by R. R. Irvine
“Are you sure you talked to the right people?” Martin said. “My son and I have the same name.”
Hickman licked pie crumbs from his mustache. “We’ve had a wind shift. The fire has circled around and is now burning toward the road leading out of town. If it reaches the road, Wasatch will be cut off from the outside world. When that happens I can’t be responsible for you two.”
“We’ll get by,” Traveler said.
“Living around here isn’t easy. Us locals have learned how to survive.”
Martin said, “I was just telling my son that I wasn’t leaving until we get what we came for.”
“I think you’d better tell us about Dr. Sutton,” Traveler said.
With a grunt, Hickman spun off the counter stool.
“That man brought most of us around here into this world. He saw a lot of us out, too, with compassion and kindness.”
“There are people in this town who say otherwise.” Traveler swiveled around to face him.
“I underestimated you,” Hickman said. “Or maybe I overestimated my neighbors. I didn’t expect them to tell you the local gossip. But that’s all it is. Malicious gossip.”
Hickman poked a finger against Traveler’s chest. “A sheriff can’t act on rumors, not when someone’s reputation is at stake. Someone like Doctor Joe.”
“Letters were written to the State Medical Board,” Traveler said. “I don’t call that rumor.”
“A man in my position needs proof, corroborating witnesses.”
“For God’s sake,” Martin said. “Did you even bother to investigate?”
“I asked the Doc about them once. He laughed and said that’s the chance every doctor takes when he examines female patients.”
Traveler and Martin exchanged quick, confirming glances. Willis Tanner’s information had been on the mark.
Hickman shrugged. “I figured you already knew some women were complaining. According to the Doc, ladies tend to fantasize about their doctors. It’s their way, he said, of cheating on their husbands without any actual risks.”
“And you let it go at that?”
“I was waiting to see what action the state board took.”
“Sure,” Martin said. “It’s always safer to wait.”
“The men in this town elect me,” Hickman said.
“And the women?” Traveler said.
“Don’t try laying your guilt on me. I didn’t get your girlfriend killed. If you ask me, you did that by being here.”
The sheriff pointed his finger at Traveler’s chest again. Traveler was about to bat it away when his father spoke. “The doctor killed himself before any action could be taken. That ought to tell you something, Sheriff.”
“The man had cancer,” the sheriff said. “It’s as simple as that. On top of everything else, he was devastated when he learned there was to be a formal hearing on the charges.”
“Now we’re getting to it,” Traveler said. “What hearing?”
Hickman took off his hat and rubbed his bald head. “My own son wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for Doctor Joe. The boy swallowed a toy and started choking. I wasn’t home. My wife called Doctor Joe. He dropped everything and came running.”
Traveler had been watching the sheriff’s face as he spoke. The man’s expression was devout. Yet Hickman had to know what twenty written complaints in a town the size of Wasatch meant. Most likely there were a hell of a lot more women who hadn’t had the guts to come forward. Especially with something as personal as sexual misconduct.
“Describe Doctor Joe for me,” Traveler said.
“What do you mean?”
“Was he handsome?”
“I never thought about it much.”
“Start now.”
Hickman tugged at the drooping tips of his mustache. After a moment he gave that up to scratch his sideburns. “Like I told you before, he was a saint. He even had a halo.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“His red hair. I always envied him that.”
“Jesus Christ,” Traveler muttered. He’d seen that kind of halo before. On the Beasleys’ little boy.
36
TRAVELER PARKED in front of the Sleep-Well’s office, hoping that Mrs. Beasley had been eavesdropping on his earlier conversation with Willis Tanner. That way, at least, she’d be expecting the personal questions he was about to ask.
Martin stepped out on the passenger side of the Jeep, pushed his fists into the small of his back, and groaned. “I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.”
Through the window, Traveler saw Mrs. Beasley sitting in front of her switchboard. A tattered Hire’s decal obscured her face.
She turned to greet them the moment they came through the door. Her dress, a shiny green fabric with plate-sized flowers the color of dying gardenias, fit like a raincoat. Baby Joe was perched on her lap, his face streaked where tears had cleaned away the grime. Mrs. Beasley’s face powder showed similar inroads.
“Sheriff Mahonri called a few minutes ago,” she said. “He thought you’d be coming to see me.”
“Is that why you look upset?” Traveler said.
“Baby Joe’s cutting a tooth and kept me up last night. Besides which, I don’t feel safe here anymore. Not after what happened to that woman. Seeing your car pull in just now brings it all back. It’s no wonder Baby Joe’s cranky.”
“That call I got this morning,” Traveler said, “did you happen to catch where it came from?”
“What do you think I do, listen in? Besides”—she pointed at the switchboard where every cord was plugged into a different socket—“we’re keeping the lines open as long as the fire’s burning. You know that.”
Martin sighed.
Traveler said, “We need your help, Mrs. Beasley.”
“You don’t have to call me Mrs. Norma’s fine by me.”
Traveler smiled. “Norma, we’re trying to find out more about Doctor Joe.”
