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But she told herself that deceit had been necessary.
Her old love, Josepe Salazar, was involved with something significant enough to have drawn the attention of the U.S. Justice Department. Last week, Stephanie had reported that Josepe may even have been involved with the death of a man. Nothing definitive, but enough to arouse suspicion.
She found it all hard to believe.
“Just a little recon. That’s all I need,” Stephanie had said six months ago. “Salazar might tell you things he would not tell anyone else.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Did you know there’s a photograph of you two in his Spanish house? It appears to have been taken years ago. Right there, near his desk, among other family pictures. That’s how I knew to approach you. A man doesn’t keep a picture like that around without a reason.”
No, a man doesn’t.
Especially one who’d been married and lost his wife.
Then last week Stephanie asked if she could accelerate her contact.
So she’d arranged for the trip to Denmark.
She’d once thought she loved Josepe. He’d clearly loved her, and seemed to still harbor some feelings. His hand on hers at dinner, which lingered longer than necessary, provided a hint of that. She’d continued the charade to prove to both Stephanie and herself that all of the allegations were wrong. She owed that to Josepe. He seemed utterly at ease with her, and she hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake leading him along. When they were younger, he’d been nothing but kind. Their relationship had ended because she refused to accept what he, his parents, and her own all believed to be true. Thankfully, he’d found someone to share his life with. But that person was now gone.
Too late to turn back. She was in.
This had to be played out.
“I sit here, or out on the terrace, most evenings,” he said to her. “Maybe we could enjoy the breeze in a little while. But first, I have something to show you.”
MALONE ROSE FROM THE GROUND.
At the sight and sound of the man with Cassiopeia—whom he assumed was Salazar—opening the French doors, he’d flattened himself behind a thick hedge. Luke, on the far side, had likewise disappeared downward. Thankfully, no one had stepped outside.
Luke stood.
Malone came close and whispered, “Did you know she was here?”
The younger man nodded.
Stephanie had failed to say a word to him, which surely was intentional. He brushed away damp mulch that covered the bed.
The French doors remained open.
He motioned for them to enter.
SALAZAR LED CASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE GROUND FLOOR TO A library that had once been his grandfather’s. It was from his mother’s father that he’d learned to appreciate the way things had existed in the church’s beginning—when heaven ruled absolute—before everything was changed to accommodate conformity.
He hated that word.
America professed a freedom of religion, where beliefs were personal and the government stayed out of churches. But nothing could have been farther from the truth. Saints had been persecuted from the beginning. First in New York, where the church was founded, which led to an exodus to Ohio, but the attacks continued. Then the congregation moved to Missouri, and a series of prolonged riots resulted in death and destruction. So they fled to Illinois, but more violence followed, ultimately resulting in a tragedy at the hands of a mob.
Every time he thought of that day his gut churned.
June 27, 1844.
Joseph Smith and his brother were murdered in Carthage, Illinois. The idea had been to destroy the church with the death of its leader. But the opposite had happened. Smith’s martyrdom became a rallying point, and Saints flourished. Which he took as nothing short of divine intervention.
He opened the library door and allowed his guest to enter. He’d purposefully left the lights on earlier, hoping he might have an opportunity to bring her here. He could not have done so any sooner since his prisoner had been jailed nearby. That man’s soul was surely, by now, on its way to Heavenly Father, the blood atonement assuring admittance. He felt content knowing that he’d bestowed his enemy that favor.
“Do not kill a man unless he be killed to save him,” the angel had many times said.
“I brought you here to see a rare artifact,” he said. “Since we were last together I have become an acquirer of all things related to Saints’ history. I have a large collection, which I keep in Spain. Of late, though, I’ve been privileged to be a part of a special project.”
“For the church?”
He nodded. “I was chosen by one of the elders. A brilliant man. He asked me to work directly with him. I ordinarily would not speak of this, but I think you’ll appreciate it.”
He approached the desk and pointed to a tattered book that lay open on the leather blotter. “Edwin Rushton was an early Saint. He knew Joseph Smith personally and worked closely with him. He was one of those who buried Prophet Joseph after his martyrdom.”
She seemed interested in what he was saying.
“Rushton was a man of God who loved the Lord and was devoted to the restoration. He met many trials in his life and overcame them all. Eventually he settled in Utah and lived there until he died in 1904. Rushton kept a journal. A vital record of the early church that many thought had disappeared.” He pointed toward the desk. “But I recently acquired it.”
A stiff map of the United States sat displayed on a nearby easel, and he saw Cassiopeia glance toward it. He’d pinned markers at Sharon, Vermont. Palmyra, New York. Independence, Missouri. Nauvoo, Illinois. And Salt Lake City, Utah.
“That traces the Saints’ path from where the Prophet Joseph was born, to where the church was formed, then on to Missouri and Illinois where we settled, and finally west. We traversed America and, along the way, became part of its history. More so than anyone even realizes.”
He could see that she was definitely intrigued.
“This journal is documentary proof of that fact.”
“It seems important to you.”
His thoughts were clear. His purpose beyond dispute.
“Tell her,” the angel said in his head.
“Do you know the White Horse Prophecy?”
She shook her head.
“Let me read you a passage from the journal. It explains a glorious vision.”
MALONE HAD MANAGED TO MANEUVER HIMSELF CLOSE TO THE open door, beyond which he could hear Salazar and Cassiopeia talking. Luke had drifted to other portions of the house, taking advantage of an opportunity to look around. Fine by him. He wanted to know what Cassiopeia was doing with a man who’d killed a U.S. Justice Department agent.
Everything about this rang wrong.
Cassiopeia, a woman he loved, alone with this devil?
He and Cassiopeia had known each other for two years, their beginnings anything but friendly. Only in the past few months had their relationship changed, both of them recognizing that they wanted more from the other, yet neither of them willing to reach too far. He understood that they were not married, nor even engaged, each with their own lives to live as they pleased. But they’d spoken as recently as a few days ago and she’d mentioned nothing about any trip to Denmark. In fact, she told him she was confined to France for the next week, her castle-rebuilding project demanding all of her attention.
A lie.
How many more had she told him?
Outside, he’d caught sight of Salazar. Tall, dark-skinned, hair cut in thick waves. Dressed smartly, too, in a stylish suit. Was he jealous? He certainly hoped not. But he could not deny the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. One he hadn’t felt in a long while. The last time? Nine years ago, when his marriage began to fall apart.
Nothing about that had been good, either.
He’d heard Salazar mention an old journal recently acquired and wondered if this was the same artifact Kirk had dangled as bait, the one whose owner was supposedly dead. He also wondered if
this was where Kirk had wanted them to end up. After all, the study had specifically been mentioned.
At the moment he possessed too few answers to test any hypothesis.
So he told himself to be patient.
He could not risk a peek past the doorway into the study, his position outside, in the corridor, already precarious. But another open room six feet away offered a retreat.
