The Great Reminder

by R. R. Irvine

  THE GREAT REMINDER

  A Moroni Traveler Novel

  THE GREAT REMINDER

  A Moroni Traveler Novel

  By R. R. Irvine

  To Cynthia Merman

  THE GREAT REMINDER

  Copyright © 1993 by Robert Irvine.

  All Rights Reserved.

  First eBook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  978-1-4821-0213-0 Trade

  978-1-62460-676-2 Library

  Cover photograph © iStock.com.

  Other eBooks by R.R. Irvine:

  Robert Christopher Series

  Jump Cut

  Freeze Frame

  The Face Out Front

  Ratings are Murder

  Moroni Traveler Mysteries

  Baptism for the Dead

  The Angels' Share

  Gone to Glory

  Called Home

  The Spoken Word

  The Great Reminder

  The Hosanna Shout

  Pillar of Fire

  Nicolette Scott Mysteries

  Track of the Scorpion

  Flight of the Serpent

  Wake of the Hornet

  The Return of the Spanish Lady

  Thread of the Spider

  Novels

  Horizontal Hold

  The Devil’s Breath

  Footsteps

  Barking Dogs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  1

  AS USUAL Brigham Young was creating a traffic jam at the head of Main Street. He’d been standing there in bronze since the horse and buggy era.

  Behind Moroni Traveler someone honked repeatedly.

  “Gentile!” Traveler muttered on Brigham’s behalf.

  Double-lane traffic had come to a standstill at the point where South Temple shrank to a single, buggy-size lane. Through it all Brigham stood his ground, looking majestic atop his granite pedestal. He’d been leaning on his cane there in the middle of Main and South Temple streets for nearly a hundred years. At his feet a bronze cast of characters—an Indian, a fur trader, and a pioneer family—kept him company.

  Half a block beyond the Mormon leader, the afternoon sun was hiding behind the Chester Building, where Traveler had his office. He glanced at the dashboard clock. He was late. No doubt his prospective client was already into the Yellow Pages seeking a replacement.

  Once through the intersection, Traveler parked illegally in front of the Chester Building and climbed the three flights of stairs rather than wait for the elevator. Outside his office, a well-dressed elderly man stood hunched over an aluminum cane. When Traveler opened the door for him, the man gently tapped the rubber tip against the frosted glass panel and scowled. “It says Moroni Traveler and Son.”

  “My father’s out of town,” Traveler said.

  “Then you’re the one I spoke to on the phone?”

  Traveler nodded at the chair on the client’s side of his desk. Four feet away his father’s desk had its own client’s chair.

  “As I informed you when I called, I’m Major Lewis Stiles, U.S. Army retired.”

  Long retired, Traveler thought. The man, now holding himself rigidly erect like a soldier awaiting inspection, looked eighty at least. His dark gray suit hung on him loosely. The collar of his white shirt was a size too big despite a tightly cinched regimental tie. Once seated, he balanced his metal cane squarely across his thighs before adding a timeworn, two-strap briefcase to his lap.

  “When you called,” Traveler prompted, “you asked for an immediate appointment.”

  Major Stiles’s arthritic hands showed a maze of blue veins as he transferred his briefcase to the floor beside his chair. Free of it, he pointed a crooked finger at the open window behind Traveler. “I came here directly from the temple across the street.”

  Traveler started to swing around to join in the view of Salt Lake City’s Mormon landmark, then caught himself and kept his eyes on his prospective client.

  “May I ask you something personal, Mr. Traveler?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “Are you one of us? Are you LDS?”

  “The closest I come is people threatening to baptize me when I die.”

  Stiles leaned back and appeared to think that over. After a moment he sighed. “What do you think of cemeteries, Mr. Traveler?”

  Traveler looked for signs of humor in the man’s face but found only deep wrinkles and sad blue eyes. “I’m a private detective, not a philosopher.”

  Stiles pursed his lips, lurched to his feet, and hobbled across the office to the other, east-facing window. He swayed momentarily after coming to a stop. A steady breeze, warm for so late a May afternoon, came through the open window and stirred the few strands of white hair that fringed the major’s head.

  Traveler rose to his feet but stayed behind the desk. From there, he could see over the man’s shoulder to the snowcapped Wasatch Mountains, looking coldly molten in the late afternoon sun.

  “When I was your age,” Stiles said, “I never thought much of cemeteries either. But each time I pass one these days, it calls out to me. ‘Old man,’ it says. ‘Your time’s up. You belong to me.’ ”

  He thumped the floor with the tip of his cane before leaning his weight on it. “I’m glad you’re not one of us, Mr. Traveler, despite being named for our angel.” He nodded to himself and turned around. “I have a feeling this is a job for a Gentile, not a Saint.”

  Traveler settled back into his chair. Cross-ventilation brought the scent of mountain sage and juniper in from the east and out the temple-facing window. He breathed deeply and prodded the major with an encouraging smile.

