The Remnant (33 page)

"Lovely," said Ashley, sighing. "You think
they’ll be able to keep me locked up upstairs?"

Rendt shook his head. "I don’t think that
will be necessary."

Ashley reverted to silence. It was the only
weapon she had.

But Rendt’s smile was like a dagger in her
heart. "Do you think of Ruth much?"

Ashley’s heart pounded, her chest
tightened.

"You seemed close," continued Rendt.

"Until you killed her."

The door closed and the lock clanged into
place, but for long minutes Ashley could only stare at the black
metal blocking her escape, recalling the day that Ruth had
died.

The girl had been too strong willed for her
own good. She had withstood the beatings, the isolation, the
starvation rations. For years she had endured rape and torture, but
she refused to be the obedient wife. To submit. She would not bow
her head to Rendt. She would not rut in bed at his command like a
trained whore, and finally Rendt had admitted defeat. But men such
as Rendt do not accept defeat the way others do. They require a
penance from the victor, and Rendt had made the spectacle all the
more personally satisfying by betraying Ashley’s trust one last
time as well. He had convinced her that he was going to release
Ruth and for Ashley to come and take her back to Mexachuli with
her. He sweetened the deal by promising that if Ashley would come
he would forgive the Brethren at last, and to her own eternal
consternation she had trusted him.

Then he had taken his retribution. With
Ashley forced to watch, all of the children over the age of ten and
all of Rendt’s wives had been called together in the bright atrium
of the house to view Ruth’s final punishment.

The girl Ashley remembered had grown into a
woman, but due to long and brutal mistreatment she looked far older
than her years. She was emaciated from a diet of bread and water,
her bare arms and calves were laced with scabs from the lash, and
her face was a red, swollen mass surrounding two dark eyes, as she
knelt on the hard, cold tiles with Rendt’s powerful hands locked
around her throat. To extend the torture, Rendt kept releasing the
girl’s throat, allowing her to gasp for air, her eyes rolling,
pleading for help. The sound of her rasping breaths scraped at
Ashley’s heart until she could stand it no more, and she screamed,
struggling futilely against Orrin’s arms.

"Stop it!" she sobbed. "You’re killing
her."

"That," said Rendt, calmly. "Is the
point."

And with that he took one final grasp on the
girl’s neck until she sagged, her body folding like limp cloth onto
the tiles.

"Clean this up," he commanded, and his wives
scurried to work.

Ashley had suffered several weeks of hell
before Cole had finally broken into her father’s house to help her
escape. He had just been ordered banished, and-having learned of
Ashley’s plight-had determined to save her.

It was only a fluke that the two of them had
happened upon the Casket in their flight. When they were very
nearly discovered in the night by Rendt they had taken refuge in
his study and there, atop his desk sat the Casket and-to Ashley’s
shock-a note signed by the Prophet Brigham Young warning against
ever opening it. Ashley held the note in her hand, staring at it
with little comprehension.

Brigham Young? That her father even owned
anything penned by the man seemed impossible. She still believed
that Prophet Young was an instrument of God, but now she knew that
her father was one of the devil. In that instant Ashley knew that
she could not leave the note or the box.

Cole argued. The disappearance would most
certainly sound the alarm. But the impulse driving Ashley was so
deep seated that finally he was forced to either acquiesce or leave
her there. The two of them made a hurried flight out of town in
Cole’s pickup, spending a week in hiding from pursuing Angels, and
almost being caught twice. Finally, just as they were determined to
make the break for the border the news broke of the killings in
Mexico.

Ashley was distraught for days as Cole
attempted to talk her into moving to Canada with him, or even
Europe. But Ashley knew that the two of them would never survive.
They weren’t smart enough to evade her father or the Angels
forever. Then she remembered Paulie’s tales of the valley in Maine.
Cole agreed to take her there where they discovered the survivors
and learned of the horrors in Mexachuli. It was then that she gave
the Casket to Paulie.

That she had been unable to ever grant Cole
the love he deserved was a sadness she would have to carry to her
grave. That he was almost certainly dead now along with Trace was
an even harsher grief, but one that burned slowly back into
rage.

