Terror in the Kingdom: Orson Kincaid Series, #2

By William Staub

When the body of a local church leader is recovered from the Grand Canyon, the Navajo reservation coroner calls it suicide. The family suspects murder, but the remains are cremated before they can bury their loved one. Out of caution, church headquarters sends out Orson Kincaid and Haley Parker to find out if this is the beginning of hardcore prejudice against church members or an isolated crime…or is it something more? Kincaid and Parker soon end up in trouble and the answers they find only lead to more questions and greater dangers. Is there a real Terror in the Kingdom of God on Earth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: William C Staub
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215391181

William Staub

William Staub (Dusty) has been writing for more than thirty years and enjoys the cathartic release he gets from diving into a good story with a flawed hero. He retired from military service in the US Army in 1993 and took a job teaching high school in inner-city Baltimore, Maryland for the next thirteen years. Then he returned to the Army as a civilian employee and taught young soldiers for ten years. He gave the Army fifty years of his life and felt that it was time to leave the defense of our nation to the younger generation. William Staub has been happily married for the past forty-nine years to a true southern belle. He has four grown children and seven grandchildren. They live in a beautiful small home on a quiet waterfront in northeast Florida with their two boxers and four-wheel-drive Jeep.

Book preview

ONE

Disavow your god! the large, leathery man commanded the silent and bleeding figure kneeling on the hard-packed desert sand. The victim's business-length jet black hair was pasted across his forehead by his sweat and blood. The aggressors had bound the infidel's hands behind him and forced him to his knee’s minutes earlier. Yet his persistent humility and confidence enraged his tormentor.

The experienced interrogator should have broken the puny weakling by now; the coward should have been begging for any chance to stop the beating. But still, he resisted their demands.

The victim answered the demand with peaceful silence.

Slam!

His head swung to one side with the unexpected punch, a cut developing over the multiple bruises already forming above his left eye. He thought about turning the other cheek but knew the injuries on his right cheek were already at least as bad as those on his left side. The thought almost made him smile. Almost, but not entirely, due to the gravity of this situation. He realized he might not see his family again in this life because he would not meet their demands.

An older, well-dressed man leaned toward the kneeling figure and spoke in a stage whisper. You have not earned as much as $5,000 for your family yet, this year, he said with a mid-west U.S. accent. He gently placed a wrapped stack of hundred-dollar bills on the ground in front of him and slowly fanned the bills with one thumb. I will give you $10,000 if you deny your god exists for our video camera, he softly crooned. He stepped back, allowing the single floodlight and cameraman to see the face of the bound victim.

Silence.

The smooth talker sighed. "Let me make it easier for you, he said. Simply agree to tell your congregants to ignore what is going on around them on the reservation and never talk about it. When we are ready, we will leave them in peace and ensure our business does not interrupt their daily existence. Will you do that?" The request sounded simple, but it was not.

The bleeding victim opened his mouth to briefly take in the desert air. He noticed the smooth talker's dry-cleaned trousers, sweet-smelling aftershave, and expensive shoes. He chuckled to himself. The man with the fancy shoes was an older man who contracted others to carry out his violent acts. Perhaps in the past, he had conducted the violence himself.  Now, however, he would not want to get his hands dirty.

The violent interrogator viciously grabbed his victim by the shirt. What's funny? he demanded, spraying the face of his victim with thick saliva and breath that reeked of cigarettes and strong coffee.

The man looked into his interrogator's face. I recall a scripture, he answered in a husky whisper. The pain of the beating was not as terrible as he had thought it would be, but his body now could not perform its normal functions after this much pounding. A trickle of urine leaked uncontrollably down one leg.

"The words of your Mormon bible will not help you now, sneered the interrogator. You will either disavow your god, or you will die. Here! Now!"

The kneeling figure looked up at the man who was threatening him with his remaining good eye. You will have to kill me, he said peacefully, resolutely turning his head and coughing blood from his mouth onto the ground. Jesus Christ is my Savior...

Slam!

"I don't want to hear your religious drivel," replied his Muslim tormentor, again spraying spittle in the figure's face as he ranted.

