The Remnant (15 page)

Damned fool stunt to pull tonight, you old
Geezer.

But what else was he supposed to do? For
weeks he’d had the crawly feeling that something was up with the
Angels, that the truce was not going to hold and that their
failsafe was no longer safe. When he couldn’t take the strain any
longer he’d acted, and the act had damned near killed him. He
wasn’t half the man he once had been, but he’d managed it. He had.
It had been maybe his one last act of defiance not only against the
Angels but against age and decrepitude as well.

It’s over and done now. You have the rest of
your life to heal up from it.

Two of the dogs curled up under the porch,
the other two followed him into the house. Paulie could hear a few
welcoming barks from the dogs kenneled out back as he dropped into
one of the two frayed and weathered overstuffed chairs in his
den.

Regardless of his premonitions it just didn’t
make sense for the Angels to attack now. They knew that even if
they killed everyone in the valley, even if they got back what they
wanted here, it would all still fall apart on them. He’d seen to
that. And the valley was an armed camp. But what the dickens were
they up to? Why had the pair that Trace said tried to kill him come
directly here? That hinted at some change within the organization,
some decision coming to a head. Murder Trace first then come here
to finish the Brethren?

He shrugged to himself, staring through the
window at the narrow lane that fed the tiny valley like an artery.
His place was the end of the line, the heart, and in some ways the
beginning. In the moonlit distance he could see the cliffs of
Raven’s Head, the highest point, glistening in gray and black
granite like a locked door in the face of God, and a shiver ran
through him as his thoughts returned to the casket.

"Sometimes I wish I’d never laid eyes on that
box," he muttered.

But what if the Angels simply didn’t care
anymore about the box or its contents as long as they got rid of
all of the Brethren? He had this terrible feeling that they were
girding their loins, clothing themselves in righteousness, and
raising up those ass jaws he was sure they kept laying around.

Frederick Rendt was delighted to be back in
California City. The corner of the Arizona high desert bordering on
southern Utah had been home to him all his life. He never felt
quite right whenever he was forced to travel among gentiles. What
others referred to as the human touch
,
small talk and
camaraderie were chores for him
.
He had always felt closer
to God than to man, and he welcomed the coming of the day when he
would rise from the dead and become a God himself, just as Joseph
Smith had promised that every true Mormon would. A lifesized bronze
bust of Smith sat on the desk in his office. But Rendt’s favorite
among the old Mormon hierarchy was not the founder, but Smiths’s
fierce right hand, Orrin Porter Rockwell.

The first Avenging Angel.

It was rumored that-at the instigation of
Smith-Rockwell had assassinated Governor Lilburn Boggs of Missouri.
Rendt had reason to be certain that the rumors were true. Orrin
Porter Rockwell was Frederick Rendt’s great-great-grandfather.
Young’s doctrine of Blood Atonement pulsed through Rendt’s
veins.

His driver pulled the Cadillac limo up the
winding brick drive that was shrouded by imported eucalyptus and
melaleuca defying the desert in much the same way that Rendt defied
unbelievers and apostates. The mansion-surrounded by manicured
lawns and sparkling fountains-had been built by Frederick’s father
after he made his fortune in the freeze-dried food industry-a
staple of Mormons who believed that preparation for the coming
Tribulation was holy doctrine. The company had been sold off when
Rendt was a child, thus allowing Frederick to pursue a life of pure
faith unmarred by any grudging preoccupation with filthy lucre. As
the eldest son of his father’s first wife, Rendt had inherited all.
But he had also assured that all of his brothers were well taken
care of and that every one of his younger sisters married early and
well.

The limo pulled under the wide portico, and
when the driver opened Rendt’s door Rendt caught a glimpse of the
holster under his arm.

"Button your jacket," he said, watching the
man jerk as though slapped.

He trotted up the wide marble stairs into the
house as the butler opened the door. The foyer smelled of fresh
roses, and Rendt smiled. The house and all it represented had a way
of making all his troubles seem inconsequential. Of course he
should have been back in Maine, finishing the business with the
Brethren and Trace Wentworth, but today was a doubly special day,
and he refused to miss it for any reason whatsoever.