  “There’s a time factor involved.” Stiles lifted his cane until it was pointing at Traveler. Without the stick’s support, he wobbled slightly. “That’s why I want to get things started as soon as possible.”

  He peered at Traveler for a moment, then grunted as if satisfied with what he saw. “Cemeteries, Mr. Traveler. They’ll get you too in the end.”

  “My father is a great one for pioneer graveyards.”

  “Looking for relatives like the rest of us, I dare say. We do it in the daytime, though, don’t we? We say to ourselves cemeteries are so beautiful and peaceful in daylight, but how they frighten us at night.”

  The man held up a hand to forestall comment. “My wife’s buried up in City Cemetery. That’s where I’ll rest, too, when I’m called home. The trouble is, I can’t go yet. Not without setting matters right.”

  Traveler adjusted the lined yellow pad in front of him but made no move to write on it.

  “Right after th
e war, I bought side-by-side plots. A good thing, too. These days, City Cemetery’s running out of room. My son and his family are going to have to find their own resting place when their time comes.”

  Shaking his head, Major Stiles returned to the client’s chair and eased himself onto its hard wooden seat. “Listen to me, an old man rambling on like he had all the time in the world. Like I said before, Mr. Traveler, I’ve come to you to help set matters right before it’s too late.”

  Grimacing, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and removed an unsealed envelope. He studied it for a moment before setting it on Traveler’s desk. “Go ahead. Take a look for yourself.”

  Inside was a cashier’s check for $132.07. It was made out to Karl Falke and/or Moroni Traveler.

  “That’s how much I owe the man,” Stiles said. “He had fourteen dollars and seventy cents coming to him back in July of 1945. That’s the amount I deposited at five-percent interest. As of now, it comes to what you see there, one thirty-two oh-seven.”

  “Are you saying this man’s been missing since 1945?”

  “I know it’s a long time ago, but you come highly recommended, Mr. Traveler. Someone important in the church says you’re the one to get tough jobs done. Even impossible ones.”

  “That sounds like something Willis Tanner would say.”

  “You’re lucky to have a friend like that, a man who speaks for the prophet himself.”

  “Willis and I go back long before he was a spokesman for the church.”

  “Then I can’t help wondering why you’re not a Saint, why—” Stiles’s teeth snapped together. “There I go again, wandering off the subject. It used to be that being LDS was important here in our promised land. But look at Salt Lake now. Half the people on the streets are Gentiles like you. You’re driving us Saints out.”

  Traveler sighed. “What about this man, Falke?”

  “He was a Gentile, all right. The last time I saw him he was a twenty-four-year-old German prisoner who looked older than I did, and I was thirty-nine at the time. That was back in July 1945.”

  That made Stiles eighty-seven, Traveler calculated.

  “Karl Falke had been through a lot in the war, of course. As for me, I was too old to fight, or so said the powers that be.”

  Stiles expelled a deep, shuddering breath. “I was commissioned in ‘41, two months before Pearl Harbor. I was already thirty-five then. They wouldn’t have taken me at all except for my bookkeeping background, plus a lot of ROTC I’d had in high school and college. By 1943, I was a paymaster for the German prisoner of war program here in Utah.”

  Traveler studied the check again. Why couldn’t Karl Falke have been something simple, like a runaway wife?

  “As paymaster, I was responsible for reimbursing the prisoners. Eighty cents a day we paid them for war work. That came to twenty-one dollars a month, the same pay our own soldiers were getting at the time.”

  Stiles leaned forward. “I can see you’re wondering why enemy prisoners needed money. They had their own canteens, for one thing, where they could buy cigarettes and candy. Whatever they didn’t spend, they could save. That’s how Falke’s fourteen dollars and seventy cents started accumulating.”

  “What kind of work did he do?” Traveler asked for lack of anything better.

  “I’m coming to that. First, you’ve got to understand the times, the situation. Early in the war, our main consideration was security. POWs were kept behind barbed wire and guarded closely. Utah was a center for that. Eventually, we had more than twenty thousand prisoners in this state. It was a good place for them, too, because there aren’t any international borders nearby and a hell of a lot of desert to cross if you’re headed for one.”

  Stiles reached into his side pocket, removed a carefully ironed white handkerchief, and wiped his brow. “By 1945, things had changed. Our manpower shortage was critical. We needed help to bring in the crops. That’s why we had to use POWs, by the thousands, too. Karl Falke was one of those working the sugar beet fields down south in Cowdery Junction when he disappeared.”

  Traveler got up to check the state map that his father kept under glass on the top of his desk. Major Stiles joined him.

  “Here,” Stiles said, jabbing a finger at Sevier County where the largest town has a population of fifty-four hundred. Cowdery Junction, like its nearest neighbor, Salina, had fewer than two thousand people.

