“. . . so I asked him why didn’t he—”
“Excuse me.” Deputy Howell snagged her attention. “Could I have my check, please?”
Donna drifted off to write it up.
Howell jerked his head toward the door.
Donna returned and placed Howell’s check in front of him, then set half a grapefruit in front of me.
“I’m sorry, Donna, I’ll need this to go.”
The woman looked annoyed, but swiftly removed my breakfast. Howell dropped some cash on the table and left the cafe without looking at me.
The waitress returned with my food in a white paper sack and I paid her, adding a generous tip.
Deputy Howell wasn’t in the parking lot. Traffic was light, and across the street I spotted a beige Crown Vic. Howell was behind the wheel. He glanced at me, started his car, and drove to the traffic light. I strolled in the same direction. He turned right and disappeared. I crossed the street and continued straight. I’d almost walked the entire block before Howell pulled up beside me. I jumped in. “Making sure I wasn’t followed?”
He grunted a reply.
We didn’t speak for the first few miles as he drove south out of town on the two-lane Highway 93. The jagged peaks of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness formed a wall to our right, and to our left verdant pastures held grazing Angus and Herefords. I rolled down the window slightly, allowing the scent of cedar and newly cut grass to fill the car. I finished my cold toast, soggy grapefruit, and lukewarm coffee and brought Howell up-to-date on the events.
“Interesting.”
I handed the envelope to Howell. “I’m glad to be rid of the memory card. You’ll find my notes in there.”
“Thanks. I’ll read them later. How’s Dave holding up?”
“Oh. How did you know about Dave being shot?”
“Word gets around.”
“Mike Brown’s set up a sting operation at my place. Hopefully, with the card gone and a few arrests, I’ll be safe.”
“So, what do you think is the motive for the Avenging Angels?” Detective Howell asked. “Who or what sparked this whole murderous rampage?”
We were climbing into the mountains now, crossing Lost Trail Pass. Stark, blackened tree trunks poked out of the charred earth, the remnants of previous forest fires. “Well,” I said, “this is just a guess, but I think Jane Doe belonged to a fundamentalist Mormon group, a group somehow related to Prophet Kenyon’s flock.”
“Why?”
“Jane Doe needed to be close enough to the real Rebekah to know she died.”
“So, she escaped,” Howell said. “Makes sense if she was forced into a polygamist marriage to an older man.” He was silent for a moment. “The preliminary autopsy report showed she hadn’t been to a dentist and had been pregnant more than once.”
“She was so young! If she was eighteen when she entered college last year . . . and she had more than one child . . . oh, the poor girl.” I did a little math in my head. Was Jane Doe having babies when she was Aynslee’s age? I shook my head and explained my theory about the stolen item.
Howell frowned. “Insurance? Maybe a way to get some money? Fundamentalist groups have a history of barely educating their kids.”
“How would she have gotten into college?”
“Obviously she was bright. And resourceful,” Detective Howell said.
I nodded. “I think she was going to meet with George. Maybe sell the treasure to the LDS Church.”
“And you think the Avenging Angels are killing to get it back?”
“It fits,” I said. “I looked it up. The Avenging Angels served Brigham Young as a type of police force, castrating and even murdering anyone in Young’s way.”
“But that was a long time ago.”
“I think they’re still around.”
We drove a few miles in silence. I thought about the Kenyons. “Frances, a member of Kenyon’s church, said their group split a few years earlier. She mentioned something about ‘the keys.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Howell shifted in his seat. “Jesus restored the keys to the kingdom and the gospel to Joseph Smith.” He reached across me, opened the glove box, and pulled out a thick book, then handed it to me. The well-worn, leather-bound volume held the LDS scriptures.
A chill shot up my spine. “Are you Mormon?”
“Sixth generation.” He opened his jacket slightly, and I saw a pin on his shirt pocket. It was an American flag flanked by two eagle wings. He turned his head slowly and gave me a half smile. “I’m an Avenging Angel.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
MY HEART POUNDED AND MIND RACED. HOWELL drove too fast to jump from the car. The cell phone was in my pocket. I need to choose my words carefully. “So, where are we going?”