"I’ve drawn a bath, sir," said the butler,
closing the door. "What should I lay out for you?"

"I shall require a black suit for the
wedding, also a robe for the ceremony after."

"Very good, sir," said the butler, turning to
stride down the hall. The man had been with the Rendt family since
before Frederick’s birth, yet Rendt could hardly recall having
heard his name spoken. It was unnecessary. Still he felt a bond
with the old man, just as he did with the house.

He stood a moment longer, taking in the deep
oak paneling, the staid portraits of his direct male line on the
high walls, the fresh Crimson Glory roses, with their sharp edged
petals and heavy scent, in numerous vases along the corridor, the
brass and crystal chandeliers. Although he eschewed business he had
not been raised a spoiled brat ungrateful for the largesse he had
inherited. He appreciated his freedom, and every nuance of the
house accented it, especially the temple below.

He followed the butler to his suite, which
was much brighter than the entry, with its wall of multi-paned,
floor to ceiling windows and salmon carpet. This had once been his
father’s abode, but after his death Frederick had taken it over,
renovating the dark walnut wainscot with bright pastel wallpaper
and replacing the antique metal ceiling with a vault complete with
recessed lighting. But he could still feel the old man’s presence
in it. Nehi had been the most devout of men, teaching Rendt early
to worship God and to love and respect Prophet Jeffords. Nehi had
guided Frederick inexorably to become what he had to become.

The sword of the faith.

Rendt waited for the butler to leave, closing
the door behind him, before slipping out of his clothes. Standing
for a moment in the morning sun, he stared at himself in the full
length mirror beside the bathroom door. The white-silk, one-piece,
sacred garment that was worn always beneath his clothes was
tailored specifically for him by a Mormon gentleman who had been
making the undergarments all his life. To a gentile it might have
looked like a short-sleeved, thigh-length attempt at silk long
johns, but to a Latter Day Saint, it was a sign of the faith as
real and nearly as important as the Book of Mormon itself. No
devout member of the LDS or NLDS or any of the numerous other sects
would ever allow anyone to see them in less, not even one of their
spouses. But even wearing his sacred garment he still cut a
masculine figure with broad biceps and a meaty chest.

He modestly closed the bathroom door and
locked it before carefully removing the garment and placing it on a
table especially built for that purpose. Then he showered and
removed a new garment from a rack beside the door, slipping it on
and a heavy terrycloth robe over it. After the wedding he would
change into yet another fresh garment from his locker in the temple
below, prior to the
ceremony.

When he exited the bath he was pleased to
find a single perfect rose-an Amazing Grace, pink with a huge bloom
and quartered center that filled the room with its rich perfumy
scent-resting atop his pillows, and he smiled. The butler had
always been a thoughtful man. He had also left a tray of finger
sandwiches, but Frederick ate only one and sipped some tea before
heading down the corridor to visit his wives.

With the Wentworth business going awry he had
cut the trip far too close. Then, of course, while
on
the
flight he had heard about the fiasco at the crossroads. Wentworth
was a troublesome man and far too energetic and talented, and
apparently possessed of nine lives like a cat. It would have been
much better to have eliminated him long ago in Mexico when he could
easily have disappeared in that half-civilized country just like
most of the Brethren of Mexachuli. But at the time Wentworth had
hardly been a blip on the radar.

Strolling around the wide, sweeping upper
landing Rendt admired the huge crystal vase his father had
purchased in Paris. He loved the way it fractured the light from
the arched window over the entry and splashed rainbows around the
foyer. He stole one last moment of solitary silence to breathe in
deeply of the place.

Then he called to his wives.

"I’m home!"