"You’re going to pay," whispered Ashley,
still staring at the black steel door. "One way or the other.
You’re going to pay."

Trace found the small local airport outside
of Allentown, Pennsylvania by following the instructions of an old
man who seemed to own the park bench on the town common. The strip
was paved but unmanned, and Trace parked beside a Quonset hut,
staring at the rusting bulldozer behind it and wishing he
could load the machine onto the plane. Even though it wasn’t a
tank, he could picture himself crashing it into Rendt’s house, but
whatever type of aircraft landed here wasn’t going to lift a
six ton dozer.

Marie-who had remained silent and withdrawn
over the past few hours-climbed out of the truck and leaned
stoically against the fender. Trace had noticed an occasional tear,
but she wiped them away quickly each time, and then her back
stiffened again. She was a tough kid.

Maxie peered out the open back door, and
Trace called to him. The dog hopped down and hobbled over to
relieve itself in the shrubs surrounding the little terminal then
sniffed around the area before trotting back to lie docilely at
Trace’s feet.

"You think he’ll really come?" asked Marie,
staring down the length of the strip.

"He’ll come," said Trace, checking his watch.
"We’re a few minutes early, and small planes aren’t as fast as
jetliners."

Marie nodded. "You trust him?"

Trace frowned. "Let’s just say right now I
trust him a lot more than I trust Frederick Rendt or any of the
NLDS, and I have no one else I can call. Rendt’s ruined my
reputation. No cop would believe me, and I don’t have any real
friends."

Marie walked shyly up to Trace and surprised
him by wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her head
against his chest.

"I’m your friend," she whispered.

As though the girl’s arms were bands of
steel, Trace discovered that he could barely breathe. Here he was,
a lost soul in a world of lost souls, and this child who had lost
everything wanted to succor him. His throat constricted, and his
eyes welled. He squeezed her back tightly.

"Back atcha, kid," he croaked.

Suddenly she began to shake with sobs, and he
felt tears soaking through his shirt. What more could he say or do
to comfort her? Holding her now seemed such a feeble offering. She
looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, and he wanted to die. Or
kill.

"They’re all gone," she choked.

Trace could only nod.

"Do you think I’ll ever see them again?"

"I don’t know," said Trace, quietly.

"Tell me the truth!" she said, glaring.

"No," said Trace, at last. "I don’t think
so... But, Marie... I’m the wrong person to ask. I just don’t
know."

"It’s something you either know or you
don’t," she agreed.

"What do you know, then?"

"I know there’s something out there," she
whispered. "Something that talks to me or shows me things."

"What kinds of things?" asked Trace, raising
one eyebrow.

"I knew you were in trouble on Raven’s
Head."

Trace nodded again. Although he longed
desperately to cling to the notion of coincidence, his entire life
seemed to a series of them that were beyond skepticism.

"Other things," said Marie, darkly. "There’s
a war going on."

"I think it’s over," said Trace.

She shook her head. "Not here."

Trace waited, but once again the girl seemed
talked out. He wondered why she saw visions while he got
visitations by Ratso from Sesame Street. His suspicion that
whatever was
out there
was simply playing a millennia-old
game with the human race grew stronger with each passing moment,
though.

The twin engine Piper Seneca-the silhouette
of the Mormon Angel Moroni clearly emblazoned on its tail-roared
once over the field before slipping into a long banking turn for
its approach. The pilot made an expert landing, and the plane
taxied to within fifty feet of Trace and Marie before killing the
engines. The door opened, and two powerfully built young men,
crewcut and wearing black business suits leaped out, setting steps
for an older gentleman, also dressed in black but with a
well-trimmed gray beard and searing blue eyes above an aquiline
nose.

"Is that the Prophet?" asked Marie.

Trace nodded. "Jedadiah Mason, the grand
poobah of the Latter Day Saints."

Marie made a face at Trace, and Trace
shrugged.

