The Remnant (17 page)

Rendt’s face fell.

"We didn’t
steal
it," he argued. "The
LDS is apostate. They have forsaken all right to the trappings of
the church and are an abomination in the eyes of God and Prophet
Smith. And the Brethren are even worse. They opened the casket.
Even you did not dare that."

As far as Rendt was concerned the Brethren’s
theft of the casket had sealed all their death warrants. That the
survivors had later disobeyed the injunction against opening it had
assured that the Angels would never forgive. And then... to use it
to blackmail the Church... Rendt was absolutely certain that there
was a hotseat in Hell specifically upholstered with flame for each
and every one of the Brethren he had sent there and for those
waiting to arrive.

"Do you deny my revelations? Do you refuse to
obey me?" asked Jeffords, quietly.

"We have promised our souls and our lives to
God. I live to do his will. I have always obeyed you in all
things."

Jeffords sighed. "In the past I granted you
the right to do murder in my name, in God’s name, may the Almighty
have mercy on my soul. You convinced me that it was the right thing
to do. The holy thing to do. I do not wish to be harsh, but I feel
that you were not always... forthcoming with me, Frederick. I
listened to you, and I pray that I have not damned myself forever
for doing so. You cannot be judge and jury for all men for all
time."

"Brigham Young and even Prophet Smith said
that there are sins that must be atoned for by the blood of
man."

"Yes, and the Angels brought everlasting
approbation down on the Latter Day Saints in Utah just as you are
going to do to us. We have managed to live here for almost fifty
years in this place, in a manner consistent with our
teachings-"

"In hiding, like beasts of the forest. We
deny our wives in public, force all but the first wife to claim
against the government for Welfare as unmarried women. You think we
have won something here?"

"We have won our existence and the survival
of our faith."

"This is not survival. This is craven
cowardice."

"I’m commanding you, now, Frederick, to lay
aside this mission you’ve designed for yourself. It’s over."

"It will never be over. Can’t you see that?
God’s work is never done."

"But the work of your Avenging Angels
is."

Rendt sighed loudly.

The Prophet walked in the blazing light of
God’s own vision, but sometimes that very light seemed to blind
him. Every Archangel for the past hundred-and-sixty years had
eventually come head to head with some Prophet who felt that their
work was done.
Usually all that was required was the correct
amount of pressure or simply to lie low long enough for that
particular individual to pass on. Or, for something to come up that
did reveal more work.
Then the Angels were always called
forth again. They were the weapon of the faith that otherwise
peaceful Mormon leaders had always kept hidden but just to hand in
the closet.

"Who else will bring you what you have most
desired for so long?" argued Rendt.

The man smiled sadly. "What I most desire now
is to live in peace. To not have the church drawn into a terrible
media feeding frenzy that must result if you continue on with what
you’re doing. The American media and police are not the Mexican
media and police. Leave the last of the Brethren alone, Frederick.
Let them live and die in peace. They will not dare to ever move
against us, and we need not move against them. They mean nothing to
us now."

"Nothing?" growled Rendt, reddening.

Candlelight-coaxed into shivers by his
upraised voice and outspread hands-sent angry shadows
scurrying.

"It’s over," said Jeffords in a not unkindly
manner. "You couldn’t bring us back what was stolen, even if you
killed all of them. You and I both know that there are photographs
secreted elsewhere, other evidence. Even if you found the hiding
places in that valley of theirs, the secret would be out. That
would be worse than their having possession. We cannot allow even
the chance of that."

"I know where the evidence is."

"Listen to me!" This time the man’s voice was
even louder and more hysterical than Rendt’s, and his shaking fist
further agitated the already anxious shadows. "It’s over! You are
to forget it. Disband this bunch of murderers and thugs, and return
to the fold of the church."

