Pierced by a Sword (46 page)

During the first few weeks the story dominated a popular local Salt Lake City radio talk show. The station was not LDS-owned. Many outraged, believing Mormons called in to condemn Lanning. He was called names. He was called a tool of the devil. He was called a liar. He was called an adulterer and a thief. One woman claimed that she was a prostitute who
had slept with Lanning several times.

Some of the callers, however, voiced their agreement with Lanning and related how they were terrified to leave the sect for fear of losing their jobs and families. The fear in their voices was palpable. They told listeners that defamation was a typical Mormon reaction to those who left the sect. Fear of defamation was just one more trap that kept many Mormons
in a religion they didn't believe was true. Ex-Mormons called and confirmed that they too had been persecuted.

Except for the lawsuit, Lanning generally ignored public criticism and tried to keep a high media profile for as long as possible. Thousands of Mormons called his hot line and hundreds joined the self-help group, which formed several new chapters all over the state. Dozens converted to
Catholicism overnight–most had been contemplating their conversions long before Lanning gave them the courage to follow through.

One month after the press conference he published a short book. It detailed his conversion and described most of the stranger teachings of Mormonism. Many bookstores in Utah refused to sell the book, but Lanning took out ads in Utah newspapers and magazines and sold
the book direct through a fulfillment company in South Dakota. Over thirty-thousand copies sold in the first six weeks, and major Protestant and Catholic catalog book distributors picked it up. It was titled
Out From the Pits of Hell.
He donated the proceeds to the Truth Society, the self-help group for ex-Mormons which had been established years before.

The Kolbe Foundation produced a free recording
by John Lanning, similar to the book, and over 100,000 copies were distributed all over the country before June.

Retribution came swiftly. Karl Slinger and SLG Industries became targets. Seventy percent of the Mormon ranches associated with SLG severed ties within three months. Twenty-seven devout Mormons resigned from SLG the day after the press conference. Thousands of Mormons sold their stock
in SLG and the stock took a dive. The undervalued stock was soon snapped up by savvy buyers–including Nathan Payne. Within a few weeks SLG stock rebounded nicely. Then local offices of federal regulatory agencies such as OSHA and the EPA began to call on SLG properties for "spot inspections." Slinger, no stranger to regulatory harassment, called in his chips with several local non-Mormon or nominally
Mormon politicians. SLG Industries' largest department was the legal department. It fought ferociously and successfully against the trumped up "violations." Most of this activity occurred in Utah and southern Idaho. Slinger, on Lanning's advice, kept a low profile. He laughed it off. "Nothing's worse than Guadalcanal, John! And we're just getting started!"

The attacks on Lanning were more personal.
Elena moved out immediately and sued for divorce within a week. Mormon friends refused to say hello to him on the street. One restaurant refused to seat him for dinner. No matter how many times he changed his unlisted phone number, threatening messages piled up on his answering machine. He carefully made notarized copies and sent them to Lenny Gold. Months later, Lanning was still receiving
up to four messages a day. A typical message claimed that he was in league with the devil. Sometimes he recognized the voices–"friends" he had associated with socially or professionally for decades. Someone left a dead cat on his front porch, and rocks were thrown through his windows. An unmarked white van with darkly tinted windows appeared at odd hours, parked several houses down on his street.
Karl had a private company check the house for electronic devices and a phone tap was discovered. This was documented by Lenny Gold.

Lanning was afraid but undaunted. He told Karl that his best insurance against physical harm was to keep a high public profile. Nevertheless, Lenny Gold composed a simple private letter detailing some of this documented harassment and sent it to the LDS on John's
behalf. Gold reminded the LDS that nothing Lanning had publicly stated about the LDS was misleading or false, and hinted that he knew many more "facts" that could be released to the public.

"Let'em quake and wonder exactly what it is you know, Johnny Boy," Slinger remarked. "Lenny can play hardball with the best of them."

For his part, Lenny was energized by the whole affair and genuinely enjoyed
working for Lanning. Lenny told Slinger that he would stay on with SLG indefinitely.

The harassment abated immediately, but never quite went away altogether. Lanning eventually sold his home as part of the divorce settlement. The spectacular property was purchased by an American Express executive who had transferred to Salt Lake City from Seattle. Lanning moved in with Slinger, who hired a full-time
security guard. Whenever the mysterious van showed up, the guard set up a video camera on a tripod on Slinger's porch. The van stopped showing up.