“We’re going to meet the other Avenging Angels. You need to know the truth.”
The hot flash tore up my neck, and I turned to the side window. We’d passed into Idaho where traffic was scarce and civilization remote. I scratched my leg and nudged the cell from my pocket. It landed with a soft thud on the seat next to me. I quickly coughed to cover the sound. “I’ve told you everything, you know. I don’t have what you’re looking for. I gave you the memory card and all my notes.”
“I know.”
My face felt normal, but my palms were wet. I twisted in my seat to look at him. The movement allowed me to turn the phone on and slip it slightly under my leg. I made a show of wiping my hands on my jeans.
“Up till now,” Howell said, “we stayed off the radar—”
“I hardly think your blood atonement murders are off the radar,” I said dryly.
“That wasn’t us.”
“Oh?” I glanced at the phone, then gently tapped it.
The battery was dead.
I wanted to throw the phone out the window. Calm, calm. Use your head. He would have to slow down to turn off this road. I could make a run for it then. I peeked at the door handle. “So if you didn’t do the killing, why don’t you just call up the FBI and tell them to stop wasting their time?”
“That’s not so easy. We decided it would be better to convince you.”
“So you kidnapped me?”
Howell’s eyebrows rose. “Not at all. Mike entrusted you to me. I just have you in protective custody. Once you’ve met the other members, you’re free to go. I’ll drive you back to Copper Creek.”
Yeah. Right. “You said I needed to know the truth. So tell me.”
Howell’s eyes narrowed, and he tapped the steering wheel with his index finger.
We’d reached another pass, and the land fell away on our right to a wide valley spotted with sagebrush and grass. About a mile away, pine-covered mountains rose, still sporting ribbons of snow. A dirt road appeared ahead that crossed the valley to a series of buildings huddled in the trees. Howell slowed and put on his blinker.
I cleared my throat to cover up the click of unlocking the door.
“Well”—he continued to slow—“there is something I can tell you right now.”
I reached for the door handle.
“Your door doesn’t open from the inside.”
I tugged and pushed.
He turned onto the dirt road and jolted across a cattle guard. Thick, choking dust billowed behind us as we pounded toward the outcropping of buildings. Power lines snaked across the valley, holding out a faint hope of civilization. The hope faded as he drove closer. It was a ghost town, the buildings abandoned, rotting back into the earth. He jerked the car left, turning away from the town, and climbed into the trees. The road became mere ruts, tossing the car and me like an angry bronco. Pines caged their branches overhead. One final twist and we reached a clearing. A windowless gray van squatted beside a raw-timbered hunting cabin.
Howell parked next to the van, then looked at me. He had a strange look on his face.
I tried to wet my lips, but found the term scared spitless accurate.
He slid from the car, making sure
the keys were with him. The trees appeared denser behind the cabin, but could I make it? Howell was armed. The building was closer, but at least one other Avenging Angel could be lurking inside. I needed to factor in that we were probably over six thousand feet high, and running would be more difficult. I bunched my muscles, preparing to spring from the seat. Howell must have anticipated my move. As he opened the door, he blocked it with his body and latched onto my arm with a vise-like grip.
I struggled, but he just gripped harder, yanking me toward the cabin. I took a swing at his stomach, but it was like punching a rock.
“Knock it off.”
Before we reached the cabin door, it flew open, and Howell chucked me inside. I tripped and landed on my hands and knees, skidding across the rough floorboards, gathering splinters.
I wasn’t going to die like a dog. I jumped to my feet, ready to fight.
Though it was only about a three-hour drive from Copper Creek to the quaint and exclusive resort town of Bigfork, Montana, they didn’t get an early start. Dad insisted on stopping at Missoula, then Kalispell, to arrange for publicity events, then that endless meeting with some movie bigwig. It was late afternoon before they finally took a break at the Bigfork Starbucks. Aynslee spotted the headlines as they passed the news stand. Joseph Smith Found? Underneath showed a photo of her mom’s sculpture next to the death mask. “Dad, would you buy me a paper?” He grunted, then dropped some coins into the slot.
