash of recognition. “Oh, no. Not that.”

  “What is it? You know her?”

  Yes, he knew her. Just a girl, just a child. Denied a normal childhood, with normal experiences, friends. The trivial concerns of a teenager: clothes, escapist novels, homework, hanging out at the mall, meeting a boy at the movies, passing notes. Instead, dragged to a polygamist compound in the desert, brain-washed into thinking she should get married at fifteen, to a man twice her age and already married.

  “It's Emma Green.”

  “I know Emma. Just a child.” She turned to face him. “You know her, too?”

  He rubbed his temples, sat back on his heels. “Yes, sadly. She came into the hospital last week with a false pregnancy and got it in her head that I was supposed to be her husband.”

  “Did you give her any ideas?”

  Jacob fixed her with a hard stare. “Of course not. What kind of a man do you think I am?”

  “Then why—”

  “Who knows. Maybe it was the authority thing, maybe she was looking for an escape from a crappy family life. She was letting hormones get the better of her, combined with an excess of imagination. A teenager, in other words.

  “I told her no several times,” he continued, “but she kept pushing, so I put her off with something about waiting a couple of years.”

  “What about this false pregnancy?” Miriam asked. “Who was the supposed father? Could he have found out and got jealous?”

  “Slow down,” Jacob said. “Let's find out how she died, first.”

  He turned back to the body. He probed her scalp and back of the skull. No obvious head wound. He unbuttoned her dress and pulled it around her shoulders. He meant to check for chest wounds or broken ribs, but stopped when he saw the bruising around her throat. He probed gingerly with his fingers.

  Miriam looked over his shoulder. “Strangled?”

  “Damage to the larynx, hyoid bone and thyroid cartilege. I'd need to drain the great vessels of the thorax and dissect to be sure, but look at this.” He pried open her mouth, to show the swollen tongue. “Congestion of the tongue. Yes, strangulation. No doubt.”

  “Ligature or manual?”

  “Manual. There's no mark of a cord or chain, and we'd see more gross congestion in the face.” He rolled Emma onto her side. “Look at these marks here, on the throat.”

  “Like round disks. What causes that?”

  “Finger tip pressure. Matching marks on both sides. Whoever did it grabbed her once and held on until it was done. If he'd let go or changed his grip in any way, these bruises would be flattened over a wider area.”

  “This girl was small,” Miriam said, “but whoever did this must have been strong.”

  “Yes, and fortified by the Holy Ghost.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked sharply.

  “It means murders within the church are couched in religious terms. You catch your wife with another man—never mind she's your oldest, ugliest wife and you've neglected her for years—you catch her cheating, and you're filled with righteous anger. The Lord wants you to purge the sinner.”

  “But it's not the actual Holy Ghost. That's Satan's work.”

  “Whoever did this was plenty evil on his own without bringing the devil into it. I think we can also rule out the supposed father of Emma's baby.”

  “Why?”

  “First, she never actually had sex with him or anyone, for that matter. She was somewhat unclear about how a baby is conceived. Something about sleeping too close to sheets soiled with seminal fluid.”

  “Oh, brother. And this girl thought she was ready to get married?”

  “Exactly.”

  He filled in the details. He'd rather not have exposed Ammon's masturbation issue. None of Miriam's business, but he felt it important to reveal the depth of Emma's naivete. Miriam shrugged at the bit about the underwear catalog.

  “Oh, I see. Yeah, I've met Ammon Green. Awkward, skinny, pimple-faced kid. No way he grabbed Emma once and choked her to death without letting go.”

  “I don't think so either. No, it was a bigger man, a strong guy. Any ideas? Anyone with a motive you can think of?”

  Miriam turned to him and all the certainty and sanctimony had been swept away, replaced by uncertainty and anguish. “Can I ask you something, Jacob?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was so happy here. I finally belonged. Everybody pulling in one direction and me a part of it. How many people have that in their lives? Not to mention that I'm married to the prophet. If you could see what I see—well, Timothy says you will, soon—then you'd know what a privilege that is. Only now all I can think about is how terrible this is for me. But I should be thinking about this poor girl, and her family. Do you think I'm, you know. . .?”

  “You want to know, does that make you a bad person?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, Miriam, it makes you human.”

  “Then what do I need to do?”

  “You may not consider yourself FBI anymore, but I bet there's something you can take from who you used to be. Something about seeking justice, right?”

  She was quiet for a long time. At last she nodded. “We need a real autopsy, and forensics. They can tell us all sorts of things.” Miriam turned with a glum expression. “This is going to ruin everything.”

  It was tough having your illusions destroyed. He shouldn't have been so hard on her. Whatever she'd been looking for in Zarahemla, Miriam had been willing to junk everything to get it.

  “There's a rotten apple in the bucket,” he said, “but that doesn't mean they're all rotten.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe you're taking things too far. Remember what you said about Satan? I don't know if this is Satan, but it might help to think of this as an opportunity to track down someone who doesn't belong.”

  “The FBI is going to come down hard,” she said. “Krantz and Fayer will lean on me, try to divide me from the others, even if it means making me look like a plant.”