By June several thousand Mormons had followed Lanning's lead and left the sect–a tiny segment of the Mormon population. Hundreds entered the Catholic Church–these converts tended to be more like Lanning in temperament and determination. They formed
a core group to continue his work in their own spheres of influence. He was their hero and liberator. Hundreds of thousands of Protestants and Catholics became irreversibly aware that Mormonism, on the merit of its own teachings, had very little in common with authentic Christianity. A convert to Protestantism from Mormonism took over control of the Truth Society. Ironically, the convert's name was
Joseph Smith; he began to organize chapters in all fifty states. Across America millions of ordinary people briefly wondered if the Mormons really were what they claimed to be. Seeds of doubt were sown.

Lanning's conversion eventually played itself out as a media event. Nevertheless, few people in Salt Lake City did not know who John Lanning was. The Catholic chancery had kept a very low profile
throughout the affair–at Lanning's request–and quite properly, in his opinion. He took a part-time job in the public relations department of SLG Industries, splitting his time between SLG and helping Becky Jackson over the phone at the Kolbe Foundation. Both Lanning and Slinger mistakenly believed that the worst was behind them.

Chapter Nineteen

1

Saturday Afternoon
15 June
Notre Dame, Indiana

A summer afternoon at Notre Dame is a wonderful thing–if the humidity is low. Today was such a day. A group of thirty students and teachers along with a few religious brothers and two priests were gathered under the Grotto's gray stone overhang. It was a bigger crowd than normal.
Are others here to pray because of the quake?
Joanie
asked herself.

"You really shouldn't have come, Beck," Joanie said. She had noticed that Becky was walking with difficulty. Joe was practically holding her up as they made their way toward the Grotto.

"I'm fine, I think," Becky said without her usual directness.

The daily Rosary was beginning. They joined the group, and prayed for Denny, Chet and Nathan, who were already flying to New Jersey.
Before the fourth decade was finished, the threesome had to leave. Becky's contractions were less than five minutes apart.

2

Saturday Afternoon
15 June
The skies over Pennsylvania

"Reach into my bag and grab the bottle you see there," Denny said to Nathan, without taking his eyes away from the clear skies in front of him.

Nathan pulled the unopened bottle of Scotch out from the bag. He held it
up for Denny to see.

"Open it!" Denny said loudly over the din of the engine. He was really pushing the Cessna. Nathan opened the bottle and handed it to Denny, who took a small swig and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Nathan followed suit, taking a bigger swig. He offered the bottle back to Denny, who shook his head, saying, "Can't. I don't drink when I fly."

"But you just did," Nathan pointed
out. Denny smiled.

"I know. Wish me a happy birthday, Nathan–I didn't get to have any upside down cake or anything. And thanks for the Scotch–great present. We'll save the rest for medicinal purposes."

"Happy birthday, Denny," Nathan said with little enthusiasm. "Now that you mention it, I do feel a bit under the weather–or over the weather," Nathan added. He took another sip, looking out the
window at the clouds below.

Denny had climbed high when the first mountains in Pennsylvania appeared. He explained calmly to Nathan that downdrafts on the backsides of mountains caused a lot of crashes for new pilots. Nathan, who was still a rather daring car driver himself, almost felt comfortable with Denny at the stick. He rarely felt comfortable if someone else was "driving." After recovering
from the accident, he drove cautiously for about two weeks, but quickly reverted back to his old ways. Denny also seemed to enjoy skirting the fine line between safe speed and reckless speed, always leaning toward the edge of safety–although Nathan, relatively ignorant of aircraft piloting, had no way of knowing for sure.

Nathan turned to offer Father Chet a swig of Scotch, but the priest was
asleep with his Breviary in his lap. Chet was leaning against several bags of groceries in the cramped back seat.

To kill time, Nathan asked Denny to explain the numerous gauges and gadgets on the dashboard.

+  +  +

Father Chet was jolted slightly and woke up when Denny dropped down to land in a small private airport near Bellefonte, Pennsylvania. Denny pulled the plane close to the ancient-looking
hangar behind the control hut. An old mechanic in oil-stained Dickeys waved at them from the cab of a fuel truck.

"Wait here," Denny said, as he jumped out onto the cracked macadam. He walked briskly to the fuel truck. The mechanic obviously knew Denny because he smiled when they shook hands.

The old man hooked a hose up to the Cessna's tank. Nathan and Chet watched the two aviation buffs talk.
The weather was beautiful and the mechanic squinted as he pointed westward then eastward a few times, then held up four fingers.

Less than five minutes later, Denny was back in the pilot's seat and pointing the Cessna toward the runway. He radioed to the tiny control tower for permission to take off. Chet barely felt the wheels leave the ground.

"What gives?" Nathan asked.

