“Sure,” I said. I’d already sketched her once, but that was just a quick study, and I’d given it to Ethan. “Give me about an hour and a half.” Driving in from the Mountain Meadows Center, I’d asked Deputy Young to swing by the motel room to pick up my drawing kit. I placed the bag on the floor and pulled a high stool next to the table holding the body. After removing a pad of Bristol paper, pencil container, and sharpener, I settled next to the young woman and began sharpening my pencils. “So, if she’s not Rebekah Kenyon, who is?”
My pencil-sharpening routine seemed riveting to Deputy Howell. “What is that?”
“A lead pointer. Used to sharpen lead holders.” I held up the metal object and rotated it. “It holds a 2 mm piece of graphite, which is important for accurate drawing. A mechanical pencil’s lead is too small. I can sharpen this to a fantastic point and . . .” Deputy Howell’s eyes had glazed over. “So, who is Rebekah Kenyon?”
His eyebrows remained furrowed as he consulted a small notebook. “Rebekah Sarah Kenyon. Died five years ago. Accident, thrown from a horse. I called next of kin, shocked the heck out of them. Farming folks, live in a small town southwest of Provo. Place called Jarom. They had no idea someone had stolen Rebekah’s identity.”
“Do you have a theory about this Jane Doe?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be having you sketch her, now would I?” Howell began pacing. After a pause, he continued, “Sorry. Not much sleep.” He dry-washed his face. “According to Ethan, she enrolled at North Idaho College last year. General studies. Didn’t talk much about her background. Said she was homeschooled, which matched up with the real Rebekah. They were taking a class on Western history, which included touring sites.”
“Not much to go on.”
“Nope. One interesting thing. Ethan seemed to think she was supposed to meet someone on this trip. He clammed up after that, asked for a lawyer.”
I nodded and began drawing. “This girl must have known about the real Rebekah.”
“Yeah, we’re working on that assumption.”
I debated on adding that piece of information to my notes. Instead, I drew lines on the paper to align the eyes, nose, and mouth. I couldn’t see her eye color or shape, so I used my memory to draw them. After sketching for a time, I stood and stretched.
“Done?” Deputy Howell asked.
“Just need to shade it in. What time is it?”
Howell glanced at his watch. “Nine seventeen.”
“I need to talk to Bentley Evans, the director of the center.” I tugged out my cell, scrolled through the names, then hit Send. Bentley answered before it rang.
“Yes, what now!” Bentley’s voice was practically screeching. I pictured his double chin bobbing with each word.
“It’s Gwen. What do—”
“It’s ruined, the whole center is a total disaster. It’ll take months to rebuild.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll collect what I can from there and head home.”
“Don’t bother to return. You’re fired!”
The burn started in my chest and flashed up my face.
“Did you hear me? I said you’re fired.”
“What? Why?” I clutched the phone.
“I had a staff meeting. The docents said the visitors were hostile and angry after listening to your presentation. One of them probably returned last night and did this.”
“But—”
“You were supposed to educate, not antagonize. I told you to stay neutral. And, as you didn’t finish your contract, we are not obligated to pay you.” Click.
I couldn’t move. The dial tone buzzed in my ear like an enraged wasp. I dropped the phone into my pocket.
Now I really needed that interagency job.
“You okay?” Howell raised his eyebrows.
“Sure. Fine.” My hand shook as I picked up the pencil. I’d never be able to shade in the drawing at this rate. “Could you find me something to drink?”
Howell nodded and left.
I closed my eyes and made an effort to concentrate. Everything happens for a reason. Ha. I focused on the porcelain face of the younger woman. “So what’s your story? Were you hiding from someone? Is that why you took on another identity? If we find out who you really are, we also might find your killer.”
My hand steadied, so I picked up a paper stump and blended my pencil strokes. “I shouldn’t say this. It sounds self-serving.” I stopped drawing. “But if you were the target, your murderer wasn’t after me.” The body looked like alabaster in the buzzing fluorescent light. “I’m talking to a corpse. Maybe I need to make another appointment with that shrink.”
