A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “You acted funny when you talked to that guy.” Aynslee paused, arms full of boxes of art supplies.

  “What guy?”

  “Mike.” She looked down and then to her left. “Don’t you still love Dad?”

  A blast furnace scorched my head, and I leaned against the car until it passed. The sweat rapidly cooled me. I shivered.

  Aynslee waited until I took a deep breath, then asked again, “Well? Don’t you still love Dad?”

  “I’ll always love your dad because of you. The man on the phone, Mike, is a law enforcement colleague. I don’t know him personally. Come on, let’s get this stuff into the house.”

  Aynslee didn’t move. Her lower lip pooched slightly.

  A breeze ruffled the pines, the branches writhing like black fingers. Winston stopped, sniffed a bush, and gazed toward the trees.

  I shivered again. “Come on.” I slammed the trunk and called Winston. Aynslee dawdled for a moment, then sauntered behind us. I shut the door and locked it. We moved the unloaded supplies into the studio. “Aynslee, would you bring me the rest of the boxes from the kitchen?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, but I’m hungry.”

  “One thing at a time,” I said.

  Beth held up a notebook. “This is too strange. Give me a minute. I’m almost done.”

  “But I’m hungry!” Aynslee said louder, eyes narrowing.

  I clenched my teeth, then made an effort to relax. I loved my daughter, but some days I really didn’t like her. “Okay. Pull a pizza out of the freezer and preheat the oven. Then move the packages.” Aynslee left. “What did you learn, Beth?”

  “Teenagers, so challenging.” She read a few more moments. “Mmm. Yes. Interesting.”

  I resisted the urge to throw a pencil at her head. “What did you find?”

  “You don’t have to be grumpy.”

  “Sorry. As you said, teenagers. Not to mention my own crazed hormones.”

  “Your request was to find out where Joseph Smith was buried.” Beth tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “The first question we need to ask is: Which time?”

  “Which time what?”

  “Was he interred. My research led me to some Mormon websites. I’ve cut and pasted some of the pertinent info into a Word document. A mob murdered Joseph and his brother, Hyrum, in 1844, but the Mormon leaders were afraid someone would disturb the remains, so for the public burial, they filled the caskets with sand. They concealed the bodies in the unfinished dirt floor of the Nauvoo. Six months later members of the church unearthed and reburied them.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s where it gets very weird.” She scrolled down her notes. “Here it is. Let me read you a quote from Doctrine and Covenants, one of their holy books.”

  Beth was beating around that ole bush again. I picked up a lead holder and lead pointer, then began to sharpen the tip. It kept me from hurling the pencil at her.

  “ ‘Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it.’ ”

  “Okay. So he was revered.” I kept spinning the lead pointer.

  “By 1928, they forgot where they buried him.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently the Mormons didn’t know where he was interred. They believed he was laid to rest somewhere on the Smith family homestead in Nauvoo, Illinois.”

  “You’d think they’d build a shrine over his grave,” I said.

  “There wasn’t anything. By the turn of the last century, the place was deteriorating, overgrown, and occupied by tenants.”

  “Like nobody cared.”

  “Indeed.” Beth massaged her arm, then continued, “The contrast is certainly bizarre. If you read their writings, they adored him, almost worshiped him, but it’s as if the Mormons no longer felt him significant enough to mark his resting place.”

  “Or it wasn’t where he was actually buried,” I said slowly. “Is there more?”

  “Yes, but this was part of what I researched while you were driving home. The Reorganized Church of Latter Day Saints—”

  “Sorry. What’s that?”

  “They now call themselves the Community of Christ. After Joseph Smith’s death, the church split,” Beth said. “In fact, at one time or another, followers formed more than a hundred splinter groups. The largest segment went to Salt Lake City with Brigham Young. They are technically called LDS. A much smaller flock stayed faithful to Emma, Joseph’s first wife, eventually making Joseph’s son, Joseph Smith III, their prophet.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Is it important?”

