by R. R. Irvine
Grunting, the major rose from the sill and faced the temple again. After a moment, he rapped a knuckle on the window glass. “Six of them were working over in Cowdery Junction. One day they were fine, the next day they took sick and died. We never did find out what killed them.”
He leaned his forehead against the pane. “You have to understand, Mr. Traveler. Times were chaotic. Even though Germany had surrendered, we were still fighting a war in the Pacific.”
His breath misted the glass. “Thinking back on it, maybe we should have tried harder to find out the cause of those six deaths. I’m no expert, no doctor, but we should have done something. Instead, we buried them anonymously in the cemetery at Fort Douglas.”
Traveler failed to see the connection with the missing man. He was about to say so when Stiles continued. “I always thought it looked like some kind of poisoning. I’m sure others did too, though nobody was saying so out loud. You see, our German prisoners had been getting good treatment up until the end of the war. It was policy. If we treated them right, we hoped the Germans would do the same for our boys. In any case, when people found out what the Nazis had done in their death camps, attitudes changed. There were plenty of high-ranking people who thought the six dead men had it coming to them.”
Stiles stepped back from the window and turned around. “My memory’s not what it used to be, but I’m sure it was one week to the day after those six POWs died that Karl Falke went missing. July 1945.”
Traveler reached across his desk, retrieved the yellow legal pad, and wrote the date on it.
Nodding, Stiles walked around the desk. Traveler rose and they traded positions, Stiles in the client’s chair once again, Traveler behind his desk.
Stiles said, “You couldn’t blame Falke for disappearing, not with the rumors going around. There was talk those six had been machine-gunned like the others. It wasn’t true, of course. They just took sick, like I said. Don’t think we didn’t do our best to save them either. We rushed them to the local hospital. Even so, we had half a dozen escapes right after that. As I said before, though, we rounded up everybody but Falke.”
“Could he have died like the others and not been found?”
“Wandered off someplace and died, you mean?” Stiles closed his eyes momentarily as if visualizing the suggestion. “We conducted an extensive manhunt and even used dogs. They’re good at sniffing out bodies.”
“What else can you tell me about Falke?” Traveler said.
“I have letters from his wife.”
Tattered envelopes came out of the briefcase. The letters inside were written in German.
“After the war, Mrs. Falke contacted everyone she could think of. The commandant at Fort Douglas, the governor, even President Truman. Finally, when no one could help her, she settled on me. She wrote to me for years. I have stacks of letters at home somewhere. She didn’t stop writing until she died a few years back.”
“Did you answer her?” Traveler asked.
“Early on. I told her there was nothing I could do, that her husband was only one of hundreds I had working the farms. That didn’t stop her. It hasn’t stopped her from haunting me either. The Falkes had a son, a boy. He was killed in the bombings in 1944.”
Carefully, the old man returned the letters to his briefcase. “I have translations somewhere, though I haven’t been able to put my hands on them. I don’t think they’d help you anyway. They were mostly about her loneliness.”
Stiles straightened his shoulders. “What do you say, Mr. Traveler? Don’t you think it’s time you went to work? The cemeteries are filling up. Soon there won’t be anybody left who remembers what happened, or even cares about it.”
Traveler glanced at his father’s vacant desk. If Martin were here, he could play the heavy and turn down the case. Traveler sighed. He knew his father would do no such thing.
Traveler made a stab at rejection. “My father’s the expert on missing persons.”
“When I spoke to Willis Tanner, he told me your father was due back in town tonight.”
“My father chooses his own cases.”
“I’ve anticipated your reluctance,” Stiles said, “thanks to our Mr. Tanner.”
“What has Willis been saying?”
“That you and your father aren’t the kind of men who give up easily.”
“Take my advice,” Traveler said. “Save your money.”
“Falke was one of the few prisoners we had in Cowdery Junction who could speak passable English. That would have helped him survive in the countryside.”
