by R. R. Irvine
He aimed a kick at Traveler’s groin. When Traveler dodged to one side, the man lost his balance and toppled into Traveler’s grasp.
“Hurt him,” she cried.
Traveler lifted him overhead like a barbell.
“Make him bleed.”
Traveler resisted the urge to throw the man at her, dumping him in a puddle of catsup instead.
“Coward,” she hissed over and over again, all the way to the parking lot.
30
BY THE time Traveler reached home he felt as if the day’s heavy heat was pulling him down with a gravitational force of its own. Mad Bill met him at the door. “As soon as I heard about your father’s illness I came to pray with him.” He embraced Traveler and dragged him inside. “Charlie’s here, too. He brought medicine men with him.”
Martin was down on his knees near the fireplace, with Charlie Redwine right beside him. Two Indians wearing headbands, beaded vests, and Levi’s appeared to be supervising the prayers from the comfort of the reclining loungers. Both toasted Traveler’s arrival with water glasses full of red wine. Their blue denim work shirts had dark, bloodlike stains down the front.
Charlie and Martin had their hands clasped in prayer, but wine was still sloshing in the two glasses that stood next to them on the brick hearth. A fire had been built in the grate, raising the temperature in the room to that of a steam bath. Something had been added to the flames, causing them to burn blue.
“Jesus Christ,” Traveler muttered.
“Amen,” Bill said, his eyes a mixture of piety and mirth, if Traveler was reading them correctly.
Martin looked up at his son and winked. “One last fling never hurt anybody.” His steepled fingers parted and he took his drink.
“I’ll bring another glass for Moroni,” someone said from the kitchen.
“And then we’ll drink the blood of Christ,” Charlie said.
“And the blood of our enemy,” one of the medicine men added.
The reek of wine, sweat, and marijuana was enough to make Traveler dizzy. He sat on the sofa and closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later he was looking into the grinning face of Miles Beecham, advising elder to the Council of Seventy, who held wine-filled glasses in either hand.
“Joe Smith and Brig Young both drank at one time,” he said, handing one of the tumblers to Traveler. “This just happens to be my time. God loves a repentant sinner. He knows I’ll be that much stronger when I return to the Word of Wisdom.”
Traveler sipped. The wine tasted vinegary enough for salad dressing.
“If we are to pray as one,” Bill said, “we must get in the mood. Tune our minds to the right frequency.” He adjusted his summer-weight robe and sat cross-legged at Traveler’s feet.
“He means we should all get drunk,” Martin said.
“You don’t have far to go,” Traveler answered.
“Drink up, Mo,” Bill advised. “You’re going to have to hurry if you want to catch up.”
The look on his father’s face caused Traveler to drain his glass. The astringent wine puckered his mouth and brought tears to his eyes.
“One refill coming up,” Beecham said, and staggered through the doorway leading to the kitchen.
“Bring the goddamned bottle back with you,” Charlie shouted, and began passing around joints of marijuana wrapped in aluminum foil. As an ex-smoker of cigarettes Traveler took a pass on the offering; he wasn’t about to pick up another bad habit.
By the time Beecham returned from the kitchen with the bottle, there was enough smoke in the living room to rate a warning from the Surgeon General. At the sight of it the Mormon elder took a deep breath, licked his wine-purpled lips, and said, “Joe and Brig smoked, too.” The words came out of his mouth slowly, one at a time. “But they eventually found their way to glory.”
Charlie snorted. “That’s like saying Christ, the Jew, had sense enough to become a Christian.”
The medicine men began a rhythmic chanting.
Beecham staggered. Bill rescued the bottle first before providing his shoulder as a prop.
“I thank you,” Beecham said, and settled onto the carpet, where he quietly keeled over onto his side and closed his eyes.
“It’s time we prayed,” Bill said.
The chanting stopped.
Martin held out an empty glass. “I’m not drunk enough.”
