by R. R. Irvine
CALLED HOME
A Moroni Traveler Novel
CALLED HOME
A Moroni Traveler Novel
By R. R. Irvine
To the memory of
David Charles Laertes Saltzman
CALLED HOME
Copyright © 1991 by Robert P. Irvine.
All Rights Reserved.
First eBook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
978-1-4821-0211-6 Trade
978-1-62460-674-8 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
“Always marry a girl from Sanpete,
because no matter how hard things get,
you’ll know she has seen worse.”
—Early Mormon leader
1
HIS HONOR, Magistrate Jim Doyle, was staring at Traveler like a hanging judge fingering hemp.
Behind Traveler, his father coughed to show that he was in his seat. Martin had been doing that all through the trial, his way of letting Traveler know he wasn’t alone.
The judge shifted his glare to Martin just as Mad Bill added fuel to the fire with a cough fit for a TB sanitarium. Without turning around, Traveler knew that Bill was seated to one side of Martin, Charlie Redwine on the other. For once, the pair of them, Salt Lake’s Sandwich Prophet (so called because of his sandwich board prophecies) and his lone disciple, had traded their robes and Navajo charms for a couple of Martin’s suits.
Traveler was out of uniform, too, in an itchy blue worsted dug from the back of his closet.
Don’t scratch. Don’t squirm. Think decorum at all times while in court. Words of wisdom from Reed Critchlow, his lawyer. Smile at the jury, but not too broadly. Look put upon, offended, but never concerned. Sit up straight. Keep good eye contact. Don’t look evasive.
Traveler’s Adam’s apple bobbed against the knot in the first tie he’d worn in months. To the jury, he must look like some kind of salesman. Which was just what Critchlow wanted. Sell yourself. That’s all I ask.
“Before we begin closing arguments,” the judge said, “I’d like a conference please, gentlemen.”
Critchlow and the prosecutor, a Mormon bishop named Oscar Young doing double duty as Assistant City Attorney, moved to the bench on the bailiff’s side where they began a spirited three-way whisper.
Martin took the opportunity to murmur, “I took a case for you during recess, Moroni.”
“You have a lot of faith,” Traveler said over his shoulder, hoping the jury wouldn’t feel slighted at being left out of the conversation. “I could be serving jail time by tonight.”
“Stop trying to sound like a martyr,” Martin said.
“Playing on our sympathy,” Bill added.
“You heard what Critchlow said,” Martin went on. “ ‘There’s no case against you. It’s harassment, pure and simple.’ ”
“Countersue the bastards,” Charlie said. “That’s my advice.”
Bill said, “You have enemies in the land of Zion. There’s no other explanation for what’s happening to you.”
Traveler had heard it all before, words of comfort from father, friends, and attorney alike. But he was still sitting there in the defendant’s chair.
“We’ve got bail money in case you need it,” Bill whispered.
Traveler snorted. “You said there was nothing to worry about.”
“You heard your lawyer,” Martin said, trying to sound brash. “There’s absolutely no chance of conviction.” But Traveler knew his father too well to miss the concern in his voice. A felony conviction meant loss of license, and an end to their two-man private investigating firm.
Yet the charge against him was exactly what Critchlow had said, harassment instigated by his former lady friend, Claire Bennion, and propagated by an overzealous policeman who wanted to rid Brigham Young’s promised land of yet another Gentile, the term applying to the likes of Traveler and all non-Mormons.
No Gentiles in heaven, he’d been told since he was a boy. No sinning heathens like yourself.
At the moment, his only earthly sin was defending himself against one of Claire’s vendettas. If he hadn’t fought back, he’d have been the one in the hospital.
“This client I mentioned,” Martin said. “His case is just what you need to get your mind off that woman.”
Traveler fought a losing battle to keep his eyes off her. Claire was sitting less than ten feet away, directly behind the prosecutor’s desk. She’d been perched there since the trial began. Smiling, gloating even. Thinner than ever, needing a man to feed upon. But still attractive enough to turn the heads of the jury every time she rearranged her extraordinary legs.
Both lawyers took their places. The judge cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I apologize. We’re going to take another short recess. I find I have a previous commitment concerning another case.” He glanced at the clock. “Please be back in your seats at half past the hour.”
Traveler sighed as the jurors hurried out of court. If they wanted to smoke, they’d have to go all the way outside in this Mormon Country, where Joseph Smith’s Word of Wisdom declared tobacco one of the deadliest of sins.
