Longshot (8 page)

It was May 1994. I was thirteen. It was a night where you could feel something was wrong. Everyone felt it. As verbal a family as we were, it was telling of the tension that was present that we didn't discuss what any of us felt. I myself had a feeling that someone was watching me through my window in the night, with hands cupped against the window, allowing their eyes to scope my room, smilingly mischievously at me.

The fact that I wasn't sleeping wasn't anything new, but had I gone from room to room that night, I would have discovered that no one else in the family was sleeping, either. But unlike all those other nights
with imagined enemies and intruders, this time they were real. This night the enemies were all around us. They came from inside our house, from the old Sunday school room where the pictures of our prophets hung on the wood-paneled walls that led to the storage cellar; they surrounded the house, pounding on the roof to get in. Szen wouldn't settle. He kept pacing back and forth between my room, the front door, and my parent's room. He seemed to be making the rounds, making sure everyone was safe.

Szen and I finally fell asleep as dawn crept into the sky, but we were rudely awakened at 6 a.m. by my father, who hauled everyone out into the front room and sat us down. It would be the last time we sat in that beautiful room he had created. Dad told us how he and Mom had not slept that night, and how the girls had at first huddled in Raph's room but then migrated upstairs, consciously afraid of the closed door that led to the Sunday school room, and filtered into Mom and Dad's room.

Dad knew something bad was going to happen if we stayed any longer. We were leaving, and we had only the day to do it. He told us to pack up as much as we could, the bare essentials, and to leave everything else behind. He and Mom were going to go to work and tell their principals they had to leave for an indefinite amount of time.

Dad had been in touch with a local police detective, who spent much of his time in the field investigating polygamist sects and the violence and extortion that often follow. Detective Forbes was the man who had investigated Rulon's murder and had since been regarded as the man in charge when it came to polygamy and violence in Utah. He was the chief detective for the Salt Lake County Sheriff, and he had heard through his sources that Dad was a target or at least an object of malice. Dad and Vanessa had been working with Detective Forbes and others in the hope of possibly helping incest victims. Vanessa knew way more than she wanted to about the inner workings of some of the prominent families, and that was only increasing the Group's aversion to our family.

Dad was being described as the Son of Perdition—also known as the Antichrist—from the pulpit in the Group, and some of those sermons were suggesting that something be done. Having once lived in the Group and seen that lifestyle, and knowing that the leaders too often felt themselves to be above the laws of the land, we were very nervous. There's no limit to the violence that can erupt when people rely on someone whose interpretation of the Bible is based on a whim.

There's a whispered story in Pinesdale about a boy, Paul Garcia. Paul was a stepson of my father's brother Louis, the one who would later be made a member of the Council and ultimately commit suicide. Paul was a teenager when his father died, and much to his displeasure, Louis married his mother. One day, Louis wanted to give Paul a haircut. As Louis was cutting, Paul grabbed the scissors, stabbed Louis, and ran out the kitchen door. Louis was rushed to the hospital. He lost a kidney and was at death's door. That Sunday, Rulon gave a sermon proclaiming that a kid like Paul “deserved the law of Moses. For what he did, it would be merciful if his head were shaved and painted red.” Though Rulon would say that he didn't outright order anyone to do anything, when you're a powerful and influential leader in an extremist religious society, anything you say becomes literal. A few nights later, as Paul was walking home in the dark, he was struck over the head, dragged into a nearby house that was under construction, and tied down.

As some of Paul's attackers hacked his hair off and covered his head with red paint, others tore his clothes away. After Paul was stripped, his genitals were mangled and painted red.

We knew people who believed in the biblical teaching of an eye for an eye—men who would have fulfilled a demand of blood for blood if the prophet had desired it. We knew enough to be fearful.

As soon as Dad told his principal at Alta High School that he was leaving for an indefinite amount of time, he called Detective Forbes. The very first words out of Detective Forbes's mouth stunned Dad.

“Vance, I'm so glad you called me back.”

“I'm sorry? You called me? I was calling you!”

“Yes, I called [the school] and left a message for you—that for some reason, all night long last night, I couldn't sleep, as I had this growing sense of unease and felt that your family is in danger. You need to get out of there—today.”

The fact that this man, who was doing his job and had seen this all before, would be alarmed enough to call us and tell us to leave, on the very same night we were feeling the same warning, isn't a coincidence.

Mom and Dad had to leave the youngest four kids at home while they cleared things at their jobs. They told us to not go anywhere alone and to always have a sibling accompany us. Raph drove to campus to collect her things. Vanessa, Tara, Court, and I stayed behind to quickly pack.

For reasons that I cannot remember, there was something we needed from the cellar, which could be accessed only from the Sunday school room. But no one wanted to go down there.

We went down together, for we were all aware of the aura seeping from behind the Sunday school room's door. The eyes of the prophets seemed to follow us as we walked across the room. The picture of Grandfather Rulon smiled down at me—and it wasn't comforting. Something was laughing at me, cackling menacingly, and although I heard it only in my head, it was real.

