by R. R. Irvine
“Iacocca’s no better.” Martin sat up and began wiping his hands on his handkerchief. “A man my age needs a little music in the morning to soothe his nerves.”
“I’ll buy a new radio.”
“It’s a wonder this car passes inspection.”
Traveler pulled away from the curb and headed downtown. The Ford, years beyond its prime, was the kind of disreputable relic Martin had driven when Traveler was a boy.
“Do you remember the old Packard?” Traveler said.
“A great car. Your mother hated it.”
“She didn’t like being seen in it, especially on Sunday drives.”
“She was a great one for putting on the dog.”
By the time Traveler turned south on Second East, he’d attracted a patrol car. No flashing lights came on, but it was definitely following them.
“I can’t see who’s driving,” he said.
Martin released his seat belt so he could turn around in the bucket seat. “The sun’s in my eyes, but considering our destination, I’m betting on Anson Horne. The man thinks he’s Defender of the Faith against Gentiles like us.”
“How could he know where we’re going?”
“You’re forgetting Nephi Bates. For all we know, he’s an agent provocateur.”
“Now that he’s about to lose his job, the man’s acting like a human being for once. Brace yourself.” Traveler hit the brakes. Behind him, the patrol car did the same, coming to a stop in a spot of shade that allowed Traveler to see Horne behind the wheel.
“So let him follow us,” Martin said. “This early we ought to be able to park right in front of the apostle’s place of business. That ought to give Horne something to think about.”
Traveler turned right on Second South, continuing as far as West Temple. From there, three more right turns brought him around the block on the same side of Main Street as the Kearns Building, where the man known as the thirteenth apostle had his offices.
Anson Horne’s car closed the gap to park behind them. The policeman got out immediately and motioned Traveler and Martin to join him on the sidewalk. His partner, Earl Belnap, stayed in the car, glaring at them.
Horne said, “I’m looking for Boyd Williams.”
Traveler smiled. It had been a long time since he’d heard Boyd called anything but Mad Bill or the Sandwich Prophet.
“You saved us a trip to the police station to ask you where Bill’s gotten to,” Martin said.
“You know damn well he’s a fugitive. He and that Indian of his.”
“The last time we saw them,” Traveler said, “they were with you.”
“If either of them contacts you, I want to know about it.”
“Do you think I’m hiding them in the trunk of the car?” Traveler said.
Horne jerked his head in Belnap’s direction. The man immediately got out of the patrol car, took Traveler’s keys, and opened the Ford’s trunk.
“How did Bill manage to escape with a cast on his leg?” Traveler asked.
Belnap slammed the trunk lid, leaving the keys dangling in the lock. At a nod from Horne, the sergeant got back in the patrol car.
“You know how it is with hospitals,” Horne said. “There’s a lot of paperwork to do. I turned my back for a minute and they were gone.”
“Where was your partner?”
“I’ve never lost a prisoner before, so as far as I’m concerned this is personal.”
Martin stared at Horne, who was solidly built, the same muscled width from shoulders to waist. “Why would Bill risk additional charges by attempting to escape? As it stood, all you had against him was trespassing.”
“He damaged church property,” Horne said.
“He stepped on a few flowers and waded in the seagull pool.”
“He assaulted an apostle.”
“He only wanted to touch the man,” Traveler said.
“For all Josiah Ellsworth knew, he was being attacked by apostates.”
“Has he filed charges?” Traveler said.
“That hasn’t been decided yet.”
“Bill and Charlie aren’t dangerous,” Martin said, “you know that. They can’t escape for long either, not with you and the church looking for them.”
“This is strictly a temporal matter,” Horne said. “At the moment.”
Traveler didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you know about the Chester Building?”
“We know those two live in the basement there, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t try using them as leverage against us,” Traveler said.
Horne lowered his voice. “Just find them. Otherwise, I won’t be responsible.” He stalked away, forcing Belnap to drive down Main Street after him.