He stole another glance at Claire. She hadn’t budged. And wouldn’t unless he did. Then she’d follow him, to the door of the men’s room if that’s where he headed. All the while smiling enigmatically.
Critchlow, one of Martin’s cronies who was giving Traveler a break on legal fees, shuffled papers and spoke under his breath. “Smile at her, for Christ’s sake.”
Traveler wet his lips.
“If you can’t smile, don’t look at her.”
Traveler shifted his gaze to one of the City and County Building’s narrow Gothic windows. The building, which took up an entire block, had recently been refu
rbished to full Victorian splendor, its sandstone facade of gargoyles, priests, and politicians no longer falling on passersby below.
“I’m going for a pee,” Critchlow said. “How about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t want you squirming during the summations.”
“Trust me.”
The lawyer shrugged and left the courtroom.
Traveler went back to staring out the window. A wind shift started ash raining from the sky, fallout from a forest fire burning along the Mormon Trail where it came down Emigration Canyon east of town. It had been burning for days, following the pioneer route and closing in on the suburbs, fed by the heat of an Indian summer.
“You’re late,” Martin said.
Traveler turned in time to see his friend and landlord, Barney Chester, slide onto the wooden bench next to Charlie. Chester had an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He took it out to say, “Hey, Mo, your client has arrived and is waiting in my office even as we speak.”
“What client?”
Martin sighed dramatically. “I told you I’d accepted a case for you. Signed and
sealed.”
“I like to meet my clients.” Traveler closed his eyes. When he opened them, Martin was doing his best to smile. But it was lip service only. The rest of his face looked as nervous as Traveler felt. Even so, there’d been no recriminations about Claire from his father. They’d both been suckered too many times for that, though in Traveler’s case, his attitude toward her defied logic.
“What kind of client?” he asked.
“Once you meet the man, you’ll understand why I couldn’t turn him down.”
“Damn right,” Chester added, exchanging his cigar for a peppermint when the bailiff scowled at him. “The moment I saw that tortured face of his I dug out a jug and offered him a drink. How was I to know he’d turn out to be a temple Mormon?”
“No you don’t,” Traveler said. “You’re not taking me in.” He knew that Barney would never offer alcohol to anyone who might be offended. Certainly not to a Mormon in good enough standing to have temple access.
“Besides which,” Martin went on, “this case will get you out of town, Moroni. It will be like a vacation.”
“What kind of case?” Traveler repeated.
“ ‘Evil is stalking the land,’ ” Bill responded. He rattled his newspaper to show he was quoting a reliable source. “That’s the word from none other than Elton Woolley himself, the living prophet of Mormonism. He says the fires in the mountains are proof that God and the devil are fighting one another for our souls.”
“There’s a drought going on, for God’s sake,” Martin said. “The mountains are like tinder.”
“The devil’s work,” Bill added.
“I thought God made the rain,” Chester said.
Having heard it all before, Traveler shook his head and got up to stretch. Claire did the same, fanning herself with a magazine, creating a breeze that engulfed him in her rosewater perfume. The last time he’’d smelled it he’d broken a man’s leg and gotten himself charged with assault.
His eyes were about to wander in her direction again when the jury began filing back into the box. A moment later, the judge took his seat and Prosecutor Young, whose name was as common as Smith in a state teeming with the ancestors of Brigham Young’s polygamous efforts, began his final argument.
“Don’t be fooled by the man you see sitting before you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Though charged with simple assault, assault with a deadly weapon would be more appropriate. He’s a professional, a private detective, a former linebacker for the Los Angeles football team. Look at him. The defendant is six feet three inches tall and weighs more than two hundred and twenty pounds. He’s a weapon in himself.”
The prosecutor paused to stare Traveler in the face. “The defense will tell you that he had no choice, that it was self-defense. That it was three against one. But just let me tell you what the Los Angeles Times had to say about him.” With a dramatic gesture, he picked up a clipping from the prosecutor’s table.
“Objection,” Critchlow said quietly, without emotion. “That’s hearsay.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
But Traveler’s memory wasn’t so easily edited. Moroni Traveler plays linebacker like a rabid dog, the newspaper had said.
“Imagine yourselves under attack by this man,” the prosecutor continued.
Traveler looked at the jurors. He hoped it wasn’t fear he saw on their faces.