  “Maybe. Find out. Anyway . . .” I waved my hand for her to continue.

  “The RLDS Church-owned homestead was on the Mississippi River, and the newly constructed dams made the river rise. No one was sure exactly how high the river would go, so after over eighty years, they decided to locate and move the bodies of Joseph and his brother, Hyrum.”

  “Reasonable.”

  “Another reason they wanted to locate the bodies was because mainstream Mormons believed Joseph’s body was in Utah.”

  “Really! How did you get that piece of information?”

  “From their own church history books, which I accessed online,” she said.

  My skin entertained a party of goose pimples.

  “By 1928, the RLDS Church hired a surveyor, a luminary in their church named W. O. Hands, to find the bodies. The crew began digging on January ninth. They quickly found Emma’s body, although she wasn’t buried near her marker. Six days and a maze of trenches later, they uncovered two male bodies. They excavated the remains, photographed the skulls, and reburied them, this time in marked graves.” She looked at me. “I thought we were getting somewhere until I read that. I guess it’s just a coincidence that the sculpture and death mask look alike.”

  “Think critically, Beth,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon. I just did.”

  “No. What do we know for sure? That the surveyor found two male bodies.”

  “Yes.”

  “The surveyor was a high poo-bah with the church. Of course he’d believe it was Joseph and Hyrum—”

  “Because that’s who they were looking for.” Beth nodded. Aynslee checked on the pizza, then turned to the small pile of packages. The top one was from the casting company. The next from an art supply place. Dad said Mom spent too much money. No wonder he left.

  She brought the two packages into the studio. “Pizza in ten.”

  Both women nodded.

  Aynslee returned to the kitchen for the final load. The smell of melting cheese made her mouth water. A small box lay on its side next to the remaining parcels. She picked it up and was about to place it on top of the packages when she caught the name: Ethan Scott. It was sent from Utah.

  Ethan Scott? Did her mom have a boyfriend? Didn’t she just say she loved Dad? It made her sick thinking about some dude sending her mom a gift. Dad wouldn’t ever want to come home if Mom was seeing someone else. It was a good thing she found this first.

  It was disgusting. Mom is old. And bald. And doesn’t have any boobs, even. Aynslee’s face grew warm, and she whispered, “I’m sorry.” That was a mean thought. Her mom was pretty enough when she wore her blond wig, and nobody could tell she didn’t have boobs.

  Aynslee rattled the box. No sound.

  Mom said she was fired from her job, but maybe she had a fight with this guy and that’s why he was sending her something. What if he wanted her to go back to Utah? Would I have to go back to Selkirk? Dumped like a mutt at a dog pound.

  Well, if her mom didn’t receive it, then she’d stay mad at him. No Utah. No school.

  Aynslee dropped the box into the trash.

  She walked back to the oven and peeked in. Almost ready. She shifted the final packages into the studio. Beth and her mom were busy talking and didn’t even look over at her.

  Aynslee r
eturned to the kitchen and her gaze drifted to the garbage can. What if her mom saw the box when she went to throw something away? She plucked it out.

  She slipped down the hall to her room. She’d hide Ethan’s gift until she could figure out what to do with it.

  “So, if they dug up Smith’s body in 1928, they wouldn’t have conducted any forensic tests,” Beth said. “They just looked at the bones, took pictures, and reburied the remains. By the way, what’s a Le Fort fracture?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyway, if the skull you reconstructed is based on the real Joseph Smith, they could clear this all up by conducting a DNA test, right?”

  “Well, the LDS Church and Mountain Meadows Society have access to the bones. They’re not going to perform any tests without proof.” I rubbed my neck.

  Just then the phone rang.

  I looked at Beth and walked to the cordless.

  “Gwen, this is Craig Harnisch. Dave’s been shot.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  I CLUNG TO THE PHONE, UNABLE TO SPEAK FOR a moment. Finally, I squeaked, “Is he . . .”

  “Alive? Yeah. Hanging on. They’re transporting him to Missoula,” Craig said.

