by R. R. Irvine
“Know him,” she echoed. “How can you know him?” Her voice caught.
Klaus came to her aid. “It can’t do any harm, Mother. You stay here. I’ll show Mr. Traveler around.”
Heber’s room was small, no more than ten by ten. Yet into it had been squeezed a double bed, a dresser, two chairs, and a large bookcase that held three small TV sets, plus half a dozen textbooks on television journalism and videotape editing.
“My boy was majoring in communications at BYU before the call came for his mission. Television fascinated him, even as a youngster. I can’t tell you how many times he asked me to add a room onto the house so he could have his own TV studio. Every time he did, I told him the same thing. We can’t afford it.” His eyes glistened with moisture. “I’m sorry now that I retired from the post office early. I should have taken out a mortgage, anything.” The last word came out as a sob.
Traveler looked around the room to give the man time to compose himself. There were no photographs, only a world map on the wall with a red pin marking London, England.
“Heber was our whole life. He still is.”
Traveler thanked him and left the house, pausing on the sidewalk to look back at the Tongan who, in turn, stared at the detective. There was a time, Traveler thought, when he could have taken a nose guard that size. He‘d weighed twenty pounds more in those days, without giving away any of the speed a linebacker needed.
He was about to get in his car when Klaus Armstrong came out of the house and down the stairs.
“I wanted to show you something,” he said, pointing toward the elm in the backyard. “Heber built that tree house himself, without any help from me. He drew up the plans himself.”
Traveler shaded his eyes to study the tree house. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of something metallic circling the trunk, probably the anchor for an old-fashioned clothesline.
“He was ten years old at the time. As an act of faith, he said he wanted to build his own personal church.”
The man shook his head at the memory. “Thinking back on it now, I wonder if it wasn’t sacrilege to say something like that.”
4
THE DAIRY Queen was once Traveler’s favorite stop after playing American Legion ball at Municipal Park. Looking at the place now, he wondered how teenagers ever managed to survive their appetites.
At the moment a dozen people were lined up at the two service windows, ordering soft ice-cream cones and milkshakes to beat the heat. Traveler joined the longest line, the one leading to a young man who looked the right age to be Ned Cody. Whoever he was, he was moving in slow motion compared to his female counterpart at the next window.
When Traveler’s turn came he ordered a large cone and paid for it with a ten-dollar bill. “If you’re Ned Cody, the change is yours for a few minutes of your time.”
“I’m Cody,” he said. A spark of enthusiasm flared in his dull eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who’s looking for a friend of yours.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who’d sell out a friend?”
“Would you like it better if I called him an acquaintance?”
“You’re holding up the line,” Cody said.
“You can keep the money. I’ll wait until you can take a break before introducing myself properly.”
“Suit yourself.”
A quarter of an hour passed, with Traveler doing his best to stay in a narrow strip of shade cast by the Dairy Queen’s overhanging roof, before business slacked off. The moment that happened Cody eased out a side door, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette while waiting for Traveler to join him. Up close, he had eyes that said he smoked more than tobacco.
The loose sleeves of his sweat-stained T-shirt had been rolled high enough to expose armpit hair and a skull-and-bones tattoo over his vaccination scar. His arms were stick-thin. He had a narrow face, with skin so taut that his skull showed through, and lips that failed to cover his teeth. As a result, he reminded Traveler of an animal that would bite if you got too close.
“The church says your body is a temple,” Traveler told him. “Defacing it is a sin.”
“Eight-fifty doesn’t buy much time.”
Traveler handed him another ten. The sight of it brought a greedy smile to Cody’s inadequate lips. He‘d come a long way from seminary and the church basketball league.
“I still don’t know your name, mister.”
Traveler took out his wallet and flipped it open to his investigator’s license. Judging by the way Cody squinted at it, he couldn’t focus his eyes properly.
“So what do you want from me?”
“Heber Armstrong.”
“Shit. What are you after him for, praying without a license?”
“He‘s missing.”
Cody drew on his cigarette and blew smoke in Traveler’s face. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Don’t get me wrong. Heeb was okay at first. But once they got their hands on him in seminary he went kind of crazy. Turned him into a regular fanatic. Everything he did after that had to be part of God’s plan. It didn’t matter if he was working for the church, playing ball, or talking about that TV studio of his, everything was God’s will to Heeb. ‘Do or die for Jesus,’ that’s what he used to say. Christ, it was enough to make you sick.”
“What TV studio are you talking about?”
“I never saw it myself. But it was all Heeb talked about there for a while. He was like that. He‘d get on a subject and beat it to death.”
“Do you know where it was?”
“Look, mister. He had this idea of making religious movies for the church, or some damn thing. I wasn’t interested, period. I was already getting more preaching than I could stand at home from my old man. For all I know, that studio was just another of Heeb’s pipe dreams.”
“I’d like to hear about those dreams of his.”