Bill passed the bottle. It went from hand to hand until every glass but Beecham’s had been refilled.
“Down the hatch,” Martin said.
“No,” Beecham shouted, and sat up suddenly. “I have a toast to propose.” He crawled to Martin’s side, retrieving the bottle from one of the medicine men along the way, and threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “To Moroni, the bravest man I ever met.” Beecham sounded more sober than before, as if closing his eyes for a few seconds had been as good as a nap.
“My name is Martin,” Traveler’s father corrected.
“We fought a war together and I can tell you, his friends, that Moroni was a one-man army. No one could shoot like him. He was a natural. Everybody said so right from boot camp. I couldn’t hit shit and he didn’t even have to aim. Up came that rifle of his and bang, that was it. Five hundred yards, more. It didn’t make any difference. If Moroni could see it, he could hit it. He was just as good with a pistol, too.”
Traveler leaned forward; he didn’t want to miss a word. Martin never spoke of his service in World War II, though Traveler knew that his father had been one of the state’s most decorated heroes.
“Do you remember that sniper in France?” Beecham asked.
“No.”
“Near Reims. The bastard who winged me.”
“I don’t remember a thing.”
“You thought I was dead. You went crazy. Took the son of a bitch out when no one else could get near him.” Beecham nodded at the memory.
“Are we here to drink or bullshit?” Martin said.
“I never saw anything like it,” Beecham went on. “You were a berserker. No other way to explain it. A goddamned killing machine.”
“You’re drunk,” Martin said.
“Am I?” Beecham looked down at his legs that were stretched out in front of him on the floor. “By God, you’re right. The best thing to do is sleep it off.”
“We mustn’t sleep,” Charlie said, gesturing at the medicine men, who quickly nodded agreement. “We must protect Martin from the evil spirits of sickness that steal into our souls at night.”
31
THE PHONE woke Traveler from a drugged sleep in which he’d been chasing a shadowy figure that always managed to stay a step ahead. Occasionally the figure stopped. Whenever that happened Traveler’s feet became mired in sludge. While he fought to break loose, a woman would appear from behind the figure and write in the air with a sparkler, leaving a clear afterburn: I am a missionary of the damned.
“It’s Willis,” the phone said.
Traveler squinted at the clock face but couldn’t bring it into focus.
“Talk to me, Mo.”
“Why?” The word came out sounding like a gasp. Traveler swallowed. His throat was on fire. His eyes itched. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. He was coming down with a summer cold. “What the hell time is it?”
“Too late for the girl in Sunnyside Park.”
Traveler sat up so fast he grew light-headed.
“I’ve seen her myself, Mo.” The sound of ragged breathing came down the line. “What’s left of her. It’s not Claire.”
“Sunnyside Park?” Traveler said stupidly.
“Adjacent to the Veteran’s Hospital. You come up Eighth South where it turns into Sunnyside Avenue just above Thirteenth East. As parks go it’s not much, some grass, a few trees, a Little League field, a storage building, a parking lot.”
“I remember now.”
“I want you to meet me there.”
“Why?”
“Brother Moyle calls it motivation. He wants you to see
what could happen to Claire.”
“I haven’t forgotten Liberty Park.”
“This one’s worse.”
32
THE SOUND coming from the living room rose and fell like lapping waves. As soon as Traveler stepped through the doorway the tide changed. Snores gave way to coughs and groans. No one had moved since Traveler went to bed. The medicine men were still in their loungers, while Charlie and Bill lay facedown on the carpet, drooling into the nap.
Charlie raised his head, his sluggish tongue trying to wet the lips around it, and stared at Traveler like a stricken animal begging to be put out of its misery. Traveler’s head throbbed in sympathy, though he’d limited his wine intake to half that of everyone else.
“Would you like an aspirin?” he asked.
The Indian made a gagging sound and lowered his head back onto the carpet.