The old man stopped in front of them, the two
younger men maintaining a polite distance behind, but Trace noticed
that both had one hand inside their jackets, and he stiffened.

"So?" said the Prophet.

Trace nodded toward the open rear hatch of
the station wagon. He led. They all followed. He gently lifted the
casket out and placed it on the open tailgate, raising the lid with
one hand for the old man to peer inside. The look on the Prophet’s
face as he lifted out the items, as he read the parchment, was a
replay of that on the face of the Angel in the forest. Finally
Jedadiah carefully replaced the contents, closed the box and
motioned for one of the young men to lift it. Trace stiffened
again, and the Prophet noticed.

"Do you trust me so little, Mister
Wentworth?" asked Jedadiah.

Trace bit his lip. "That’s the last card I
have to play."

Jedadiah nodded sagely. "Perhaps. Perhaps
not. Come. We must board the plane."

"Maxie," said Marie, pointing at the dog.

"I’m afraid he cannot come on the plane, my
dear," said Jedadiah.

"I won’t leave Maxie."

Jedadiah looked to Trace, but Trace could
only shrug.

"Martin!" called the Prophet, and the other
bodyguard approached. "Do you think you could chauffeur our furry
friend to Salt Lake in the car?"

The young man smiled and nodded. "Yes,
sir."

"Then please do so."

While Marie was saying goodbye to the dog and
the Casket was placed inside the plane Trace moved closer to the
Prophet.

"Perhaps it would be better if Marie rode to
Salt Lake with Maxie and Martin."

The Prophet frowned, looking back at the
girl. "Is that your decision?"

"I think it’s best."

"Because you foresee danger? Or because you
do not wish to be responsible for her?"

"Both, I guess," admitted Trace.

"I will do as you decide."

But when Marie caught Trace’s eye he knew she
had intuited the gist of their conversation, and he also knew that
he could not betray her again. She’d been betrayed enough for a
lifetime already. He sighed, shaking his head.

"No," he said, quietly. "She comes with me, I
guess."

The Prophet smiled, climbing into the plane
and taking a seat behind the pilot. Trace sat beside him. Once
Marie was inside the young bodyguard closed the door, and the
engines sputtered to life. The takeoff was as smooth as the
landing, the pilot banking the powerful plane quickly and heading
west. Outside the window lay a vast sea of foliage. Somewhere far
ahead lay desert.

"What will you do with the Casket and its
contents?" asked Trace. "Bury it or destroy it?"

The Prophet studied him for a long moment.
"You know so little about me or about my faith, Mister
Wentworth."

"You didn’t answer my question."

"We will have the contents studied by
experts. If they are found to be what they purport to be I shall
have them released for inspection by the general scientific and
historical community."

"You’re saying you’d release this information
to the general Mormon membership?"

"Of course. I am neither a liar, nor a fraud,
Mister Wentworth. I do not believe that Joseph Smith was, either.
But should the document and the plates prove reliable I shall have
to reexamine my faith in the man and his teachings. This does not
mean I shall have to reexamine my belief in the Lord God. Do you
understand the difference?"

"You’re talking about the fall of the Mormon
Church," said Trace, disbelieving. "No Prophet could preside over
any such thing."

"No
true
Prophet could preside over a
church of God based upon lies, either, Mister Wentworth. I assure
you this Prophet could not. But, in any case, we are still a long
way from knowing whether such is true, aren’t we? Are you a
handwriting expert?"

"No."

Jedadiah nodded. "An expert on paper,
parchment, ink, perhaps?"

"I think you know I’m not."

"I do. And I think you know that those are
only a few of the experts we shall be having examine the document
and plates."

"Enough
experts
can disprove
anything," agreed Trace.

This time Jedadiah’s frown was more
pronounced. "You truly do not know me, Mister Wentworth."

Trace turned to stare out the window. Below
he could already see what looked like the skyline of Harrisburg.
The little plane was no jet, but they were racing the sun, speeding
toward a final confrontation with the Rat King, and this time he
wasn’t going to slip away.

"Do you believe in angels?" he asked, turning
back to the Prophet.