Chapter 13
From the hallway, Jem and Tean had a view of the main area of the chalet. Brigitte had gone back to her room; she didn’t feel well, she said. She needed to lie down.
Stephen, they had discovered after emerging from Gerald’s bedroom, was gone.
“And his briefcase is missing,” Jem said under his breath.
Tean stirred next to him. After a moment, he said, “Do you think one of them did it?”
Jem studied the people still gathered there—four men now, and the two women.
A couple of them clearly came from money.
The rest of them were in that solidly middle-class slot that a lot of Mormons fell into: young professionals, probably at least one lawyer in the bunch.
The women’s hair and clothes and makeup all were in line with Utah trends, which meant they paid attention and had the money—or at least the credit cards—necessary to keep it all up.
None of them looked like a killer, but that didn’t really mean anything.
“Maybe,” Jem said. But he answered himself by saying, “But why?”
“Whoever it was, he—or she—wanted something in that briefcase,” Tean said.
“Whatever Gerald printed out,” Jem said.
Tean nodded. “It might be something embarrassing or shameful, something that they were afraid Gerald would reveal. Or it might be something criminal.”
“So, what? Gerald found out one of them liked getting spanked, so they killed Gerald rather than let everyone find out about the Secret of the Red Bum?”
Tean gave him a look.
“Come on, that was pretty funny,” Jem said.
The look lasted a few more seconds before Tean said, “I don’t know that we’ll get anything useful out of them in a group. How do you want to handle this?”
“Do you have a notebook? A piece of paper? Something?”
Tean nodded. He produced a small notebook from his front pocket. He hesitated, opened the notebook, and removed something that he slid back into his pocket. He was too quick—and careful—for Jem to see what it was.
“And a pen?” Jem asked. Like that strange moment hadn’t happened.
Tean did have a pen. Of course.
“Here we go,” Jem said.
They sat at the breakfast bar. Jem opened the notebook, flattened it against the marble, and uncapped the pen.
He watched the group for a few minutes. And then he wrote at the top of the next page The Secret of the Red Bum.
Below that, he sketched a pair of cheeks.
Then he added some heat lines radiating off them, so you knew they’d just gotten tanned.
“Jem,” Tean said, and he sounded the way he did when Jem asked for extra sauce on his Big Mac.
“You have to admit the heat lines are dope. And I came up with that on the spot, babe.”
“What are we doing?”
“We’re talking about this dope cartoon. Oh shit! What if his face looked like one of those anime characters when they’re surprised but also kind of turned on?”
“Jem.”
“He probably has spiky hair because you know those little bitches need a firm hand.”
“Jem.”
“Maybe it’s his teacher—”
“Jeremiah,” Tean said, and this was the same voice he used when Scipio wouldn’t stop barking at the kids from down the street.
“What?”
“Why are we talking about spanking?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of fun. And we have to talk about something until one of them gets nervous enough to come over here and ask us what we’re doing.”
Sure enough, the conversation on the other side of the room was quieter now.
Some of the men were darting nervous glances at Jem and Tean.
In the loft, Maeve and Milo had made a fortress by hanging a blanket over two chairs, and Milo was poking his head out and pretending to snipe at the people below.
When he aimed at Jem, Jem pretended to get blown away, which meant throwing himself back in his chair, slumping across the breakfast bar, and then sliding to the floor.
Milo’s giggles carried in the growing silence.
Jem was picking himself up again when it finally happened: one of them broke.
It was the high-volume blonde, the one with the December tan and the eyelash extensions like something from Fraggle Rock.
She wore a fleece sweatshirt that said NEW YORK paired with black leggings, and her sheepskin boots squeaked against the floorboards as she came toward them.
The rest of the group turned in their seats to watch her.
When she reached them, Jem closed the notebook—marking his place with one finger, like he was going to come back to his “notes” in a minute—and shot a look at her friends.
They swiveled in their seats to face each other again, and a low, awkward-sounding conversation resumed.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked when she reached them.
“Jem Berger,” Jem said, holding out his free hand.
After a moment, the woman shook and said, “Mckell Hartman. Did you tell Stephen you were with the lodge?”
“Not exactly,” Tean said.
“Freelance,” Jem said. “We’re working with the head of security, Vaughan Larsen. You know him?”
“What are we supposed to do?” Mckell asked. “Are we supposed to stay here? We paid a lot of money for this retreat, and Dean’s a teacher.”