“Is that what all this is about? From the way the sheriff sounded on the phone, you’d think the world was coming to an end. Well, I’m the person to talk to, all right. I owe Doctor Joe everything. But then I guess I told you that already.” She nuzzled her baby’s neck, making him giggle. “Baby Joe’s named for him.”
“If I remember correctly,” Traveler said, speaking softly, calmly, “you told me you were childless for years before the doctor helped you.”
She kissed Baby Joe on the lips. “That’s right.”
“This is personal, I know, but can you tell me what procedures he took?”
Her face flushed almost as red as her baby’s hair.
“I wouldn’t ask,” he rushed to say, “but I’m trying to find some way of comforting Ellis Nibley.”
“I don’t see what my medical problem has to do with that.” She deposited her child in the playpen. “You’ve been listening to Shirley Colton, haven’t you? Well I, for one, wouldn’t have that woman in my house. She ought to be shunned just like the Odells.”
Martin said, “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”
“You don’t have to be cagey with me. I know Shirley’s got a bunch of old ewe muttons on her side. Malicious women spreading lies like that about Doctor Joe. It’s a sin, if you ask me.”
“Has Shirley Colton talked to you personally?” Martin asked.
“I wouldn’t listen if she tried.”
“Then how do you know what’s being said about the doctor?”
Mrs. Beasley put a hand to her cheek, then slowly dragged her fingernails across it, leaving white scratch marks behind. “I heard it from Mrs. Joe. That woman has enough troubles without something like this.”
“When was that?” Traveler asked gently.
“Right after Melba Nibley killed herself. I think Mrs. Joe went around talking to just about everyone in town. If you ask me, she was looking for the same thing you are, a reason why it happened. If I know Mrs. Joe, she probably felt responsible, her being the do
ctor’s nurse and all.”
Traveler slumped against the lowboy counter, trying to make himself smaller, less threatening. “How many other women like yourself did Doctor Joe help?”
Mrs. Beasley rubbed her cheek, where welts were rising to replace the scratches.
Martin went to the window and pretended to look out. “We’d rather not bother his widow if we don’t have to.”
When Mrs. Beasley caught her breath and straightened her shoulders, Traveler thought they’d lost her. Thought that she was about to throw them out.
“All right. I’ll do it for Mrs. Joe. But you’ve got to understand something first. I’ve never talked to my husband about this. Never.”
She scooped up Baby Joe, hugging him to her, and returned to her chair in front of the switchboard. She kept her back to them while she spoke. “Doctor Joe ran tests on both me and Nat. Finally, he said it was a dilation problem. That . . . that the sperm wasn’t getting where it was supposed to. He said he’d have to enlarge me gradually, using a special instrument. I think he called it a dilator. Anyway, I had to go to his office once a week until I finally became pregnant. Is that what you want to know?”
“Was Mrs. Joe present during the examinations?”
Mrs. Beasley rocked her baby in her arms. “She was usually too busy. She had to give shots, keep records, send out the bills, things like that.”
“What did the dilator feel like?” Traveler asked.
The back of Mrs. Beasley’s neck flushed.
Traveler racked his brain for euphemisms, for some way to keep her as a willing witness. “Did it feel like your husband?”
The woman twitched. Baby Joe began to whine.
“Like when you make love,” he amended.
“Is that what the ewe muttons are saying?”
Traveler looked at his father and mouthed, What do I say?
Martin shook his head.
After a long silence, Mrs. Beasley said, “I don’t remember.”
“You went every week. You couldn’t have forgotten.”
“I was always nervous, you know, embarrassed when Doctor Joe examined me. He gave me tranquilizers to take just before I came into his office. They worked wonders, because I’d practically fall asleep right there on the table.”
“Both you and your husband have brown hair.”
“I’d already decided to name my baby after Doctor Joe, long before I saw the color of his hair.”
“What did your husband say?”
She swung around, her eyes bright with tears. “Don’t go listening to him either. I told him the same thing I’ll tell you. Our prayers were answered. That’s all that counts.”
37
I HAVE a feeling we’re going to need a woman with us from now on,” Traveler told his father once they were outside. “Why don’t you drive to Moroni and see if you can recruit Mrs. Neff?”
“What makes you think she’ll want to get mixed up in this?”
“It’s something the druggist’s wife, Cynthia Odell, said to me. She said physical exams were required for all high school students around here, and how Melba reacted to hers.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Exactly. But Doctor Joe practiced medicine in this town a long time. On top of that, Wasatch is the closest town to Moroni. My guess is that he worked the schools there too. If that’s the case, I think Mrs. Neff will want to be here.”
“I’ll do my best,” Martin said.
“Don’t say anything more than you have to. That way she’ll be our independent witness.”
“I’ll use my charm on her.”
Once Martin was on his way in the Ford, Traveler took the Jeep and headed for the fire line. The command post was set up in the foothills at the head of Grant Avenue, near where it turned into Dority Canyon Road. Three large open-sided tents, army surplus judging by their khaki color, had been erected in a row along one shoulder of the road. They provided shade for the half dozen or so men lying on cots inside. A smaller tent, with first aid crosses made of duct tape, stood some distance from the other three, as if the druggist, Enos Odell, were being shunned even here.
