Blood of the Faithful (16 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Yes, I looked into the chest,” Jacob told Miriam and David. “About six months ago, I entered the Holy of Holies and opened it.”

They leaned toward him, silent, expectant.

Jacob shrugged. “There was nothing.”

David frowned. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing of value. Some old newspaper from the nineteenth century. I took it out to study. In better light I could see discolored marks where objects had sat on the newspaper, presumably for decades. Do you remember the Jupiter Medallion Gideon Kimball wore? There was the outline of that—that’s apparently where he got it. He was always sneaking in and out of the temple. The medallion must have been undisturbed in there for decades before he touched it. If there was anything else, then he’d taken that too.”

“Or maybe the sword and breastplate
were
there,” Miriam said, “but the Lord lifted them away to protect you. If you had touched them before your time—”

“If God worked that way, he’d have killed Gideon before he murdered my brother,” Jacob said.

David frowned and picked at the soft wax oozing down the side of the candle. He had a distant look in his eyes, no doubt remembering the horrible way the Kimballs had butchered Enoch in the Celestial Room of the temple. They’d all been close: Eliza, Jacob, David, Enoch. Out of all the many children of Abraham Christianson, those four were the most alike—the questioners, the independent-minded.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Miriam said. “If the sword and breastplate of Laban were not in the chest, then where were they?”

“It makes perfect sense if you assume there were never any ancient relics to begin with,” Jacob said.

The frown deepened on her face. “Of course there were.”

“According to what? It’s not scripture, it’s not written down anywhere. It’s never mentioned from the pulpit, except as hints. The rest is rumor and oral histories.” Jacob shook his head. “But I’m not going to argue that now. I answered your question. Now it’s your turn. Everything you know. Spit it out.”

Miriam began slowly, describing how she’d found the note in her Bible. She’d gone out to Yellow Flats reluctantly, she claimed, and only so she could keep an eye on whatever plot others might be hatching. Several other people had arrived, and she named them now.

Jacob had already guessed Stephen Paul—this was how Miriam had discovered the information about the missing food at the Smoot silos—but it was disappointing nonetheless to hear that his closest counselor had been involved. Stephen Paul’s wife too. Plus Sister Rebecca and Peter Potts. Add in Miriam and the two Smoots, and you had seven.

“A strange number,” Jacob said. “The Kimballs always had a dozen men, trying to form a full quorum. Like a shadow government to take over the church.”

“Maybe Elder Smoot asked others and they balked,” David said.

“It was his son pushing the rest of us,” Miriam said. “I didn’t see it at the time. But I’m sure, now. This was Ezekiel’s plan, not his father’s.”

“But the rest of you stayed. You listened, you colluded.” Jacob rose to his feet and walked past them to the end of the table. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t even know if he could trust these two.

“We didn’t collude,” Miriam protested. “Carol Young and Peter Potts left almost before the meeting started. They were angry, and fully loyal to you. The rest of us stayed and argued. Even Smoot argued with his son. I was only sticking around so I could get an inside track on any treachery.”

“What about Stephen Paul?” Jacob asked.

“He was upset. He ended the meeting, said he’d heard enough.”

“So why didn’t any of you tell me?”

“The meeting was only Sunday night,” she said. “I needed a couple of days to process it all.”

“A lot has happened in two days.” Jacob thought about what had happened just since sundown. “A lot has happened in a few
hours.
”

“So what do we do?” David asked.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Jacob began, reluctantly. “We have to confront Elder Smoot and his son.”

Smoot stared at Ezekiel as his son entered the clearing with a pistol in hand. There was something stiff about the way the young man carried himself, but the gun hand wasn’t trembling. He didn’t look afraid.

“And now that you know my secret, what are you going to do about it?”

Ezekiel didn’t say this to Grover, but kept his gaze fixed on his father. He was underestimating the boy, just as Smoot himself had done earlier in the evening.

“Why did you lie to me?” Smoot asked.

“Would you have obeyed if you’d known it was junk? If you’d known the sword was a rusty garden tool, and the breastplate half a bucket?”

“I didn’t obey you, anyway. I came to find out for myself, and saw that it was a lie.”

Smoot didn’t point out that Grover was the one who had convinced him to touch the supposed relics. His younger son stood to one side, still ignored by Ezekiel. The boy was only a few feet from one of the passageways that led deeper into the labyrinth.

Go. Run away. Save yourself and get help.

