Nigel couldn't help but be cynical. Treat us like weirdos initially, he thought, but now you want your tip.
'Seems very quiet in town,' Heather said.
The woman nodded. 'It usually is. We're a very quiet town. But today in particular. Yesterday was a public holiday here in Liberty'
'Is there anything to see here in town?'
What do you mean?' She looked apprehensive.
'Any sights. We've got a bit lost. But seeing as we're here, we were wondering if there was anything of any historical interest.'
The waitress looked blank. 'No, I don't think there is,' she said and laughed nervously. The temple, I suppose, but...'
A portly man appeared at her shoulder and she stopped.
He was wearing an apron. Nigel assumed he was the cook.
'Can I be of assistance?' he said, looking directly at Nigel, putting hands with fingers like sausages on his hips.
He was breathing heavily through his mouth.
The waitress did not resume her sentence. She gave them a tight smile and cleared the table before scurrying back to her post.
Your waitress was just being of great assistance,'
Heather replied.
Nigel could sense the irritation in her voice. The man ignored her and continued to look coldly at Nigel.
He knew it was best to speak before Heather flipped.
We're a bit lost and looking for some recommendations what to do here in Liberty,' he said simply.
'The best thing you can do is get in your car and head out of town,' came the response. The cook rubbed his chin. 'There ain't nothing here for you people.'
'Oh,' Nigel said. 'Fair enough.'
'And quit diverting my staff,' he added. 'Now, that meal was on the house. Just be on your way' He wiped his hands on his apron, fixed Nigel with another stare and headed back to his kitchen.
They got up and left without speaking. Nigel tried to smile at their waitress but she avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Outside in the gleaming white light, they shared a look.
What did we expect?' Nigel said.
'There must be someone in this place who doesn't bear a pathological distrust of outsiders. The waitress mentioned the temple, before Guy the Gorilla intervened.
Let's go there. Maybe there's a vicar or priest of some sort we can speak to. A man of the cloth might be less insular.'
Nigel had reservations. For a start, he wasn't sure the Mormon faith, fundamentalist or not, had people like vicars.
Heather was having nothing of it; he recognized the defiant cut of her jaw as she strode across the square to the temple that loomed over it.
The portico was supported by three white pillars. At either side of the building was a pair of smooth cylindrical towers with turrets at the top, studded with arched windows. A semicircle of white stone steps swept up to double doors, one of which appeared to be slightly ajar.
Without stopping to knock or call out, Heather walked through into a cool, dark vestibule.
It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust from the bright light outside. The temple was silent. In front of them was a wall, with open arches either side. To the right and left were doors, both locked.
Heather looked at Nigel and shrugged. 'Maybe there's some kind of office where we can find someone,' she suggested.
They
went through one of the arches that opened into the main part of the temple. In front of them were rows and rows of pews and a carpeted floor. There were precious few religious adornments, save an inscription on the back wall that read 'the lord has seen our sacrifice'
and a single cross. They looked around but saw no one. In the corner to their left was a door that Heather tried, and which was also locked.
Wait here,' Heather said, and started wandering towards the front, where there were more doors.
Nigel felt a cold chill down his spine. The fact the temple was open but as deserted as the rest of the town made him uneasy. He glanced round and saw behind him, at the back wall to his right, a small table, draped in white cloth, complete with a couple of books. Above it, on the wall, was a large notice or message board, listing forthcoming events and other community arcana. Nigel perused them -- they ranged from the profound, a service celebrating the anniversary of the town's founding, to the trivial, someone advertising a crochet group for ladies. There was little to distinguish it from the day-to-day activities of any small church in any religion.
He looked at the books on the table. The first, the smaller book, was the Book of Mormon. The second was a larger book, thick and bound like a ledger. He opened it up. It appeared to be a handwritten register of the Church's ceremonies. Baptisms, weddings, searings, endowments, going back at least three or four years. He flicked through the heavy pages until he reached the last used page, only a few before the end. He looked down absentmindedly, wondering how they archived the information for future generations. He stopped at the last entry.
He read it again to be sure. His stomach leaped three feet in the air, it seemed. 'Heather,' he called out. 'Heather!'
Somewhere a door slammed abruptly shut. She was at his shoulder in a few seconds, recognizing the urgency in his voice. What?'
He pointed to the entry, the date written in American style. 'Temple Ordinance. Baptism by Proxy. Catherine Mary Pratt b. 1969 d. 2008. Baptized 11.4.2008. Endowed 11.4.2008.'
'Katie Drake,' she said. 'This was yesterday' Nigel pointed to the names below. Martin Stamey. His son below that.
'Can I help?' The voice was soft and patient.
They turned with a start. The speaker was a small man with neat black hair, head tilted to one side. Both were rendered speechless.
'Can I see your temple recommend?'
They looked at each other.
'This temple is for Church members only. People without a recommend are forbidden from entering. There are severe punishments . . .'
We're just leaving,' Heather said.
The man watched them go. Nigel followed Heather as she busded through the door, into the blinding brightness and towards the car. Nigel looked behind. The man was standing at the top of the stairs watching them go. Two vehicles, one a beaten pick-up truck, entered the square at speed, the roar of the engine and the slamming of its brakes ripping the silence apart. Heather fumbled with the keys but got the door open. The small man hurried down the steps to the two vehicles, gesturing and pointing towards him and Heather.
Heather turned the engine over -- to their relief it fired to life instantly -- and headed straight out of the square.
A few minutes later they were hurtling out of Liberty, no one in their wake.
13
The safe house -- Foster could not bring himself to do anything other than spit those words out in light of their palpable absurdity - throbbed with activity, yet all of those present steered clear of the large brooding presence on the sofa nursing a cup of tea. Outside, for the first time in days, a pale sun peered sheepishly through the steel-grey sky, though it did nothing to alleviate Foster's sense of helplessness. He'd sworn to the kid that he'd be safe and that had turned out to be a l