The press cropped the photo, but Aynslee could see her mom’s sculpture stand. Mom must have emailed the digital image to the newspaper.
“That was fast,” Beth said, reading the headlines over Aynslee’s shoulder.
“Seems like a cockamamie idea to me.” Dad held the door open.
A long line of commuters waited patiently for their afternoon double-shot, skinny, grande lattes. Aynslee wandered around until she found a couple of yuppies about to leave. A Mac-toting nerd made a move toward the same spot, but Aynslee yanked out a wooden chair and flopped down before he could dibs it. He made a face at her, and she stuck out her tongue, then opened the paper to read. The story posted her mom’s article, then went on to viciously attack it, using words like reckless, Mormon bashing, and bigot.
Dad and Beth joined Aynslee, bringing her hot chocolate.
“This is mean,” she said.
Beth looked at Aynslee, then bent over the paper. “I was afraid of that. Your mom’s getting a lot of heat for her article. Is there anything positive written?”
“Um, I guess.” Aynslee continued to peruse the paper. “The reporter is making a big deal about how the Mountain Meadows Massacre and the attack on the twin towers occurred on September 11, and how both involved religious fanatics.” She turned the page. “There’s an entire center section of the paper about the conference.”
“Yes,” Beth said. “Religious intolerance and downright bigotry, masquerading under the banner of separation of church and state, is eroding our country and our history. This conference is trying to mend more than the events of 9/11. It’s demonstrating that we still have freedom of religion, not freedom from religion.” She glanced at my dad. “Sorry. I’ll get off my soapbox.”
“No, that’s interesting,” Robert said. “Maybe there’s a possibility of a book in these events.” He tugged out a small notebook and pencil, then jotted a few words.
Beth’s lips thinned. “Well . . .” She took a sip of coffee and turned to Aynslee. “Let’s plan out our day once we reach Seattle. After we deliver the reconstruction, we’ll get some rest. I booked a room months ago right next to the conference center. We can go shopping later.”
Aynslee nodded. “Are—are we going to be near the water?”
“Right on the water. Did you want to go swimming?” Beth asked.
“Um. Yeah, maybe.” She could throw the package in the water. No one would find it then. But what if . . .
“Dad?”
Her dad continued to write.
“Dad.”
He looked up. “What is it?”
“Is there any chance Mom will go back to Utah? Or, um, take a job somewhere else?”
“I have no idea.”
“If she does, could I come and live with you?”
Dad shifted in his seat, then carefully closed the notebook. “I don’t see how. You have school, and I’m traveling.” He smiled at her without showing his teeth.
Aynslee studied her nails. Even if she threw away the package, nothing would change. No one wanted her.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
BLUE-VEINED HANDS CLUTCHED A WHEELCHAIR in front of me. Hunched shoulders held an ill-fitting, taupe cardigan. Deep wrinkles zigzagged across pallid, sagging skin. Lively periwinkle eyes twinkled up at me. The man nodded a greeting.
Behind the man in the wheelchair, a second man with ashen, wispy hair barely covering his shiny head spoke on a cell phone. “Yes. She’s here. I think so. We’ll call back.” Hand trembling, he placed it on the table. His liver-spotted skin was paper-thin.
“Hello, my dear. Please, have a seat.” A raspy voice came from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Using a cane, a third senior citizen near the door hobbled forward and smiled benignly.
Fortunately, the chair was near my rear end. I sat before my legs could give way.
Deputy Howell helped a fourth elderly man through the door, then pulled two ladder-backed chairs from a rustic oak table and assisted the gray-haired ensemble to their seats.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves,” the man in the wheelchair said. “I’m Merrill Johnson, this fine specimen behind me is Joel McMurdie, your doorman is Alfred Edwards, next to him is John Bateman, and of course, you know Deputy Howell. As you are well aware, poor George Higbee was murdered. We are the last of the so-called Avenging Angels.”