Cody’s puny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug that seemed to deny all responsibility for his spoken word. “You know the kind of thing I mean. Big talk that was nothing but bullshit. Like the time he told me we were going to win the church league’s basketball championship.”
“And did you?”
“Are you kidding? We weren’t good enough to be second-rate.”
As far as Traveler could see, second-rate was too high a ranking for the likes of Cody.
“Describe Heber for me,” Traveler said. “Tell me what kind of person he was.”
Cody’s shoulders twitched, another disclaimer.
Reluctantly, Traveler plucked a new bill from his wallet.
“He couldn’t make a jump-shot if his life depended on it,” Cody said quickly, his eyes never leaving the money.
“That’s not what I meant.” Traveler kept a firm grasp on the note. “What was he like in seminary, for instance?”
Cody didn’t answer until the money changed hands and was tucked safely into his jeans. “Who the hell listened? I only went because my old man made me. I could have used a study period in school instead of sermons.”
“Have you heard from Heber recently?” “No way. I stay away from do-gooders.” “What about girlfriends?”
“Like I said, Heeb was a do-gooder. He had one girl all through high school. Her name was Suzy something-or-other. If you ask me, he never even plowed her furrow.”
“Do you have any idea who Heber might contact if he came back to town unexpectedly? Close friends, for instance?”
“I stopped going to church a long time ago.”
The Dairy Queen’s side door opened. A young girl, Cody’s co-worker, poked her head out long enough to say, “We’re getting busy again, Ned. I need help.”
Cody flipped away his cigarette and started to follow her.
“One more question,” Traveler said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“That’s easy. The day he caught me smoking and said I was going to hell.”
5
FROM THE Dairy Queen, Traveler drove directly to the new LDS office building at South Temple and Main, the city’s preeminent intersection where a bronze Brigham Young stood forever with his back to the temple.
Until recently the office building had been the Hotel Utah, perhaps the finest in the West. Now ten stories of white terra-cotta brick were filled with men like Willis Tanner, a troubleshooter for the church who had been Traveler’s best friend in junior high school. Before religion got in the way.
Closed-circuit television cameras and youthful guards with zealots’ eyes monitored Traveler’s entrance. He wondered where they kept their Uzis.
Security was a Mormon passion, and paranoia. It went all the way back to Brigham Young, whose great obsession was to preserve Utah for his, the chosen, people. To do that, he preached isolation from gentiles. He set up a spy system to keep track of wayward laity who traded with gentile merchants. At one point he went so far as to order the all-seeing eye placed over the doorway of every Mormon shop. That way, the faithful would know when they were sinning. Too many such sins and they could expect a visit from Brigham’s avenging angels, known as Danites, among other things.
At the information desk Traveler gave his name and intention to a young man who looked a year or two beyond mission age, say twenty-two. Instead of telephoning Tanner’s office, the receptionist typed Traveler’s name into a computer terminal, pushed a button, and then sat back, his gaze alternating between the detective and the amber screen.
“I remember when people used to send messages like that in pneumatic tubes,” Traveler said.
The young man smiled grimly, the kind of look reserved for young children and the senile. His terminal beeped.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Tanner isn’t available at the moment. I suggest you make an appointment.”
“With you?”
“You’ll have to call.”
“What number?” Traveler asked, knowing he already had it back at the office.
“I can’t give that out.”
Since Brigham’s day the Danites of security had been replaced by retired FBI agents, so Traveler knew better than to argue.
“Tell Willis I’ll be in my office,” he said. “Tell him it’s important.”
******
“We’ve got church work,” Traveler announced as soon as he saw his father standing at the window, slump-shouldered and staring out at the temple.
But Martin didn’t provoke as expected. For that matter he didn’t say a word, didn’t even turn around.
“It was a joke. We’re working for a missionary’s girlfriend.”
“Fine.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It might even be interesting. When I spoke to the missionary’s parents, I got the impression that something funny was going on. Either that or I’m losing my touch.”
Martin sighed and turned around. His face, drawn and pale, looked ten years older than it had this morning.
“Jesus, Dad. What’s wrong?”
“Who said anything was wrong?”
“You look exhausted.”
“What do you expect from a man my age, tap-dancing?”
Traveler stared his father in the face. Martin’s answering look of innocence lacked conviction. Traveler changed the subject. “Did you get a chance to cash the check?”
“In this damned heat? You’ve been taken in like everybody else, believing those stories about old people being able to handle the heat better. Move to the desert, they say. Someplace like Palm Springs. It’s good for your joints and your arthritis. Well, I’m here to tell you it’s all bullshit. The only thing you ever see in places like that is old farts more dead than alive. And a few lizards.”
“Say no more. You took your physical exam today, didn’t you? You’re down on doctors for the next twenty-four hours.”
In the instant before Martin turned away, Traveler saw something he didn’t understand in his father’s eyes.
Traveler dropped an arm over his father’s shoulder. “It’s no big deal if Doc Murphy wants you to sit out in the sun somewhere and take it easy.”
