Baptism for the Dead

by R. R. Irvine

  He wore out a set of flashlight batteries looking for footprints and cartridge casings. But the rain had washed everything away.

  19

  THERE WAS only one place open in Lydel Springs after dark, the Silver Spur Bar and Grill. Even the sheriff’s office was closed, though there was an emergency telephone number pasted on the door.

  Traveler parked in front of the bar and switched on the Jeep’s overhead light. For a moment he just sat there, staring down at his filthy clothes. Finally he took a deep breath and began slapping at them violently. Most of the crusted mud disintegrated into dust, though the red stain remained.

  He studied his face in the rearview mirror. More than spit would be needed to make it acceptable.

  He opened the door and got out. Country music came from inside the bar, the same kind Claire liked. Maybe his mind wanted to escape the shooting at Blood Butte; maybe the implications of attempted murder were too much to deal with in his exhausted state. Whatever the case, his memory played tricks. That last night with Claire came back all too vividly.

  “I’ve been lost my entire life,” she’d told him in that vulnerable moment following orgasm. “But you’re the first one I’ve ever asked to find me.”

  He’d still been inside her then, though shrinking away rapidly.

  “Right now, with you like this,” she’d whispered in his ear, “is the only time I don’t feel forgotten. Can you do it again?”

  “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Here. Let me help.” She went to work with a vengeance.

  “Someday I want to die like this,” she’d gasped a little while later. “With you leading me out of my darkness.”

  With an effort of will he shook himself free of the recollection and went inside. After washing the best he could with cold water and no soap, Traveler closed himself in an old-fashioned phone booth. He called his father first but got no answer. After that, he dialed his answering service. Willis Tanner had called once, asking for a status report as soon as possible. Claire had also phoned. Her message, as read back to him, was: “In our game of hide-and-seek, you’ll always be it.”

  He found an opening at the bar and was looking over the Silver Spur’s half-dozen customers, searching for a law enforcement-type face, when one of the drinkers, a beefy man wearing a baseball cap with a Budweiser logo stitched on the front, pointed at him and said, “Hey, I know you. Didn’t you play linebacker for L.A.?”

  Traveler nodded.

  The man slapped one of his buddies on the back. “Shit, yes. This here is Moroni Traveler. He was one mean mother-fucker.” He pointed a finger at Traveler. “Man, I loved watching you on Monday Night Football. Hell, I remember Howard Cosell talking about your eyes. Linebackers have crazy eyes, he said, but yours were the craziest of all. Goddamn, that was great, watching a homegrown Utah boy clobber those nigger running backs.”

  “You’re damn right,” said the guy who’d had his back pounded. “Football used to be a white man’s sport. Say, whatever happened to you, anyway?”

  Traveler ignored the question and ordered a beer.

  “What was it, a knee?”

  The first man, the back-slapper, smacked his own thigh and said, “No, by God. I remember now. You broke some guy’s neck. The poor gazooney ended up like a vegetable being rolled around in a wheelchair.”

  Perfect, Traveler thought. This was exactly why he stayed out of bars. They were always full of good old boys who had nothing better to do than relive his past. For them it was vicarious excitement; for him it was a reminder of a darker side of himself that was better left forgotten.

  “The gazooney played for Pittsburgh, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” someone chimed in.

  Pittsburgh, Traveler thought, feeling himself slip back into the dressing room one more time. Ankles and wrists taped, pads in place, tugging on the skintight silver uniform that gave you that foolish illusion of being invulnerable.

  And all the while the coach was working on him. “That goddamned Jack Ensor caught seven passes against us last time. Seven for a hundred and twenty yards. He killed us. Do you hear me, Traveler? Four of those catches were over the middle. Your area of responsibility. Have you got that?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t expect miracles, goddammit. He’s going to catch a few, no doubt about it. But when he does, you make the son of a bitch pay. Hit him so hard he’ll think twice the next time.”

  “Make him pay,” the defensive backs chorused.

  When the pep talk ended, Mel Jensen, Traveler’s roommate on the road, went into his usual pregame routine. “Goddammit, Traveler, come over here. I’m going to put my indelible mark on you.” He had one of those self-inking rubber stamps, one with a skull and crossbones.

  Playing his part, Traveler approached with mock servility.

  Jensen stamped him high on the forehead where Pete Rozelle wouldn’t see it, even on instant replays.

  “That makes you our middle-deathbacker,” Jensen pronounced.

  Everybody laughed except the coach, who shouted, “That’s right. Anybody comes over the middle on a crossing pattern, Traveler, kill the fucker.”

  The back-slapper pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes and tugged at his belt. “Seeing you here in person, without all those fancy TV cameras and lights, you don’t look so tough to me.”

  At that, the group at the bar surged forward until they’d surrounded Traveler and his heckler. “I had some trouble out at Blood Butte,” Traveler told them.

  “You can’t trust what you see on TV,” his tormentor persisted.

  “Maybe I ought to talk to the sheriff,” Traveler responded, refusing to meet the man’s stare.

  But the heckler, obviously seeing himself as a self-appointed spokesman, poked a finger against Traveler’s chest. “You’re a has-been. You’re history.”