  “That won't be hard, since you were a plant.”

  “But I'm not now, and it won't even matter. They'll never trust me again.”

  “Why do you think the Lord led you here, Miriam?”

  “Because this is His chosen church. The gathering before the Millennium.”

  “But He hasn't even gathered most Mormons yet, so why call a gentile like you?”

  “Jesus spoke to the Samaritan woman. Why couldn't he speak to me, too?”

  “But Jesus came to the Jews, first. Isn't the One Mighty and Strong supposed to gather Mormons? Why you, why a gentile?”

  “I don't know, I just know that when I prayed—”

  “Yes, of course, you prayed and you knew, but that doesn't answer why you. There are 300 million gentiles in this country, but he chose FBI Agent Haley Kite. Why?”

  “It's not important.”

  “Of course it is,” Jacob said. “The Lord doesn't randomly choose people. Think about Moses, or Joseph Smith. Or Brigham Young, who came along at just the right time to lead the Saints into the wilderness. Or Brother Timothy, for that matter. There's always a reason.”

  “Well, in that case, I don't know.”

  “I do. Miriam, look at this girl. Her blood is crying up from the grave. Why else would the Lord bring an FBI agent to this spot, right now? To find Emma Green's killer, bring him to justice, so that he cannot stand in the way of the Lord's work.”

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

  “I don't know, but w
hat other explanation is there? Either there's no point to anything or these things happen for a reason. If you come up with a better reason why you found Emma's body, let's hear it.”

  She was quiet for a long time. “Okay, Jacob, you might be right. Or almost right, anyway.”

  “Almost is closer than I usually get, but what am I missing?”

  “You,” Miriam said. “You're missing you. You're here too, and that can't be coincidence either. Only you could have told me Emma was murdered, and only you could convince me I need to take this to the FBI.”

  “Who knows?”

  “You know. Look in your heart, you'll see.”

  “I'm willing to consider it. In the meanwhile, we need to figure out how to get out of here.”

  “Just start walking,” Miriam said. “We're already outside the compound. We'll go up that gulch, come around the hill over there. There's a ranch road over there and we can go down it until we get to the house, use their phone. There is a creek for water about a mile from here. Come on, help me cover the body, protect it from weather and animals. Five minutes and we're out of here.”

  “One problem,” Jacob said. “My wife and children are back there, I can't leave them.”

  “They'll be safe until you come back.”

  “Will they? When the murderer comes back tonight to do a better job hiding the body? Sees someone messed with the grave, and then hears we're missing? You think Fernie and the kids will be safe?” He shook his head. “Not to mention the possibility of an armed show down with the Feds. No, I'm not leaving my family.”

  “Well then, guess I'd better come back with you.” She sighed, but there was an almost eager look on her face.

  “No, you go. Get help.”

  “But you're right. We have to get your family out. And I can help you.”

  “You don't want to leave, do you? In spite of everything.”

  “Don't worry, the prophet trusts me,” Miriam said. It wasn't the answer to his question. “I can come and go without trouble. We'll get your family out, I promise.”

  #

  “Storming the compound is the easy part,” Agent Krantz said. “Avoiding deaths, not so easy.”

  “We'll hit 'em hard and fast,” Dave Marquis said. He sat on the front row of the briefing room. The other dozen members of the FBI tactical team leaned forward on their chairs or thumbed through handouts. “Stun grenades, rubber bullets, tear gas. Come in at night, bag the leaders, find our girls, get them out.”

  “First of all, there's no bagging of anyone,” Krantz said. “We've got modest goals.”

  Krantz had hung a blown-up aerial photo of the Zarahemla compound on the briefing room wall. He used his laser pointer and touched the southeast corner. “Break in here, fan out here and here, and find Kite and Fayer, then the informant and his family. Then get the hell out. With any luck, the cult will sleep right through it.”

  “But no arrests?” Marquis asked.

  “No arrests.”

  Skeptical looks at that. The briefing packet held photos of the compound, diagrams, sleeping quarters marked, and estimates about weapons, family distribution, plus a list of possible obstacles. He'd given them twenty minutes to perform a cursory study before starting the briefing.

  “Once we get Kite and Fayer out, debrief them and the informant,” Krantz continued, “we can make decisions about formal charges. We'll be in a better position to seal the compound without worrying about hostages.”

  “They're civilians,” Marquis said. He leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “Seems like it would be easy to secure the compound, round everyone into that central courtyard, and arrest the ringleaders. Otherwise, we'll get our people and the cult leaders will flee the state, like that FLDS guy did. What's his name?”

  “Warren Jeffs, but that was a different group, different mindset.”

  Civilians. It was easy to dismiss them. But Krantz was determined not to underestimate Fear-Not. He'd already made that mistake.

  He'd started with the assumption that Fear-Not and the prophet, Brother Timothy, were one and the same man. The self-styled “One Mighty and Strong,” who would bring about the end of the world and the rule of the Lord and his church. But now he wasn't so sure.

