He explained what Trost was asking. And what he was offering.
“He’s going to pay you ninety pounds of silver coins?” she said when he finished. “What’s silver going for, a hundred dollars an ounce?”
“Something like that, and it’s only going up. More importantly, it’s real currency, in case paper money collapses. If we can get his daughter back here, set her up in a house, it’s ours.”
“Why not Salt Lake or Cedar City?”
“Trost thinks it’s safer in Blister Creek.”
“Why do we need to get her? He’s a police officer—why not hitch a ride to Las Vegas, dump the silver in some duffel bags, and then ride north on the next refugee bus?”
“She runs—ran, I mean—a pawnshop in the city. Guns, coins, all sorts of old and interesting stuff. The shop was almost like a Wild West museum, Trost says. She could sell it, but…”
“But it’s stuff we could use,” Fernie completed.
“Exactly. Maybe there’s nowhere else to get it, in fact.”
“A pawn shop,” she said with a frown. “The kind of business that trades in misery.”
“She’s holed up in a storage unit, terrified, needing someone to get her out.”
Fernie studied Jacob’s face. “We’ve welcomed bigger sinners to the valley than that,” she said at last. “Assuming she flies straight when she gets here, I can work on the Women’s Council to get their support.”
“Good, thank you.”
“But Eliza could have told me all this,” Fernie said. “There’s some other reason you hauled me out here when I should be working, and it’s not to enjoy the weather.”
He stroked her arm along the outside of her prairie dress. “You don’t think it’s romantic here with the sound of the creek?” He plucked fluffy white seeds from her hair, cast into the wind by the desert broom growing in clumps around them. “And the air full of allergens?”
“It might be, if I weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
He sighed.
“Miriam is a good choice,” she said. “Steve, too. They’re former FBI—they’ll know how to navigate the road. Who else can go? David, to keep Miriam settled. Stephen Paul.”
“Not Stephen Paul. He’s leaving on a cattle drive. The other three, yes. Plus one.”
“Plus one. Of course. Jacob, if you want to run from Blister Creek, there are easier ways to do it. I won’t like it, but if you have to leave, we’ll go. We’ll take the family and find a place to ride this out. Maybe Alberta, on your dad’s old ranch.”
He was surprised to hear her say it. “You’d do that?”
“If it’s the Lord’s will. We’d pray about it first, of course. And we’d keep praying while we were gone.”
“Ah. You think the Lord would call me back here. Like Jonah swallowed by the whale.”
Fernie smiled. “Whales are pretty scarce in Alberta. I was thinking a burning bush. No, I don’t think God would let you walk away. Not now, not with the end so near.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “because I wouldn’t risk taking the kids out of here anyway. Remember last week when I went to Panguitch? David and I drove up the highway and faced down those ranchers threatening us with rifles. A National Guard patrol stopped us and put us facedown on the pavement for fifteen minutes. On the way back, I broke an axle going through that spot where the road washed out. Thank goodness we were almost to the reservoir when it happened.”
“You’re not selling this trip very well,” she said.
“I did all that to get medical supplies. And I came back with nothing. Not even Risperidone for our son.”
“There’s a better solution to Daniel’s problem.”
“Another priesthood blessing?”
“Yes,” she said, insistently. “With more faith this time.”
“I gave it everything I could manage,” Jacob said. “Which wasn’t much. You’ll never convince me that the way to treat bipolar behavior is prayer, priesthood blessings, and wishful thinking. Give me psychotropics any day.”
“Oh, Jacob,” Fernie sighed.
Jacob flinched at the disappointment in those two simple words. “It’s not just our son we’re talking about. Everything is running out—diuretics, statins, antibiotics, ACE inhibitors, thyroid hormones. And not only medication, but everything I need. David and I spent an hour in the blasted hospital dumpster digging through medical waste to find something—anything that might be useful. People are going to die.
“There’s a working hospital in Las Vegas,” he continued, “and at least two medical supply companies are still operating with stock out of Los Angeles. And several working pharmacies.”
“So give David a list. Write out prescriptions or whatever he’ll need.”
“Filling prescriptions is not like walking into a candy store and scooping out Jelly Bellies and gummy bears. And besides, I have no idea what is or is not available until I look.”
“There is no other way?” she asked, voice anguished.
There is no other way.
Jacob didn’t speak this aloud but stared across the stream, to the dry, brush-strewn plain on the other side. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the valley floor. The Ghost Cliffs stood silent sentinel a few hundred yards to the north, a looming presence. The red spires and fins of the labyrinthine Witch’s Warts thrust south from the cliffs beyond the highway and toward the heart of the valley.
“This is what it means, isn’t it?” Fernie said at last. “I understand now.”
What what means? To be a doctor? Leader of the church? Married to Jacob?
Whatever she meant, he didn’t think he’d like the answer. So he let it drop.
Later that afternoon, Jacob entered the temple and changed into his temple clothing: a white cap, a white robe tied over the right shoulder, and a green apron. He made his way into the heart of the temple, to the Holy of Holies. The other men of the quorum were waiting, dressed in their own robes and aprons. They rose when he entered.
