by D. J. Butler
Mary stopped behind the Hotel Utah, pointing out a fire escape up the back. If Michael wasn’t there or at Buford’s, Hiram didn’t know where else to turn. He had failed to find Michael, even with the Mosaical Rod, and having used up his supply of witch hazel, he couldn’t try again. He could drive back to the farm and peel more branches off the bush he carefully cultivated at the end of the porch, but that would be a whole day lost.
He could turn himself in, if only to get the police’s help to find his son, but Shanks had confirmed that Chief Fox was in the pocket of Naaman Rettig. He feared what the Helper City Police might do if they got their hands on either Michael or him.
Could he turn himself into the Carbon County Sheriff instead, who now seemed to be involved? But if Chief Fox was working with the sheriff, what did the sheriff think of Hiram?
He turned to Mary. “While I go visit Eliza, could you swing by Buford’s Boarding House and see if Michael is there? Also, I’m expecting a telegram.”
“And you think the police might be watching the boarding house for you.”
“I do.” He handed her the key. “It’s the second floor, the room facing Main Street. Of course, they might be watching for you, too.”
“Don’t worry,” Mary said. “If Chief Fox sees me, he’ll think of Five-Cent Jimmy and run. Hopefully.”
Hiram let out a shaky breath. “Let’s meet back here.”
Mary mock-saluted. “Sir, yes, sir. Just be careful. It would be a shame for you to end up in the Helper jail when I have only recently been released.”
Hiram tried to put a brave face on his exhaustion. “Don’t worry. I know the right names of the twelve apostles.”
He stopped at the trunk to retrieve the wax disk from his toolbox, then jumped and pulled the swinging ladder down. He climbed up the fire escape quickly.
On the second floor, he wasn’t taking any chances. He pronounced the single line of his charm, blew three times across the disk of wax into the window latch, and then raised the window.
The hotel’s second-story hallway was empty. Hiram walked down to Eliza’s door. Knocking before sending up from the lobby might upset her, but Hiram couldn’t afford the niceties. He rapped on the door three times.
From inside he heard, “Who’s there? What is this?”
He knocked again, not wanting to say his own name too loud.
He remembered his hat and removed it. He was smoothing his hair down when the door opened.
He might have caught Eliza Kimball by surprise, but she was fully dressed in her mortician’s black, and her hair was pinned to her scalp.
“I’d appreciate it if you let me in,” he said. “I imagine it’s not strictly Emily Post, but I’m in need.”
She let the door swing open and Hiram slipped inside. He turned and found Eliza staring him square in the eye, an astonished expression on her face. “And now you can explain yourself, Mr. Woolley.”
Michael wasn’t there.
Hiram gripped his hat in both hands. “My son is missing. Has he contacted you in any way?”
“No.” Eliza shrugged. “Has he been missing long?”
Hiram shook his head. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Also, ma’am, there’s something else. Since I’m here, I want to talk about your family situation. About the mine. You may struggle to believe it, but there is an evil at work, here.”
Her eyes iced over. “By evil, do you mean greed and foolishness? Because if you mean the occult, Mr. Woolley, the conversation ends here.”
Hiram reached into his pocket and eased the seer stone out of his bandana—he preferred not to show Eliza the bloodstains—and took it out of his pocket. “You remember that I mentioned a stone, the last time I was here? This stone belonged to your father, and he mailed it to Samuel. Samuel put it back on the mantel for Ammon to use.”
Her eyes dropped. “It’s a simple rock. How does one use a rock?”
“Your father looked into it, and he saw something. Look, I know you’re not a believer, but you were raised by believers. You know what this is.”
The line of Eliza’s jaw relented, slightly. “I know what it is.”
“I think Samuel looked and saw something. Ammon too. You might be the only living member of your family who hasn’t taken a turn.”
“If you’re suggesting I should look into that stone, stop right now.” Eliza Kimball’s upper lip curled into a sneer.
“I’m a believer, Miss Kimball. And I’ve looked into the stone, and I’ve seen what’s in there. It isn’t pretty. It appears to be an angel of light, but…”
“Stop.”