Traveler shook his head and stared up at the Kearns Building. For a moment he thought he saw a silhouette against the skyline ten stories above. Rubbing his eyes brought only blue sky into focus.
“I saw him too,” Martin said.
“Who?”
“There’s a story about Sam Howe. They say he’s everywhere. They say he sees everything and knows all the secrets. As church lawyer, he keeps them too. Even so, he’s still an unofficial apostle, still number thirteen. Of course, he wasn’t born into the church; he’s a convert.”
Traveler craned his neck for a second look. The building had been constructed in 1911 for Thomas Kearns, one of the mining millionaires who came out of Park City in the 1880s. Its reinforced concrete was a marvel of the time, as was a design hinting at Renaissance revival that included a facing of white terra-cotta tile and boldly projecting cornices at the roof line.
“His offices take up the entire top floor,” Martin went on. “The perfect spot to keep an eye on things.”
“Next you’ll be telling me he’s got second sight.”
“I’ve heard that said about him, too.”
“Remind me to tell him that old Tom Kearns was a Catholic.”
“I hear they exorcised the whole top floor before Howe moved in.”
Going up in the elevator, Traveler remembered that Kearns, like his building, had become an icon in Utah. Although Catholic, he served one term in the United States Senate, taking office at the turn of the century, a time when a kind of gentlemen’s agreement existed between Gentiles and the church. One senator would be Mormon, the church decreed, the other would be a Gentile, a policy derived to placate Mormon-baiters in Washington. These days, the church had no such qualms.
At the tenth floor, the elevator doors opened directly onto a foyer carpeted with amber-colored chenille overlaid with Oriental rugs. Along the walls, free-standing copper torchier lamps with mica shades cast pools of soft golden light onto the trowel-marked stucco ceiling. A single desk with its own smaller beaten-copper lamp stood in front of a walnut door, the foyer’s only visible exit. The woman behind the desk, wearing a dark brown suit with a blouse that matched the amber carpet, rose to greet them.
“Mr. Howe is expecting you,” she said.
Martin insisted on handing her a business card.
“Moroni Traveler and Son,” she said without looking at it.
Traveler and Martin exchanged wary looks before following her through the doorway. The room beyond, an antechamber, was furnished as a waiting area, with pioneer sofa benches and armchairs so perfect they might have been expensive reproductions. Theater-size copper wall sconces, fitted with mica louvers, provided subdued amber light.
The secretary paused in front of a large east-facing window and looked out at the Wasatch Mountains as if expecting Traveler and Martin to do the same. Her hesitation, Traveler thought, looked practiced. Her posture, even the placement of her low-heeled shoes, was that of a fashion model.
“We are blessed,” she said, “living here in the land of Zion, where God sent his chosen people.”
Behind her back, Martin raised an eyebrow. She was preparing them, like an understudy warming up an audience for the main act.
Traveler moved close to the window.
From such a vantage point, the eleven-thousand-foot glaciered peaks of the Wasatch reminded him of the crusted jaws of some fossil carnivore. Brigham Young, fleeing from religious persecution, had crossed those heights at the head of a wagon train in 1847. For years afterward, the Wasatch had served as a wall against his eastern enemies. To the west lay another vast barrier, the Great Salt Lake. Between the two of them, Brigham built his city of Zion. His glory, the faithful called it, a town laid out according to holy logic, with all life radiating out from its spiritual hub, the temple. Even the street names were part of his solemn master plan. Those directly adjacent to the temple were named East Temple, North Temple, West Temple, and South Temple. Farther out were the lettered and numbered streets and avenues, a rational progression all the way to the city limits. But recent years had brought with them the secular chaos of progress, until now Brigham’s city was called Greater Salt Lake, with over a million people and everything that went with them.
“Mr. Howe is ready for you now.” the secretary said. She smiled, secure in a job well done, and opened another hand-rubbed walnut door.
