by R. R. Irvine
“I can’t make any guarantees. That’s why I’m here.”
“You find my mother and I’ll pay you something every month if I have to, even if that means moving back home to save on rent.”
14
THE HEADQUARTERS of the Mormon Church rises twenty-eight stories on South Temple, the tallest building in the state. It stands adjacent to the Hotel Utah on one side and Brigham Young’s Lion House on the other. Security, though designed to look benign, rivals any police agency in the country. Traveler’s two-man escort had the shining faces of believers who wanted nothing better than to smite a sinner.
From Will Tanner’s office window the temple below looked foreshortened, less impressive than when viewed from ground level. The Angel Moroni and his trumpet flickered in and out of sight, depending on snowy wind gusts.
Tanner looked up from his computer terminal. “When the wind’s just right, I can hear Moroni sounding his trumpet.”
He’d spoken with that smiling squint of his, so that Traveler could read the statement as a joke if he wanted to. But Traveler knew better. Tanner was a man who’d heard the call of God all right. Whether it sounded like a trumpet or not made no difference.
He went back to staring at his computer screen. “John Varney called just before you got here, Mo. He said you’ve been asking some embarrassing questions.”
“You can have your money back anytime you want.”
Tanner held up his hands but continued to stare straight ahead. “What money?”
“That’s right. The church isn’t involved. You’ve never seen me before.” Traveler settled into a chair in front of his friend’s utilitarian desk.
“John Varney is an important man, Mo. I wouldn’t want him for an enemy.”
“You know me better than to make threats.”
Again Tanner’s hands went up in protest. This time he looked Traveler in the face when he spoke. “A little advice between friends is all I’m offering.”
“What I’m after is information. Feed Dr. Jake Ruland into that machine of yours and see what happens.”
“Are we talking church business or what?”
“You just told me the church has never heard of me.”
Tanner sighed.
Traveler said, “Penny Varney is involved with the man.”
“How?”
“At the very least she’s his receptionist.”
“And at the most?”
Traveler gestured at the terminal, which he knew was connected to a massive mainframe computer buried somewhere in the bowels of the building. No doubt every one of the faithful, plus the millions who’d been raised to glory through baptism for the dead, were listed there. “Punch him in, Willis. I have a gut feeling that he’s one of your black bishops.”
Black bishop being Mormon-speak for highly placed saints who persist in following Joe Smith’s word on polygamy, while the church hierarchy turns a blind eye.
“I happen to know he’s a bishop in good standing.”
“I see. I’m surprised you know all your bishops by name.”
Instead of answering Tanner leaned toward his terminal, placed his fingers carefully on the keyboard, and typed in the name. After a moment he swiveled the screen so Traveler could read it from where he was sitting. Routine data appeared: name, date of birth (Ruland was forty-nine), place of birth (Lydel Springs, Arizona), record of tithing, and ward number and location.
“Anything else,” Tanner said, “is confidential and requires a special access code.”
“Is that how the black bishops are listed?”
“There’s no such thing.”
“I wish you could see that squint of yours. You never could lie well.”
“Jake Ruland is a member of the church. That’s the truth.”
“How many wives does he have?”
Tanner swung the terminal screen back to its original position and hit more keys. “He’s a widower.”
“Then you don’t care if Penny Varney becomes involved with him?”
“Why don’t we put in your name, Moroni, and see what we come up with?” Without waiting for an answer he began typing.
Traveler left his chair to peer over his friend’s shoulder. The green phosphorescent readout said, TRAVELER, Moroni: lost soul.
15
THE SUN broke through the overcast just as Traveler stepped from the LDS office building. The sudden light was blinding. He hadn’t walked more than half a block before the snow underfoot started turning to ice. The sunshine was a lie, bringing cold instead of warmth. It also triggered a frenzy of drivers tired of being cooped up by the falling snow.
Traveler was just plain tired by the time he pulled into the driveway at home. For a moment he sat in the car unwilling to move, wondering if Martha Varney was anything like Claire. Perhaps neither one of them really wanted to be found. Maybe this search would be so much wasted effort.
Martin was asleep on the sofa, an empty glass on the TV set nearby. Flickering light from the tube cast shadows on his father’s face, making his sleep look anything but peaceful. With the sound turned down, the soap opera characters on the screen had a dreamlike quality about them, as if they were a projection of Martin’s thoughts.
Traveler tiptoed all the way down the hill to the so-called sun room where guns were kept in a locked cabinet that had once been part of a built-in dressing table. He chose an old army-issue .45 and was loading an extra clip when his father came up behind him.
“What are you hunting, rhinoceros?”
“Polygamists.”
“They’re thicker skinned yet.”
Traveler paused, loose ammunition in hand, waiting for the lecture that was to come. Martin, though the possessor of a fine arms collection inherited from his own father, did not believe in guns. He never carried one and, in fact, had turned down cases where weapons might be necessary. He’d had his fill of them in the war, a returning hero who had no use for soldiers.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Polygamists and the church. You’re asking for trouble.”
“I’m going to a place called Lydel Springs,” Traveler said. “It’s just over the Arizona border.”
“In that case I think there are some things we ought to talk about first.”