Instead, Grover stood fixed in place, staring as Ezekiel took another step closer with the gun. Grover needed to wake up and get out of here before his brother did something stupid.

“So you never touched the sword and breastplate, did you?” Smoot asked.

“I went to the temple, to the Holy of Holies. The Lord told me in a dream to take them. That much is true.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago. Late April.”

“You never said a word about this dream. You should have told me before you went in alone.”

“They weren’t in the chest. Jacob had already taken them out, probably hidden them so they wouldn’t be used. Satan must have warned him I was coming. That’s when I knew he was a fallen prophet.”

“You lied to me once. How do I know you’re not lying now?”

“We can be in the Holy of Holies in five minutes,” Ezekiel said. “Would you like to see?”

“Yes.”

The word came too quickly, was too obviously an attempt to buy time. And Ezekiel didn’t move.

“No, you don’t need to see,” Ezekiel said. “You don’t need to do anything except go back to the bunker and wait for me.”

Smoot let out his breath. So Ezekiel didn’t intend to kill him. His son was swimming in deep waters, but he was not a natural killer. There was still a chance to talk him down.

“Come home with me,” Smoot urged. “It’s late, a lot has happened. We’ll sleep it off and discuss it tomorrow when our heads are clear. A good night of rest with your arm around one of your wives will do you wonders.”

“We already discussed this. Jacob is suspicious. If we wait until tomorrow, he’s likely to show up with an armed posse to carry me off. I have to do it tonight.”

“Then why did you come here?” Smoot asked. He caught Grover edging backward, finally moving, and resisted looking at him. “There’s no sword to do the job.”

“There’s a machete.”

“You’re going to hack off Jacob’s head with a rusty garden tool?”

“That’s the sanctioned penalty for apostasy. Cutting the apostate’s throat from ear to ear. Blood atonement—it’s a mercy.”

Smoot stared, his mind churning at the horrible thought of his son hacking Jacob to death, trying to sever his throat. Then something occurred to him. “You’re lying again. You’ve got a gun. I’ll bet you were halfway to the Christianson house when you started thinking about how many people would hear a gunshot. That’s the only reason you want the machete.”

Ezekiel took a half step back and Smoot knew that he’d guessed right.

“Miriam and David live next door,” Smoot continued. “Jacob’s teenage brothers sleep under his roof. Half the town is out and about and would be on you like a pack of dogs. You couldn’t fire a gun.” He held out his hand. “And you can’t fire one now either. Two hundred people are in the chapel parking lot on the other side of those rocks. They’ll come looking the moment they hear gunshots.”

Ezekiel backed away, the gun still aimed at his father’s chest. Smoot stepped toward him.

“Don’t do it,” Ezekiel said. “I’m warning you, I’ll shoot.”

“No, you won’t. I’m your father.” Smoot made a grab for the gun.

But Ezekiel was younger and faster. He ducked out of the way before Smoot could grab his wrist. He brought the gun up and when his father stumbled past, swung it around and pistol-whipped the older man across the temple.

A flash of pain burst inside Smoot’s head. He stumbled, tried to keep his balance, but he’d lost control of his limbs. He fell hard.

“Dad!” Grover cried out behind him.

Smoot rolled over, trying to recover from the blackness crowding his vision. He hadn’t been knocked unconscious, but his head felt like his brains had been scooped out and replaced with hot sand. He fought his way to his knees.

Ezekiel and Grover were struggling. The younger brother had snatched up the machete, and now the two men were fighting for control of the weapon. Ezekiel lowered his shoulder and shoved his brother backward. Grover dug in his heels and seemed to stop the push and was about to turn the tide.

Then Grover put a foot behind him to try for a better place to brace himself than the soft sand, and he stepped into the hole. His foot twisted, he cried out, and fell. Ezekiel threw himself on his brother.

Smoot reached his feet, then staggered and almost fell again. The world seemed to be swaying, and the figures wrestling in the moonlight too far away.

Ezekiel came up on top. He held the machete in his hands. He lifted the weapon above his head. Grover, lying on his back, lifted his hands to stop the blow.

Horror swept over Smoot. “No,” he tried. The word was soft, without force. Then, louder, “No!”

Ezekiel swung the blade. It hit the outstretched hands with a crunch. Grover screamed.

The older brother let out a feral scream and pulled back the machete. He swung again and again. Grover bucked and screamed and writhed. Ezekiel swung again.