Cars and tractors were parked on the other side of the road. Traveler pulled the Jeep in at the end of the line of vehicles. From there he could see that the fire was burning in a half circle around the town. If the circle closed, Wasatch would be cut off from the main highway just as the sheriff had said.
Traveler found Odell alone in the first aid tent, sitting on a canvas cot staring at a medicine chest marked with red crosses. The man’s white smock, buttoned up despite the heat, had turned gray with soot.
At Traveler’s entrance into the tent, the druggist looked up expectantly as if hoping for a patient. Odell was a big man, almost as big as Traveler, with flab instead of muscle. He was sweating profusely, yet still exuded that old-fashioned drugstore smell.
“Remember me?” Traveler said.
Odell nodded.
“I never did get an answer from you about Melba Nibley’s tranquilizer prescription.”
“I don’t give out medical information, especially when it concerns Doctor Joe. He was a friend.”
“I’m not accusing him of anything. I’d just like to know why Mrs. Nibley needed that kind of drug. Was she a nervous woman?”
“Everybody’s nervous at one time or another.”
“Nerves would have to be chronic, I’d imagine, before a doctor could prescribe such a drug in good conscience.”
“Doctor Joe was a saint. Everybody says so.”
“How many pills did you give her?”
“Whatever the prescription called for.”
“For Christ’s sake. A woman’s been murdered.” Odell ducked his head as if expecting violence against him. “I didn’t know her.” Traveler clenched his fists so hard they trembled.
He ached to hit someone. “Well, I did, goddammit.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see that one death has anything to do with the other.”
“Answer my questions. That’s all I ask.”
“I can’t release personal information.”
“Mrs. Nibley is dead. I work for her husband. Nobody’s going to sue you.” The druggist shook his head, keeping it up until Traveler ran out of patience. He grabbed the man’s smock, popping a button, and jerked him to his feet.
The man cringed, waiting to be hit, but still didn’t speak. Frustrated, Traveler released him. “Thank you for your help.” He turned abruptly and left the tent, feeling the need to shun the man like everyone else. He was about to enter the main command post when Bishop McConkie, a folding camp chair in one hand, a walkie-talkie in the other, intercepted him.
“We don’t have time for you, Traveler. If you don’t leave the area, I’ll have your car bulldozed off the road.”
“You need my help.”
“I’ve already called for backup,” McConkie said, misunderstanding Traveler. “Fire fighters are here from Ephraim and Manti. Their orders are to keep the road open behind us.”
“Worse things can happen to a town than fire. Like murder.”
“Take another look around you. If this thing keeps burning the way it is now, we’ll start losing houses in another quarter of a mile. Clem Dority has already lost some outbuildings. Now get out of here.”
“I have to talk to Nat Beasley.”
“Don’t try telling me he’s a killer,” the bishop said.
“He has information I need.”
“All I have to do is shout for help. A dozen men will come over here and make you leave. Or worse.”
Traveler shook his head. “You have three deaths on your hands already. Two so- called suicides and Claire Bennion. You didn’t see her, but I did, tied to the front of my car like a hunting trophy. So you’re not going to stop me, unless you’re willing to kill me.”
“What do you mean so-called?”
“I arrive in town looking for a way to help Ellis Nibley cope with his wife’s death. The next thing
you know someone wants to stop me badly enough to kidnap Claire Bennion and kill her. Does that make sense if all we’re talking about is suicide?”
McConkie pointed in the direction of the nearest flames. “We’re already paying for our sins.”
“I know about the letters to the medical board,” Traveler said. “Did Melba Nibley write one, too? Or has that been hushed up?”
McConkie collapsed onto the camp chair he’d been holding. The canvas sling creaked beneath his dead weight. “Dear God. I prayed that would never come to light.”
Traveler dropped into a crouch. Logic said a bishop, particularly a man with gossip-gathering wives all over town, would know just about everything that went on. “How many women complained about Doctor Joe?”
McConkie sighed deeply, got a lungful of smoke, and started coughing. By the time he had recovered, his voice sounded hoarse. “For every woman who said he was a devil, an equal number claimed Doctor Joe was a saint. I kept hoping the medical board would act and take it out of my hands.”
“And did they?”
“Every time I contacted them, they said they were investigating. They’ve been saying that for years. Finally, we had no choice. We excommunicated him.”
“Are you telling me that he was still practicing medicine after that?”
“What more could we do?”
Any number of things occurred to Traveler, but he kept them to himself. “His suicide was very convenient. It took care of your problem.”
For a moment the bishop’s line-free face showed cracks. Traveler shifted his weight, expecting trouble. But all the bishop did was raise the walkie-talkie to his mouth and order Beasley to report to the command post.
After that, McConkie rearranged his chair so that he was facing east toward the heart of the fire. They waited in silence, watching flames explode in the tops of pine trees not more than two hundred yards away.
“Here he is,” McConkie said finally. He stood, folding the chair under his arm.
The figure stumbling toward them, in hard hat and overalls, bore little resemblance to the motel owner Traveler remembered. He was soot-covered and weary, like a soldier coming out of battle. He sagged onto the ground as soon as he reached the bishop.