The Holy of Holies was a windowless room with a high ceiling, built as it was beneath the temple spire. Overhead hung a brass chandelier, and a cedar chest sat in the center of the room, with winged cherubim on either end and symbols carved into its sides: a moon with a face, an all-seeing eye, a compass and square. The chest purportedly held ancient relics: the sword and breastplate of Laban, and the Urim and Thummim, used by Joseph Smith to translate the Book of Mormon. The chest was not to be opened until Jesus returned to the earth.
The men formed a prayer circle that Jacob led with some reluctance, and then the men took their seats on the wooden bench that ringed the room.
“I want them out,” Elder Raymond Smoot said.
“Brother?” Jacob said. He had taken a seat between his brother David and his first counselor, Stephen Paul Young, and was surprised to see Smoot still standing.
“You know who I’m talking about.”
Smoot leaned against his cane, a black mahogany stick with a brass beehive for a handle, shiny and polished where his hand rested. Outside the temple, he bragged he could spend fifteen hours plowing and play the fiddle and dance with his wives until midnight. Boasted about his thick beard and mustache, rich brown without a hint of gray. But once he got in the temple, he leaned against the stick that had belonged to his father and grandfather, and sighed as if carrying the weight of generations on his shoulders. He was only fifty-four.
Jacob kept his tone free of the sarcasm that otherwise would have risen gleefully to the surface. “Rather than make me guess, how about you speak clearly?”
Smoot released a long, drawn-out sigh, and Jacob braced himself for a full heap of nonsense.
“I’m not talking about the FBI agent—this Krantz fellow—though heaven knows I’m not pleased that he’s still kicking around. And with a law badge, too.”
Stephen Paul Young spoke up to Jacob’s right. “Krantz has pulled our chestnuts out of the fire more than once. He’s marrying one of the Saints.
Better inside than out, I say.”
“Very well,” Smoot said. “I suppose it’s Brother Jacob’s right. Never mind all the eligible men deserving another wife, if he says his sister should go to a gentile—”
“Former gentile,” Stephen Paul said.
“However you call it. If the prophet says so, I’ll agree.”
“Leave Eliza out of this,” Jacob said. “What’s your problem? The girls at Yellow Flats?”
“That’s right. Not one of them was raised in the Principal. Some aren’t even Mormon at all. My wife Oneita came back yesterday from pickling and said some of them were wearing short pants. Like boys. Immodest.”
“If you think that’s immodest,” David said, “you should get out more.”
Scowls spread among the older men in the room.
“Yes, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Smoot said. “Why don’t you tell us about all the depraved things you saw and did when you lived in Las Vegas?”
Jacob put a hand on David’s arm before his brother could say anything more. Enough people already balked at accepting a former Lost Boy back into the community without feeling like it was shoved in their faces.
“I understand the concern,” Jacob said, “but we can’t enforce a dress code on our neighbors.”
“The moment they step into our valley, they’re not neighbors. They’re guests. Goodness knows, our own women are uppity enough without more provocation. And my sons are getting carnal thoughts.”
This time Jacob was the one to sigh. “Elder Smoot, is this the battle you want to fight? Really, with federal officers bunkered in our chapel, holding our food supplies hostage, you want to stand guard with a ruler and measure how much skin is showing on every leg trying to enter the valley?”
Smoot didn’t answer. His mouth pinched shut with his mustache slumping down to conceal his lips. His thick brows pulled together. Garrison Johnson pulled on the man’s sleeve and he took a reluctant seat.
Jacob let them sit for an extra beat, to allow Smoot’s ridiculous obsession with female skin contrast with their very real problems.
“I have critical business to discuss,” he said at last.
He took a deep breath. Start with something big. Soften them up for the real fight at the end, the one that would really get them steamed.
“Go ahead, brother,” Elder Griggs said.
“I want to reduce the herds by half.”
Smoot banged the tip of his cane. “What?” He gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Oh, I see. This is your revenge. Fine, then forget I said anything about the gentile girls. Let them traipse around in their altogether for all I care.”
“Keep it civil,” Stephen Paul growled.
“This is not directed to you,” Jacob told Smoot. “My herd is just as big as yours.”
“Your father’s herd, you mean. That he spent decades building.”
“It doesn’t matter if he spent two lifetimes, they’ve got to go. We’re selling half the cattle in the valley and we’re turning over the grazing land to the draft animals we’ll buy with the proceeds.”
“And what about that Ag guy?” Smoot said.
“I cleared it with Chip Malloy. All we have to do is get the cattle to Green River and he’ll call in an authorization to liquidate farm assets.”
“It’s a good time to sell,” Stephen Paul said. “Beef is up another twenty percent.”
“So wait until spring,” Smoot said. “The price will be even higher.”
“Maybe,” Jacob said, “but you can be darn sure horses will be too, once people realize they’re not getting tractor fuel.”
“I call for a sustaining vote,” Elder Johnson said.
Garrison Johnson was in his mid-seventies and looking frail these days. That branch of the Johnsons had once been a dominant force in Blister Creek, behind only the Christiansons and the Kimballs, and at one time three Johnson brothers had served on the quorum simultaneously. With the death of the two older brothers—one of whom Jacob’s father had tried to foist onto Eliza when she was only seventeen—the Johnson family had lost much of its influence. But as Elder Smoot’s father-in-law, Garrison Johnson still had a good deal of influence within the quorum.