Hiram took a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am. But I want you to remember the things your father believed, and the kinds of men your brothers are, and I want you to believe that your brothers are both…well, if you can’t believe they’re controlled by an inhuman evil that appears as an angel, can you believe that they’re mad? Can you believe that an old family madness has taken your brothers, Eliza? Can you believe that the best thing for you right now is to help me make peace between you and your brothers?”
And soften all their hearts.
It was a long speech for Hiram, and he’d forgotten to call Eliza by her surname.
“Give me the stone.”
Hiram felt a chill run up his back. “I don’t want you to look.”
“I’m not going to. You want my help? I’m going to help you, by throwing the stone into the river. It will end the madness.”
Until someone else found the stone. “No…”
“That’s my family’s property,” Eliza Kimball said curtly. “You can give it to me, or I can call the police. There’s a policeman standing in the lobby, within earshot.” She glared at him. “Or are you willing to overpower me and rob my family?”
Hiram felt numb. He wanted to keep the stone, because it was dangerous. He had felt the shining person reaching into his own heart, and only his chi-rho amulet had saved him. He considered jumping out the window and racing down the fire escape, but then the police would be chasing him for two reasons.
And besides, if stealing from Gus Dollar had made Hiram’s charms misfire, what would stealing from Eliza Kimball do?
Perhaps, after all, the seer stone would be safest with Eliza. Her secular education and her pride might mean that the stone went straight into a shoebox and stayed there.
Or straight into the Price River.
Hiram took a deep breath and handed over the peep-stone.
“And now you may leave,” Eliza said.
* * *
Mary McGill walked into the open back door of the boarding house, holding her dress up to keep it from the mud, hands trembling.
Hands trembling, and mind full of the image of two dead feet, poking out from under a juniper.
And here she was, aiding a fugitive and trying to help him find his missing son. Yet in her heart of hearts, she knew Hiram Woolley was innocent, and Mary McGill had never run from trouble.
Buford’s Boarding House was warm and Mary smelled tea and toasted bread in the parlor. A policeman with big knuckles and a heavy forehead stood in the ground floor hallway, looking at Mary. After a moment, his eyes widened and he turned his head away.
She managed not to laugh.
The upstairs hallway was unoccupied. Mary let herself into Hiram’s room. She moved carefully and she stayed away from the windows. The room had simple furnishings and no sign of Hiram’s son.
But there were two envelopes lying on the hardwood floor, just inside the door. Curiosity about the farmer’s affairs nearly got the better of Mary’s manners, but she managed not to look inside the envelopes. She did see a note written in a neat penciled hand on the outside of one envelope.
Mr. Woolley,
A boy came twice from the Western Union with messages for you. I tipped him three cents each time. I expect to be repaid.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Buford
Mary took the envelopes, locked the door, and calmly walked out o
f the boarding house, nodding at the policeman on the way.
She sat in the car for fifteen minutes, watching a train slowly pull out of the station and roll up toward Price Canyon through the fogged windshield of her Model A. Two Model Ts pulled up just before the train began to move, disgorging men gray with coal dust at the residential end of Helper. Mary watched them jump onto flatcars and climb ladders to get atop boxcars, riding the rails toward Salt Lake and points west.
Miners. Fleeing Helper.
Hiram abruptly opened the car door and sat down. His face was bright red and he brought the smell of the cold river in with him.
“Michael wasn’t with Eliza Kimball,” he said. “Did you have any luck?”
“No sign of your son. I’m sorry. And you owe Mrs. Buford six cents.” Mary handed over the envelopes.
Hiram grabbed a Coke from the back seat and drank half of it in one sustained attack. He plucked out the messages and scanned them. Mary saw the Western Union logo at the top.
Mary wanted to ask about the messages, but she kept quiet. When Hiram felt like sharing, he would. She started the car to get a little heat in and waited.
Hiram’s face was gray and he sat still, staring up at the white cliff looming over Helper.
Mary fidgeted. She took a deep breath and straightened her back.