At last Smoot reached them. But Ezekiel was on his knees and turned and kicked at his father’s legs. Smoot staggered back. His head was clearing now from the pistol-whip, and it only took him a second to recover. By now Ezekiel was regaining his feet. Grover still struggled feebly to crawl away. Ezekiel lifted the machete, this time from behind his shoulder. He swung in a huge, devastating arc. It struck Grover across the back of the neck.

Ezekiel wrenched the blade out as Smoot came staggering in. He fell over his younger son, sobbing, cradling the boy’s head. Grover was moaning, still alive, but his head flopped, nearly severed. Blood gushed onto Smoot’s hands.

“No!” Smoot wailed. “Please, Lord, no! Help me, please. Father in heaven, please, don’t let this happen.”

He turned and through tear-filled eyes saw Ezekiel staggering backward. Blood dripped from the end of the machete and down the older brother’s arms. He shook his head violently.

“I didn’t want to. I never meant to do it.”

“Put it down!” Smoot bellowed. He rose to his feet, trembling with rage and grief.

“Grover made me do it. He made me!”

The boy groaned. Unbelievably, he was still alive, his bloody hands trying to push himself up. Maybe there was still time. Brother Jacob was only a few blocks away with his surgery. There was hope. If the blow hadn’t severed the artery, if it hadn’t cut through the spine, Jacob could—

A long, terrible shudder worked through Grover’s body. He fell flat and didn’t move.

When Smoot turned around, Ezekiel was fleeing the scene, machete in hand. Smoot’s head was still throbbing, and he knew he would never catch his older son. If Ezekiel ran straight to the Christiansons’, he’d be there in a few minutes. Smoot had to stop him.

“Heavenly Father,” he prayed out loud. “My son is dead. Lift Grover up, bring him forth on the morning of the First Resurrection. I have sinned, but do not allow thy prophet to die because of my error. Give me a—”

He was praying with his eyes open, still staring in the direction that Ezekiel had disappeared. But now his eyes dropped to the ground, as if guided there by divine command. There, glittering on the sand beneath the moonlight, was Ezekiel’s pistol.

Smoot snatched it up. He checked the safety and aimed the weapon at the sky. He squeezed the trigger and fired. Then he screamed for help. He kept firing and screaming until the magazine was empty.

Smoot was halfway out of the labyrinth when the first anxious people found him. At their head was Stephen Paul Young, who began demanding answers.

“It’s Ezekiel,” Smoot gasped. “He’s gone to murder the prophet.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Confront the Smoots?” Miriam asked. “That’s weak. What about arrest them, shoot them if they resist?”

Jacob didn’t let her bait him. “Tomorrow afternoon there’s a Quorum meeting at the temple. David and I can question Elder Smoot after the meeting. Get him away from Ezekiel, see what he says when he’s alone. Maybe he’ll crack.”

Miriam scowled. “We could be at the bunker in twenty minutes. Settle this once and for all.”

“In the most bloody way possible, sure.” Jacob was still standing, but no longer felt like pacing around the table. He returned to his seat. “And I want to give Smoot a chance.”

“Please be clear,” David said. “A chance to what?”

“To step back from the edge.” Jacob turned from his brother and gave Miriam a hard look. “Smoot is not the only one who stumbled next to a precipice.”

“I wasn’t stumbling,” Miriam scoffed. “And neither were the rest of us. Nobody went along with the Smoots in the end.”

“Nobody came to warn me either.”

“We were just talking. It didn’t amount to anything.”

“Jacob is right,” David said in a quiet voice. He broke off a piece of wax from the side of the candle and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger with a thoughtful expression. “It was a conspiracy all the same. You didn’t act against them, so they assumed they could move without opposition. Then Eliza and Steve left without knowing anything was wrong. They wouldn’t have done that if they’d known.”

Miriam seemed more troubled by her husband’s disapproval than Jacob’s. She addressed David’s comment with a pleading tone. “You were worried too. Everyone is. Jacob isn’t—he wasn’t . . .”

“No, he wasn’t,” David said. “We all need him to do more.”

Jacob felt the bite of those quiet words. He was doing all he could. He’d never asked for this, never campaigned to be prophet. It had always been assumed he would take over. And in the past, his successes were accounted to divine guidance, while his failures were discounted as human frailty. Jacob didn’t have a big ego about such things; he didn’t need, didn’t
want
, praise. It seemed in the past they’d respected him for his quiet leadership; now they thought it made him weak.