Rendt bowed his head as though praying or
simply acceding to the Prophet’s demand, but inside he was
seething. This man had presided at the funeral of both Rendt’s
father and mother and two of his father’s other wives. Rendt had
accepted him all his life as the reigning word of Immortal God on
earth. There were times when he had been forced to dissemble to the
man, because there were things that had to be done in the name of
God to which his earthly
word
need not be privy. But he had
always respected and loved Jeffords above all men. Now to see such
fear in him, such cowardice was more than Rendt could bear. It was
a repudiation of all he had lived for, all he had risked his life
for and the lives of so many others. Men had died for this man, for
this church. At that moment Rendt knew that he had been chosen by
God once more to do his will.

"I cannot allow you to stop the Lord’s work,"
he said, quietly.

"What?" gasped the Prophet. "You dare? I
command you to set aside this madness. Set it aside now!"

"I cannot."

Jefford’s face was beet red, to the point at
which Rendt wondered if the old man were about to burst a blood
vessel, perhaps die here, on the floor of the temple.

"Then I shall be forced to turn you over to
the authorities," said the Prophet, stunning Rendt.

"What? You’d implicate yourself and the
church?"

But the Prophet shook his head. "I will out
you as a lunatic who came to me to tell me what he had done and
with plans for more killings in the name of the church. You and
your followers will be seen as a breakaway cult."

"The media already sees the church as a
breakaway cult."

"They will see you as a madman. Now leave
this lie, or I will do what I say."

Once again Rendt lowered his head
submissively, but this time the inner seething was a churning
cauldron of righteousness. He struck the old man in the breast bone
with the heel of his hand. The Prophet gasped-driven so hard
against the door frame the wind blasted from his lungs-and his eyes
popped open wide. He reached up with a shaking hand to defend
himself, but Rendt brushed it aside, striking at the Adams Apple
with his fingertips hard enough to crush the larynx. Jeffords
dropped to his knees on the hard stone floor, clutching at his
throat, then slowly rolled onto his side in death.

Rendt heard footsteps and glanced over into
the shocked face of a chubby initiate he had seen anointed earlier.
The young man turned from him to the corpse of the Prophet of God
lying at their feet.

"Which one are you?" asked Rendt.

"Malone, sir," said the young man, swallowing
hard. "Isaiah."

Rendt drew a deep breath as he squatted to
grab the Prophet’s shoulders. "Get his feet, then. We have to get
rid of him."

"Where?" gasped Malone, finally swallowing
the fist-sized lump in his throat.

Rendt nodded toward the passageway behind
him. "This leads to the desert. The buzzards can pick his
bones."

He stared into the young man’s beady eyes,
watching for any sign of rebellion. There was none. The nervous
shadows began to relax.

If Maxie had a spiritual cousin in the valley
it was the ancient roan quarter-horse, Sparkie, that Paulie had
given to Marie. The animal didn’t have a mean bone in his body.
Unfortunately he didn’t have any energetic bones, either. He would
sidle over to the corral fence at the slightest sign of a handout,
and stand docilely while Marie climbed upon a rickety apple crate
to saddle him. Then he would consent to being ridden for as long as
she wished, but never at much more than a leisurely walking pace.
Still, she loved her daily rides because they were the one symbol
of approaching adulthood, of independence.

Of course she could only ride around their
own small property or up and down the valley road where she would
have Brethren living on either side. Reaching the end of the narrow
lane at Paulie’s place she would either stop to say hello and pet
the dogs, or simply turn around for the slow ride home. Today
though, Ashley had been reluctant to allow her off the property
until old Pete happened along.

"She’ll be okay this morning, Ash," Pete had
assured. "Last night ended up being pretty quiet again after all
was said and done. There’s no sign of any movement on the
perimeters today."

Then he told Ashley a silly joke. Marie
laughed since she knew she was expected to, and Pete ruffled her
hair as though she were a child, making her smile even more forced.
She liked Pete, but Paulie didn’t treat her like a little kid the
way Pete did. It occurred to her then that perhaps both old men saw
their own children in her.

Reluctantly Ashley had let her go, and the
ride
had
been uneventful, the surrounding forest calm and
peaceful as always. But as she approached Paulie’s drive she
noticed that the Shepherds were all sitting on their haunches
facing the house. She counted eight of the dogs and realized that
some of the untrained one-year-olds must have escaped from their
kennels out back. A few of the dogs glanced at her then turned back
to the house. Rather than appearing aroused or anxious, they seemed
to be waiting for something.