"Take the money, urged the expensive shoes in voice tones like velvet. You can give it all to your Church for the poor. Don't your congregants need the food and clothing this money would buy? Won't they need fuel for their vehicles and their furnaces during the coming cold winter? That may be the only way you can help your congregation." He stopped again and gently tapped the stack of bills, knowing the man saw the money and followed his tapping.

More silence.

A coyote howled in the distance. The man in the dirt could tell the animal had been running. Its mate would be nearby as they each moved in sync with the other through the night, sensing the odor of his blood and hunting for prey. The pair probably had a litter of pups in a nearby hovel and needed to bring food for them. He admired their ability to travel freely and to use their instincts and abilities to feed their family. His instincts told him his ability to provide for his own family would soon end.

He felt the chill of a cold day blowing his way as the sun slowly crept upward toward the horizon. Had it only been a few hours since they had dragged him from his bed? His sense of time had become lost in his pains and the prolonged beating.

The rational, smooth-talking interrogator shook his head, picked up the stack of money, and solemnly walked away, clicking three times with his tongue as he did so. "It is such a silly loss, he said as he glanced over his shoulder at the victim. He turned to his partner. Razan, get him to disavow his god or beat him to death and toss the body over the edge of the canyon, north of here. When his people discover how serious we are, maybe they will be more... accommodating."

***

Whether politics magnifies the evil already in a person or makes a truly good person evil is still undetermined. But Michael Al-Bashir was once a good man. He was a successful businessman in Dearborn, Michigan, trusted and well-loved in his community when he ran for his first term in Congress, representing Michigan's Fifteenth District. His parents had come to America from Iraq, and Al-Bashir had been born in Dearborn Heights, Michigan. As a businessman and alderman, he saw the inequality between Muslims and Christians in the community. He based his political platform on stopping prejudice and ending that inequality between religions and sub-cultures, making it possible for all people to live side by side without the fear or anger that gives birth to bias and violence. 

Al-Bashir won the election and immediately set to work fulfilling his campaign promises. As a devout Muslim, he knelt in prayer at least four times each day. He followed the teachings of the Koran and the Talmud; he did not drink alcohol and was faithful to his wife. He was family-oriented and enjoyed spending time with his two children in the evenings, during weekends, and throughout their annual family vacations. He never raised his voice at his wife or their children. He taught his children to be kind to each other, to respect their mother, and to share what they have with others. Yes, Michael Al-Bashir was a good man, and all was well in the world—until he won the election.

***

Orson Kincaid sat astride Mistress, his favorite horse, the one he had ridden every day throughout high school, more than ten years ago. Mistress was now old, but she was still willing and able to carry him for a peaceful ride through the desert. His sister, Emma, rode beside him on a younger mare with more grit.

What do you plan to do after high school? Orson asked Emma.

Her horse was a four-year-old she had received on her sixteenth birthday. The younger horse wanted to run, and Emma was constantly reining the mare back to ride beside her older brother. 

I have a boyfriend, she said, almost cryptically, adding no details.

Is he good to you? There was an approaching winter nip in the air as the sun set, and Orson realized he could now see his breath when he spoke.

Emma filled her lungs, smiling warmly before she spoke. "Oh, Orson, he is such a good man. You'd like him."

I hope to meet him someday. Is he in your high school class?

Yes. We're both going to graduate next May.

Then what? It was a simple question with no hidden meaning.

Silence, but for the crunch of the horses' hooves as they crushed the desert brush underfoot and made an occasional snort as they anticipated their evening meal in a warm stable.

He's planning to go on a two-year mission for the Mormon Church, Emma finally said, though she had no idea how her brother would react to the information.

Orson turned away to look at the horizon as he fought to keep from laughing. Do Mom and Dad know you're dating a Mormon? He had decided not to tell his family about his own involvement with the LDS Church until the time was right. When that time came, he would tell them his conversion story, about saving the New Jersey temple from destruction, and about everything except the pleasure it had given him to kill the man responsible for murdering many good people and trying to destroy the Church's most recent temple.

