Authors: Michael Wallace
The envelope held a melange of information. A resume with certain sections underlined. A copy of a tax return. A college paper with the plagiarized sections highlighted. And a photo of Chen at a party, snorting a line of coke.
He handed the papers and photos to Chen. “Take a look.”
“Where did you get this stuff?” Chen demanded as he thumbed through the papers with a growing frown.
“You don’t think we approached you through random chance, do you?” Enoch shook his head. “We found you because we knew you weren’t afraid of pushing boundaries.”
“This isn’t me,” he said angrily, coming across the photograph with the cocaine. “You photoshopped this picture.”
Enoch didn’t know. “Doctored, real, does it matter? There’s enough truth in here and enough innuendo to ruin you. And what about this resume? Does your employer know that it’s pure bullshit?”
Chen was quiet.
Enoch said, “This is just research.” He held out his hand and Chen gave it back. “We like to know who we’re working with. But nobody needs to see this. Why would they?”
Chen narrowed his eyes. “Just whose semen is in those vials? Yours?”
“Some of it, yes. Does this shock you?”
“And the rest of it? And what’s with the Biblical names? Are you some kind of cult?”
“No more questions, Chen. Are you going to take the cooler and the money? There will be more next time if the samples are properly distributed.”
And Enoch knew that it was more than just Chen’s reputation on the line. Should he back out, someone would come shortly to kill him. But give the man a death threat and he would likely freak out and do something foolish, like go to the police. Better, blackmail sweetened with a bribe.
Ron Chen rolled his tongue in one cheek. At last he nodded. “Okay, yeah, we’re good.”
Samples delivered, bribes paid, recalcitrant allies brought into line, Enoch continued north, toward the Bay Area. The easy part was behind him.
It was late afternoon when he arrived at the Gold house in Oakland. Enoch parked across the street and waited. It was a leafy, middle class subdivision. The houses were modest, seventies-era ranch houses, but the landscaping had filled in over the years and the neighborhood had a fantastic view down toward the city, as well as a view toward the LDS Oakland temple.
The Oakland temple was one of the more beautiful he had seen, not like those generic, faux-marble things the Salt Lake church built these days. Architecturally, it drew its inspiration from European cathedrals and the Meso-American ruins of the Aztec and Maya. Book of Mormon lands. Of course, the Oakland temple practiced a corrupted version of the endowment, administered by men who no longer had the authority to speak on behalf of the Lord.
The temple view was coincidence. The Golds had no connection with Mormonism. Samuel Gold taught at Berkeley. His wife worked for a biotech startup on the other side of the bay. Enoch knew these things not because Elder Kimball had given him the information, but because he had stopped at a library in San Diego last night—Tuesday—to mapquest directions to the remaining clinics and to the Gold house. Standing at the computer, he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to google the names of the people he was soon to violate.
He waited and watched until he was sure. The street was quiet. He’d had taken a text message from Gideon earlier, saying that Samuel Gold’s schedule had him teaching a Wednesday night class that didn’t end until 7:30. The woman would be alone inside with the baby.
Enoch opened the glove compartment. He pulled out the gloves and put them on, then removed the gun, checked to see that it was loaded, then tucked it inside his pants. There was a knife, too. Eight inches long and sharp enough to butterfly fillet a fish. He would return for that later.
He put his hand on the door handle and shut his eyes tight.
Heavenly Father, please forgive me for what I am about to do. I act only to serve Thy will.”
He opened the door and stepped out of the van. The air was the perfect temperature, with only the slightest breeze to ruffle the leaves on the trees. No cars, and no sound but birds and buzzing insects. He crossed the street, the bulge of the gun at his waist and the leather gloves soft and unfamiliar on his hands. The weight of the Jupiter Medallion seemed to grow with every step as it swung back and forth against his chest.
He thought of the note.
Let the blood of the wicked be spilled to justify the souls of the righteous.”
A woman answered the door.
She was pregnant, at least eight months, maybe more. Nobody had told him that. The woman was alone inside with the baby, yes, but that hadn’t been the whole of the story. The child he was to take had not yet been born.