  Here it comes, Traveler thought. They weren’t going to let him back away. His breathing changed. His eyes lost focus as he stoked himself with anger, the same way he’d gotten ready for the big games.

  Without looking at his hands, he knew they’d be trembling slightly. His eyes would be changing, too. Probably something to do with adrenaline. Whatever it was, it had made him an all-pro. It also kept him from recognizing his own face on videotape replays.

  The man in the Budweiser hat must have seen something, too, because he abruptly backed off, his aggression melting away like ice exposed to sudden flame.

  His friend said, “Jesus Christ, I just remembered something else. It was in the papers at the time. This guy quit football because it made him crazy. He was afraid he’d kill someone.”

  The bartender said, “Okay, fellas. That does it. I’m closing up for the night.”

  “Linebacker’s eyes,” someone muttered. “He’s still got „em.”

  “Out,” said the bartender.

  The Budweiser hat led the exodus.

  Unsteadily Traveler guided his beer to his lips and swallowed.

  “That includes you, too,” the bartender said.

  “Where can I find the sheriff?” he said.

  “Complaining won’t do you a damn bit of good. Cyrus Taylor drinks here like everybody else in town.”

  20

  SHERIFF TAYLOR didn’t like being roused out of bed in the middle of the night. But he did invite Traveler inside when he heard that someone had tried to kill him out at Blood Butte.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time there’d be a murder out there, you know.” The sheriff led the way into the kitchen where he put a kettle on to boil. “I’ll make us some decaffeinated coffee, though why I bother with the damn stuff I don’t know. It still keeps me awake.”

  The sheriff turned from the stove and chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t look old enough for this job. The fact is, I got elected right out of junior college. Of course, nobody else was running.”

  Traveler studied the sheriff. He couldn’t have been more than thirty. T
here were no lines in his tanned face, and he was still lean enough to wear jeans without looking like he’d been stuffed into them by a taxidermist.

  “For several years,” the sheriff said, “we had screwballs homesteading out at Blood Butte. Religion fanatics practicing polygamy and God knows what.”

  “Blood atonement?”

  “Could be. But they finally moved out, lock, stock, and barrel. There’s nobody left out there to shoot at you. Could have been a sheepherder taking target practice.”

  “I was the target. Take my word for it.”

  “I can go out tomorrow morning and take a look around. But after that rain I probably won’t find a damned thing.”

  “I’ll settle for some information about Brother Jacob.”

  “Shit. I should have known. That bastard used to be our dentist here in town. Of course, that was before he started talking to God. In person.” Sheriff Taylor chuckled at the memory. “At first people felt sorry for him. Later on he started scaring the piss out of everybody, me included.”

  “What happened?”

  “It started when he got himself lost in the desert. He was missing for days. We kept sending out search parties long after we figured he was a goner. We were about to give up when he stumbled out of the wilderness half dead, saying God had spoken just like He had to Moses. He said God gave him the word on polygamy.”

  A wide grin made the sheriff look younger than ever. “His wife went absolutely nuts, I can tell you. She up and left him as soon as he started putting his new religion into practice.”

  He stopped talking long enough to add instant coffee to the pot of boiling water. “After that there was a lot of talk in town about burning Jacob out. But the plain fact is people around here were afraid to go up against him out there at Blood Butte.”

  “And you, Sheriff?”

  “I said a prayer of thanks the day he and his followers up and left town,” He poured coffee into heavy china mugs, adding milk and sugar without consulting Traveler.

  “That was right after Martha Snow was killed, wasn’t it?”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “Some woman called me looking for her a while back.”

  “That must have been her daughter.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I thought she was a reporter. We’ve had too many of them around here already. So I told her I’d never heard of anyone by that name. It was only a little lie, since old Martha was calling herself Sister Jordan when I knew her.”

  “Her husband is John Varney, an important man in the LDS church.”

  “Jesus Christ. Nobody told me that.”

  “There was no divorce. At best she was Earl Jordan’s common-law wife.”

  “That’s all I need, trouble with the Mormons.”

  “Maybe I can head it off if you give me enough information.”

  “There was nothing I could do. They showed me her body. There were twenty-five witnesses ready to swear they saw her fall from the butte. Jacob’s witnesses to be sure, but witnesses nevertheless.”

  “So you swept it under the rug?”

  “Hell no. We had a proper inquest before I let Jacob and his people take off. The verdict was accidental death. It could have been worse.”

  “How?”

  “It could have been suicide.”

  21

  PROMPTLY AT nine o’clock the next morning Traveler called the downtown office of Dr. Jake Ruland.

  “Good morning,” Penny said. Her voice tinkled cheerfully. “May I help you smile?”

  “I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Ruland.”

  “Personally.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Mr. Traveler, is that you?”

  “I want you to pretend that I’m a regular patient. Don’t tell him I want to see him as a detective.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that. Doctor has fifty other dentists working for him. He seldom sees new patients himself, unless they’re young women.” She tried to make light of that by laughing.

  “I’m tired. I drove most of the night to get here. Once I did I couldn’t sleep worth a damn.” Though he did dream about snipers and a sandstone mountain that leaked blood, but he didn’t tell her that.