Now, no physical threat came to us that day. But, with everything that I know to be true, to exist, as sure as the sun rises in the east every day, I know that there was something there in that cellar. I know it and can feel it as I'm describing this memory and recalling the emotions and feelings that clawed from behind the cellar door. Something was there. And it wanted to hurt us.

Never—
never
—will I be more terrified than I was at that moment. Had a man with a hatchet walked in, it wouldn't have been more terrifying than the energy that lurked in the cellar. It was hate, rage, lust, malice, fury. It was darkness and evil. It was all of those things, combined with menace. It wanted to toy with us, then ravage and devour us.

We all held hands, opened the door, and turned on the light. The light came on and shadows formed, but the light was weak and could reach only so far. The darkness had life. Maybe it was my paranoia playing tricks on me, but I remember the darkness moving like smoke, thicker in some areas than others. I mouthed the words “In the name of the Only Begotten, depart.” I had heard Aunt Susan once say that if there was an evil spirit, you could cast it out with those words.

Tara found what we were looking for, and we quickly ran out the door, slamming it behind us, not caring to turn the lowly cellar light off, leaving it to battle whatever form of darkness it was that hid in there. Whatever it was that stalked the cellar, it was real, and it wasn't happy we were leaving.

To this day, I'm uncomfortable in empty churches. I don't like being in an empty chapel, alone, by myself. Is it a subconscious reaction toward organized religion? Or is it a conditioned flight response from the Sunday school room and the cellar?

Detective Forbes soon showed up to stay with us at the house. He was schooled and experienced in polygamy and its corruption, had been around long enough to see its ugliness, and knew not to take this matter
lightly. Extremists are extremists. Left-wing or right-wing, no difference; they're the same. They thrive in a warped paradigm and will do the unthinkable to protect it.

Mom and Dad finally came back home, Raph as well, and we all packed up and left before our cousins came home from school. We didn't say good-bye to anyone—not Aunt Susan, Uncle Saul, or Grammy. We just left.

When we fled from our home,
our immediate possessions in tow, we drove to Grandma Rip's house. I couldn't tell you what frightened me more—going back to the Sunday school room, or the knowledge that I'd be living with Aunt Valeen. We arrived and started unpacking. It was the only time I ever saw my mom sobbing. Mom is a crier, but she never sobs and bawls. But this time she did. I saw it for only a moment before she closed the bathroom door behind her.

Word spread that we had fled, and Yaya called Mom, furious, telling her that she was being dramatic and irrational and that no one in the Group would hurt us. Sadly, as we saw with all of my father's family, and as we saw with Yaya that night on the phone, rather than siding with loved ones and family, they chose to keep their reality intact.

That night when we arrived, Court and I were sent to bed early, in the basement, sleeping on camping cots. Feeling the noises of footsteps above me as everyone crowded into Grandma Rip's kitchen kept me awake. I began crying, but silently. My cousins and best friends were gone. I no longer had a home. Where were we going? At least there were the seven of us: Mom, Dad and us five kids, indestructible.

Then Troy came downstairs. Troy was Grandma Rip's grandson from Uncle Leon, who lived on the other side of the fence from her. Every so often, someone does something that may seem so effortless that they don't know and will never know how profoundly they impact your life. Troy was one of those people, doing one of those incalculably valuable deeds. He pulled up a chair next to us in our cots and talked to us in the dark: “Hey guys. How's it going?”

Troy told us stories of pranks and incidents involving his days in high school and how the best joke to play on a girl is to sneak into the girl's slumber party and plant Jell-O in the toilet—but it has to be colorless—
and then stir it up and let it congeal. Later on, when the girls go to the bathroom, they will leave quite a mess. “Saran Wrap is outdated. People look for it now,” he stated casually, like a stockbroker knowing yesterday's buy and sell. Troy stayed with us for a good hour, maybe two, helping to take our mind off things.

As the evening progressed, most of the family began migrating downstairs to see what all the fun was about, and it was there, in the dark, musty, pipe-filled room of Grandma's basement, that we found our refuge, with Troy Ripplinger telling grandiose stories of mischief. We were no longer Allreds; we were now Ripplingers.

Yaya's younger brother, Dan, a retired dentist who lived in Arizona, had a nice secluded cabin in central Utah, near Beaver, that he said we could use. After two days of hiding away in Grandma Rip's house, and to Valeen's relief, we packed up our things and headed down to Beaver.

When we arrived at Uncle Dan's cabin, we were in the wilderness. There was no electricity, as it was on national-forest land. There was plumbing, thank goodness, but all of our lighting, heating, and cooking was fueled by either kerosene or propane. Uncle Dan did have a generator in the basement for emergencies, which Court and I would exploit to the max to play our Super Nintendo. Mom allowed us to fire up the generator for a half hour every day, letting us play Mario Kart, but after that we had to find other ways to entertain ourselves.