Hiram looked at her, and the bleakness of his expression caught her by surprise. “You should read this. Both of these, I suppose.”
He handed her the two telegrams.
Mary read the two messages, each typed in capital letters beneath the heading of a Western Union blank. The first read:
YOU ARE HEREBY DIRECTED TO COME HOME. WEVE HEARD RUMORS OF INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR INCLUDING WITCHCRAFT. WILL MEET YOU NEXT SUNDAY AT YOUR CHAPEL TO HEAR YOUR REPORT AND DETERMINE WHETHER DISCIPLINE IS NEEDED.
I AM YOUR FRIEND
JOHN
When she looked up from reading, Hiram laughed softly. “It could be worse. They don’t direct me to turn myself in to the police.”
“They don’t know Michael’s missing.”
Hiram nodded. “The other one is from a librarian friend of mine.”
Mary read the second:
ACCORDING TO THE TALMUD SAMAEL IS CHIEF OF ALL THE SATANS. CANT FIND ANYTHING ABOUT A MAHOUN. MAYBE MASTER MAHAN FROM BOOK OF MOSES. HIRAM WHAT ARE YOU DOING. MAHONRI.
“What is a mahonri?” she asked.
Hiram laughed.
“That’s my friend’s name. Mahonri Young,” he said. “He’s concerned I’m mixed up in a bad business.”
“And are you?”
“Yes,” Hiram said. “And maybe worse than I thought. So now might be a good time for you to tell me to get out of your car, and for you to drive away.”
“I can’t have it on my conscience if you’re arrested. Not after you helped spring me. And if I can’t fix the entire world, perhaps I can help repair this little corner of it. Now, I don’t remember the nuns telling me about a Book of Moses. Does Mahonri mean Exodus?”
Hiram shook his head. “No, it’s one of the extra books Mormons use.”
“And is Master Mahan one of the Satans in the Book of Moses?”
Hiram was slow to answer. “Master Mahan is a sort of title, I guess. It means someone who has learned to kill for gain. To convert human life into wealth.”
Mary snorted. “Well, that’s Ammon Kimball. And it’s Naaman Rettig. A lot of people turn human life into money.”
“I guess so.” Hiram smiled. He shot her a glance. “So this talk of devils doesn’t trouble you?”
She shrugged. “My catechism was clear, Mr. Woolley. There are evil forces in the world, and it’s my duty to fight them. I must admit, I had assumed the conflict would be metaphorical.”
“If only it were,” he said wearily.
“What do we do now?”
“Set it right.” He clenched his jaw. “All of it.”
She didn’t ask where they would go next. They sat.
Chief of all the Satans?
Mary laughed before she could stop herself. “Well, it seems you have trouble on every front, physical as well as spiritual. Setting it right is going to take some work, but I’m game.”
“Good.”
Then the man said nothing more for a long, long time.
Chapter Thirty
Hiram sat with Mary McGill in her Model A beside the Price River, the engine running. She must have installed a heater; Hiram felt warm air blow on him. Clouds cast shadows across the stretch of dirt behind Helper where they were parked.
“Gus Dollar. I’ve got to make Gus bleed,” Hiram muttered.
Mary blinked. “What? That is a bit shocking. Do you mean the storekeeper?”
“Was I speaking out loud?” Hiram’s own voice seemed to echo to him from far away.
“Let’s pretend you didn’t just say that. How many of those Cokes did you have?”
Hiram rested his face in hands. His whole body hurt. His eyes hurt. He couldn’t go to sleep. “Ten, minus however many are left.”
“There’s none left. Sweet Jesus! And how many do you usually drink?”
Hiram shook his head, still cupped in his fingers. His hands were shaking like leaves in an August storm. “I don’t drink a lot of Coke. Or coffee anymore, either. I just can’t fall asleep right now. I’ve got to find Michael, first of all, and then the rest. The bishopric can’t recall me now.”
“They don’t know you’ve read the telegram.”
Hiram shifted in the passenger seat. The engine heat dried out his nose and the windows were steaming up. “But they don’t know. They’re wrong, they’ve been told lies. I’m not down here working as a cunning man.”