Twenty-two doors opened and twenty-two women
varying in age from forty to thirteen stepped out onto the landing.
All were clothed alike in prim black dresses with their hair pulled
back neatly. None wore makeup. All nodded to him in greeting, then
aimed their eyes at the floor. All, that is, except the
thirteen-year-old, Rachel. She glared at him with a mixture of
anger, frustration, and fear that stirred Rendt’s loins. She had
only been in the house for three short weeks, and with the troubles
he had had little time to train her. He had none to spare for her
today, and that was a pity. He was going to enjoy breaking her to
his will.

He went to each of the women in turn, lifted
their chins and kissed them chastely on the cheeks, remembering to
ask each one a personal question. That was a touch he had learned
from his father. It was an easy trick to master, and one that
helped to keep peace in the house. The more wives, the more it was
important to convince each of them that they were special, and he
only had a small family compared to some. His father had married
thirty-six women before he died, but of course Rendt was still
comparatively young. It was just that his duties kept him so
busy.

He gripped Rachel’s chin a little tighter
than the others, waiting until he could see the pain in her eyes.
Then he kissed her lightly and turned her toward the stairs.

"Come," he said to all of them, and they
followed him around the landing.

"Will you see the children?" asked Bethany,
the oldest.

He frowned. Plural
 
marriage was a
requirement of his faith, and most of the time he enjoyed having so
many wives and forty-six children, but not when they nagged.

"I’m pretty busy today."

"A couple of the boys have become..."

He stopped, and the entourage halted with
him. "Become what?"

She sighed, and he understood. Over the years
he had had to have the Prophet exile several of his sons, a not at
all unusual happenstance in California City. Boys would be boys,
but they could not be allowed to court young girls destined for
marriage to town elders. Still he had hated the necessity. He loved
all his children as he loved his wives, but God and the Prophet
could be harsh taskmasters. It was Prophet Jeffords contention that
those exiled were like seeds cast upon the wind.

"They will grow in the fullness of the Lord,"
the old man had promised Rendt and the other fathers of California
City, "and eventually they will come to found their own enclaves of
the faith."

Rendt fervently prayed that was so.

"I have not the time to deal with them
today," he said, kissing her again. "See that the boys are properly
quarantined until I return from the east again in a day or
two."

Bethany nodded her acceptance. She was the
only woman to whom he was legally married. The rest were sealed to
him by the church. They were all
married
. They just weren’t
married in the eyes the state, but the Mormon church had never put
much stock in what Gentiles thought or what laws they passed,
anyway. In fact the polygamist laws were considered by
some-although not by Frederick-a blessing in disguise for
fundamentalist Mormons across the country, since all the wives who
were not legally married and their offspring could file claims for
Welfare and food stamps. California City brought in four dollars in
Federal aid for every dollar paid in taxes.

Rendt’s wives followed him down the stairs to
a large sunroom verdant with ficus and fern but from which roses
were exiled. Although he loved the flowers above all other plants
he found that moderation was the key to enjoying them fully. His
wives separated to stand with the other women in the far
corner.

"I’m sorry if we’re late," Rendt told an
older gentleman who stood alone, sipping a glass of icewater.

"Not at all," said the Prophet, his shoulders
stiffening in his taut black suit. Joshua Jeffords had the skeletal
build and leathery skin of many desert dwellers, but his eyes shone
with a dark inner brilliance. "The bride is still getting
ready."

Rendt nodded. He had heard through the
grapevine that the girl was at least as reluctant as Rachel. That
wasn’t unusual. Young girls often got it into their heads that they
should have the same rights as men, that they should be allowed to
decide the when of their marriage as well as the who. Most were
easily convinced when the Prophet explained to them that those were
his and God’s decisions and that disobeying either of them would
lead to the eternal damnation of their souls. Occasionally more
pressure was needed.

Only last year Rendt had taken part in a
manifestation. He and the girl’s father had convinced the reluctant
bride that the bridegroom would spend the night praying to see if
God really did intend for them to be together. While the girl
waited outside the room, the brother prayed loudly and then Rendt
shone a bright spotlight through the window into the bedroom so
that the illumination blasted under the door into the house like
the light of God Almighty. He grinned at the thought of the girl’s
sudden
conversion.
Now she was one of the happiest brides in
California City.