“It’s not a sculpture. It’s a death mask. Of Joseph Smith.”
CHAPTER
NINE
A CHILL RAN UP MY SPINE. “WHAT, EXACTLY, IS A death mask?”
“A plaster cast of Joseph Smith’s face made after the martyrdom. The church owns it.”
“Why a death mask rather than a photograph?”
“Photography was pretty new back then, and no one had taken any of the prophet, only this death mask and a profile drawing.” The bell over the shop door tinkled and a man stepped through, then held the door for a pregnant woman pushing a baby carriage.
“Excuse me.” The clerk moved toward the woman.
I didn’t remember how Joseph Smith’s death played out, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t in Mountain Meadows, Utah.
My reconstruction lay in a million pieces in the trash bin, but I’d photographed it before it was destroyed. The camera was in the car. Right outside. I could have a copy made in seconds.
What good would that do?
Maybe I was the only one seeing a resemblance. I could give both images to Beth to see what she thinks.
And?
And nothing. Or maybe something. Jane Doe fainted after viewing my reconstruction. I had to get the memory card to Deputy Howell anyway. Maybe this was also a lead on his case.
I trotted to the car, found my digital camera, and returned to the store. The young man was still waiting on the other customers, so I checked out the new video equipment.
He finished and turned to me. “Yes?”
I turned on the camera, then scrolled through the photos. “Would you please make a print of the last five images on this?”
He nodded and stepped to the back of the store.
I drifted to the window.
The blue pickup perched at the end of the parking lot.
That’s it. I rushed out of the store, stomped to the truck, and banged on the driver’s window. I froze.
A startled woman in a tan jogging suit squealed and slammed down the lock, then sped off.
Well. That was embarrassing. That poor woman would probably tell her bridge club about the attempted assault by a crazed woman in a peach turban.
I slunk back to the shop, hoping no one noticed. The clerk’s expression told me he’d seen everything. He quickly handed me the images, camera, and bill. I paid, reached for the door, then looked at the clerk. “Well, do you know the difference between navy and indanthrene?”
Back in room 210, I checked under the bed and behind the bathroom door to be sure I hadn’t left anything. As I was about to leave, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Gwen. Dave here.”
“Dave? What—”
“Aynslee ran away from the school.”
I dropped the phone. No! Dave’s voice sounded from the handset. I slowly picked it back up.
“—so the school called me—”
“When?”
“I just said. Yesterday. Sometime during the day.”
“What are they doing to find her?”
“The school waited an hour or two in case Aynslee’d just meandered into the mountains—”
“Aynslee hates the mountains!”
“If you’re going to interrupt me . . .”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Then they called the private security company they use.”
“Okay.”
“They spent four hours going to the usual runaway spots. Then they tried to call you.”
“My phone—”
“I know. I spoke to Beth. That’s how I got this number. They’ve put out a BOLO.”
“A Be On the Look Out may not be enough. Did they get ahold of Robert?”
“No. Your ex is AWOL. Are you having a custody battle?”
“Hardly.” I scooped in a deep breath. “The last time Robert stopped by, I asked him to take Aynslee for a few weeks while I worked in Utah. It turned into a horrible fight. He said her rebellion was my fault. And my problem. He said we were roadblocks in his career . . .” My voice squeaked on “career,” and I waited a moment. “Aynslee overheard it. I’m heading home as fast as I can.” I hung up, then threw my purse across the room. I would ground that child for the rest of her life.
Assuming they found her.
Driving home, my thoughts hurtled about like popping popcorn. I needed a piece of paper to jot some notes. I reached behind me and found a pad of Cason Mi-Teintes pastel paper with a few remaining hemp-colored sheets. Pricy notes, but I didn’t want to stop and rummage for scratch paper in the trunk. I pulled a Sharpie from my purse and opened the pad. Why had Aynslee written to Beth to say she liked it at Selkirk, then bolted the first chance she got? I thumped the steering wheel. Robert, where are you when your daughter needs you?
