the Tabernacle, and another six would put him at the short
staircase that climbed onto the stage itself. He couldn’t take those steps, though, because a tall, heavy
man in a coat and cravat, with a long pistol at his hip, barred the way with a
glower.
Poe could see more of the Apostles now, the thin-lipped
Orson Hyde with unruly hair and the clear-browed Heber Kimball with no hair at
all, whispering solemnly to each other as they mounted the stairs to take their
seats. “Excuse me, brother,” he
said politely to the staring guard, “but I must speak with Apostle Pratt. May I pass?”
“Why don’t you take a seat… brother?” the big man grunted
back. His voice sounded like he
was one half Danish and the other half bear.
“I regret to say,” Cannon continued from the pulpit, “that
the First Presidency is therefore dissolved. The Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I have been informed,
will meet, along with other leaders, to deliberate how to reconstitute the
Presidency. I understand that
those meetings will begin tomorrow morning at seven, at the Lion House… so if
any of the Twelve or the Seventy are in the Tabernacle and haven’t yet been
informed, please join us at that hour. The Deseret Hotel has already agreed to make accommodations for those
coming from out of town to participate.”
Pratt moved into view in the well of the Tabernacle,
drifting from some unseen entrance towards the stage. He was bald and bearded and frayed and rumpled, looking
every inch the Madman he was named. He walked with his head bowed and
twitching, lips mumbling some soundless litany.
“Look,” Poe pointed him out to the Dane, “there he is. If you will just let me past—”
The Dane snorted and grabbed Poe by the front of his coat.
Poe didn’t want to hurt the big man. He also didn’t want to attract
attention. But he felt his mission
objectives all slipping out of his grasp, he was frustrated and desperate. So when the guard grabbed him by his
coat, Poe seized the big man by his thumbs and thrust them backwards without
mercy.
The Dane gasped and lurched to his knees. Poe looked around quickly to see if
anyone had noticed what he was doing, but the crowd was rapt, unable to take
its attention off the pulpit. The
big man whimpered.
Pratt was at the foot of the stairs. Poe was out of time.
He threw the Dane sideways, trying to get him out of the way
without hurting him more than was necessary, and rushed forward.
He crossed the open floor in three long steps—
Pratt moved up the staircase—
Poe heard the guard scramble back to his feet, cursing, and
come after him—
Poe grabbed the Madman by the elbow, coughing. He knew he looked like a crazed gypsy
himself, with his hat and his greasy hair and smoked glasses and fingerless
gloves and bulky coat. He had only
one chance.
“I am the Egyptian,” he hissed desperately into the
Apostle’s ear as the man turned and stared at him indignantly. He tried to hold his lungs together by
sheer force of will. “I come
seeking the knowledge of the air.”
“You’re coming with me, you crazy beggar!” Poe felt the
Dane’s big hands grab him and jerk him away.
Pratt stared, confused, uncertain.
Poe couldn’t let it end this way. He stepped backwards, close into his attacker, got a leg
under the man’s instep and his body under the man’s weight—
and threw him forward over his shoulder, on the ground.
Thud!
Poe tossed his man away from the stage, planting him close
in against the wall of the wall, so that the angle would hide any more
scuffling from most of the audience. Hopefully the distraction of the speech and the setting would do the
rest.
The big man writhed as he flipped, and as he hit the
plascrete the Dane was already pulling his pistol, thumbing back the
hammer—
“Stop it!” Pratt commanded, and Poe and the guard both
froze.
Orson Pratt scuttled forward, off the stage
staircase that climbed onto the stage itself. He couldn’t take those steps, though, because a tall, heavy
man in a coat and cravat, with a long pistol at his hip, barred the way with a
glower.
Poe could see more of the Apostles now, the thin-lipped
Orson Hyde with unruly hair and the clear-browed Heber Kimball with no hair at
all, whispering solemnly to each other as they mounted the stairs to take their
seats. “Excuse me, brother,” he
said politely to the staring guard, “but I must speak with Apostle Pratt. May I pass?”
“Why don’t you take a seat… brother?” the big man grunted
back. His voice sounded like he
was one half Danish and the other half bear.
“I regret to say,” Cannon continued from the pulpit, “that
the First Presidency is therefore dissolved. The Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, I have been informed,
will meet, along with other leaders, to deliberate how to reconstitute the
Presidency. I understand that
those meetings will begin tomorrow morning at seven, at the Lion House… so if
any of the Twelve or the Seventy are in the Tabernacle and haven’t yet been
informed, please join us at that hour. The Deseret Hotel has already agreed to make accommodations for those
coming from out of town to participate.”
Pratt moved into view in the well of the Tabernacle,
drifting from some unseen entrance towards the stage. He was bald and bearded and frayed and rumpled, looking
every inch the Madman he was named. He walked with his head bowed and
twitching, lips mumbling some soundless litany.
“Look,” Poe pointed him out to the Dane, “there he is. If you will just let me past—”
The Dane snorted and grabbed Poe by the front of his coat.
Poe didn’t want to hurt the big man. He also didn’t want to attract
attention. But he felt his mission
objectives all slipping out of his grasp, he was frustrated and desperate. So when the guard grabbed him by his
coat, Poe seized the big man by his thumbs and thrust them backwards without
mercy.
The Dane gasped and lurched to his knees. Poe looked around quickly to see if
anyone had noticed what he was doing, but the crowd was rapt, unable to take
its attention off the pulpit. The
big man whimpered.
Pratt was at the foot of the stairs. Poe was out of time.
He threw the Dane sideways, trying to get him out of the way
without hurting him more than was necessary, and rushed forward.
He crossed the open floor in three long steps—
Pratt moved up the staircase—
Poe heard the guard scramble back to his feet, cursing, and
come after him—
Poe grabbed the Madman by the elbow, coughing. He knew he looked like a crazed gypsy
himself, with his hat and his greasy hair and smoked glasses and fingerless
gloves and bulky coat. He had only
one chance.
“I am the Egyptian,” he hissed desperately into the
Apostle’s ear as the man turned and stared at him indignantly. He tried to hold his lungs together by
sheer force of will. “I come
seeking the knowledge of the air.”
“You’re coming with me, you crazy beggar!” Poe felt the
Dane’s big hands grab him and jerk him away.
Pratt stared, confused, uncertain.
Poe couldn’t let it end this way. He stepped backwards, close into his attacker, got a leg
under the man’s instep and his body under the man’s weight—
and threw him forward over his shoulder, on the ground.
Thud!
Poe tossed his man away from the stage, planting him close
in against the wall of the wall, so that the angle would hide any more
scuffling from most of the audience. Hopefully the distraction of the speech and the setting would do the
rest.
The big man writhed as he flipped, and as he hit the
plascrete the Dane was already pulling his pistol, thumbing back the
hammer—
“Stop it!” Pratt commanded, and Poe and the guard both
froze.
Orson Pratt scuttled forward, off the stage
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