Are you two planning on getting married? Orson asked.

Emma seemed coy about that subject. We've spoken about it, but we don't want to get so serious it would complicate his mission.

What do you plan to do while he's away?

Emma sat up straight in her saddle warming to the subject. I've taken the civil service exam and can start applying for jobs on Fort Huachuca next spring after I turn eighteen. She looked fervently at her older brother. Do you think you could put in a good word with the Army for me?

Orson coughed. He hadn't expected that one and couldn't tell her anything about his connections at Fort Huachuca. According to the Army, he had never been to Huachuca. Sis, I'm one of the thousands of former soldiers who have gone through Fort Huachuca. I wouldn't even have the juice to get a job for myself if I came back home and needed to find one.

"When you say if you come home, you mean you might not, because Mom always worries about you, and Dad doesn't seem to care about you at all?"

Orson hadn't thought Emma had noticed the awkward moments of dead silence in his parents' conversations during this visit. Look at you, he sang. My little sister is growing up. I didn't think you'd noticed any of that tension.

Emma ignored the compliment. Dad is still bitter about you not staying to take over the ranch. He's getting old, and he's having trouble taking care of the day-to-day work around the place.

Orson lightly kicked Mistress to keep up with his sister. Her mare wasn't walking any faster, but his horse was getting tired. It's not in the cards, he said wistfully. My life is... taking another course.

Emma kicked her horse to go faster. She had seen that Orson's horse was having trouble keeping up, but the energy of youth was urging her to pit the two horses against each other. Or was it really that she was trying to compete against her older brother? Either way, Emma was trying to show him she could keep up with him.

"Maybe your boyfriend will become your fiancé, and when you marry, he could take over the ranch."

The burst of laughter escaped from Emma before she could control it. "Yeah, I can see Dad turning over control of his ranch to a returned Mormon missionary son-in-law."

They both laughed at the ludicrous idea.

I see your point, Orson replied.

Anyway, Wilson wants to be a lawyer, and there isn't much need for lawyers in Saint David, she said.

They could both see the barn in front of them, now.

Can't you stay one more day? Emma pleaded.

Orson looked at her with serious eyes. He wanted to stay, but only long enough to heal the wounds he had caused many years ago—when, as a four-year-old, he had accidentally killed his older brother. No, I don't think another day would make any difference, he replied.

They stopped their horses near the barn door. Emma dismounted first. She secretly reached under Orson's horse and loosened the quick-release from the saddle's belly strap.

Not thinking about his sister, Orson looked around at the house where he had grown up, the barn and yard in which he had played. It all looked familiar, yet felt so strange to him, now. He sighed and swung his right leg over his horse's back, expecting to land lightly on the ground. Instead, the saddle swung to the left with the weight of his foot in the stirrup. He fell in a heap on the cold ground, looking up at the sky, with the saddle still between his legs.

His anger flashed, and he clenched his jaw shut, feeling the need to release a choice set of expletives at his little sister for the stupid trick. After a moment, he quickly looked up at his sister, realizing she had played the familiar trick on him, that he had played on her when they were both much younger. 

From the fierce expression on his face, Emma thought her brother might attack her. She laughed in embarrassment and stepped to where she could look down at him. I was wondering what it would take to get you to look up to me, she quipped. 

Orson got to his feet, chuckled, and shook his head. Does that mean I also get to put up the horses before going back inside? he asked, referring to the family tradition that the person who eats the most dust during a trail ride has to put the horses up afterward.

"Of course. You don't think I forgot when I was in the fourth grade, and you made me put the horses away almost every time, do you?"

He chuckled at the reminder. All right. I earned that. Tell Mom I'll be in for supper after I take care of both horses.

Emma turned and skipped toward the house. I'll tell her you'll finish in time for breakfast, she scoffed over her shoulder.