A soft cough.
I started.
Deputy Howell stood by the door, a can of Squirt in his hand, lips pursed.
I grinned self-consciously. Since my divorce eleven months and five days ago, my most meaningful conversations were with Beth, clay reconstructions, dead bodies, or my dog. And now my only daughter wasn’t speaking to me.
I sighed and tucked my pencil behind my ear. “I’m done with the drawing. Could I have a copy for my records?”
Deputy Howell handed me the soda and took the sketch. “Hey, this is good. I mean, really good. She looks like she’s about to blink.” He looked at me. “I forgot to ask, how much do you charge?”
Law enforcement budgets. Too much crime, too little money. “This one’s on the house.”
“Thanks. I’ll get a copy for you.” He opened the door to leave just as two men stepped in.
“We’re ready to transport the girl to St. George,” the first one said.
“You’re taking George too?” I asked.
“Yeah. He’s already loaded.” The second one stared at me. “You’re the artist. Doing those sculptures. You gotta hear this. When they bagged George’s hands, they noticed he had clay under his fingernails. Any reason he’d be handling your stuff?”
“No. He didn’t like the clay reconstructions. Said they gave him the creeps.” The whole thing didn’t add up. But it wasn’t my case—or problem.
The men wheeled Rebekah’s body from the room. Deputy Howell left, then returned with several copies of the sketch. “Thanks again. Ah . . . I hate to take advantage of your free services, but would you mind doing something for me?”
“What’s that?” I asked, packing up my art supplies.
“I’m going to be tied up here doing interviews and follow-ups. I heard you say that you’re going home. You’ll be driving right past Jarom, the real Rebekah’s hometown. Could you, maybe, take a detour? Talk to her family? Your boss, Dave, said you were good at interviewing. I can tell them you’re coming.”
“Sure. Glad to help.” Now that I was going home early, I could spring Aynslee from the school, call for an update on the interagency job, and see if Dave could find some funds to pay me on Craig’s cold case.
Howell jotted the name and address of the family in Jarom on a copy of the sketch, then handed it to me. I tucked it into a file folder, nodded at the man, then left. Deputy Young returned me to the motel to check out.
The maid had already cleaned the room, returning it to its sterile tidiness except for a small amber bottle on the desk. I picked it up. Lorazepam, the drug my doctor prescribed for my anxiety and nausea during chemo, was the tablet I’d taken last night to help me sleep. I must not have returned the bottle to my suitcase.
But I would’ve hidden the bottle. I didn’t need to provide anyone with proof that I was a nutcake.
My gaze drifted around the room, looking for anything else out of place. The top of the desk held books and a clutter of papers. Half-full bottle of water by the bed. Extra shoes in the closet.
I’d left in a hurry that morning.
Opening the dresser drawers, I checked my folded clothing. Undisturbed.
I must have dropped the bottle on the floor and the maid found it. I tugged out my empty suitcase and packed, checking to see if anything else was out of place, a useless task as the maid shuffled my room a
round daily.
Once I loaded the car, I turned toward Mountain Meadows. I didn’t want to come face-to-face with Bentley Edwards, but I needed to retrieve the last of my supplies, assuming any were worth saving.
The sheriff’s department vehicles blocked the parking lot, and it took me a few minutes to convince a chunky deputy that my presence was legitimate. I tugged out a yellow no.2 pencil and sketchpad as I entered the building. Sunshine streamed into the room, lighting up the destruction like a stage.
I halted at the entrance, then leaned against the door, my legs feeling like cooked pasta.
Deputy Young spotted me and gave me a thumbs-up that the crime scene team had released my area.
It wasn’t until I waved back at him that I noticed I’d snapped my pencil in half.
I spotted Mike almost immediately. The agent had his back to me, hunched over the shattered case where they’d found George’s body.
I slipped behind him. “Find anything new?”
He leapt to his feet. “How’d you do that?”
“What?”
“Move so quietly I didn’t hear you.”