  “The sad thing is,” Stiles went on, “Falke’s disappearance came two months after Germany surrendered. The war should have been over for him.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “We had a big problem on our hands at that time. As a result, he wasn’t the only one who tried to escape, but he was the only one who wasn’t rounded up and accounted for.”

  Stiles returned to his chair. Traveler did the same.

  “An escaped prisoner,” the major continued, “was a job for the MPs, not the paymaster. But the MPs gave up the search too soon. I said so at the time. If it had been up to me, I would have kept looking.”

  “What makes you think the man’s still alive?” Traveler asked.

  “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  When Traveler didn’t respond, Stiles laid down his cane and hoisted his briefcase onto the desk. The smell of saddle soap came with it. His gnarled fingers fumbled with the buckles. By the time he had them undone, his hands were shaking badly. The color had drained from his face and he was breathing noisily through his mouth. He didn’t speak again until he had himself under control.

  “When the doctors told me I had cancer, I started cleaning out my trunk. I wanted to sort out the past so my son wouldn’t have to do it after I’m gone. That’s when I came across my old war records. Thank God I had the foresight to have some of them duplicated back in ‘45. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have enough information to give you a fighting chance.”

  Traveler suppressed a groan.

  “At first I told myself these old papers were nothing but mementos. But my conscience knew better. I knew I’d have to make an accounting one day. That should have been the government’s job, of course, but you know bureaucrats. Instead of sending that money to Falke’s wife, they took back his check, along with half a dozen others that belonged to POWs who hadn’t lived to cash them. It was my own money that went into his account.”

  “Give it up, Major. Too much time has gone by.”

  Stiles shook his head. “When you get to be my age, you’ll know how important time really is. You’ll come to realize that the past has a way of catching up with you.”

  “I don’t see what I can do.”

  Stiles dismissed the comment with a brusque, backhanded gesture. “You’re too young to remember what it was like during the war. Utah’s POW camps were scattered from Logan in the north to Cowdery Junction in the south. There were eleven main camps in all, plus auxiliary bivouac areas set up to cope with the manpower shortage. Take Salina, for instance, where the massacre happened. Workers were as scarce as hen’s teeth down there. As a result, the farmers were yelling for every POW they could get. Their sugar beets were rotting in the fields, they said. Sugar was rationed in those days, of course, and worth its weight in gold.”

  Stiles paused to clear his throat. He was about to continue when someone knocked softly on the door. Until then, Traveler hadn’t noticed the shadow outlined on the frosted glass.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The door opened halfway but Nephi Bates, the Chester Building’s elevator operator, made no move to enter. Instead, he stood on the threshold, rocking on the balls of his feet and smiling weakly. The earphones from his cassette player were looped around his neck, muffling but not silencing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” he said, “but I have a message for Mr. Traveler.”

  “What is it?” Traveler asked.

  “In private,” Bates answered.

  Traveler looked at Stiles, who nodded and said, “My throat could use a
little rest anyway.”

  Traveler rose and followed Bates down the marble hallway to the grillwork elevator.

  “My conscience got the better of me,” Bates said as soon as he was seated on the collapsible stool inside the cage. “That man’s been haunting me ever since I carried him up here to your floor.”

  “My clients are confidential.”

  “He’s in pain. I could see it on his face, in the way he walked. I haven’t seen suffering like that since my father died.”

  “He says he’s ill,” Traveler admitted.

  “He changed when he got out of the elevator,” Bates said. “His pain disappeared. He hid it away like a guilty secret.”

  Traveler stared at Bates. Usually the elevator operator confined his comments to Mormon scripture. Because of that, the building’s owner, Barney Chester, claimed that Bates was a spy for the church. Even so, he’d been working the elevator for years.

  “He needs your help,” Bates said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Traveler said.

  Bates closed the grillwork door and replaced his earphones. “For once I hope you live up to your angel’s name.”

  2

  BY THE time Traveler reentered his one-room office, Major Lewis Stiles was standing at the window looking out at the temple.

  “It’s a comforting view, Mr. Traveler. I hope you realize that.” With a sigh, the man settled onto the granite window-sill. “Now, let’s get back to those sugar beets in Salina. Sugar was crucial to the war effort. To help the farmers bring in their harvest, we rushed in a temporary camp with tents instead of the usual wooden barracks. A couple of hundred German prisoners were sleeping in those tents one night when a guard went berserk and opened up with a machine gun. Nine POWs died. A hell of a lot more were wounded. That’s history, Mr. Traveler, written down in the record books. What came later is known to only a few.”

  Traveler slipped into the client’s chair.

  “After the machine-gunning,” Stiles continued, “a day didn’t go by without trouble. Prisoners began sabotaging the camp. They threw everything at the guards that wasn’t nailed down. Our men got even more trigger-happy. One shot himself in the leg, another fired on a prisoner he thought was escaping but who was actually on his way to chapel. One of the newspapers said we were running a death camp. That’s why the other six deaths had to be hushed up.”