While taking care of the horses, Orson wistfully considered returning to the ranch. He had nothing permanent to keep him in Phoenix after graduating from college. He was currently a student at Arizona State University and was working part-time as a security guard on campus. That job helped keep his head afloat while using his G.I. Bill college fund and supplementing it with college loans, as necessary. He enjoyed the luxuries of eating, paying rent on his small apartment, and taking care of his truck. His heart was not in his schooling right now. But the Prophet had told him to get his education, so he had agreed to do it.

His life in Phoenix wasn't anything special or permanent, but he hoped to get personal guidance from the Holy Spirit to help him know which direction to take his life. His job as a campus security guard was a place to start. Once he earned his degree in Law Enforcement, he hoped to get employed by one of the federal alphabet law enforcement agencies—if that was where the Spirit led him. But that decision was still a few years away.

TWO

When Orson finished caring for the horses, he returned to the house. Dirty and sweaty, his mother noticed immediately.

In her late forties, Orson's mother wore her graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a simple work dress and apron with her bare feet. She had always said she could tell when the floors needed sweeping by walking around the house barefoot. She was sensitive to her clean house.

"Don't you even think about sitting at my table with half the ranch on your clothes and body! she scolded. You go wash up and put on a fresh shirt. We would all appreciate eating a meal without smelling and tasting any of that sweat and grit in our food."

Orson's father sat in his recliner, reading the news on his Kindle Fire. He wore his most used but serviceable blue jeans and a plaid shirt with his house slippers. His boots stood proudly beside the door, waiting for his next exit. He looked up at his only son for a moment, then returned to his reading without a word. Nothing seemed to have changed with him.

Yes, ma'am, was the only answer Orson knew his mother would accept to her demand. Her standards were unwaiverable. He walked toward the guest room where he had left his bag, grabbed a fresh shirt, and took it into the bathroom with him.

When the family sat to supper, Orson's father shoveled mashed potatoes onto his plate. Emma looked over at her brother and noticed he had bowed his head for a moment. What's up with that? she wondered. She finished her own silent blessing on the meal and noted she would have to ask him before returning to Phoenix when he had started blessing his food. That wasn't something he'd learned at home.

What have you been doing in Phoenix since you got out of the Army? Orson's mother asked as she placed some steamed broccoli on her plate and passed the bowl to Emma.

I've been taking classes at ASU in Law Enforcement and working part-time as a security guard on campus. Other than that, I don't have a lot of time for socializing.

No girlfriends? Emma teased, also eager to learn more about her brother's life away from the ranch.

No. No one special. The women must think I'm too much trouble.

"My, oh, my, yes, Orson's mother confirmed. It wouldn't take long for a decent young lady to figure out she'd have her hands full with you. But you'll find someone. It's called... oh, my, what's it called?" she said, forgetting the term she wanted.

"Soul mates, Mom, Emma said. Everyone has a soul mate somewhere in the world. They have to find them."

"Yes, that's it. You'll find your soul mate if you keep dating and keep looking," she said.

Cochise County, Tombstone, and Benson are always looking for deputies in this area, Orson's father said, joining the conversation. You could use that fancy degree to step ahead of the local boys who dropped out of high school and couldn't find work. 

You're right, Dad, Orson said, trying to find a graceful way out of having to say he didn't want to return home.

"’Course, the Sheriff's job is an elected position. You'd have to work hard to get that job, Dad said. But the pay's better."

The silence stretched into discomfort, but no one knew exactly how to break it without causing an argument.

Don't worry about eating it all tonight, Orson, Mom finally said. I'll pack you a lunch. You can take some of that fried chicken with you tomorrow. The way you work and move about, and such, you'll lose five pounds driving back to Phoenix. I've got to keep my boy healthy.

Emma smiled patiently.

Orson smiled lamely.

Dad groused to himself as he chewed his dinner.

Mom was happy as a roadrunner with half a sidewinder in its beak to have her family together.

***

The next morning, Orson awoke, bathed, and put his full suitcase by the front door and returned to his bedroom. This had been the bedroom he had shared with his brother, Hyrum. It was in this room they had bounced on the bed and laughed until they were both sick. Hyrum had stuck little pieces of glow-in-the-dark plastic on the ceiling that they would look at, like the stars, when they weren't allowed outside after dark. Orson looked up at the ceiling and smiled to see those same pieces of plastic still in place. 