Jennifer Gold had opened the door with a friendly smile and the look of someone who is happy to have an unexpected visitor to break the monotony of an evening without her husband. The look soured into mistrust. She looked down at the gun as he pulled it from his waist. Mistrust turned to fear.
Her naked vulnerability almost undid him. He wanted to throw down the weapon and recoil in horror at his own behavior. His covenants to the Lord won him over, but only just.
He pointed the gun at her chest. He told a lie that burned in his throat and on his tongue like so much bile as it came up. “This is a robbery. If you remain silent, you will not be harmed in any way.”
A lie. He had come as the Destroying Angel.
#
“What’s our best-case scenario?” Jacob asked Eliza as the Corolla bumped, scraped, and complained its way up the ranch road toward the Stephen Paul Young house. A cloud of dust spilled behind them. It was early evening. “Let’s say we meet Stephen Paul and he’s a decent man. Are you prepared to make a decision today?”
Eliza had tried to busy herself with the mid-week cleaning at the Kimball household that morning precisely so as not to think about such matters. Let’s see, the thirteenth wife of an old man, the first wife of an abusive bully who had tried to rape her, or the mystery man behind door number three. Another choice had crystallized in her mind.
Run like hell.
It had started as a mindless urge, akin, she imagined to the instincts of a caged animal. And she realized. She had options. Last night with Eduardo had awakened them.
By lunch, a specific plan had come into focus. She would wait until nightfall. She would sneak out of the house. She would find Eduardo. Together they would drive into the night, and flee deep into Mexico where nobody would ever find them.
She sighed. If only it were that easy.
“Liz?”
“No, is the easy answer. I’m not ready. It’s too quick and I’d rather wait a year or two or five, if that’s what it takes, to make the right decision. And I’d prefer to stay in Harmony, not move out to the desert. That is, if staying in Harmony didn’t involve marrying Elder Johnson.” She looked at him. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I had the luxury of making that decision? But here’s the way I look at it. Father and the prophet have said that I am to marry. Hence, it is the will of the Lord that I choose one of these three men. So what you’re really asking is whether or not I’m prepared to obey God.”
Jacob studied her for a moment and she wondered how much of her thoughts he could read. At last he said, “Plural marriage is easier for some people than for others.”
“Really? Who?”
“Women who don’t get jealous and have a low sex drive. Men with a high sex drive who can bond to multiple women or to none at all. The obedient. Power hungry men. Subservient women.”
“You think there are people who are wired for polygamy?” she asked.
“Sure. Some of us, on the other hand, are wired for monogamy. A hopeless sort of monogamy at that. You’d think after six generations that particular gene would have been purged from the population.”
“But I guess it hasn’t been.”
He shook his head. “No.”
The road grew worse. They climbed into the Ghost Cliffs, onto rutted ranch roads.
According to Jacob, Stephen Paul Young’s ranch centered around one of the few permanent streams in these parts, fed by snow-capped mountains to the north and augmented by a pair of natural springs. It flowed east and eventually fed into Lake Powell. On the paternal side, the Youngs were descended from Brigham Young’s son Henry, who had refused to give up polygamy and been excommunicated for his troubles. The maternal side, however, was a family of long-time desert dwellers named Davies. They had first resisted, then joined the polygamist protestors in the 1920s. That early group had included a high percentage of daughters, which had given the few men in the family an unusual amount of influence in Zion.
That was the history, according to Jacob. Neither of them knew the current occupant of the ranch.
Two miles west of the Young ranch they stopped for a herd of cattle in the road. A woman came into view, riding a horse, and driving the cattle across the road. An even greater surprise than seeing a woman herding cattle was that she wore jeans, and not a dress, although her top with its high collar and long sleeves was common enough, as was the woman’s waist-length hair.
“Well, that’s something different,” Jacob said.
“Yes, if I were into cattle herding.” Still, it indicated a certain flexibility in the Young household. Score one for Stephen Paul.
They found another surprise when they reached the sprawling Stephen Paul Young compound. There was another woman on the porch. She rose from her seat as they approached, holding a rifle.
Jacob stopped the car a good distance off. Dust swirled around them and the engine ticked as it cooled. They didn’t get out of the car. “Interesting reception.”