Traveler retreated down the short hallway that led to the kitchen where his father was standing at the sink drinking from a cup. Martin seemed unaffected by his indulgence of the night before.
“Good morning,” he sang out cheerfully. “Coffee’s ready.” A whiskey bottle stood on the linoleum countertop next to him.
“In a minute.” Traveler retrieved aspirin from the spice cupboard and washed down three of them with lukewarm water. His stomach took their arrival as a personal insult, forcing him to collapse onto a kitchen chair and keep perfectly still while waiting for the nausea to pass.
“Hair of the Indian,” Martin said, waving his cup under Traveler’s nose. The smell of whiskey was strong enough to make Traveler cringe.
“I’ve got work to do,” he whispered.
“Try vodka then. Nobody will smell it on your breath.”
“Just coffee.”
Martin ignored the request and began rummaging in the cupboard. Watching his father’s methodical search, Traveler realized that it might help to distill his own thoughts if he could discuss the latest killing with Martin. At the same time he didn’t want to add to his father’s worries.
“By God, I knew it was here,” Martin said, and held out an airline minibottle for inspection. He broke the seal and poured the liquor into a coffee cup.
Traveler lowered his forehead onto the cool tabletop and groaned. He‘d keep his own council for the time being. He could always talk later, providing Willis Tanner didn’t have him arrested for failing to arrive at Sunnyside Park. Viewing another body would be of no help. If there’d been clues to find Tanner would have said so on the phone.
“You wouldn’t swallow aspirin when you were a child. I used to mash them up in a spoon and add sugar.”
Traveler dry-swallowed at the memory.
“You trusted me then.”
“All right.” Traveler slowly raised his head. “I’ll take your cure.”
Martin added an equal amount of coffee to the vodka and presented the cup. “It’s drinking temperature right now. If you let it cool off you’ll never get it down. It’s best not to sip either. Drink it straight down. That’s what I did. As you can see it fixed me right up.”
“Jesus,” Traveler breathed, and gulped the concoction. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He gasped. The intake of air helped spread the alcohol’s warmth. Gradually his stomach relaxed.
Martin refilled their cups with plain coffee before joining his son at the kitchen table. “After you went to bed Charlie had a vision.”
“I heard more chanting.”
“He saw the spirit of death.”
“You don’t believe that,” Traveler said.
“Charlie does. I think Bill does, too.”
“They were drunk.”
“So was I.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“I made out my will.”
Staring into his father’s face, Traveler saw a reflection of his own helplessness. Time and sickness were stealing away what they both valued most.
“Everything is in writing,” Martin continued. “All the things we could never say to one another. There are a couple of scrapbooks, too. Believe it or not, your mother put one of them together when I was in the service.”
Traveler gulped coffee to keep from saying something that would embarrass them both.
Martin rubbed his glittering eyes. “Moroni’s a hell of a name to be saddled with, isn’t it?”
Traveler nodded.
“It wasn’t so bad for you growing up. You were always big. But me? I was the smallest kid in class. I had to fight the bullies at the beginning of every year. I didn’t give a damn if I lost or not, because I wasn’t about to let anybody get away with calling me the Angel Moroni.”
“I used to think about changing my name,” Traveler said.
“To what?”
“Martin, of course.”
His father looked away. “Never the last name?”
“I wanted to be your son.”
“You are.” The words came out in a sudden expulsion of breath.
When Traveler reached for him, his father retreated to the sink where he began running water into his cup. “Since tomorrow’s a holiday, I figure Doc Murphy will be calling me sometime today.”
“I know.”
“He won’t be operating on Pioneer Day, not in this state. Not unless it’s an emergency.”
“He said time wasn’t that critical.”
“I know what he said, but I don’t know what he was thinking.” He kept his back to Traveler.
“Do you want me to stay here?”
“Hell, no. I’ve got enough on my hands with four drunks to nurse back to life. Did the vodka do its job?”