With his latest girlfriend, that’s where. A gold-digging, twenty-year-old with big boobs.
Just like you were. Robert’s sarcastic voice echoed in my brain.
“That’s not true.” My face burned anyway. “I wasn’t a gold digger. I married you because I loved you.”
You married a best-selling author. I was hailed as the next Hemingway.
I snorted. “More like Harper Lee. A single book.”
Not anymore. My latest novel has sold millions on Amazon.
“Ha. A self-published e-book.”
And I’m getting most of the royalties.
“Some of which I should be receiving. We were married for fifteen years!”
And divorced before I published it.
“I’m not the reason you couldn’t write a second book!”
The only thing you did right in our marriage was to be the inspiration for that second book.
“But I’m not neurotic!”
Does anyone care?
Breakfast threatened to come up. I took a deep breath and concentrated on driving. Continuing north, I passed into the potato-growing region of southeastern Idaho. Turning at Blackfoot, I headed toward Highway 93 and the rugged Idaho-Montana border. Traffic receded and I turned my gaze to the photograph on the seat. I was sure that it was just a bizarre coincidence that my sculpture looked like Joseph Smith.
Right, Gwen.
Now Dave’s rational voice played in my head. Maybe it was subconscious projection because you were working on the site.
“No. I’d never seen the death mask before, so how could I have patterned the face after it?”
I rubbed my neck. Had Jane Doe noticed the resemblance and that’s what had caused her to faint? And she was murdered. Did someone destroy the reconstruction to keep others from making that same identification? That didn’t make sense. I’d finished most of his face before Jane Doe saw him.
Why hadn’t anyone else recognized him?
“Because . . . because no one expected to see the face of Joseph Smith in that location. It’s a simple answer, Dave. Viewers would have a sense of familiarity, but not know why. My reconstruction was an older man with a scar, so maybe that made the difference.”
But Jane Doe somehow made a connection.
“Maybe she had some kind of special knowledge.”
A car horn honked.
My gaze shot to the rearview mirror, then to the speedometer. I was driving twenty miles under the speed limit.
Stopping only for gas and bladder breaks, it still seemed to take forever to get home. With every mile I itched for my phone. Mountains folded in around me, and my car, and my breathing, struggled over the seven-thousand-foot elevation on the Lost Trail Pass between Idaho and Montana.
I also watched for the pickup.
I pulled in front of Beth’s immaculate house after dark and dashed to the door, which opened before I could knock. One look at my friend’s face told me Aynslee was still missing.
I gripped the porch rail. They should have found her by now.
Beth gave me a quick hug, then stepped away to let me in. Her living room featured soothing oyster, taupe, and camel-colored furniture resting on an oatmeal-beige carpet. She’d move
d her Lladró figurines to a high shelf in deference to Winston’s waving tail. “I’ve started a prayer chain at church for Aynslee. I know she’ll be fine. She’s smart and resourceful.”
“Thanks, Beth.”
My dog burst from the kitchen, threw his full one hundred sixty pounds at me, knocking me to the floor. He planted an enormous foot on my chest and slurped my face with his wet tongue.
“Winston, no! Bad dog!” The Pyrenees paid no attention to Beth’s scolding.
I’d whacked my head on the floor, starting up the same headache I’d had after the accident. I used the dog to haul myself up. “How long’s Winston been leaping on people like that?”
“I’m sorry. My attempt to train Winston to track was somewhat unsuccessful. I give him a scent, and he does locate the person just fine. But he’s so elated, he just plows right into them. Poor Norm’s been trampled four times.”
Beth’s husband, Norm, wandered into the room. “Good to see you, Gwen. Really good.”
I frowned. Coming from Norm, that was practically gushing. “I’m sorry Winston was such a bother,” I said.
“Your dog’s wonderful.” He moved closer and took my hand. “The problem was my dear wife, you see.”
Beth started to protest, but Norm ignored her. “Since you left town, Beth’s organized my sock drawer by color, checked out, read, and returned sixty-five library books—”
“Thirty-eight,” Beth said.