  After talking to Eliza Christianson, Krantz had booted his laptop and dug around online. Didn't take long to find what he was looking for. Fear-Not was a name from early Mormon history. During the time when the Mormons were persecuted in Missouri and Illinois, before fleeing the United States for Mexican-owned territory in Utah, some members formed a shadowy organization to battle apostates and other persecutors of the church.

  They had called themselves Danites, led by a man known as Captain Fear-Not, who had claimed fifty men as his destroying angels. He'd led his Danites into a battle with anti-Mormon forces in Missouri and driven off his enemies. But perhaps most tellingly, he had also taken a mortal gunshot wound in the battle.

  Krantz's opponent had taken his nom de guerre from a man who'd died fighting for his faith. Krantz was determined not to let Fear-Not follow his namesake's path to martyrdom.

  “May I ask a question?” came a voice from the back of the room.

  It was Agent Gunther Chambers, who had been watching from the rear, rolling a pencil between his thumb and forefinger, but making no comment. Krantz was acting as SWAT Commander for the operation, but Chambers was the team leader. He'd done good work at Temple Square and Krantz was glad to have him.

  “Go ahead,” Krantz said with a nod.

  “Did I hear you right that you're coming along for the ride?”

  “It's a tricky situation. Multiple hostages, innocent civilians, armed, hostile elements. I want to be on the ground as the situation develops.”

  “And you're all trained up?”

  Krantz nodded. “Absolutely. More than that, I have twenty fast-rope drops in actual combat situations.” He rolled up his left sleeve and showed the white scar across his massive forearm. “Fallujah. The black hawk got hit with two rpgs. Still managed to make the drop. Team suffered one rolled ankle, no other casualties.”

  A few appreciative nods, but some cynical looks from the older guys, who were probably veterans of Iraq or Afghanistan themselves. One didn't usually brag up war-time exploits—and you wouldn't hear Krantz mention his bronze star except with guys from his actual Ranger platoon—but he needed to establish cred.

  “We're splitting into two teams once we hit the ground. You'll take one, I'll lead the other.”

  “But normally,” Chambers said, “you'd command from the rear. I'd take one team, Marquis the other.”

  Marquis sat on the other side of the room, his eyes half-closed, chewing a big wad of gum. He tapped his pencil eraser on the table.

  “And he'd do a damn fine job, I'm sure. But that's not the plan for tonight.”

  Young guy like Marquis, fresh out of school. Supremely confident, like they all were at that age. Until you lost a partner, or killed some kid with a stray bullet. But seriously, didn't they still teach these guys about Waco? Four BATF agents and six Branch Davidians killed in the initial raid. And then, during the disastrous FBI siege that followed, seventy-six dead Branch Davidians, including many young children.

  Endless hearings later and details remained murky. Had the FBI started the fire, or the Branch Davidians? Did overzealous FBI agents shoot survivors trying to flee the fire?

  “See that big manila envelope?” he asked. “The one with WACO written on the front in big letters?” They shuffled through their papers, found the envelope one by one. “That's required reading for this afternoon. I'm going to ask questions about the highlighted text, especially the part about the downed agents and the dead children. Anyone who can't answer the questions gets to monitor from the perimeter camp.”

  The camp would be a set of converted vans driven quietly up the ranch road to the side of the compound. Krantz would have eight more agents, decked out in full gear. If, heaven forbid, things turned ugly, he didn
't want to be lacking firepower.

  “The other critical piece is the rules of engagement. See that? Good, now commit it to memory. You have until this afternoon.”

  He dismissed them and shut down the laptop and projector. Chambers waited until the others were gone, then came up front as Krantz stripped photos and diagrams from the wall.

  “So you've lost two agents,” Chambers said. He was a tall guy, close enough to Krantz's height to look him in the eye.

  “Don't give me that shit,” Krantz said. “I've taken too much already and I don't need it from you.”

  “Okay, then, so we've lost two agents. And an FBI informant, plus his wife and kids, apparently. That's a lot to deal with.”

  “What are you getting at Chambers?”

  “Just this. I'm thinking about this file—” and here he held up the manila with the Waco stuff, “—and I'm wondering if we're looking at the wrong side of the ATF's monumental screw up.”

  “How's that?”

  “Well, it sucks all those people died, and that got a lot of press. Heads rolled, as they should have. Attorney General should have been canned, you want my opinion.” Chambers nodded. “But you're looking at the siege and the massacre. Don't forget the whole thing started with a botched raid that led to four dead ATF agents. And that's my biggest worry. Making sure each and every one of my men come back alive.”

  “Absolutely,” Krantz said.

  “So why try all these different things at once? Our hostages are spread all over the place. All we need is one thing to go wrong in one of those locations and we're in trouble. And there's another thing. We don't know for sure that either your informant or Agent Kite want out. If they did, couldn't they just walk away?”

  “Not necessarily. Any one of a number of things could have happened.”

  “True, but we don't know that. And let's say they're still under cover. We don't need to get them out. Not yet.”

  They were all good points, and had been niggling at Krantz all morning. He was operating on little sleep and missed having Fayer to bounce ideas off of. Chambers may be second guessing him, but he'd held off his toughest criticism until after the other men left. It made it easier to accept.