  “Wh-what happened?”

  “We’re investigating. Someone saw his overturned car down by the creek. Called it in. Dave was unconscious, covered in blood. Wasn’t until they pulled him from the wreck that they noticed the bullet hole in his head.”

  “His head?” I whispered.

  Beth drew near me and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Who?” she mouthed.

  “Dave.” I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on Craig’s voice.

  “Anyway, Andrea’s with him. Wanted me to call you.”

  “Dave was here! They saw him. Maybe they thought he had something—”

  “Gwen.”

  “Dave saw the hand! Well, he didn’t really see it, but the Avenging Angels did this—”

  “Gwen! Stop it.”

  “The drawing. I put my composite sketch in a box. Maybe they thought—”

  “Who is ‘they’? You’re sounding like a conspiracy nut.”

  “Did you find a box in Dave’s car?”

  “No. Listen, Dave has made plenty of enemies just being sheriff. Until he’s out of the woods, I’m in charge, and I have my hands full without you going off on some rabbit trail.” He disconnected.

  Beth pried the buzzing phone from my hand and set it down.

  Dave’s shot, maybe dying. A brick formed in my throat. Dave’s family took me in when I was scarcely older than Aynslee. He was a brother to me.

  “I said, what are you going to do now?” Beth asked.

  “About Dave? I could go to the hospital and wait with his wife. But what if my giving Dave the package caused the shooting? That would mean someone is watching this place.”

  Aynslee strolled into the room drinking a Mountain Dew. She flipped on the overhead lights. “Why are you guys sitting in the dark?”

  I raced to the switch and plunged the room back into darkness, then charged from window to window, cranking the blinds shut.

  “What?” Aynslee asked.

  “Now you can turn on the lights.” I rubbed my sweaty hands together. “Sit down and listen.”

  “That’s the buzzer. The pizza’s ready.” Aynslee sprinted from the studio.

  “Don’t tell her about Dave. Not just yet,” Beth said. “Her world’s pretty unsettled right now. Can you contact Robert?”

  I shook my head. “If they’re watching us, we need help.” I picked up the phone and called Deputy Howell. No answer. “I’ll try Craig again.”

  “What are you going to tell him? Mormon Avenging Angels are watching your house? He’ll never believe anything negative you say about the Mormons. Or about Joseph Smith. His entire family is LDS.”

  I blinked. “Really? How do you know that?”

  Beth fingered the computer keyboard. “Okay. Confession time.”

  I slowly selected a pencil and began sharpening. “Go on.”

  “I joined the Mormon Church when I was twenty-three. I quit a year later.”

  I tilted my head to show I was listening but continued to work on the pencil point.

  “It’s a protracted story, but I know how they think. Most mainstream Mormons don’t know the real church history. I never did. They are encouraged to read only church-approved, faith-promoting materials. Technically, they’ve rewritten their own history anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Beth read her notes from the computer screen. “To quote Brigham Young, ‘I commenced revising’—note he didn’t say writing—‘the history of Joseph Smith at Brother Richards’ office.’ That’s just one of numerous examples of Brigham Young admitting he changed history.”

  “Where did you find that?”

  “Ironically, in History of the Church. My point, however, is anything you say to Craig will be considered Mormon bashing. You won’t find much help in your deputy.”

  I put down the pencil and sharpener, then picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Mike Brown.”

  “I need help. Someone shot Sheriff Dave Moore. I told Deputy Craig Harnisch, who’s in charge of the investigation, about the events at Mountain Meadows, the hand, the possible missing item of Jane Doe’s. He doesn’t believe me. I don’t have anywhere to turn.”

  Mike didn’t speak for a moment. “Things could be accelerating.”

  “What do you mean?” I switched the phone to my other ear and wiped my damp palm on my jeans.

  “Where was Dave when he was shot?”

  “He was on his way into town. In his car. Why?”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. The assaults on Jane Doe, George, and your sheriff all had one thing in common. No one else was with them. Are you—”

  “No. My fourteen-year-old daughter, my best friend, and my dog are here.”