“See my point?” He let go of my hand. “She was just starting a calorie and exercise chart for me to take fishing tomorrow. Now that you’re here, she’ll . . . ah . . . help you and let me get on with my trip.” He frowned. “Unless you’d rather I help you find Aynslee.”
“Oh, Norm.” Beth gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “That’s so sweet.”
“Thank you, but you don’t need to do that. I know you’ve been planning this trip for a year,” I said.
I turned to Beth. “I’ll take Winston off your hands. I need to get home and start looking for Aynslee.” Beth didn’t look the least bit sorry that my hairy pet was leaving. Digging up her peach dahlias hadn’t put him on her favorites list. I scratched Winston’s ear. “My friend, thanks so much for the dog care. I’ll call . . .” A lump formed in the back of my throat. Dang it! My emotions were still raw and unpredictable from the divorce, and menopause didn’t help.
Beth laid a warm hand on my arm. “You’re quite fatigued. Why don’t you leave Winston here tonight, get some sleep, and we’ll both look for your daughter in the morning. Dave’s doing everything he can. And remember—”
“Don’t say it, Beth. Sometimes things just happen.” I clamped my jaw shut before I said more. Beth didn’t deserve my temper, and she was right. I was exhausted, and four months of chemo had taken its toll on my endurance.
Beth held Winston’s collar while I got in the car and headed home. Tucked just off the county road and surrounded by steep, pine-covered mountains, this place had been the perfect retreat for Robert and me sixteen years ago.
My log house was dark and lifeless as I pulled into the driveway and parked. Grabbing only my purse and computer case, I slammed the car door extra hard. The moonlight provided little illumination, and I fumbled the keys at the back door three times before finally unlocking it.
Everything was exactly as I’d left it three weeks ago, down to the single rinsed cup on the drying board and the ratty dishrag draped over the faucet. The room smelled musty. Even though he would have demanded all my attention, I should have brought Winston home. The house would have felt less empty.
I dumped purse, keys, and laptop onto the kitchen table. I needed to send a quick email to Deputy Howell, but my desktop computer was faster than my old laptop. Plus, it hadn’t been in a car wreck. Heading to my studio, I paused at Robert’s office and flipped on the light. A bare bulb dangled where a Frank Lloyd Wright prairie-ceiling light had once glowed. Art hangers lined the walls, surrounded by tiny scratches from the absent framed awards. Divots scored the creamy-white carpet outlining the shape of amputated furniture.
After softly closing the door, I entered the studio and turned on the computer. While it booted up, I stretched my arms over my head and enjoyed a jaw-cracking yawn. I sat and began to type.
Deputy Howell, I’ve recovered a memory card from Jane Doe’s camera. I’d like to speak to you about the contents. I also think you might [delete] should do a follow-up with Prophet Kenyon re: split with another fundamentalist group. Check out Bee Prepared grocery in Provo. Did you recover anything interesting from Ethan? [delete]
That’s none of my business.
I stood up. “I’ll get you the memory card, and I’m done, done, done with Jane Doe, Mountain Meadows, and fundamentalist Mormons.” My bedroom was stuffy so I opened a window to cool it down before stretching out on the bed. I would just close my eyes for a moment . . .
Something skittered across my ankle.
I leaped from the bed, whacking at the exposed flesh. Spider. I found a shoe and turned on all the lights. It was here somewhere. The thought made me want to slap at my clothing while doing a tippy-toe dance. I spotted the black beast sneaking across the floor. A well-aimed toss and the spider became a skid mark.
I did the tippy-toe dance anyway, then leaned against the wall to catch my breath and wait for my heart to stop pounding. Stupid. I’d gone to bed without checking. A thorough search of the bedding assured me it was now safe to sleep. I closed my eyes.
The phone was ringing.
I jerked upright. It took a moment, then my thoughts reassembled. Morning sunshine flooded my bedroom. I lurched for the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s Dave. I have good news. We found your daughter. She hitched a ride with a young man as far as Superior before the guy made a pass at her—”
“No!”