We bonded as a family, being stuck in that three-bedroom cabin for a month. We also got on each other's nerves. Dad spent a lot of time going back and forth between Beaver and Salt Lake that month as he looked for an attorney. It was made well known that Uncle Owen and the AUB intended to sue us for the house, hoping to stall the sale of the fourplex. By June, Uncle Saul and the AUB had officially filed suit against us, placing a lien on the property and thus ushering in what was to be a three-year lawsuit.

But we all knew it wasn't about the house; it was about punishing us and, more important, about making us the “bad guys” in a lawsuit, thereby creating a gap between Dad and his family. To the AUB we were a cancerous region of free thought and questioning of authority. We were a threat, so they needed to punish us—as quickly, meanly, and loudly as possible.

In mid-June, not wanting to wear out our welcome, we left Uncle Dan's cabin and moved an hour south to the cabin belonging to Uncle
Dan's son, Gregg, and his wife, Diane, in Pine Valley, just outside of Saint George. We developed a strong rapport and kinship with Gregg and Diane's family, and although their kids were our second cousins, they moved into our lives as our “immediate-extended” family. They became our cousins.

It was a humbling summer for our family, as Cousin Gregg, Uncle Dan, and Uncle Don all invested heavily in us financially with absolutely no collateral. Over time Mom and Dad were able to pay them all back, but that was a huge act of charity and faith on their part. They really didn't even know us or know if we could be trusted.

Dad made several important contacts besides Detective Forbes—specifically, Jeffrey Swinton, a real-estate trial lawyer. We were thrilled when Jeff took our case, and humbled when Uncle Dan put up the retainer. Jeff, of course, originally thought the AUB would settle because they didn't have a case. We knew they wouldn't settle, because it wasn't about the house. It was about discrediting Dad, setting an example of their authority, and making us pay for leaving.

By August, the deal to swap our house for the one in downtown Salt Lake was coming to fruition. Coincidentally, or divinely, the house we were trading for in Salt Lake happened to be just around the corner from Jeff Swinton's home.

Jeff had spent many years involved with the Colorado City real-estate war, between Warren Jeffs, another Mormon fundamentalist polygamist leader, and other men he had banished from his cult. Not only was Jeff an expert in the law, but he was also well acquainted with the stubborn mind-set of fundamentalist leaders. Here is the best way I can sum up war with polygamist radicals: if they're drenched in water but manage in the end to get a cup of water on your face, they will cheer, “Ha! I won.”

When we learned that the owners of the other house had accepted the house swap, we drove to downtown Salt Lake near the University of Utah, to see the outside of the house that we were told was to be our new home—and we fell in love with it. You could see that it had not had the attention it needed the last few years. It was plain, dull, rectangular, and run-down, and the bricks were scabbing paint, but you couldn't help but see that this house, built in 1902, was old and wise and, if treated kindly, would make you feel welcome.

In August of the summer of our exodus, all the women went out of town, leaving Dad, Court, and me to our own devices. Dad right away
wanted to get started on the house by renovating the basement, which was listed as a third apartment but was currently vacant. The ceiling of the basement apartment was only about six-foot-five. The apartment was run-down and comprised two tiny rooms, including the bathroom, and a tight furnace room. It was dark, with rusty pipes and asbestos insulation, and my claustrophobia was on high alert. Dad was a visionary when it came to homes, and he told us we were going to dig out the stale dirt in the basement and build a nice little entertainment room. I couldn't see what Dad was envisioning, and I doubted him, thinking there was no way on earth he could make something out of this forsaken basement.

Dad put us to work in the basement. We each had our shovels, and we began digging and filling up old laundry-detergent buckets with dirt, carrying them outside, one by one. It was slow, tedious work. Even with our face masks, my nose was filled with dust and my snot was black. My hands were blistered, I was tired, and it was only the first day. We were going to sleep on sleeping bags on the ratty carpet and peeled linoleum flooring of the basement. But first we drove to Smith's, a local supermarket chain. Dad pulled out his wallet from the stretched back pocket of his dirty jeans.

He opened his wallet and pulled out five dollars. He looked at us meekly but determinedly: “Boys, this is all we have for two days.” Having been on the run all summer, and having borrowed from many and not daring to ask for any more, Mom and Dad were stretched to the bone. I didn't realize how bad it was until then, as I looked at Dad's calloused and dirty hands, which always shook slightly from his Tourette's. Neither of us said anything, nor did we complain. Thankfully, the dogs were not with us that weekend, so we didn't have to worry about feeding them. With our five dollars we walked quietly through Smith's and bought cheap frozen concentrated orange juice, some Malt-O-Meal cold cereal, and milk. That was it. That was our empire.

For two hot August days we labored, tearing our hands in slow, stubborn progress as we chipped away at the dirt, which felt like cement, straining our limbs and backs with each trip out to the dumping pile, bumping our heads repeatedly on the pipes. But we didn't complain. While we sweated and sneezed, we passed the time laughing and singing through our masks, taking breaks to have small rations of cereal and orange juice, telling jokes and stories as we sat on our newly made pile
of dirt out back, or listening to Dad's history lectures in the shade in the park across the street, our faces tanned with dust, silt, and sweat.

We were kings. We were building our new castle. And we did it all with only five dollars.