"We're the fifth plane
headed for New Jersey old Charley's refueled in the last hour and a half. Apparently, we're not the only ones doing what we're doing. The FAA is discouraging private flights into the counties near New York, so we might not get permission to land at Essex County Airport. The word is that Newark, La Guardia, Kennedy, Teeterboro, and most of the county airports are shut down. I could radio in to get
more information, but I want to keep a low profile.

"Charley says the whole place is a disaster area. Bridges gone, fires everywhere, highways turned to rubble–the whole nine yards. The quake lasted for over a minute and was close to the surface, according to Charley, whatever that means. One thing is for sure–the infrastructure on the East Coast wasn't built for California-type earthquakes. Charley
says he heard that there was a tiny quake in the 1980s from Montreal down through New York City. Rattled some dishes upstate on Thanksgiving day, but barely made the papers. Scientists didn't even know the fault was there until it happened."

"Unbelievable. So, can we get permission to land somewhere?" Nathan asked, feeling quite ignorant.

"No problem. My flight plan takes us to a private airport
near Lake Hopatcong."

"Lake Hopatcong? That's over forty miles away from Essex County Airport, isn't it?"

"I know," Denny replied.

"Can't you get into Essex County?" Chet asked from the back seat, shouting mildly to be heard.

"Probably not. Then again, we're not going to Lake Hopatcong, either," Denny said mischievously.

"Quit beating around the bush, Den. Where are we going to land?" Nathan insisted.

"Don't know, exactly. Close to Greg. Don't worry–I'll find a place to land."

"I feel much better now knowing that. No, wait. I just started to feel much worse. I think I'll take some more of that medicine," Nathan said, grabbing the bottle of Scotch and taking a gulp. "Happy birthday, flyboy! My worthless life is in your practiced hands. We're probably gonna land in the parking lot of the local
A&P, right? Hey, do you want some medicine, Chetmeister?"

"No thanks, Nathan," Chet replied. "I think I'm a little airsick."

"So you'll mind if I light up?" Nathan inquired.

"Go ahead and smoke if you want. It's up to Denny," Chet said judiciously.

"Normally, I don't like smoking in my cabin," Denny said, "but I'll make an exception as long as Father Chet makes sure he barfs into a bag."

Nathan
lit a Parliament. There were only a couple left in the pack. The flight–more than the destination–was making him nervous. "Sorry, Chetmeister. You're a smoker. You understand."

"I do. Go ahead. I won't barf," he promised charitably. "I was exaggerating."

"Thanks buddy," Nathan replied sincerely, a little disappointed with himself for not being strong enough to hold off. He took a deep pull off
the cigarette and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax.

"A little under two hours, folks, and we'll be landing in New Jersey at dusk," Denny said cheerfully. "I hope the skies stay clear–we'll need the light if I have to, ah, improvise the landing."

He's having fun,
Nathan thought with admiration.

"Let's say a Rosary, Lucky Lindy," Chet suggested.

Nathan and Denny pulled their rosaries out
of their pockets and waited for the black robe to begin.

3

Saturday Evening
15 June
South Bend, Indiana

Joe said very little during the relatively short delivery. His mind was overloaded by stimuli. He had to sign a waiver–some kind of incomprehensible legal thing–to get the hospital to let Joanie help in the birthing room. There was a doctor on call but a midwife supervised the delivery.

Joe
regretted skipping the Lamaze classes. He had read a book on fetal development and delivery–pretty dry stuff compared to the real McCoy, he now realized. He watched in wonder as his wife's body and temperament changed. During the most violent pushing he tried to console Becky by taking hold of her hand. She scolded him through clenched teeth in a polite but extremely agitated way: "Please take your
hands off me! I don't need that right now, Joe!"

Joanie took Joe aside and explained that a woman in labor will sometimes say things she normally wouldn't say due to stress, rapid hormonal changes, and sheer pain. Her brothers' wives had told her as much, Joanie assured him.

At one point the curiously taciturn midwife turned to Joe and ordered in a pleasant tone of voice, "Come around front, Mr.
Jackson. The head's coming out. Time to catch her."

"Me? What? Catch the baby?" Joe asked.

Becky looked up at her husband and said rather forcefully, "You've caught a million stinking footballs! Catch my baby like the lady says!"

Joanie put her hand on the small of Joe's back and gave the overwhelmed father-to-be a small push. Becky gave a rather bigger push of her own.

4

Saturday, Dusk
15 June
The sky over North Caldwell, New Jersey

"Suburbia is not the greatest place to land a plane, fellas. Especially in the wake of an earthquake," Denny said, looking around for five flat, straight acres. "I need five or six acres, but I'll settle for four. Pavement is great, but grass is okay, too."