But why weren’t they barking at her? The dogs
were trained to guard the place even against people they knew well
until Paulie gave them the signal.

She climbed off of Sparkie and let his reins
drag on the ground. The horse wandered to the side of the road and
began munching grass. Marie stepped through the gate, but still
none of the dogs paid her any attention.

She glanced around the clearing where Paulie
had cut back the forest to build the small barn and the attached
kennel shack. Dried cornstalks stood like sentinels in the small
field out back. Rabbit hides hung on the barn door. It occurred to
Marie that both were symbols of death, and she shivered.

"Paulie?" she called.

Several of the dogs glanced at her as though
hoping
she
would get an answer, but the house remained
silent, and her anxiety increased. The windows of the small cabin
were dark and somehow threatening, but except for the odd behavior
of the dogs the rest of the homestead exuded an air of normalcy.
There was even a coffee cup on the arm of one of the porch
chairs.

But the thought of the old man perhaps lying
on the floor inside the house maybe... maybe dead... tightened
Marie’s throat, and she considered running back to Sparkie, jumping
on his back, and racing down the hill for help as fast as the
worn-out old animal would go.

But then what if Paulie was still alive? What
if leaving him now caused his death? Besides, Paulie had a phone
and radio in the house. It would be faster to use them.

She stroked one of the dog’s heads in
passing, and she got the strangest sense of comradeship, as though
the shepherd shared in every human emotion she was experiencing.
Staring into the animal’s dark eyes only enhanced the feeling that
the entire pack was urging her on. She steeled her courage and
stepped up onto the porch. Through the screen she could just see
the gloomy kitchen, and she could smell coffee and bacon. Maybe it
was the aroma of meat that had drawn the dogs.

Only they didn’t act hungry but nervous and
uncertain. They were creatures of command, and no one had given
them one, so they waited.

"Down," she said, on impulse.

Most of the dogs obeyed. A couple studied the
others first, then Marie again. She maintained eye contact until
they acquiesced.

"Please God," she whispered, turning to jerk
open the screen door, "let Paulie be all right."

There was no one in the tiny kitchen, but the
light was still red on the Mr. Coffee, and the pot was half full.
There were two pieces of bacon in a pan on the stove and a
half-finished plate of eggs and toast on the pine table. A ceramic
Bless this House
 plaque hung beside the refrigerator,
but Marie sensed no blessing here. Instead the cabin held its
breath like a prowler lurking behind a door, and her shoulders
tightened against a half-expected blow.

"Paulie?" she called.

But there was no answer, and goosebumps broke
out on her arms and the back of her neck began to tingle.

She hurried to the phone on the wall beside
the bedroom door and lifted it to her ear. But there was no dial
tone. She clicked the hook a few times, but nothing happened, and
she replaced it, hating the way the tiny clicking noise seemed to
ratatat like a drum roll against the shabby old paneling. She
glanced nervously around for Paulie’s hand held radio. The empty
charger sat on the floor in a dark corner of the hallway, but she
figured wherever Paulie was, he had to have the radio with him.

"Paulie?" she called again, wishing now that
she had allowed the dogs to follow her inside.

She glanced back up the hall and through the
screen, squinting at the bright sunlight outside. The dogs’ eyes
were all glued to the door. They didn’t look frightened, just
nervous. At least they weren’t barking or growling. In her current
state that would have been enough to make her pee her pants.

The covers on the old iron bed in Paulie’s
tiny bedroom were thrown aside. Stepping from the hall into the
room she passed through an invisible sensory wall. The bedroom
smelled not of breakfast but the old man odor of Paulie’s musky
aftershave, and the nose twisting aroma of musty drapes and sheets
and blankets too long on one bed. She stared at the family photos
on the walls all in polished brass frames. One beautiful wife and
six children including a much younger Ashley.