“You’ve heard from Claire Bennion, the woman he once lived with.” Young smiled at her. “A woman who wanted only reconciliation but ended up having to defend herself against this man’s vicious attack.”
Traveler sighed. She’d been the one to attack first, and on the telephone like so many times before. Sucking him in at two in the morning despite his previous pledge to Martin to stop playing her crazy games.
“Moroni, it’s about your son. I . . . he needs your help. “
“I have no son. “
“I named him after you.”
“We’ve been over this before, Claire.”
“Moroni Traveler the Third. “
“It was my father you named in the paternity suit.”
“You know better. I was thinking about you at the moment of conception.”
“That doesn’t make him a Traveler.”
“Why did you and your father offer to adopt him then?”
Traveler wasn’t about to explain, not to a woman like Claire. How could he tell her that the boy would have been as much a son to him as Traveler had been to Martin? A matter of upbringing instead of genes.
The prosecutor, looming in front of the defendant’s table, pointed a finger at Traveler. “Miss Bennion asked some friends over to meet Mr. Traveler, her lover, the man she wanted to marry. She was going to cook dinner, make a party of it. Instead, one of her guests ended up in the hospital.”
“They’ve taken your son away from me, “ Claire had said.
“Who has?”
“That’s why I need your help.”
“We’ve been through this kind of thing before, Claire.”
“That was me then. Now we’re talking about your son, your namesake.”
“You’re lying.”
“Are you sure?”
“All right. Tell me about it.”
Her voice went soft, sexual. “I’m afraid. It’s dangerous to stay on the phone. I’ll tell you everything when you get here.”
“You’ve done this before, Claire.” He’d lost count of how many times it was now.
“You always come to my rescue.” She gave him an address on Third Avenue near E Street.
“You’ve moved.”
“I had to.” Her voice caught, the way it always had at the point of entry when they were making love. “Oh, God. Come to me. Now.”
The prosecutor shook his head. “The defendant said he had no choice. But I say there’s always a choice when it comes to breaking a man’s leg the way he did.”
They were waiting for Traveler in an otherwise empty apartment. The four of them, Claire and three big men who looked to be about ten years out of high school and probably that far out of shape. They’d all been drinking, but not enough to keep them from recognizing Traveler.
“Jesus Christ. He’s the one who killed that running back.”
“Crippled him, you mean.”
“What the fuck’s the difference? The gamoosh ended up a turnip.”
“That was one on one. There’s three of us.”
“To hell with the odds.”
“The winner gets me,” Claire said, licking her lips to make absolutely certain they understood her meaning.
“And my son?” Traveler asked.
She laughed.
“Why are you doing this, Claire?”
“You’re the detective.”
“I should have known better.”
“You’re the Angel Moroni.”
That broken bone was on display twenty feet away, complete with autographed cast. Claire’s name was signed in red inside a lipstick heart. To Clint with love.
She used to draw the same kind of hearts on Traveler when they were in bed. Sometimes she’d lick them off, depending on their location.
Had she done that with Clint? he wondered. Probably not. Claire wasn’t the kind to pay in advance.
When Critchlow’s turn came, he concentrated on Traveler’s three attackers. Hired thugs, he called them. Two with police records. He didn’t quite say Claire had hired them, but that was the implication.
When the jury came back an hour later, they looked Traveler in the eye, a good sign that Critchlow had prophesied in advance, and declared him not guilty.
Martin whooped like an Indian and rushed forward to hug his son, something he seldom did in public because of the difference in their heights. Once they broke apart, Barney Chester took a turn at squeezing Traveler, while Mad Bill kissed him on both cheeks. Charlie settled for a handshake, an emotional outburst for him.
Traveler was turning to Critchlow when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He swung around to see Willis Tanner’s lopsided squint.
“None of this was necessary, Mo,” Tanner said. His squint dissolved into a wink. “You know that.”
Tanner was accompanied by Anson Horne, the cop who’d pretended to believe Claire’s story. As the police chief’s liaison officer with the church, he’d forced the city attorney to seek an indictment.
“This isn’t the end of it,” Horne said. “I—”
Tanner, as personal aide to the prophet, Elton Woolley, silenced the cop with a look.
Tanner patted Traveler on the back. “All you had to do was come to me, ask for my help, and none of this would have happened.”
“Your price would have been too high,” Traveler said.
Tanner feigned surprise. “I’ve never asked for a thing.”
“I know you, Willis.”
“How long have we been friends now, Mo. Since junior high school, isn’t it?”