Experimentally Traveler rose to his feet. There was no pain in his head, even when he shook it. But his sore throat persisted, as did the burning sensation in his nose.
“My hangover’s gone, but I think I’m coming down with a cold.”
His father turned away from the sink. “Here, take my asafetida bag.”
“No,” Traveler said so adamantly he surprised himself. He wasn’t superstitious, but he also wasn’t about to take a chance that the old woman’s cure might not work.
“Knock wood,” Martin said, reading his mind. “The radio says it’s going to reach a hundred today. Maybe you can sweat out your cold.”
Traveler hugged his father.
“Let go of me,” Martin said. “I don’t want to catch your damned germs.” He broke loose, grabbed up the whiskey bottle, and took a swig, swishing it around like a mouthwash. A wink accompanied his swallow.
33
IT WAS 7 A.M. when Traveler left the house. Sprinklers were on all over the neighborhood, cooling the air beneath a cloudless sky that promised another scorching desert day.
He drove with the windows open, smelling the neighborhoods change, grass giving way to sage as he climbed toward the foothills. By the time he reached The Cove at the base of Mount Olympus pine trees were predominant, their scent carried on down-canyon winds from the Wasatch Mountains.
A folded newspaper, the Tribune, lay on the aggregate walkway that led to the Farnsworth house. Traveler picked it up, checking the headline to see if the latest murder had come in under deadline. It hadn’t. He carried the paper to the front door and rang the bell. Its ring sounded hollow, as if the house had been abandoned. He rang again and pressed his face against a narrow window that flanked the door. The only thing visible was a marble-topped table in the entrance hall. Several pieces of mail were waiting to be opened.
He started down the side of the house, intending to try the back door, when a neighbor’s head appeared over the top of a wooden fence that separated the two properties. It was the same man who’d tried to eavesdrop on Traveler’s conversation with Suzanne.
“The bishop is at church,” he said, his tone suspicious.
“It’s a bit early for services, isn’t it?”
“There’s no time limit on worshipping God.”
Traveler sighed. “I thought I’d knock on the back door.”
“We watch out for one another in this neighborhood. That keeps down the crime rate.”
“It’s important that I speak with Bishop Farnsworth or Suzanne.”
“There’s no one home.” The neighbor pointed toward the road. “My suggestion is that you go back the way you came. Sooner or later you’ll see our church’s spire.”
******
Mormon churches, Martin once said, were stamped out of a mold somewhere and transported to their locations intact, complete with worshippers. Beauty and grace had been sacrificed to utility, even to fold-away pews and pulpits so the main hall could be converted into a basketball court. Church-sponsored leagues kept God in the minds of the young, or so LDS theory went.
Newell Farnsworth, wearing a baseball hat with the word coach on the front, was supervising from the sidelines, calling occasional fouls, while ten teenagers, skins versus shirts, ran up and down the court.
He spit a whistle from his mouth and shook hands with Traveler. “We practice early to avoid the heat.”
The smell inside the church reminded Traveler of high school gym class. He said, “It’s your daughter I really want to see.”
“I’m sorry. I should have called you with the good news. Everything’s all right now. Heber called Suzanne last night.”
He glanced furtively toward the far end of the court, where the skins were practicing a four-corner stall, then spoke in a whisper. “He‘s joined the Saints of the Last Day. There was a time when I would have said he was guilty of heresy. But I’m older now. Nothing seems as certain as it once did.”
His shoulders sagged. “I’m disappointed in my uncle, Orson Pack, though. I know in my heart that he’s a good man, but he should have told me he was sheltering the boy. It would have saved my daughter a lot of suffering.”
Traveler said nothing, unwilling for the moment to stem the flow of words.
Bodies thumped on the wooden floor beneath one of the portable baskets.
“Shit,” someone shouted.
Farnsworth blew his whistle. “We’ll have no more of that. Bad habits in practice could lose us a league game later on. Now, let’s play some good, Christian ball.”