Jem opened the notebook to a new page and scribbled a few meaningless lines.
“What’s that?” Mckell asked. “What did you write?”
“Oh, just making sure we keep track of everything,” Jem said. “You never know what kind of information will turn out to be helpful in a case like this.”
“What does that mean, ‘a case like this’? Sister Fitzpatrick said President Fitzpatrick fell.”
Jem made a hemming noise. He said, “Why don’t you tell us about this group?”
“I’m Mckell.” She pointed to the round-faced man. “And that’s Dean—”
Jem shook his head. “No, I mean, why are you here? What’s this whole thing about?”
“Sister Fitzpatrick didn’t tell you?” Mckell gathered some of her hair and pulled it across her shoulder.
She ran one hand over it as she said, “It’s for spiritual coaching.
It’s for people who want to develop their relationship with their Heavenly Father.
You know, people who are struggling to feel connected to the church. Or their testimony is shaky.”
“So,” Tean said quietly, “it’s not a conversion therapy group for gay men?”
Color splotched Mckell’s cheeks. Her hand, still stroking her hair, froze now.
“Write down that she lied to us,” Tean said in that same quiet voice.
Jem flipped open the notebook.
“I didn’t lie,” Mckell said breathily. “It is spiritual coaching.” She seemed to struggle for a moment before saying, “A lot of people who lose their faith struggle with same-sex attraction.”
Tean’s bushy brows drew together, and he opened his mouth, but this time Jem managed to beat him to the punch. “Is that why you’re here?”
“What? No. Oh my gosh. No, Dean—my husband—” She cut off. Her hand gave one jumpy stroke to her hair. “We’re not the only ones. Tafton and Nora are married too.” Her gesture took in the man with the dishwater-blond hair and the woman with Utah curls.
“The other men are single?” Tean asked.
Mckell shrugged. “They’re not married. I don’t know if they’re dating anyone; we don’t talk about that stuff.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Temptation. Why we’re tempted. How to deal with temptation. How to build spiritual power. How to follow Christ.”
“By being straight,” Tean said.
“By following the commandments,” Mckell said.
“What about—” Jem began.
“It doesn’t bother you that decades’ worth of psychological research has proven that not only does conversion therapy not work,” Tean said, “but it’s incredibly harmful to the people who undergo it?”
“But it’s not like that,” Mckell said. “This is about being changed by the Holy Ghost. It’s about kindness and patience and long-suffering love. The way Jesus would treat these people.”
“These people,” Tean said.
“Okay,” Jem said, putting a hand on Tean’s knee. “We’re getting off track.”
Mckell’s eyes followed the touch, and she said, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Tean said.
“Let me guess,” Mckell said. “You were raised LDS, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And you’re carrying a lot of anger about it?”
“I’m angry that anyone would teach children to hate themselves because they’re different.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Mckell said. “That’s not what the church teaches at all.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“And you’re not active anymore, are you?” Mckell asked, as though he hadn’t spoken.
Tean’s voice was even more brittle now. “Obviously. And I’m much happier for it.”
“Well, that’s good, then. I’m happy for you too.”
“What I wanted to ask—” Jem began.
“You’re happy for me, but you think I’m going to hell,” Tean said.
“Oh my gosh, no. You know we don’t believe in hell. If this is what makes you happy, then that’s good. Some people, though, want to follow the commandments. And yes, those people will receive a higher degree of glory for their faithfulness.”
Jem had been dragged to Mormon churches on and off throughout his childhood, and he knew enough to recognize degree of glory as a way of talking about the different options Mormons had for heaven—like flying first class versus economy.
But he still felt like he was skating on the surface of a deeper conversation Tean and Mckell were having.
“By faithfulness,” Tean said, “you mean living a lie. Marrying a woman. Having children. Never being honest about themselves.”
“That’s not what we believe at all,” Mckell said gently.
“The church has changed a lot since you left, I guess. We recognize that Heavenly Father loves all of us. And yes, he gives some people different trials. Everyone is tested in different ways. We’re not asking anyone to lie about who they are; we want to accept and love everyone, and we want them to bring their challenges, to ask for support, to let us help them.
That’s what therapy is, right? Learning how to accept the things in your life you can’t change?
Learning how to live with them, how to live full, happy lives in spite of the challenges God has put in your path? ”