  “I can hear it in your voice. You found out something about my mother.”

  “We’ll talk about that after I see Dr. Jake.”

  “What does he have to do with it?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one working for him.”

  “A personal appointment with Dr. Ruland involves an additional charge.” Penny’s voice had gone cold, as if the conversation were suddenly being overheard.

  “That’s fine,” he said, playing along. “The sooner the better.”

  “We can squeeze you in just before noon, eleven forty-five. Please be on time.”

  ******

  Dr. Ruland’s office was decorated in shades of gray and maroon, with a louver window that opened out onto Main Street. The dental chair, covered in a tweedy material that again mixed gray and maroon, was camouflaged to look like a living-room recliner. Drills and other instruments were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they’d been carefully hidden away in the cherry wood cabinets designed to resemble end tables. But the antiseptic smell hadn’t changed since Traveler’s childhood.

  A dental hygienist, flaunting her white smile, sat him down and attached his bib. “Doctor will be here in a minute.”

  He involuntarily clenched his teeth.

  She smiled, took up a dental mirror and pick. “Time for a preliminary look. We don’t want to waste doctor’s time once he gets here.”

  Two hundred and fifty dollars a day wasn’t enough, he thought, and opened wide.

  While she probed and scraped, he stared at the clear blue sky beyond the window and wondered if the forecasters were right, if another storm really was on its way. They’d already dubbed it Yukon Junior.

  The hygienist had just begun to suction excess saliva when Dr. Ruland’s bearded face blotted out the view. In his hand he had the patient card Traveler had filled out a few minutes before. Behind him, leading against the wall, arms folded across his chest, stood Brother Lehi. His smile was that of a saint welcoming martyrdom.

  “I’m glad to see that Penny is recommending me to her friends,” Ruland said.

  “Actually,” Traveler said, “I’m here on business.”

  The dentist nodded at his hygienist. “All right, Sue, I’ll take things from here.”

  The young woman looked questioningly at Traveler, but left without a word.

  The moment she was gone the dentist said, “You’re a private detective, aren’t you?”

  “Is that what Penny told you?”

  “She didn’t have to. I know she’s been looking for someone to help locate her mother.” Ruland smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “Your teeth need cleaning, Mr. Traveler. I hope my girl told you that.”

  “You have a strange kind of logic, Doctor. Why would a private detective working for Penny come looking for you?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  Traveler spoke casually. “I’ve just come back from Blood Butte.”

  Ruland showed no surprise. “No doubt you’ve been talking to Jess Dunphy. I wouldn’t believe everything an old man like that tells you.”

  “And the Church of Zion Reborn?”

  Lehi chuckled.

  “That’s all behind me now,” Ruland said. “I have seen the light and come back to the true church. I have received my endowments in the temple. I follow the old-fashioned ways. I wear my garments at all times.”

  He was referring to a kind of holy underclothes, complete with embroidered mystic signs. Originally, Mormon garments had resembled union suits. These days, however, they were abbreviated for modern living. The truly devout still wore them continuously, even to bathe, accomplishing that feat by dangling garment-clad arms or legs from shower or tub.

  “Why didn’t you tell
Penny that her mother is dead?”

  “Her mother came to us as Martha Varney, not Snow. Isn’t that right, Brother Lehi?”

  The acolyte nodded.

  Ruland continued, “I didn’t take the connection at first. By the time I did, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt the child.”

  “She’s no child. And you don’t treat her like one, either.”

  “I feel a duty to protect her, probably because I failed her mother.”

  “In what way?”

  “I could have prevented her liaison with Earl Jordan.”

  “Did he come back to the true church with you?”

  “Who knows what’s in a man’s heart?” Ruland lowered his head as if in prayer. “As for Martha, only Earl knew the truth of what drove her to jump from Blood Butte. And now he’s dead, too.”

  “Are you claiming that Martha killed herself?”

  “For Penny’s sake, I don’t claim anything.”

  “There are those who say the Church of Zion isn’t dead, that it’s gone underground here in Salt Lake.”

  Ruland laughed. “Jess Dunphy again. I loved that man once. I should never have left him behind unattended. Drink has gotten hold of him.”

  “Maybe you did leave someone behind.” Traveler was thinking of Dave Reynolds, who may have only been pretending to do graveyard research for B.Y.U.

  Ruland shook a finger at the detective, the gesture of a long-suffering parent rebuking an unruly child. “You can’t trap me that way, Mr. Traveler. I have the innocence of one reborn in Christ.”

  “How does the church stand on blood atonement these days? My blood in particular.”

  “Only a fool would fail to heed God’s warning. But don’t look at me. I had three crowns and two extractions yesterday. I didn’t even have time for lunch.”

  “Can you say the same for the rest of your flock?” Traveler stared at Lehi.

  The little man pushed slowly away from the wall. When he spoke, a half smile remained fixed in place. His mad eyes were the equal of Charles Manson’s. “Brother Ruland calls me his littlest angel.” He made a face at Traveler’s bulk. “Being small has its advantages. Natural camouflage, I call it. It won me medals in „Nam.”