But he wasn’t going to argue that now.

“We’ll go in the morning,” he said firmly. “We’ll give Smoot a chance. Maybe he’s no more involved than the rest of you. Maybe he knows nothing about the theft of our food. Maybe it’s all his son. If Ezekiel was working alone with Chambers, we’ll deal with him separately.”

“In what way?” Miriam asked. “Will you give Ezekiel a slap on the wrist? Twenty hours of community service and a stern lecture?”

“Ezekiel is a traitor and a spy. I’ll do my duty.”

“Finally,” she said.

It wasn’t the appropriate time to discuss punishment, when Ezekiel Smoot hadn’t even been apprehended yet, let alone brought before a church court. But Jacob was thinking exile. They could drive him into the southern desert with a little food and water and a promise to shoot on sight if he returned.

He rose to his feet, ready to go outside and see if he could get an accounting of whether anyone else was missing from their beds tonight, when the front door banged open.

People had been coming and going from the house during the entire conversation, and he’d heard the voices of women and children. At one point he’d heard his mother calling up the stairs, then his brother Joshua arguing with someone. It must be two a.m., but once roused, the town was taking time to settle back down. Only there was something different this time. With the banging of the door, voices raised in the front room. Shouts. Fernie screamed. Something was wrong.

Jacob shoved open the door from the kitchen, his heart rate accelerating. Someone had turned on the lights in the hall toward the front door, and after sitting in the dim candlelight for so long, he had to squint while his eyes adjusted.

A bearded man stood in the hallway. He held a sword in his hand. No, not a sword. A machete. Blood gleamed along the edge of the blade. It soaked his hand and sleeve, and smeared across his denim shirt. More blood and sand plastered his face, as if he’d been rolling in it.

It was Ezekiel Smoot, but he looked transformed. He stood staring down the hallway, eyes blazing with a violent intensity. Jacob had seen that look before. It was the look worn by Gideon Kimball. By the men who’d set off a violent confrontation with the FBI at the Zarahemla Compound. By Taylor Junior. By Jacob’s cousin, Alfred Christianson, just before he’d detonated a Winnebago filled with explosives and killed thirteen soldiers in a suicide bombing.

That same look had gripped the church members at Tuesday’s prayer meeting. It was religious fervor, capable of turning any sane man or woman into a weapon ready to kill in the name of God. And now Jacob was staring into that abyss yet again.

Will it never end?

Ezekiel had pushed past Fernie and several other women as he’d entered, and violated the Christianson home. No enemy had ever done that before. Ezekiel spotted Jacob, and moved toward him.

The women now came in from behind him, crying for children to run, warning people upstairs, shouting for help. Fernie wore a look of fierce determination as she rolled down the hallway in her chair, head lowered.

Drawn by the tumult, one of Jacob’s young sisters came racing down the stairs, but stopped at the bottom when she came face to face with Ezekiel. Annalane was ten, slender with blond braids, looking just like Eliza had as a young girl. She took in the blood and the knife and her eyes widened in terror. She screamed, her high-pitched wail seeming to carry on forever, though some part of Jacob knew that the entire scene from when the man had opened the door to now had lasted no more than a few seconds.

Ezekiel ignored the screaming child and stared at Jacob. Fernie slammed into him from behind. His knees buckled, and he braced himself. Fernie pounded at his back with her fists, but he paid her no attention. He lifted the machete and took another step toward Jacob.

“Move!” Miriam cried behind Jacob’s shoulder.

She had her gun out and was aiming past him, but Jacob blocked her. He wouldn’t stand aside and let her shoot. His wife was there, his sister, any number of other women and children in the hallway behind. And even if Miriam’s shot was true, other feet came pounding down the stairs. If one of them slammed into Annalane, she’d be knocked right into the path of the bullet.

Ezekiel pulled back the machete and made as if to spring. The blade was ugly and caked with blood and sand. It had killed someone tonight already. The next blood spilled would be Jacob’s own.

Jacob raised his right arm to the square. “Ezekiel Smoot!”

Ezekiel stopped as if hit by a blow. He blinked, seemingly stunned.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, drop that weapon!”

Jacob’s voice didn’t sound like his own. It was too strong, too powerful. It sounded like his father’s. Righteous fury burned through his veins. For an instant he felt every inch a prophet of God.

Every voice in the house died. People stared, gaping.