  “Good. Keep together. Anyone with ties to the LDS Church, or a fundamentalist offshoot, is potentially connected to the Avenging Angels.”

  “You think the main church is—”

  “I didn’t say that. I just want you to be careful.”

  I thought about Craig. And Prophet Kenyon. Great. I gave Kenyon my business card. Complete with address and phone number.

  “I don’t want to talk anymore on a cell phone. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Keep your friend with you for tonight, lock up tight, and don’t answer the door, no matter who it is, until I get there.”

  I hung up the phone, then peeked through the blinds. Only my reflection peered back. Someone out there wanted me dead, and glass would hardly stop a bullet. The faceless Avenging Angels were already here, in Copper Creek. They had to be. They shot Dave. They could be right outside—

  Winston shot to his feet.

  I spun.

  Aynslee, mouth full, offered Winston a piece of her pizza. The dog opened his jaws just wide enough for her to slip the tidbit between his teeth, like feeding a quarter into a vending machine.

  “What is it?” Beth stared at my face.

  Beth. If they knew Dave had been with me, they knew Beth was here. I’d put her in danger. “Ah, can you call your husband?”

  She looked at her watch. “I can try, but I suspect his cell is out of range. Why?”

  “Well . . .” I glanced at Aynslee, then Beth. She nodded. “I think it would be lots of fun if we had a girls’ night.”

  Beth’s eyes narrowed, but she went along with me. “Is that why you wanted me to contact Norm? Not to worry.” She turned to Aynslee. “How fun! We’ll have a sleepover.”

  Aynslee stopped eating, shrugged, then gave Winston another bite. “Whatever.”

  “Please don’t feed Winston any more pizza. We don’t need him to get diarrhea.” I thought about walking the dog outside in the darkness and shivered.

  Winston’s attentio
n, initially focused on the impromptu snack, waned when the last bit of food disappeared between Aynslee’s lips. He drifted over to inspect the pile of supplies we’d unloaded from the trunk.

  “I’ll need to borrow some pj’s—” Beth stopped. “What’s Winston got in his mouth?”

  The Pyrenees apparently found a canine treasure in my art materials. He was sneaking out of the room, a stained placard protruding from his mouth. I recognized the mounted label I’d inadvertently kept from Mountain Meadows. Winston had removed it from my sketchpad.

  Aynslee caught his collar and pried it out. “What’s this?”

  “Throw it away,” I said. “There could be blood on it, so wash your hands. It’s from the display case.”

  “It’s a bunch of weird names.”

  “Those are the seventeen surviving children from the Mountain Meadows Massacre.”

  Aynslee examined the piece, lips moving. “Eighteen.”

  “What?”

  “There are eighteen names.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  I COULDN’T SLEEP. THE WIND BLUSTERED THROUGH the trees outside, branches scraping against the windows. Dave’s attack played out like a movie in my overactive brain. I pictured him helpless in his car while a killer took careful aim at his face.

  Beth stretched out under a quilt on the living room sofa. I’d checked on Aynslee and found her wrapped around a pillow and snoozing. Only the computer screen illuminated the studio. A jumble of papers blanketed the desk. I’d transferred my notes from the Mountain Meadows break-in, and the interview with the Kenyons, onto a yellow legal pad. I’d added Beth’s research into Smith’s bizarre burial and the names of the eighteen children.

  Tapping a pencil, I scrolled down the web page, stopping to read or jot a note. The grandfather clock in the hall bonged four times before I’d finished. Somewhere in all this information was a key to the Avenging Angels. More importantly, maybe a clue to their next move. I didn’t want to hide out the rest of my life until they decided I wasn’t a threat. Or in possession of . . . what?

  Aynslee kept her eyes shut and pretended to sleep. She waited until her mom had quietly shut the door before rolling over. Moonlight peered through the blinds and formed stripes on the ceiling.