This time she didn’t accompany them, but waited for them to pass through before closing the door behind them. Sam Howe looked taller than Traveler remembered, though he was clearly an inch or so shorter than Martin’s five feet six. Howe’s handshake was fierce, his eye contact riveting, as if he had to prove himself against Traveler’s bulk.
His corner office, in shadow except for another mica-shaded desk lamp, seemed as vast as a theater. Traveler knew there had to be both north and west windows, yet there was no sign of light from either of those directions. He and his father followed in Howe’s wake like new arrivals to a movie whose eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the gloom. As soon as Traveler was seated beside his father in one of two matching client chairs, he closed his eyes to speed up the dilation process.
Howe said, “I hear you’re looking for your son.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Martin answered.
“So I understand from Willis Tanner.”
Traveler opened his eyes to see Howe seated across the desk, his elbows planted firmly on a green felt writing pad, his blunt, freckled fingers busily grooming his bushy eyebrows, which matched his close-cropped sandy hair.
“We’re here on another matter,” Martin said.
“Of course.”
“The Chester Building,” Traveler put in.
“There’s nothing more important than family,” Howe said. “Genealogy is a sacred trust. We must track down all who came before us, as well as those who come after. I hope you understand that before it’s too late.”
Traveler understood all right. He was being warned off the Chester Building, though not in so many words.
“I’m not one for subtlety,” Traveler said. “I’d rather have everything out in the open.”
“Like me?” a voice said.
A motor whirred. Light began flooding the room from the north. Squinting against the sudden glare, Traveler turned to face the windows whose drapes were being drawn smoothly aside. The figure silhouetted there became recognizable as the apostle Josiah Ellsworth. He was seated in a high-backed chair with exaggerated wings that seemed to enfold him. His hands were clasped around a small leather-bound edition of The Book of Mormon, showing a thin gold ribbon as a marker.
Howe stood up as if the shedding of light demanded obeisance from him. With an acknowledging nod, Ellsworth waved him back into his chair.
For Martin’s benefit, Traveler introduced the apostle, adding, “He’s the one Bill tried to count coup against.”
“He did more than try,” Ellsworth said. One hand went to his shoulder as if Bill’s touch still smarted.
“If it comes to a charge of assault,” Howe said, “we have more than enough witnesses to sustain it.”
Martin repositioned his chair until he was facing the apostle. Traveler did the same.
Howe continued. “It’s my experience that these things are best settled out of court. The fact is—”
Ellsworth silenced Howe with a tapping of the forefinger against the book’s leather binding. “As quaint as the Chester Building may be,” Ellsworth said, “it’s not a landmark. It isn’t on the historical register. So why the fuss about saving it? Wouldn’t it be better if you gentlemen sought your namesake, another Moroni?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Traveler saw Martin slouch, a sure sign that he was trying to relax away his anger.
Martin said, “Would you prefer a concrete parking structure across the street from the temple?”
“Fresh granite will be quarried from the Wasatch,” Ellsworth answered.
“They tell me you’re the White Prophet,” Martin said.
“Do you believe all the stories you hear?”
“When I was a boy,” Martin replied, “they told me the White Prophet was the bogeyman.”
“And now?”
“I believe in things a lot worse.”
“ ‘Their torments shall be as a lake of fire and brimstone, whose flame ascendeth up forever and ever.’ ”
“It’s the here and now that worries me.” Martin sat up. “When it comes to the Chester Building, are you speaking for Elton Woolley, the prophet?”
Ellsworth looked to Howe who said, “That’s Willis Tanner’s job. At the moment he’s on his honeymoon and can’t be reached. If I were you, I’d confine myself to searching out your namesake. Wait too long, and such a search might become impossible.”
Martin came out of his chair. “Meaning?”
