Mickelsson's Ghosts by John Gardner (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

“More or less. Not knowingly.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “They know I’m a man of authority, a helpful older advisor, one might say. They provide me with information—much as you do, Professor—but unless they’re a good deal more astute than I think, they have no real idea what my role is.”

“Wait a minute,” Mickelsson said, turning, still bent over. Lawler’s face was—like Mickelsson’s own, no doubt—black with dust except for the eyes and eyelids. The handkerchief over his nose and mouth was now gray. “They don’t know you’re a Danite?”

Lawler said nothing. He seemed to stiffen a little.

“Who does know?” Mickelsson asked. “Do they know in Salt Lake City?”

“Keep working,” Lawler commanded, surprisingly gruff. Then he said, “That would amuse you, wouldn’t it—to think that I’m self-appointed. No such luck, my friend. I’m definitely official.”

“But I’ll bet you can’t prove it.”

“Possibly not.” Lawler gave a weary but elegant little wave.

Mickelsson slowly shook his head. “It figures,” he said at last, pausing to wipe sweat from his eyebrows. He swung the wreckingbar with extra violence. “A lone-wolf fanatic. Jesus fucking Christ.” When he pried, his hands slipped off the handle and he almost fell. Lawler jerked his gun in alarm, and Mickelsson understood that he’d nearly gotten his head blown off.

Soothingly, after he’d recomposed himself, Lawler said, “You must be very tired.”

“Sure,” Mickelsson said, and once again seized the wreckingbar, then stabbed in behind the moleboard.

“Well,” Lawler said, “whether I’m really a Danite or just some Latter-Day maniac, here I am, and there you are. The laws governing our behavior seem clear. Isn’t that a comfort?”

“Laws,” Mickelsson breathed. A long stretch of moleboard broke away as he tugged. Like the piece he’d noticed upstairs, this stretch too had gouge-marks. Insect of some kind? he wondered.

“Yes, yes you’re right to mock,” Lawler was saying softly. With his small, plump left hand he wiped at his eyes, then dropped his hand and blinked for a moment, then briefly wiped them again. “It’s an interesting point, the Mormon view of Law. Quite orthodox, really. The early Christians were lawless in a similar way. Christ, they said, brought an end to outer, that is, positive law—the old Jewish food laws, sabbath laws, and so on. ‘Be Christ-like,’ that was the only law. A very good law, in fact—though devilishly tricky, and now long past its viability. Your friend Nietzsche would doubtless have approved of the old idea, if it had been properly explained to him. You are—I’m not mistaken?—a student of Nietzsche?”

“Not lately.”

“Pity. Well, in any case, I’m by no means the lawless creature you imagine me—quite the obverse! I believe with all my heart and mind in the vision of Joseph Smith Jr., as modified by Young and Pratt and, most important, modern circumstances. A vision, essentially, of man as he is: a small group of brilliant, imaginative thinkers supported in their work by a vast army of obedient, superstitious fools who give us half of all they earn—that’s their tithe—which we ‘invest’ for them.” His eyes crinkled. “The law I follow—”

“You being one of the leaders,” Mickelsson said, and shifted from the wreckingbar to the pick-axe, preparing to smash into the wall beside the ornate walnut and cut-glass front door.

Mickelsson had hit a nerve, it seemed. Lawler said sternly, “Beware of mocking the man with the gun, Professor Mickelsson.” At once Lawler made himself calm again. “There’s something to what you say, of course. In any intelligent organization, one rises by acts worthy of notice. But do not make the mistake of supposing I do what I do for honor or recognition at Salt Lake City. I do not object to honor or recognition. I act, however, for much less selfish reasons—in the name of what is right.”

“Right!” Mickelsson snorted, and again slammed the pick-axe into the wall. “You’re a fool! You know what you are? You’re pitiful.”

“You are mistaken, Professor,” Lawler said quietly. “But there’s no point debating it.”

“That’s crazy,” Mickelsson said, and to his quick indignation heard a whine in his voice; yet he pressed on: “People have been debating right and wrong for thousands of years!”

“Only fools,” Lawler said. He leaned forward as if to spit through the filthy mask.

“Giving up everything—fifty per cent of your income every year—giving up even your brains, your individual will, giving your very life to some tyrannical cult built on violence and fraud—you can sit there and tell me that’s right?”

“Once the machinery’s in place, such questions don’t come up,” Lawler said dully, then waved the pistol, suggesting that Mickelsson get back to work. “Once a man’s in with us—given our various ‘support systems,’ as the mealy-mouths say—there’s not very much he can do, you see. Oh, a few slip through the net, turn against us. We put pressure on, of course. You can see where we’d be if such defections became common. But if the odd fish proves recalcitrant enough, we let him swim away. On the whole, however … On the whole the Saints are pretty much in your situation.” He seemed to smile behind the mask. “Not a prayer except, possibly, prayer.” He closed his eyes, rocking forward and back, then abruptly opened them. “We’ve talked enough,” he said. “Save your strength now, Professor. We have a great deal yet to do.”

“Makes you uneasy, doesn’t it,” Mickelsson said, “the thought that these Mormons you admire may not exist outside your head.”

“They exist,” Lawler snapped. “Now stop talking or I’ll shoot you.”

No prayer but prayer, Mickelsson thought, and almost, in the extremity of his weariness, laughed. The bones of his hands ached; his palms were blistered and bleeding. His eyes stung as if filled with bits of broken glass, and his lungs felt heavy and stiff with dust, as if left too long in the corner of an attic. His legs were unmuscled, and he itched everywhere. God only knew how Sprague—if it was he who’d torn his house apart, under Lawler’s gun—had