“She’s fine, but she broke his finger.” Dave snorted. “Looks like my self-defense lessons paid off.”
“Where did they find her?”
“I-90 heading east. His erratic driving attracted the state police. They picked her up. The academy gave them my number—”
“I’ll go get her right now.”
“You don’t have to. I have some evidence I need to drop off in Missoula. I can pick her up after that.”
“Oh.” I slowly sank to the bed. “Thanks, Dave. I—” My throat closed up.
“You bet.” He hung up.
I drifted down the hallway to the kitchen. The painted eggshell-white cabinets seemed sterile, and the old linoleum needed replacing. I put on a pot of coffee and called Beth to tell her about Aynslee. Before we hung up, she said she’d bring Winston over in a little while.
The coffeepot dinged and I poured a cup, then wandered to the window.
My car door was ajar.
I turned and sloshed the coffee. My computer, keys, and purse were still sitting on the table where I’d left them.
I walked outside and inspected the car. It was dusty and dinged up from the accident but otherwise looked fine. I shut the door, locked up, and started back to the house when something caught my attention at the edge of the yard.
Leaning against a shrub was a carefully folded piece of hemp-colored Mi-Teintes pastel paper.
My heart pounded a bit faster. It probably blew out of my car.
But I hadn’t torn out any pages. I walked back to the car and glanced into the front seat. The pad of paper was missing.
The dense forest at the edge of the yard formed a deep, Prussian-green backdrop to the brown of the paper. The yard between house and woods stretched before me. Exposed. No cover. Wind stirred the pines across the ridge above me. I should have brought Winston home last night.
I stepped toward the lawn, then froze.
Early-morning dew sparkled like sugar frosting on the grass. A trail, clearly defined, led from the driveway to the paper. In another hour the sun would evaporate the damp lawn and the trail would disappear.
I slowly retreated, not turning my back t
o the watching forest. I bumped into the kitchen door. Only then did I bolt inside.
I picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff, then promptly hung up.
What was I going to say? A folded slip of paper scared me?
Someone’s spying on me?
They would come in white uniforms. Fit me for a straitjacket.
I raced to the bedroom and retrieved my 9mm SIG Sauer from the drawer by the bed. It felt solid in my hand. I chambered a bullet. The sound echoed in the silent house.
I found a baseball hat and jammed it over my nonexistent hair. Stupid time to be vain.
The kitchen door creaked as I opened it. Gravel crunched underfoot as I advanced across the driveway. Ravens cawed to each other overhead. Ravens? They tended to like carrion.
Dead things.
I gauged the distance between me and the stockade of trees. If I ran, I’d be a difficult target. On three. One. Two. I flew toward the woods.
The lawn seemed the length of a football field. My goal was a large ponderosa next to the piece of paper. When I reached it, I sagged against the trunk and waited for my heart rate and breathing to slow. I sniffed, but all I smelled was pine. Nothing . . . dead.
Only then did I look down. The paper was folded a bit like a paper airplane.
Or . . . an arrow.
The forest, thinned years ago, allowed young pines to crowd together. About six feet down a game trail in front of me was a second folded sheet.
My pulse took off like a racehorse. I extended my arms in front of me, pistol ready but quivering in my grip, and stepped into the woods. A chipmunk chattered its reproof of my presence. I crept up to the paper, then slowly turned in a circle. The pine branches blocked my view. Someone could be standing right next to me in this jungle and I wouldn’t see him. The paper arrow pointed left.
The third sheet rested three feet away.
I wiped my free hand on my jeans, then slipped closer.
A branch snapped on my right.
I jumped, then spun in a circle. A startled deer flipped his white tail at me and crashed off. I lowered the gun and searched for another arrow.
Something glinted to my left. I shifted and it disappeared.
I squinted my eyes to see better, but couldn’t make anything out.
A Cry from the Dust Page 9