Traveler thought that over. “Do you think it’s possible that he could be passing himself off as an American?”
Shrugging, the major reached into his coat and came out with a stack of hundred-dollar bills. Licking his finger, he began counting them out on Traveler’s desk.
“Did Willis tell you to bring cash?”
“A man in my position, expecting to be called home any moment, wants everything settled up front. I don’t want to leave the dirty work to my heirs.”
“I don’t like to commit my father without consulting him,” Traveler said.
Stiles leaned forward and stared him in the eye. “I don’t need Willis Tanner to tell me you’re a man I can trust. Both of you, you and your father, are named for our angel.”
“My father prefers to be called Martin.”
“Why Moroni Traveler and Son on the door, then?”
“His train arrives early in the morning,” Traveler said. “Knowing Martin, he’ll be in the office first thing. You can ask him yourself tomorrow.”
Stiles smiled, fished a document from his briefcase, and handed it to Traveler. It was a government form. Basic Personnel Record (Alien Enemy or Prisoner of War) was printed across the top. The date, 11 June 1943, was printed in the bottom left-hand corner.
Attached to the form were two photographs, front and side views of Karl Falke, plus fingerprints and a description. He was twenty-two years old at the time the form was filled out, five feet ten inches tall, weight 160, blue eyes, medium skin color, and brown hair.
“That was issued two years before his disappearance,” Stiles said.
“He wouldn’t look like this anymore.”
“I’m ahead of you there. My son followed in my footsteps. He’s a bird colonel in the Pentagon. When I told him I was going after Falke, he did some research for me and came up with the name Otto Klebe. I don’t remember him personally, but according to records in Washington, he was a prisoner at Cowdery Junction the same time as Karl Falke. After the war, Klebe returned to this country and settled in right here in Utah. Brigham City to be exact.”
Leaning heavily on his cane, Major Stiles started to rise. Halfway up, pain overwhelmed him. His face crumpled. He caught his breath and dropped the cane. By the time Traveler retrieved it, Stiles’s pain had disappeared, wiped clean by a self-control that left Traveler in awe.
“They tell me I have a month at the most,” Stiles said. “I’d like to have this business settled before then, before I’m called home. What do you say, Moroni Traveler? Are you with me?”
“There’s little chance of finding someone after so many years.”
“But you’ll look, you and your father. You’ll send me home having tried at least.”
Traveler took a deep breath and nodded.
“By God, Willis Tanner was right about you.” Stiles handed Traveler a calling card. “If you’re quick enough, young man, you’ll be able to reach me at that number.”
3
THE DENVER and Rio Grande Railroad Depot, built in 1910, was showing its age. Its terra-cotta brick had lost its luster; its white marble had grayed; its immense arched windows looked black instead of the green glass Traveler knew them to be. The vaulted, Renaissance Revival waiting room had been turned into a museum, while passengers were relegated to an Amtrak annex filled with plastic chairs and vending machines. Yet somehow the smell of cigars and brass cuspidors that Traveler remembered from his chil
dhood lingered.
He checked the arrival board. The 4:00 A.M. train from Los Angeles, via Milford, Utah—on time when Traveler had phoned fifteen minutes ago—was now scheduled to arrive at 5:30 in the morning.
With nearly two hours to kill, he eyed the dozen or so West Temple winos spread out among the synthetic chairs. Rather than intrude, he was about to go searching for a coffee shop when the men’s room door swung open. Out came Mad Bill, Salt Lake’s Sandwich Prophet, with his disciple, Charlie Redwine, right behind him. With them came the clinging aroma of what Charlie called Navajo tobacco. Smoking it in Utah was both a sin and a felony. Seeing the pair so early in the morning probably meant they’d been up all night.
A nearby wino raised his head, sniffed the air, and slid out of his chair. His panhandling fingers were reaching for Traveler when Charlie shouted at him in Navajo. The man stopped and turned to face the Indian.