The sun was just dipping behind the horizon. They could now see the horrific damage with their own
eyes. Every other house was twisted or broken. Traffic jams of abandoned cars were everywhere. Gaping crags of broken pavement jutted at every angle. Whole streets had become a maze of cracks and fissures. Fires burned everywhere. A huge cloud of black smoke formed over a gas station that had blown up on Bloomfield Avenue in Essex Fells.

They flew over Essex County Airport, which was less than
a mile from Greg's house, but Denny was unable to establish radio contact with the control tower. He had been flying low since ten miles before Lake Hopatcong. When the control tower at Lake Hopatcong Airport called, Denny "faked" radio problems and dove low–below five hundred feet–for the last brief leg of the flight.

Essex County Airport was gone–a jumble of split wood and metal and glass. An
abandoned corporate Citation jet blocked the middle of the runway; its passenger door hung open.
Must have been starting its takeoff when the quake hit,
Denny surmised.

"Here goes. Wish we could beam down," he said casually. He saw the ashen look on Nathan's face. "Sorry, didn't mean to make light of it."

He brought the Cessna around to face the landing strip.

"But there's a plane on the runway!"
Nathan shouted, and then gulped.

"No problem, I'll land parallel to it–on the grass. It's flatter and nicer than Dad's backyard. I just have to avoid those annoying little lights they always put next to the runway," Denny explained, using layman's terms for the sake of his passengers.

"So we don't have to worry?" Chet asked, noticing how quickly the ground was coming up to meet the Cessna.

"Worry
all you want; it won't matter either way..." Denny said calmly as he touched down on the grass, as light as a sandpiper on a beach. He ran the Cessna directly over a string of signal devices. They went right between the Cessna's wheels until he got the plane past the Citation. He let his tail down, and steered onto the runway. He came to a stop and turned the plane around to face in the opposite
direction to which he had landed, just to the side of the runway. He shut down the engine and began checking the instrument panel. He made a mental note that half a tank of fuel remained.
Just in case we need to get off fast,
he told himself. Denny logged his hours out of ingrained habit.

Denny looked at Nathan, whose color was returning now that the plane had come to a stop.
You should stay out
of the air, Nathan. Cool in a crisis, eh! Anyway, you'll never know how easy I just made that landing look, brother-in-law. I was pretty sure I had a few inches clearance over those signals–but I wasn't completely sure. It had to be less than two inches. One midsize bump and bammo! Flip City!

"A piece of cake, wasn't it, Lindy?" Chet asked naïvely.

"Piece of cake," Denny lied smoothly. "You're
in more danger gettin' outta bed in the morning."

There was a long silence.

"Let's find Greg," Nathan said, clearing his mind of all things relating to planes, unfastening his seat belt. "He lives up on the hill, right, Chet?"

"Right. How we going to get there?"

"Considering the roads around here, it might just be easiest to walk. We can carry the groceries," Nathan suggested as he climbed out
and jumped to the ground. He surveyed the landscape.
Not many people around, are there?
Then he heard the first, far-off gunshot. The first of many.

Denny pulled his Colt 1911 from under the seat of the Cessna. He checked the safety, put an extra clip in his pocket, and jammed the gun into his belt. Father Chet watched but said nothing.

5

Saturday Evening
15 June
South Bend, Indiana

"Here she
comes!" the midwife shouted to Joe. Amy's head was already out.

Becky gave a deep groaning shout during the final push, and Joanie watched in awe as the baby slipped into Joe's big, soft hands. The baby was quiet, but squirmed. He felt the tiny creature pull in its first breath.

"A girl!" he called softly to his wife. "Becky you did it! A girl! We have a daughter!"

The midwife quickly clamped
and cut the cord. A nurse took the child from Joe and began to rub the natural fluid that a baby is born with into its skin. Then she wrapped a blanket around the infant and gave the newborn to her father. Joe carefully handed Amy Jackson to her mother.

"My baby!" Becky cried with relief and joy. Her arms were fatigued but she didn't mind. Turning to Joanie, she repeated, more softly, "Look, Joanie!
My baby!"

Joanie was speechless. She prayed a quick mental prayer of thanks, and thought of the new life in her own womb. "God Bless us all," she told Becky and Joe finally. The midwife smiled politely.

Joe came around to Becky's side. His senses were heightened to a degree he had only previously experienced on the football field. He looked at his wife, noticing the dark circles under her brown
eyes, and the many tiny blood vessels which had come to just below the surface of her neck and cheeks due to the strain of pushing. He thought of Jesus sweating blood in the Garden of Gethsemane.