“You did call ahead?” Eliza asked. “Maybe they think we’re the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Or the Mormon missionaries.”
“Yes, I called. Told them I had an exciting business proposal to share.”
“Ah, Amway. Even better.”
They got out of the car. The woman put down the gun and motioned them to approach the porch. “We’ve got a coyote problem,” she said with a smile. “Just so you know we’re not shooting strangers in general. One of them has made a den under the porch. A coyote that is, not a stranger. My husband went to get the dog and chase it out.”
Her husband appeared on the porch with said dog and came to greet them. He stood three or four inches taller than Jacob. He had strong arms and shoulders, and would have looked the epitome of a hard-working, corn-fed farmer but for the pair of glasses that added a bookish quality to his face.
“I’m Stephen Paul Young. This is my wife Carol.” He eyed the gun with a smile. “I’ve told her a million times not to shoot the guests.” He held out his hand. “You must be Brother Christianson. And this is Eliza?” He appraised her. It was neither a lustful glance nor the look of a man checking out stock at the fair. More like a man considering a potential job applicant.
“Here, could you two do me a favor?” he asked. “Stand on either side of the porch. I’m going to send Brigham under the porch. And I want the coyote to run out the far end where it can see an opening.”
Brigham was a sheep dog, probably no bigger than the coyote it was meant to chase. But at word from Stephen Paul, it belly-crawled under the porch. There was a bark, then a snarl. A furry streak flew out from beneath the porch. A crack from Carol’s rifle and the coyote slammed face-down into the dirt.
A moment later and two more shapes broke free. They ran for the desert.
“Careful for the dog!” Stephen Paul yelled.
Another shot from the rifle, and then a third. Brigham strutted back toward the porch with a pleased look, as if he’d finished off the coyotes himself. Stephen Paul scratched the dog’s ears, then went to look at the dead coyotes. The other three followed.
It was a mother and her two pups, nearly grown. Stephen Paul stood over the bodies. “That’s too bad. I hate to do that.”
“We can’t let them camp out under the porch,” Carol said. “Not with young children around.”
He nodded. “I know, I know. And there’s livestock to think about, too. But I still don’t like it.” Stephen Paul shrugged at Jacob and Eliza. “Maybe if they’d made it another week or two they’d have returned to the desert and we’d have never known they were down there.”
“Come on inside,” Carol said. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
It was a small family with only two wives and six children, four by the woman they’d seen on the horse, and two by Carol. The woman on the horse was named Sarah, and she returned a few minutes later, dusty and tired. After they’d all cleaned up, Stephen Paul helped the two women set the table and get the children seated.
The family ate together around a massive farm table. Dinner was chicken pot pie with corn on the cob and homemade bread. A simple, but hearty meal. Eliza watched for hostility from the other women, but picked up none.
Eliza found herself liking Stephen Paul and his wives. Maybe not as future family, but certainly as people.
Dinner consisted of Jacob and Stephen Paul probing each other for their views. Stephen Paul made the first serious advance. “Where exactly is Zion, anyway?”
“Missouri,” Jacob said. “Where the Saints will gather in the last days as we await the coming of the Lord. That is what they say, at least.”
“And you? What do you say?”
“Maybe we’ll return to Missouri. Maybe not. My opinion? Zion is where you make it. It’s a community of the like-minded. People who pull in one direction. There’s no dissension in Zion. Every part works together, like the human body.
“Like the human body,” Stephen Paul said. “Not a bad analogy. I tend to think of a machine, myself, only one running with faith as its fuel.”
“Completely independent, then?” Jacob asked.
“Connected to the outside world, but in no way dependent upon it.”
“What about bleeding the beast?” Jacob asked.
Members of the church saw the U.S. government as a weak, corrupt institution—the manifestation of Babylon—that would someday collapse in the anarchy preceding the Second Coming. The Canadian government was a fawning acolyte of the Americans and would meet a similar fate.
With such knowledge, it was easy to see welfare fraud and tax evasion as a way to speed the inevitable. And if one benefited from same, why all the better. The methodology was simple with so many women—unmarried mothers in the eyes of the law—and most transactions either cash sales or off-the-books barter.