My brain scrambled to make sense of it. These men didn’t look capable of swatting a fly. Deputy Howell, however, was fit and much younger. He could be the murderer. As the lead detective, he could easily throw the investigation.
As if reading my mind, Howell spoke. “No. I didn’t murder anyone. I was at a meeting with the mayor of Fancher all afternoon when someone killed Jane Doe. We worked the case all night until we got the call from the visitor’s center.”
“Why did you bring me here?” The only furniture in the twenty-by-thirty-foot cabin was a table and six rickety chairs. An unlit river stone fireplace took up the wall opposite the door, and matching tiny windows provided dim light.
“They wanted to meet you,” Deputy Howell said.
“So you kidnapped me?” I glared at him.
“Not at all. Remember? Protective custody.” Howell gave a short nod to one of the men.
“Mrs. Marcey”—Johnson spoke from his wheelchair—“not to sound melodramatic, but three people died horribly in the past week. You and your family are in grave danger.”
I threw up my hands. “You could have told me that over the phone.” Mike was cooling his heels back at my house waiting for this geriatric mob to attack. If I weren’t so angry, I’d laugh.
“We need you to see us and understand we’re not the enemy,” Bateman said. “We want to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Stay alive.”
“Robert, we really have to get this reconstruction to Seattle,” Beth said for the millionth time.
Aynslee sighed, sat on her dad’s new sofa, and called Winston over. Maybe she should just put in a pizza if they were going to be here any longer.
Her dad put his hand over the telephone mouthpiece. “If I have to be the delivery boy for Gwen, I’m going to at least set up a signing at the bookstore. We’ll leave after I’m done.” He turned his back on Beth.
Beth joined Aynslee on the sofa and checked her watch. “We’re not going to get to Seattle today, I’m afraid.” She patted Aynslee on the leg. “Maybe we’ll meet up with your mom and deliver the reconstruction together.”
“Whatever.”
“Hey, d
on’t worry. Everything happens for a reason.”
I folded my arms. “I’m having trouble picturing you all as my bodyguards.”
“Knowledge is protection,” Edwards said.
“Why don’t you meet Mike or someone in the FBI and let them see you’re not killers.”
“Why would we do that?” McMurdie asked.
Answering a question with a question. Hiding information. “I’ve heard your names before,” I said slowly. “All but yours, Detective.”
“My mother was a Lee,” Howell said.
I stood. “John Doyle Lee.” I pointed to each man in turn. “Nephi Johnson, Samuel McMurdie, William Bateman, John M. Higbee, and . . .”
“William Edwards,” the man with the cane said. “Very good, Gwen. Yes, we are the direct descendants of the original Avenging Angels.”
“The men responsible for the slaughter at Mountain Meadows,” I said.
Edwards cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Since 1857, one member of each family joined this group. We bound together to make sure that killing in the name of religion, especially our Mormon faith, doesn’t happen again.”
I bit my lip, looking from man to man. They benignly nodded at me. “No,” I finally said.
“I beg your pardon?” Bateman said.
“You want me to believe you’re some kind of quasi-military force. Not to make too much of it, but you’re hardly young, strapping military men. You formed to hide a secret.”
“And what secret would that be, m’dear?” Edwards said.
“My story was correct. Joseph Smith wasn’t killed at that jail in Carthage, Illinois. He was murdered twelve years later in Mountain Meadows.”
I had to hand it to the old men, they covered their surprise well.
Johnson chuckled. “I’m afraid your work at the Mountain Meadows Center and your vivid imagination are letting you believe your work of fiction. I assure you we’re here to protect you, not because of any secret.”
I hated people who chuckled at me. “So you read my article? It must have been online.”
Edwards glanced at Bateman. “No, no, no, of course not,” Edwards finally said.
A Cry from the Dust Page 18