“I want to be there before dark.”
“At a time like this we don’t want to leave anything unsaid between us.”
“Don’t go maudlin on me, Dad.”
“We ought to clear the air about your mother and me.”
For years Traveler had been waiting for just such an opportunity. But now was not the time to get distracted. “If all goes well I’ll be back late tomorrow.”
“You know best,” Martin said in a tone that denied any such thing.
Traveler grunted noncommittally before struggling into a shoulder holster. When he slid the .45 into place, it seemed to increase in weight, making him lopsided. He hoped it wouldn’t show beneath his heavy fleece-lined shearling coat.
He turned to his father, who was eyeing the pistol as if it disgusted and fascinated him at the same time. “I’d like to have my calls forwarded here while I’m gone.”
“It will give a retired old man something to do, is that it?”
“If you don’t want to be bothered, I can let my answering service handle it.”
“I was always my own answering service. The personal touch, that was my motto.”
There was no winning, Traveler thought. But he kept the notion to himself. Instead, he went to the phone and called his service, instructing the woman on duty to forward all inquiries to his father.
She carefully read back his directions before adding, “We have a call for you from someone named Bill. He left a number.”
Traveler recognized the number; it belonged to the pay phone in the lobby of the Chester Building.
“He said it would be good through the cold spell,” the woman added.
He thanked her, hung up, then dialed again immediately.
&n
bsp; Charlie Redwine answered by saying, “How.”
“This is Traveler. I got a message to call Bill.”
Breaking precedent, Charlie abandoned his one-word vocabulary to report, “Bill’s out right now having a new sandwich board made.”
“Why did he call me?”
“It’s important.”
“I’m on my way to Arizona.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Shit,” Traveler grumbled. This kind of weather raised hell with people like Charlie and Bill. The least he could do was make certain that they had eating money, though Barney Chester would probably be thinking the same thing. But Traveler wasn’t about to take chances with friends. “Tell Bill I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
******
A half an hour later he found Mad Bill sitting cross-legged on the lobby’s marble floor, a new sandwich board balanced across his lap. The placard read: THE GREAT FLOOD IS AT HAND.
“I don’t get it,” Traveler said.
“It’s all clear to me now. The lake’s rising. A second Noah is needed.” Bill stabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. “I’m starting a campaign to raise funds for an ark.”
“How much have you got so far?”
“Charlie has gone down to the Era Antiques to begin our crusade.”
“I think I can manage a donation,” Traveler said.
“You’re a friend,” Bill objected.
“What difference does that make?”
“I might not be able to deliver a real ark.”
“What I had in mind was something to tide you and Charlie through the next couple of days until this weather breaks. Coffee money.”
“No.” Bill shook his head emphatically. “Charlie and I are fine. We’re in God’s hands.”
Traveler, anticipating such reluctance, had taken a twenty from his wallet before entering the building. He’d folded the bill to hide its denomination.
But the sandwich prophet wasn’t fooled. “We don’t need this much for coffee.”
“You never know what might come up.”
Reluctantly Bill tucked the money into his jeans. “Charlie tells me you’re taking a trip to Arizona.”
Traveler nodded that he was. “The Church of Zion Reborn.”
Concern pinched Bill’s face. “Like I told you before, don’t go messing around with those people. They deal in blood. One of them was killed in Bountiful yesterday.”
“I’m after a missing person, Bill. A young girl’s mother.”
“Say no more. I know that look of yours. I won’t waste breath arguing. But I can give you my blessing.” Bill stood up, shedding his sandwich board, to make the sign of the cross. Traveler must have looked skeptical because Bill added, “It couldn’t hurt, you know. A little faith.”
“I’ve got to get going. Was there something else you wanted?”
Bill’s head shook solemnly. “It’s my duty to tell you.” He stared up at the ceiling where Brigham Young was turning blacker by the day. “Claire came by here to see you.”
“In person?”
“Yep,” Bill said, still eyeing the competition overhead. “Hours ago.”
What the hell was she up to? Traveler wondered. Always before she’d made contact on the telephone. “Did she say what she wanted?”
“I offered her my love as always. But it wasn’t enough.”
“If she comes back, hold on to her for me.”
“You’re talking about the woman I love. For her I’d give up all this.” He gestured dramatically, his pointing finger finally zeroing in on the sandwich board. “Besides which, Barney has been giving me and Charlie dirty looks all day. I think he’s trying to rent those empty offices of his. Our hanging around the lobby doesn’t help. So me and Charlie figure we’d better disappear for a while.”
“Here.” Traveler reached into his pants pocket. “You can have the keys to my office.”
16
TRAVELER FELT himself begin to relax as he approached the town of St. George, in the heart of Utah’s Dixie. The snow and icy roads were behind him. The weather was clear, the temperature warm enough to drive with the window rolled down.
Brigham Young had ordered the southern part of his state settled in 1861 to expand his empire, while at the same time securing his borders. His idea was to raise cotton in a region of mild winters. But southern Utah is a hard, unforgiving land, more beautiful than fertile.
Bright red cliffs, with local names like The Throne of Blood and The Devil’s Hump, came into view. Here, even the soil was red. Legend had it that God gave his blood to the land but nothing else.