Quickly, before the spell could break, Jacob stepped forward to disarm Ezekiel. But the movement seemed to shake the young man from his paralysis. He turned this way and that, looked past Jacob to Miriam, who would surely be standing over Jacob’s shoulder with her gun leveled. Then he turned on his heel.

Ezekiel shoved past Fernie’s wheelchair as Jacob sprang after him. A crowd blocked the doorway. Ezekiel swung his machete to clear them. He hacked a woman across the arm and swung at a boy who fell back as the blade swished dangerously past his ear. Jacob fought to get through. Behind, Miriam barked orders. People moved out of her way.

Outside, Ezekiel kept slashing and jabbing to open a passage through the gathered people. Another woman fell, an old man too, hit on the side of the head as Ezekiel hacked at them like they were troublesome brush blocking his path. People were racing up the street and sidewalks from the direction of the temple, shouting warnings. There was Stephen Paul. Elder Smoot too, almost as bloody as his son. Was that his blood on the machete? Couldn’t be—he was still on his feet.

Many of the newcomers were armed, and they tried to aim rifles and shotguns at Ezekiel as he fought his way through. He had almost reached the street.

“Everyone down!” Miriam shouted.

Some people dropped to their bellies, but there was too much noise and most people hadn’t heard. Jacob took up the call. David too.

Ezekiel swung open the door to Jacob’s truck. He jumped in and slammed the door shut. And then, to Jacob’s horror, the truck started up. He had left his keys in the ignition. Of course he had. Damn it!

The truck peeled down the street, scattering people who had been crossing from the other side. If they hadn’t moved, no doubt Ezekiel would have run them down.

Miriam stepped into the street and lowered her pistol at the back of the fleeing truck. She emptied her magazine. The glass exploded at the back of the cab. But the truck didn’t stop. Moments later, it disappeared around the corner.

Elder Smoot came up beside Jacob. His face hung slack, his head drooping. “My son. My son.”

“Who did Ezekiel attack?”

“His own brother. Hacked Grover to pieces.”

The words were like a slap. “Grover is dead?”

Smoot tried to speak, but he couldn’t find his voice. He collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

It was ugly news. But hearing it gave Jacob a twinge of hope that was followed by guilt. When he’d spotted the blood dripping off Ezekiel’s machete, his first, horrible fear was that one of his own family members had died. One of his wives or children. A brother or sister.

People were sobbing and traumatized on the Christianson lawn. He scanned the crowd, noting injuries, his subconscious already plotting triage. He spotted David’s wife, Lillian, and pointed to the garage door. She nodded and ran toward the side of the house to get the door open and prep the clinic for surgery.

Jacob looked down at Smoot. “Did he kill anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. The reservoir, maybe.”

Miriam and David stood a few feet away, having an animated discussion with Stephen Paul, who shortly sprinted back toward the chapel. Miriam was reloading her pistol as she came to Jacob’s side.

“Stephen Paul went for his truck. We’re going after Ezekiel.”

“Don’t kill him,” Elder Smoot said. “Please.”

“Sit down and shut your mouth,” Jacob said.

Miriam glared at Smoot as he obeyed. “We’ll do what it takes,” she said.

A groan at Jacob’s back reminded him of his primary duty. Injured people lay across the grass, with family and friends down by them, crying, pressing hands to wounds to stop the bleeding. Ezekiel had cut at least six people as he hacked his way out of the house and through the crowd.

“Is the bunker manned?” he asked Smoot.

Smoot looked at his boots. “No.”

“You’re in charge,” Jacob told Miriam and David. “The first thing is to man the bunker. Second, find Ezekiel and stop him.”

“Like I said, we’ll do what it takes,” she said.

“But don’t leave the valley.”

“I’ll find that bastard wherever he’s gone.”

“No. That’s an order. Do not go into the cliffs.”

Miriam stared back, defiant. David reached for her arm, but she shrugged it off.

Jacob hardened his voice. “Miriam Christianson, you will stay in the valley. If you leave, I will excommunicate you, do you understand?”

Men and women had been gathering around him, trying to get his attention so he’d look to their injured family members. It was all he could do to keep from running to help, but he couldn’t turn away until he had Miriam’s compliance.

“Miriam,” he said. “You will
not
leave.”

She clenched her teeth together. A vein pulsed at her temple. But at last she opened her mouth and said the words he needed to hear.

“Thou sayest.”