Before Jacob could object, Smoot said, “Now hold on, I want to make my case.”
“You made your case,” Johnson said. “You don’t want to sell your cattle. That’s what it comes down to.”
Jacob realized with some surprise that the older man was on his side, and not the side of his cousin and son-in-law, Elder Smoot. And why? Because Jacob was forceful and Johnson respected the office and a man strong enough to wield it. That was the bind. They would follow a patriarch and prophet. A man who claimed the authority and power of God. Jacob was none of these things, and he hated the pretense.
Jacob stood. “All in favor of selling half the herd, say ‘aye.’ ”
Seven ayes, including Jacob and his two counselors, David and Stephen Paul.
“And nays?”
Elder Smoot and Elder Potts voted to the negative. The others abstained.
Jacob outlined his plan for a cattle drive to Green River, a trip that would take several days. Stephen Paul Young would lead the drive, together with Anderson, Griggs, Phipps, Coombs, and Pratt.
“And they’re leaving when?” Smoot asked. “Tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“So it was all arranged ahead of time. You’ve lined up federal permission, arranged buyers, figured out the logistics of the cattle drive—the vote was to rubber stamp the decision you’d already made.”
“Elder Smoot,” Stephen Paul said. “Have or have you not sustained Brother Jacob as your prophet, seer, and revelator?”
“Are you questioning my loyalty?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Let me tell you something,” Smoot said, his voice strained.
But Jacob cut him off. “Brethren, that’s enough.”
Both men fell silent.
Time to toss out the second grenade? No, Jacob should cover the minor business first.
He shared his other plans. These boys would be training with David to learn electrical work, and these wives and daughters leather work. One old man would teach two others the nearly lost art of blacksmithing, and this other man’s daughter would get training from Jacob in basic medical care. He told them about the hydro turbine for the reservoir and got updates about the installation of solar panels. He asked for volunteers to haul out two hundred more cords of wood from church land in the Ghost Cliffs, so that if propane shipments halted, they wouldn’t freeze to death this winter.
Finally, he stood. “One more thing. I’m leaving Blister Creek tomorrow and delegating authority while I’m gone.”
“Where are you going?” Elder Smoot asked.
“Las Vegas.”
He let the words sit in the air. Babylon. The belly of the beast. Most church members feared and hated the place from pure instinct, but lately it held new meaning besides sin and degradation. It represented a descent into anarchy.
“I’ve been asked for help,” Jacob said. “Not by one of the Saints, but by a friend of the church. And if I succeed, there are huge rewards for Blister Creek. It might even mean the difference between life and death.
“I’m not going alone, though,” he continued. “My brother knows the city. Sister Miriam and Steve Krantz are former FBI agents and I want their help in case things get ugly.”
Elder Smoot tapped his cane against the floor. “So you, David, Sister Miriam, and the gentile.”
“Krantz isn’t a gentile anymore, but yes. The four of us.”
Smoot had a calculating look. “So if Stephen Paul leads the cattle drive, that leaves me in charge of Blister Creek until you return.”
“You’ll be in charge of the men. But half the quorum will be gone, and the rest of you will be busy hauling wood.” Jacob hesitated then let it fall. “The women will make the decisions on behalf of Blister Creek until I’m ba
ck.”
Smoot rose to his feet. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Not a joke. Sister Eliza will be in charge, in consultation with the Women’s Council.”
“A council of women? And your sister. Twenty-four years old is she? Unmarried, no children.”
He moved into Jacob’s space, twisting his cane between his hands. Jacob didn’t back down. For a moment he thought Smoot would take a swing, but Stephen Paul sprang to his feet and interposed himself between the two men.
“Easy,” Stephen Paul told Smoot, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Brother.”
The older man spoke past Stephen Paul. “What would Brother Abraham say?”
“My father is dead. He chooses not to advise me from beyond the grave.”
“But you think he’d go for this? Put a girl in charge of Blister Creek, emasculate us all?”
“Eliza destroyed two of our greatest enemies,” Stephen Paul said. “You don’t think that earns her respect? The right to be called a woman, at least, not a girl?”
“I say she’s not a woman until she’s married. But fine, I’ll give her respect. She’ll make a fine wife and mother, if this Krantz can tame her. A few babies should stimulate the right maternal attitude.”
Jacob felt his blood pressure rising. “Be very careful with your words, Elder Smoot. The last man who attacked my sister is dead.”
Smoot drew back a pace and the sneer dropped from his tone. “No insults intended, brother. You know I respect your family. Your father was a lion of the Lord. I can see that in you, and in your sister, too. But God gave the priesthood to men,” he said, with a sweep of his cane handle to indicate the elders in the room. “Put the keys to the kingdom in our hands. Not the hands of our wives and daughters.”
Jacob waited to see if Smoot had anything to add, but the man stopped with a nod and firm set of the jaw, as if he had offered the definitive argument and now dared Jacob to rebut.
The Gates of Babylon Page 6