Since Traveler’s last visit, St. George had grown. With expansion its character had disappeared. Instead of a charming relic from Utah’s past, it now looked like just another suburban shopping center.
He passed up the usual fast-food franchises to dine at a place called The Dixie Queen, a ramshackle diner far enough off the main drag to have escaped progress. It was a single story of stucco complete with tin roof and old-fashioned Venetian blinds in the windows, along with a neon sign that was having a hard time blinking out Coors.
The café reminded him of his childhood. So did the food, if the chalkmarked blackboard hanging behind the counter was to be believed. The vegetable of the day was fried turnips, something Traveler’s mother had served him more times than he cared to remember. The special was a hot beef sandwich.
The counter, topped by red Formica simulating a kind of marble that had never existed, ran the length of the diner. What tables there were, unused and unset, looked as if they’d been rescued from the dump.
About a dozen customers filled every stool except the one right next to the cash register. The patrons, regulars by the looks of them, were all senior citizens. When they died so would The Dixie Queen.
As Traveler slid onto the vacant seat, the old man behind the register nodded as if such a greeting were part of a lifelong ritual.
“What do you recommend?” Traveler asked him.
He scratched his head as if considering a weighty question. “You can’t beat the hot beef sandwich. This late that’s all there is unless you want a hamburger.”
“The hot beef it is, then.”
“I don’t take orders, only money.”
Just then the waitress came through the kitchen door, fanning cigarette smoke away from her face. By the time she reached Traveler she smelled of peppermint.
The sandwich, when it came, consisted of thin strips of overdone meat laid out precisely on a slice of white bread. A scoop of mashed potatoes sat on one side of the plate, fried turnips on the other. Everything was smothered in a dark gravy.
Traveler gingerly tasted the beef. It reminded him of Woolworth lunches his mother had forced on him as a boy.
“Dessert goes with that,” the waitress said. “We’ve got rice pudding. It’s homemade.”
Instead of pudding, he asked her for directions to the town of Hurricane, where the Varneys had been born.
“You’ve come too far,” she said loud enough so that everyone in the place could hear too. “You should have cut off the interstate about ten miles back, where you pick up highway fifty-nine.”
“I thought I’d better find a good place to eat first.”
“You’re right there, mister. Once you hit fifty-nine there’s nothing at all. And I mean nothin’.”
“And in Hurricane?”
“I’ve never tried to eat there myself.” She looked down the row of customers. Several shook their heads as if agreeing with her assessment.
“My map isn’t too clear. Do I hit Lydel Springs if I keep on fifty-nine?”
“Better you than me, mister.”
When she didn’t explain further, he said, “Why do you say that?”
“There have been a lot of killings in that area over the years. Some blame it on polygamists.”
“You don’t?”
“Strange things have been happening in this damn desert ever since the pioneers arrived
.” She wiped her hands on a gravy-stained apron that was cinched around her thick waist. “If you ask me, there’re forces at work there that aren’t human.”
Such myths were rife in Utah, many of them fostered by the church in the early days to keep strangers out. If fear of the unknown didn’t work, there was always the likes of Porter Rockwell, Brigham Young’s avenging angel, to carry out the prophet’s wishes. Or the secret society variously called the Brothers of Gideon, the Daughters of Zion, the Sons of Dan, or simply the Danites. Under whatever name, they murdered Indians and critics alike, anyone who threatened the Mormon empire.
“Come on, Ella,” said the man behind the cash register. “Don’t go spreading old wives’ tales. Nobody who lives around here believes that stuff anymore.”
“Maybe not. But I don’t see any of you going out into that desert at night, either.”
She stopped talking long enough to stare Traveler in the face. “Take my advice, mister. Stay here in town tonight and get a fresh start in the morning when it’s light. When you can see what you’re up against.”
The old boy behind the register cleared his throat and asked, “Do you have business in Hurricane?”
By now everyone in the place had stopped eating and swung around on their stools to listen openly to the conversation.
“I’m trying to find someone who used to live there.”
“Ella’s right, then.” He clicked his dentures. “Folks in Hurricane don’t take to strangers much. Not in the dark anyway. Not that I blame „em.”
Traveler nodded. The man made sense. He couldn’t go knocking on doors in the dark. Besides, he needed sleep.
“I saw a lot of no vacancy signs coming into town,” he said.
“That’s because of the storm up north. It always backs up traffic,” the old man replied. “Snow this late in the year is a real windfall for the motel owners.”
“Any suggestions?”
The old man had a calling card ready. “It’s the Dewdrop Inn down by the river where the old highway used to be. Nobody goes there now, so there’s always plenty of room.”
17
HURRICANE LOOKED like a typical small Utah town, clustered along State Highway 59. As Traveler parked in the center of the business district, the barren landscape beyond the city limits remained clearly visible. All vegetation in sight—trees, lawns, flowers—was the result of irrigation. It was a town under siege from the surrounding desert. But the townspeople he spoke with didn’t seem affected by it. Despite the dire warnings of the night before, they were friendly and open, though no one remembered the Varneys, or Martha Snow for that matter.