Ellsworth opened The Book of Mormon to the spot marked by the gold ribbon. “ ‘And thus we see the end of him who perverteth the ways of the Lord; and thus we see that the devil will not support his children at the last day, but doth speedily drag them down to hell.’ ”
Traveler stepped in front of Martin, blocking his view.
“Is that where you’re suggesting we look?” Martin said.
Ellsworth closed the book. “Look to the Lord and to Bingham.” He smiled. “Or so we hear.”
9
TRAVELER DROVE while Martin navigated, up South Temple and into Fort Douglas, then along the city’s east bench skirting City Cemetery all the way to the State Capitol at the head of State Street. They passed Council Hall, which originally contained the offices of the commander of the Nauvoo Legion, the Mormon army that controlled Utah when it was still a territory. That same Nauvoo Legion had so worried the governor of Illinois that he and his cronies engineered the murder of Joseph Smith in 1844, thereby triggering the Mormon exodus to Utah.
At the end of Traveler’s forty-minute drive, no police cars had been visible on a permanent basis, though that was no guarantee they weren’t being followed if the FBI-trained church security people were determined enough. Finally, he doubled back as far as the LDS Hospital on Ninth Avenue and D Street, only to find two police cars parked near the emergency entrance and another in the no-parking zone directly out front.
“It probably has nothing to do with Bill,” Martin said, “but let’s eat first and come back later.”
“Steak sandwiches?”
“You read my mind.”
The lawn surrounding the Wagon Lunch on Second East looked like it had already died for the winter. It rustled underfoot as Traveler and Martin crossed to the old circus wagon that was sunk hub-deep into the ground. As always, Lou saw them coming and put steaks on his propane grill. Beyond the wagon stood a run-down Hoover bungalow that had been converted into the Wagon Inn.
“I know,” Lou said, “extra salt and pepper.”
He already had two Grapette sodas standing on the counter. Traveler had been coming there with his father, ordering steak sandwiches with extra salt and pepper and Grapettes, for as long as he could remember. It was one of the places that he and Martin had escaped to when Kary was out for blood.
“Here’s another place your mother hated,” Martin said as if reading Traveler’s mind. “She said I only came here for t
he beer and had no right bringing you along.”
“I seem to remember you having a beer or two.”
“I never took you inside the beer joint, did I?”
“Lou kept an eye on me out here.”
“You were always hungry, that’s why, eating one sandwich after another.”
“Those were the days,” Lou said. “I made good money then. Look at me now. It’s hardly worth the effort firing up my grill for you two.” He handed out two paper plates, each with two sandwiches stacked one on top of the other.
They sat on the curb to eat. At the first bite, Traveler sighed. The Wagon Lunch, along with the Snappy Service and Brannings Chili, both over on State Street, were as comforting as the memories they evoked: getaways from Kary, outings after ball games, and dates with good Mormon girls who said no to drinking and smoking but little else.
Martin said, “We only have Claire’s word that there is any namesake or that he was put out for adoption.”
“Taking money for a kid doesn’t qualify as adoption.”
“The whole thing could be another of Claire’s fantasies, a way of tormenting us from the grave just the way your mother does.”
“If so, maybe Josiah Ellsworth knows it,” Traveler said. “Maybe setting us on a wild-goose chase is his way of getting us out of the way.”
Martin washed down a mouthful of sandwich with Grapette. “I don’t see the Chester Building being important to a man like him, not unless there’s something we don’t know about.”
“I think we can count on that.”
Traveler was about to start on his second sandwich when a patrol car rolled to a stop in front of the La Fee Tire Company on the other side of the street. Inside was a single uniformed policeman.
“Who do we have to thank for him?” Martin said. “Anson Horne or Josiah Ellsworth?”
“Who would you rather have for an enemy?”
“We have both, I’m afraid.”
Traveler finished his sandwich and returned the empty bottles to Lou. By then, Martin was standing on the sidewalk glaring at the policemen.
“Come on,” Traveler said. “We’d better check the hospital before we do anything else.”