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“It matters not,” the angel said. “She is of Zion and her purpose is your purpose. If she be repulsed by what had to be done, then she would not have interfered.”
Which made sense.
“She is your ally. Treat her as such.”
He stared at the vision and asked what he’d never before possessed the courage to say. “Are you Moroni?”
Nothing would exist but for Moroni. He’d lived on earth around A.D. 400 and became the prophet who buried a record of his people on golden plates. Centuries later, he appeared to Joseph Smith and led him to the spot where the plates rested. Under the divine inspiration of Heavenly Father, with Moroni’s help, Prophet Joseph had translated the plates and published them as the Book of Mormon.
“I am not Moroni,” the angel said.
He was shocked. He’d always assumed that to be the case. “Then who are you?”
“Have you ever wondered about your name?”
An odd question.
“I am Josepe Salazar.”
“Your first name is one of long standing in Hebrew. Your last from the Basque heritage of your father.”
He knew that, the surname originating from a medieval town in Castile where a noble family adopted the identity as their own.
“You are Josepe. Joseph in English. Joseph Salazar. As with the prophet, Joseph Smith, whose initials you share. J. S.”
He’d long noticed that coincidence, but thought little of it. His father had intentionally chosen his first name to honor the prophet.
“I am Joseph Smith.”
He did not know what to say.
“I am here to aid you in the battle ahead. Together, we shall reclaim the freedom that belongs to Zion. Know this, Josepe. Heavenly Father has promised that, before the generation living has passed, we shall defeat the gentiles and fulfill all His promises. It will come to pass. Elder Rowan will soon lead the church, and you shall be at his side.”
He felt so unworthy. Tears welled in his eyes. He fought the urge to cry, but then succumbed, allowing his emotions to spew forth. He hinged his spine forward and extended his arms to the floor.
“Cry, Josepe. Cry for all who have died for our cause, myself included.”
He looked up at the apparition.
Smith had been thirty-eight years old that day in June 1844, jailed in Illinois on trumped-up charges. A mob had attacked, and Joseph and his brother Hyrum were shot dead.
“I went like a lamb to the slaughter, but I was calm as a summer’s morning. My conscience was void of offense toward God and toward all men. They took my life, but I died an innocent man. It has forever since been said of me that I was murdered in cold blood.”
That it had, and it was true.
But the eyes that stared down at him were, for the first time, full of power.
“My blood cries from the ground for vengeance.”
He knew exactly what to say.
“And you shall have it.”
FORTY
ORANGE COUNTY, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10
1:00 A.M.
LUKE WAS BACK AT MONTPELIER. HIS DINNER WITH KATIE HAD lasted three hours. She’d taken him to a cozy roadside diner north of town where they’d drunk beer and nibbled on some not-half-bad fried chicken. She was a doll baby and he wished he had the time to spend the night. She seemed to like military guys. They’d taken separate cars to the diner, so she’d driven herself home while he headed back to the estate, her phone number and email address tucked in his pocket.
Three more hours he’d sat in his Mustang, parked among the trees off the road behind the main house. The temple stood a few hundred yards away. Not a light burned anywhere, save for a smattering on the exterior of the mansion, which he could see in the distance through the trees. No patrols or security people of any kind had appeared. All was quiet.
At his apartment he’d studied pictures of the temple, and his on-site inspection earlier had only confirmed his thoughts. He’d brought with him a fifty-foot coil of thick hemp rope, a flashlight, some gloves, and a crowbar. Everything an enterprising burglar might need.
He stepped from the car and retrieved his tools, quietly closing the trunk.
The walk through the woods took ten minutes, the sky clouded over and devoid of a moon or stars. The dark outline of the temple came into view and he strolled up the knoll, dry grass crunching beneath his feet, and stepped up onto the concrete pad. Not much noise in these woods—unlike home where crickets and frogs sang through the night. Sometimes he missed home. After his father’s death things had never been the same. Enlisting had been the right call. He saw the world and grew up at the same time. Now he was a U.S. Justice Department agent. His mother had been proud when he told her of the career move, and so had his brothers. He had no college degree, no professional license, no patients, clients, or students.
But by damn he’d made something of himself.
He set the rope and light aside. With the crowbar he began to work the mortar surrounding the center hatch. It chipped away with minimal effort and he was quickly able to wedge the flat end of the iron into the joint. A few pushes and one edge lifted free. A little farther and he exposed an opening in the floor plenty wide for him to fit through.
He laid the square section of concrete down beside the entrance, then tied the rope to one of the columns. He tested the strength and was satisfied it could hold him. He tossed the rest of the rope into the opening.
One last look around.
Still quiet.
He extended his hand with the flashlight into the hatch and switched on its red-filtered light. Darkness dissolved below and he spotted brick walls and a brick floor thirty feet down. As he’d anticipated, the first ten feet would be all rope until the slack hinged inward and his feet found wall. Then he could ease himself down. The same would be true on the way back up. Thank God his upper body was in great shape The climb in and out should not be a problem.
He switched off the light and stuffed it inside his jean pocket. He slipped on leather gloves and down he went.
He marveled at what it would have taken to dig this pit two hundred years ago, all with only picks and shovels. Of course Madison had owned slaves—about a hundred according to Katie’s tour. So labor wasn’t a problem. Still, the effort to construct a hole this wide and deep was impressive.
His feet found the wall and he walked himself to the floor.
He glanced back up and imagined the scene from long ago. A lot of ice would have been stacked in here during winter. The lake he’d admired earlier beyond the house would have frozen over annually. Blocks would then be cut away by slaves, dragged to the pit, and packed with straw for insulation. So much ice that it kept itself frozen till the following winter, when the process was repeated all over again. He’d read on the Montpelier website earlier that ice cream was one of Madison’s favorite foods. His wife, Dolley, was even credited with popularizing the treat by serving it at her husband’s second inaugural ball.
He switched the light back on and surveyed the interior. The red beam shone only a short stretch, and everything was swathed in gray, so he risked it and switched to white. Hard to say how many bricks surrounded him. Certainly in the thousands, their color faded, a yellow moss encrusting the joints and crevices. Impossible to prevent given the porous soil and the length of time the pit had existed. But overall, the walls were relatively clean. Being sealed had certainly helped.
The beam caught something.
He swung back and focused on the brick face.
Faint.
But there.
He stepped closer and glanced upward, focusing through the dimness.
“It’s friggin’ letters,” he whispered.
XIII.
He began a careful survey with the light.
Letters etched on more bricks appeared.
XIX. LXX. XV. LIX. XCIX.
He was no student of Latin. Sure, he knew the obvious Roman numerals. The Super Bowls had taught him th
at. He’d never figured out why the NFL chose to use those over good old-fashioned American numbers. Maybe it classed things up?
He continued his scan and noticed that there were duplicates scattered about. He quickly counted five LXXs. Eight XVs. He recalled what Stephanie had showed him from Madison’s note. Scrawled at the bottom was IV. He searched, whipping the light around the cylindrical walls.
And found it.
IV.
Near the top, maybe six feet down from the opening.
He decided to see if his hunch was correct. A further scan revealed not another IV anywhere.
Good enough for him.