“Practice. Learned it from a friend.” I moved closer to the case and picked up a small sign. A piece of glass tore the corner in a ragged line. The whole display would need to be re-created.
Special Report: May 25, 1859. The names of the surviving children:
Joseph and Mary Miller, John Calvin Miller, Nancy Sophronia Huff, Prudence Angeline and Georgianna Dunlap; William Henry and Emberson Milum Tackett; Jane, Sarah Frances, and Martha Elizabeth Baker—
“This place has certainly seen its share of violence.” Mike closed a notebook.
I continued to read.
William W. Huff, Christopher Carson, and Tryphenia Fancher; Rebekah, Louisa, and Sarah Dunlap; Felix Marion Jones . . .
“Poor little tykes,” I muttered.
“Where to from here?” Mike asked.
“I was . . . sort of fired, so no reason to hang around. I’m going home. By way of Jarom and an interview with the real Rebekah’s family.”
“Where’s home?”
“Copper Creek, Montana. South of Missoula. You?” I turned to look at him, tucking the sign into my sketchpad.
“I’m working out of Salt Lake City.” He reached into his pocket, tugged out a business card, and handed it to me. “I offered to run these two cases, but Deputy Howell said he had it under control. I’ll finish up here and head back to Salt Lake.”
I turned the card over in my hand. A. Michael Brown, FBI. I could hand it back with a “no thanks,” but knowing someone with the FBI did have a few advantages. I glanced at him. He had a slight smile on his face. Was the card a peace offering? I gave a quick nod, then raced to my area. It didn’t take long to confirm the total destruction of my supplies. I left the mess for Bentley to clean up, then headed to the exit. Jarom was over three hours away, and it was already after three o’clock.
I gave Beth a quick call before leaving the parking lot. “Just a heads–up that I’m on my way home.”
“Your daughter will be happy. Your dog will be jubilant, as will I. Life has been rather . . . sluggish without you.” I’d met Beth at a gallery opening two years ago. She’d graduated cum laude from Bryn Mawr College, and after a fast-paced career at Microsoft, she’d found Copper Creek boring. Until she met me. “Your work concluded faster than you thought.”
“Not really.” I filled her in on George and the center.
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” she said quietly.
“Thank you.”
“Now that you’re going to be home, would you be interested in a concert in Seattle next week? I have tickets.”
“I’ll have Aynslee by then.”
“Better yet. I have tickets for both of you. Speaking of your daughter, I received a letter from her.”
“What did she say?” I tried to sound casual.
“Her grammar is atrocious—”
“Beth! Please.”
“Yes, well, your daughter enjoys the art program and misses her dog.”
“Did she say anything about—”
“No. Give her time to adjust. Divorce is hard on juveniles, especially those in their early teens. I can’t wait to see you, and I’ll have that research done when you return.”
“Wait. I didn’t ask you to do any—”
Dial tone.
I tossed the cell on the seat beside me.
The drive up I-15 North was long—filled with irrigated farms, high desert brush, distant baked hills, and windmills dragging water for the thirsty cattle. Occasionally cars or ranch trucks passed me. At one point I thought I saw a blue pickup following me and I slowed down to check, but it disappeared down an access road. I kept looking in my rearview mirror but saw nothing. After stopping for lunch, I spent the time listening to the radio and avoiding my thoughts, which picked away at the scab of my life. If bad things happened in threes, I’d just crossed over into four by losing my job.
The late-summer heat beat through the windows, and I hummed an off-key tune to stay alert. I’d hoped that the work at the interpretive center would put my name out in public again in case the regional job fell through. More work would follow once agencies knew I was back in business. Now I’d need to contact each agency, knock on doors, and pray that no one would hear I’d been fired from my last job.
I found a radio station with a fire-and-brimstone, Southern Baptist pastor. It wasn’t until he mentioned Nephi, and the Book of Mormon, that I realized it was an LDS program. Apparently converts to the LDS Church were now coming from the deep South.