“Like all quacks, he wants to take more tests. And spend more of my money. I’m supposed to go back in the morning, if you can believe it.”
Dr. Murphy had been treating them both for years. In all that time he’d never asked for such a return visit.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Dad?”
Before Martin could answer, the door opened and in walked Willis Tanner with a Tongan in tow. This one made the nose guard at the Armstrong house look stunted.
“I got your message, Moroni. So here I am, ready and willing to talk. Alone, though.”
“Like the sign says on the door,” Martin said, settling into the chair behind his son’s desk, “Moroni Traveler and Son. State your business.”
Tanner held out his hands in a pleading gesture. “How long have we known each other, Mo? Twenty-five years, isn’t it? A quarter century, for heaven’s sake.”
Traveler dragged one of the two clients’ chairs around the side of the desk and sat down next to Martin.
His father coughed. “The first time I laid eyes on you, Willis, you were smoking behind the house. Do you remember that?”
Tanner ran a hand over the bristles of his crewcut, a style he’d retained since junior high. “I seem to remember that I was trying to save your son from sin.”
“I caught you doing something else too. Or have you forgotten that?”
“You win. As long as what I have to say stays in the family, you’re welcome to listen in, Martin.”
“And your bodyguard?” Traveler asked, nodding at the Tongan.
“Buddy is my alter-ego this summer.”
Traveler willed himself not to blink as he stared at Tanner. “He makes two Tongans in one day. Would you call that coincidence?”
As usual, his friend squinted when under stress. It was a habit he’d acquired as a teenager, along with astigmatism. “Buddy would have been on the varsity squad at BYU this fall if he hadn’t been red-shirted.”
Tanner removed his glasses to massage his eyelids. “In the meantime, he’s earning room and board doing odd jobs for the church.”
“What position does he play?”
“That hasn’t been decided yet.”
“Why is it, Willis, I have the feeling we’re not talking about football?”
Tanner smiled and slipped his rimless glasses back into place. His squint was gone for the moment. “Mo, you never change.”
“Neither do you,” Martin said. “I should have blistered your backside when I had the chance.”
Tanner sat in the remaining chair, widened his smile and folded his hands. “Here I am, doubly blessed by being in the same room with two Moronis.”
“The name is Martin. It has been ever since I won my first fight in school. That was a long time ago, but I can still take you, old man or not.”
The Tongan snorted through his flat nose.
“It’s all right, Buddy. You can wait outside.”
Martin pointed a finger at Tanner. “I don’t care how important you are. I don’t trust you.”
Tanner waved Buddy on his way. As soon as the door closed behind him Martin added, “You’re trouble, Willis. You have been ever since you were a kid. It was you, the good Mormon, who got Moroni to try his first cigarette. And now that you work for the church you’re even more dangerous. I can see it in your face.”
Tanner spread his hands, palms up, a gesture of denial.
“If you’ve come here to hire Moroni, I’m advising him against it right now. I—” Martin’s voice cracked. He coughed, wincing as he did.
“Hey, there’s no problem, then. You and I are thinking alike.”
“Never,” Martin croaked.
“Sure we are. I’m here to do Mo a favor and relieve his workload, not hire him.”
“That will be the day.”
Traveler jumped in. “Willis is here because I asked for him. We need his help on our new case.”
Tanner tried to smile but his squint returned, distorting the effort. “No can do, Mo. I’m here to save you time and trouble. Heber Armstrong is church business pure and simple.”
“That’s our missing missionary,” Traveler explained for his father’s benefit.
“We have the manpower to find him. You don’t.”
“What’s wrong with one more person looking?” Traveler asked.
“Make that two,” his father said.
“The church takes care of its own. You know that.”
“We have a client,” Traveler said. “A contract.”
“Now, Mo. You know how the church works. If we have problems, we handle them quietly, without fuss or publicity. We can’t have a few bad apples spoiling it for the rest.”
“The Heber Armstrong I’m talking about seems to have been the ideal missionary. He set some kind of record for converting baseball players. Or so I’ve been told.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Hold on. Your friend said bad apples. Plural.”
“Did I?”
Martin grunted. “You’d better call your Tongan back in here, because I’m about to throw you both out on your asses.”
“Take it easy, old man. I know my secrets are safe with you.”
Tanner waved a hand at the door, where the Tongan’s shadow could be seen through the frosted glass panel, before continuing in a whisper. “I admit it. We’ve got a short list of missionaries that we’re concerned about. It’s no big deal really. Like I said, we’ve got the manpower to take care of it. Take Buddy, for instance. We can red-shirt him and his kind as long as we need to.”
Traveler leaned forward to stare his friend in the face. “Are you telling us that more than one missionary is missing?”
Tanner removed his glasses and placed them on the desk in front of him. Without the lenses his eyes looked vague, which was probably the effect he wanted. “I can’t say anything like that. Not officially. I do God’s work. It’s a question of faith.”
“My faith in you, or yours in mine?”
“Friendship is one thing, Mo, church business another. I hope you understand that.”