He looked at the carpeted floor in front of the window. The stain was long gone, but that had been where Hyrum had fallen dead from a single shot to the chest by Orson's four-year-old self. He knew inside that he had known no better. But in his heart, he wished he had been spared that trauma. He could have used an elder brother in the past ten years.

Pulling aside the floor-length curtain, he saw where he had carved his brother's name when he was nine years old. His parents had always mourned the loss of their firstborn son. They never thought maybe Orson had also missed him. 

He felt the air suddenly escape his lungs as if a leaf sucker had stolen it. Orson wished he had known about prayer when he was a boy. Maybe it wouldn't have been as painful living with that memory and that loss if he had known how to take his pain to his Heavenly Father. He knelt beside his bed and prayed for a sense of peace to enter the house and hearts of all who lived here.

***

Emma got up earlier than usual to take care of the horses. She tried to hurry, not wanting her brother to return to Phoenix without saying goodbye to her. Mom was keeping busy making everyone a hot breakfast. When Emma came back inside, she saw Orson's bag by the front door and relaxed, realizing she had not missed him. She went to his room, knocked on the door, and slowly opened it to talk to him. Almost gasping, she watched as her brother knelt beside his bed.

Orson looked up with a loving smile and silently motioned for her to come inside.

Emma entered and quietly shut the door behind her. You've been doing things differently since you've been home, she said to her brother in a conspiratorial whisper.

Your point? Orson replied as he got up and sat on the edge of his bed.

"I mean, we never learned to pray in this family. But here you are on your knees. And last night, you silently blessed your food while Dad was loading up his plate. What's up with that?" she asked with a curious smile.

Orson shook his head and smiled at his sister, marveling at how she had grown to be both beautiful and wise. When did my little sister get so smart? He looked out the window as he formed what he wanted to say. When I was in the Army, I talked to some Mormon missionaries. He didn't want to tell her the whole story yet.

I knew it! I knew it! Emma blurted out loudly, gesticulating with both hands.

Orson motioned for her to quiet down, so their parents wouldn't hear them. He was not ready to tell them yet. Anyway, when I got out of the Army, I drove to Salt Lake City, got an apartment, and got a job there.

Emma raised her eyebrows and started to ask the question his statement begged.

He stopped her by holding up an open hand. It's a long story, and I don't have enough time to tell you the whole thing today. But I will, someday, I promise. When I got to Salt Lake, I got a job working for Church Security and, because of my experience in the Army, I got to help with the security arrangements at the New Jersey Temple Cultural Festival and Dedication.

Emma gasped. "No, way! I read about that on the internet. That was you?"

Orson listened for sounds outside his door and nodded without smiling. 

They said there were explosions and shooting, and people got killed. That was you?

"Well, I didn't get killed," Orson quipped.

No, silly. I mean, you were the one who killed the dead people? Ah, were you the one who killed them? She was excited and confused and couldn't find the right words to ask her question correctly.

Orson looked embarrassed by her query and wasn't sure about the best way to answer it.

Emma saw his embarrassment. I'm sorry, Orson. Was that the wrong question to ask a soldier?

Orson shook his head. No, you're okay. Yes, I was the one. But it has given me some things to think about. That's why I started college. Okay?

"Sure. But you know it's true, right?"

What?

"The Gospel. You have a testimony of it?" she asked.

Orson's smile softened. Yes. I do. More today than ever before.

Emma grinned from ear to ear. Me, too.

The door to the room suddenly opened, and Mom stuck her head inside. I wanted to make sure you two weren't jumping on the beds, she said, laughing at her own joke. If you're ready, breakfast is on the table.

Orson stood, hugged his little sister, and said, Let's keep that as our secret, for now. All right?

Okay, Emma said as they both turned and walked toward the breakfast table.

"No, that's you bet," he corrected his sister.

What? Emma looked at her brother in confusion.

"You bet is the way Utah Mormons answer instead of sure or okay."

Really?