“Now, my brothers and sisters, I ask you this: Why did Jesus—”
The speaker was able to get four syllables out of the word Jesus: Jay-eeee-sas-a.
“—in Matthew, chapter six, say, ‘After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.’ But in addressin’ the Nephites, as recorded in Nephi three, chapter thirteen and verse ten, he left out the words ‘thy kingdom come.’ ”
I nodded. Yep. I stayed up nights wondering about that. “I bet you’re going to tell me,” I said to the radio.
“I’m going to tell you, and you listen well. The Jews were in the First Watch. The Nephites in the Second Watch had the ordinances and keys to the kingdom, and when Joseph Smith restored the fullness of the gospel, they didn’t need to pray for the kingdom to come. It was already here! Now the kingdom of God will go forth with the help of a mighty and powerful one—”
I yawned and snapped off the radio. The man’s cadence was making me drowsy again. I blinked several times and twisted my head from side to side. I almost missed my turnoff. The small sign, pointing right, whispered Jarom.
Slowing to the end of the exit ramp, I spotted the discrete arrow informing me Jarom was twenty-three miles away. I glanced at my watch. Five thirty. I’d probably arrive just in time for dinner. The thought made my mouth water. I hoped the town featured a good ole ma-and-pa diner serving mashed potatoes and meatloaf. Meatloaf with raisins. George’s family gathering around the dinner table, warmhearted laughter cocooning their home. I stomped the gas petal, and the car fishtailed. I slowed and relaxed my jaw.
After a mile, I revised my estimated arrival time. The pavement gave way to gravel, and I slowed to keep from bouncing off the surface. The road climbed, with a small hill on one side and a sharp drop-off on the other. The setting sun was blinding.
The pronghorn antelope appeared directly in front of my car.
I slammed the brakes and yanked the wheel. My car skated across the loose gravel and slid sideways off the road. My knuckles whitened on the useless steering wheel. The embankment steepened. The car skidded faster, abruptly stopped, then tipped on its side.
The earth lunged toward me.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I CAREFULLY LIFTED MY HEAD FROM THE SIDE window and rubbed the swelling bum
p on my temple. Just on the other side of the glass was a hunk of sagebrush and sunbaked earth. The seat belt hitched painfully across my neck. I wiggled my toes, then moved my legs to be sure I wasn’t paralyzed. “Ouch.” My voice was undamaged.
I unfastened the seat belt, breaking my thumbnail to the quick, and my foot caught between the pedals and my ankle twisted. “Ouch!”
Everything that had been loose on the front seat was scattered around me, except—of course—my phone, which seemed to have wriggled into an unknown crevice. I untangled arms, legs, and torso, and shoved myself to my feet. All sorts of colorful words ran like a banner across my mind. “Doggone it!” I said in a loud but quivery voice. Not a satisfactory curse, but I didn’t need to apologize for it should someone be in earshot.
The window was an open skylight above me. I stuck my head out the opening and listened for traffic, but all I heard were coyotes yipping in the distance. Just royally great. I’d driven fourteen of the twenty-three miles to Jarom, not passing a single car or farm since turning off the highway. Unless I found my phone, I had a lovely nine-mile hike to town. The small flashlight, one of the many objects that had cascaded around me with the tipping car, refused to work. The line from the movie Young Frankenstein flashed across my brain: “It could be worse. It could be raining.”
I eyed the sky.
The cell, I soon discovered, had landed on the door underneath me, and when I stood, I’d crushed it into electronic heaven. Double doggone it!
After tossing out my purse, I wiggled through the passenger-side window. The car wouldn’t be going anywhere without help. With uncanny skill, I’d managed to slide down the only part of the incline that featured a culvert, with a small, concrete retaining wall. The tires caught on the lip of the wall, momentarily stopping my crab-like travel, but the momentum tipped the car on its side so the two right wheels were high off the ground. The front wheel still slowly spun.
The way things were going, after turning in insurance claims on both my car and the plaster casting replacements, the insurance company would drop me. I was a bad-luck maven.
A Cry from the Dust Page 6