He gathered up another full ladle and held it out.
The man lay flat on his stomach, arms extended, wet face to the floor. Slowly, he rolled over onto his spine, eyes to the ceiling.
He and the angel waited.
“I’m an agent … for the … Justice Department. We’re all … over you.”
The U.S. government. For 180 years it had been nothing but an impediment.
But how much did his enemies know?
The man rolled his head toward him, tired eyes focused tight. “Killing me will accomplish … nothing, except bring you … more trouble.”
“He lies,” the angel said. “He thinks we can be frightened.”
True to his word he slipped the ladle through the bars. The man grabbed the offering and tossed the water into his mouth. He slid the bucket closer, and the man shoveled more liquid down his dry throat.
“Do not waver,” the angel said. “He has committed a sin that he knows will deprive him of that exaltation he desires. He cannot attain it without shedding his blood. By having his blood shed he will atone for that sin and be saved and exalted with God. There is not a man or woman who would not say, ‘Shed my blood that I may be saved and exalted with God.’ ”
No, there was not.
“There have been many instances, Josepe, where men have been righteously slain in order to atone for their sins. I have witnessed scores of people for whom there would have been a chance of exaltation if their lives had been taken, their blood spilled as a smoking incense to the Almighty. But they are now angels to the Devil.”
Unlike this emissary, who spoke the word of God.
“This is loving our neighbor as ourselves. If he needs help, help him. If he wants salvation and it is necessary to spill his blood on the earth in order that he may be saved, spill it. If you have committed a sin requiring the shedding of blood, do not be satisfied nor rest until your blood should be spilled so that you might gain the salvation you desire. That is the way to love mankind.”
He stared away from the apparition and asked the prisoner, “Do you seek salvation?”
“Why do you care?”
“Your sins are great.”
“As are yours.”
But his were different. To lie in search of the truth was not a lie. To kill for another’s salvation was an act of love. He owed this sinner eternal peace, so he reached beneath his jacket and found the gun.
The prisoner’s eyes went wide. He tried to retreat, but there was nowhere to hide.
Killing him would be easy.
“Not yet,” the angel said.
He lowered the gun.
“We still have need of him.”
The apparition then ascended until his form disappeared into the ceiling, the cell left dull, as it had been before the light appeared.
A kindly smile played on his lips.
His eyes shone with a new light, which he attributed to heavenly gratitude for his obedience. He checked his watch and calculated back eight hours.
Noontime in Utah.
Elder Rowan must be informed.
THREE
SOUTHERN UTAH
12:02 P.M.
SENATOR THADDEUS ROWAN STEPPED FROM THE LAND ROVER and allowed the sun to soak him with a familiar warmth. He’d lived in Utah all of his life, now its senior U.S. senator, a position he’d held for thirty-three years. He was a man of power and influence—important enough that the secretary of the interior had personally flown out to escort him today.
“It’s a beautiful place,” the secretary said to him.
The southern half of Utah belonged to the federal government, places with names like Arches, Capitol Reef, and Bryce Canyon. Here, inside Zion National Park, 147,000 acres stretched from northwest to southeast between Interstate 15 and Highway 9. The Paiute once lived here but, starting in 1863, Latter-day Saints, moving south from Salt Lake, displaced them and gave the desolate locale a name—Zion. Isaac Behunin, the Saint who first settled here with his sons, reported that a man can worship God among these great cathedrals as well as in any man-made church. But after a visit in 1870, Brigham Young disagreed and dubbed the locale Not Zion, a nickname that stuck.
Rowan had flown the 250 miles south from Salt Lake by helicopter, landing inside the park with the secretary, the local superintendent waiting for them. Being chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations came with many perks. Not the least of which was the fact that not a dime of federal money was spent on anything, anywhere, unless he okayed it.
“It’s magnificent country,” he said to the secretary.
He’d many times hiked this red-rock desert filled with slot canyons so tight the sun never hit the bottom. Towns on the outskirts were populated with Saints, or Mormons as many people liked to call them. Some Saints, himself included, did not particularly care for the label. It came from the mid–19th century when prejudice and hate forced them to gradually flee west, until they found the isolated Salt Lake basin. His ancestors had been with the first wagons that entered on July 24, 1847. Nothing there then but green grass and, if legend was to be believed, a single tree.