“What’s a cunning man?”
“You would say a wizard, I suppose.”
“You’re not?”
Hiram shook his head. “I’m just…doing the things that I know work. And I…sometimes the things that work look like magic. Anyway, I’m not working. I’m serving. Religion, pure and undefiled, that’s what James says. Widows and orphans, that’s what I’m trying to do. Why would they object to that?”
“I don’t really know your people,” Mary said. “But it’s my sense they don’t object to the what so much as to the how.”
“You mean if I just used false arrests and lies and threats and guns to solve my problems, like everybody else does, that would be acceptable?” Hiram heard the bitterness in his own voice.
“I think your Mormon bigwigs just want you to stop what you’re doing here and go back. Report, it says.”
Hiram clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “I can’t, in any case. I can’t leave Michael. I won’t.”
“You’re going to get caffeine poisoning and end up with a permanent case of the jitters, if not dead of a heart attack.”
“The thing under Gus’s shop is behind the murders. Gus…is involved somehow.” And, despite the fact that Gus Dollar had repeatedly bested Hiram, Hiram liked his chances with Gus better than his chances with the demon.
“Gus is the shopkeeper?” Mary asked.
“Yes.”
“Who’s in his basement?”
“Not who, but what. And it’s not his basement, it’s the…cave under his basement. The cave under the mine.”
“The old German fellow? With the glass eye?” Skepticism tinged her voice.
Hiram remembered that eye rolling toward him across the store counter. In his mind, it seemed to be rolling toward him again now, only it was vast, a huge sphere of glass that had been cut out of the mountain without hands, and was going to crush Hiram Woolley flat.
“Yes, him. I’ve got to hurt him.”
Mary gripped the steering wheel. After a moment, Hiram looked up and found her looking at him with a queer expression.
“Hiram…you didn’t kill them, did you? The Sorensons? The girl?”
Hiram pressed his face against the cold glass of the window. “No, Mary, I…I’m exhausted. And I…I don’t know
what caffeine poisoning is, are you serious about that? But I don’t feel good, and my son is missing. And the police want me, and I’m innocent.”
“But you want to hurt an old man.”
“He’s not…he’s not just an old man. He’s a witch. And he’s connected with something that’s much older than he is. Something to do with the mine.” A fallen angel, as Gus himself had said, living in the Wastes of Dudael? “I think he might be in league with the killer. If not, I think he’ll know how to stop whatever killed Callista.”
“Something much older?” she asked. “Is that the what in the basement?”
Hiram hesitated. “It’s a demon.”
“You seemed so kind when you visited me in the jail,” Mary said slowly.
Hiram drooped.
Mary’s voice was breathless. “Now you seem like a madman, or just a hair shy of mad.”
“I don’t mean I’m going to kill Gus,” he said. “I don’t want to kill him. I don’t want to kill anybody. But I need to wound him.”
“Are you hearing yourself? You need to wound an old man?”
“He’s a witch. And he’s better than me, he’s been beating me at every turn.” Hiram felt his eyes soften into tears, but Mary’s face only looked horrified. “He lured me into his shop, and then he forced me to open up my heart to him. And then I think he tricked me into coming back, and burned my Mosaical Rod, and his grandchildren nearly killed me.”
“His grandchildren. With what, guns?”
“An iron. And a skillet.”
Mary frowned. “I’m on your side, Hiram, but…what kind of grandchildren are we talking about here?”
Hiram looked down at his knees.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, are you telling me they’re little children?”
“There’s something wrong with them. They seemed normal before, but maybe he’s bewitched them, too. I didn’t hurt them, even when they tried to kill me. We can go back to the shop, you’ll see them, they were healthy as can be when we left, evil, grinning little monsters.”
“I’m all for battling Satan and all the demons, but I don’t have a fight with Gus Dollar,” Mary said. “Or his evil, grinning grandchildren. Is it possible you’re so tired and so jooked up on Coca-Cola, you’re actually hallucinating?”