“Private preserve,” Bill translated as soon as he moved between Traveler and the panhandler.
Bill was a big man, well over six feet, almost as tall as Traveler, though a lot softer. Even so, the panhandler shrugged and retreated.
Charlie muttered more Navajo.
“He says to tell you, Moroni, that donating to our cause is a good investment. You can think of it as insurance.”
Bill had exchanged his usual prophet’s robes and proselytizing sandwich boards for creased tan slacks and a pressed shirt. Charlie’s jeans looked new, his cowboy boots spit-cleaned.
“How much insurance do I need?” Traveler asked.
“The Church of the True Prophet is always grateful for contributions of any size.” A smile made the Sandwich Prophet wince and touch his swollen cheek.
“Haven’t you seen the dentist yet?” Traveler asked.
It was Charlie who shook his head.
“I told Doc Ellsworth to expect you,” Traveler said.
“Charlie’s medicine keeps the pain in check,” Bill replied.
“You’ll be doing me a favor,” Traveler said. “The doc owes me. Besides, you don’t want to fool with an impacted wisdom tooth.”
“I do God’s work, Moroni. He will provide.”
Traveler shrugged, knowing when to give up. “You’re going to need more painkiller, then, because we’ve got a long time to wait for Amtrak.”
The Indian reached into the neck of his shirt and extracted a full medicine bag.
Bill touched the leather pouch and nodded. “The wait is worth it. After all, how often does a man like you find out whether he’s a father or not?”
Traveler groaned inwardly. “We don’t know if the boy exists. Even if he does, he’s not mine.”
“Don’t be selfish,” Bill said. “You’re not the only one with a vested interest in Moroni Traveler the Third.”
Charlie pointed at the waiting room clock.
“That’s right,” Bill said. “We’re expecting another interested party any minute.”
“Who else have you invited?” Traveler asked.
Instead of answering, Bill grabbed Traveler’s arm and led him outside onto the floodlit sidewalk. Yesterday’s smell of spring had been erased by a west wind carrying the sulfuric aroma of the Great Salt Lake.
“I was hoping for a quiet reunion with my father,” Traveler said.
“We’re all family,” Bill answered.
Charlie gestured dramatically before folding his arms over his chest.
“Charlie says Moroni the Third will be our son, too. He says he’ll teach the boy magic.”
“What he’s going to need is a mother,” Traveler said.
“Lael is too young for you,” Bill responded.
“Is that who you invited?”
As if on cue, Lael Woolley’s red BMW came roaring down Third South, followed closely by another car. She feinted at the stop sign before skidding into the parking lot next to Traveler’s ten-year-old pickup truck, a loaner while his Ford was being overhauled. As she threw open the door, headlights from the second car illuminated her face. In the glare, her skin looked dead white, her lipstick as black as her eyes.
“That car’s church security,” Bill said before Traveler could get the words out of his mouth.
The unmarked gray sedan came to a stop three rows away and switched to high beams. Lael climbed out of the BMW, shielding her eyes. She was wearing stretch jeans and a baggy BYU sweatshirt that came halfway down her thighs.
The sedan cut its engine but not its lights. Doors opened. Two men got out, one on either side, but stayed where they were, anonymous silhouettes behind the high beams.
Lael shouted at them. “I want some privacy!”
The security men got back into their car. After a moment, they doused the lights but left the doors open.
With an angry gesture, she waved them away.
“You’re wasting your time,” Traveler said. “You’re the only grandniece Elton Woolley has.”
“You’d think I could outrun them in a BMW, wouldn’t you?”
“The FBI trains them well.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and whisper, “You could run them off if you wanted to.” She smelled of vanilla extract, which she used instead of perfume, along with almond and cinnamon.
“What good would that do?”
“Are you afraid of my uncle?”
Traveler tried to picture Elton Woolley. His image merged with those who had preceded him—Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, and a century and a half of successors. According to Mormon scripture, each was the direct descendant of Jesus, each a living prophet on earth.
“In this state,” Bill said, “everyone answers to your uncle. Senators, congressmen, the governor, all but me and Charlie.”
“What about Moroni?” she said.
“He’s named for an angel. That gives him a special dispensation.”
Lael smiled. “And me?”
“We’re all afraid of you,” Bill said.
She looked up at Traveler. “What do my Moronis say to that?”
“I’ll let my father answer that when he gets here.”
“I’ve got a long wait then. His train isn’t due until five-thirty.”
“See what I mean?” Bill said. “The Woolley family’s sources of information, both secular and otherwise, are beyond us.”
“Why are you here so early, then?” Traveler asked her.
She tugged at her sweatshirt until it was tight against her body. Beneath the garment, her stomach swelled slightly. The rest of her looked thin and fragile. “I thought it would give us a chance to talk, Moroni, about your son and my interest in him.”
“I don’t have a son.”
Her bony shoulders rose and fell as quickly as a twitch. “His name is Moroni Traveler the Third in any case.”
“Moroni isn’t an easy name to live with. My father gave it up years ago.”
“Uncle Elton thinks of him as Moroni.” Lael rested a hand on Traveler’s arm. “You saved my life, Moroni. I want to pay you back some way.”
“I was working for your uncle. It was a job. He paid me.”
“I spent my own money, not my uncle’s, to find the boy.”
Lael had paid a woman named Stacie Breen for the location of Moroni Traveler the Third. The boy, according to the Breen woman, had been sold to adoptive parents in Milford, Utah, by Traveler’s former girlfriend, Claire.
Lael took a step in the direction of the depot door.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Bill said. “It’s full of street people.”
Charlie made a sign.
“That’s right,” Bill interpreted. “We’re street people, too, but only when wearing our boards.”
Traveler shook his head. “Let’s find some place to have coffee. The Snappy Service over on State Street is open all night.”
“There’s no need,” Lael said. “I’ve brought something hot to drink with me. It’s in the BMW.”
Bill retrieved a large Thermos and a stack of plastic cups from the front seat,
then locked arms with Charlie to block the depot’s door.
“We can’t allow the prophet’s kin inside a place like this,” Bill said.
Lael whirled around to face the parking lot. She snapped her fingers at the unmarked sedan, pointed at the depot door, and gestured like an umpire calling someone out.
Traveler said, “Those men inside are homeless. They have nowhere else to go.”
When the two security men reached her, she told them, “Give everyone inside five dollars. Then make sure they go somewhere else for breakfast.”
Within a couple of minutes, the waiting room was empty. Four chairs had been wiped off and arranged in a circle so that Lael could serve their drinks.
Traveler took a sip of something that tasted like coffee-flavored Ovaltine. “Tell your uncle for me, you’re not the one who needs protecting anymore.”
Charlie snorted and began doctoring his Ovaltine from the medicine bag around his neck.
Seeing Lael’s frown, Bill said, “It’s his religion.”
“Yours too, I think.”
Grimacing, the Sandwich Prophet touched his swollen cheek and held his cup out to Charlie. “Medicinal purposes only, I assure you.”
Lael turned her attention to Traveler. “It would have been faster if your father had driven to Milford.”
“Trains remind him of his youth.”
“I’ve never been on one,” she said, looking around the waiting room with obvious distaste.
“My mother took me on the train when I was a boy. To this day, it still stops in Milford on its way to the Coast.”
“What were you like then?”
Instead of answering, Traveler closed his eyes and felt his mother’s hand close on his as she dragged him along to Zion’s Bank to clean out Martin’s savings. Once that was done, she never let go of Traveler, not until they were on the train.
You won’t miss your friends, she’d told him then. When we get to Los Angeles, there’ll be oranges to pick from our trees and sunshine to play in every day. I’ll get a good job and meet the right kind of man and you’ll grow up to be rich and famous.