by R. R. Irvine
As they pulled into their own driveway a few minutes before midnight his father said, “ „Behold, the devil hath deceived me; for he appeared unto me in the form of an angel, and said unto me: Go and reclaim this people, for they have all gone astray after an unknown God. And he said unto me: There is no God.’ ”
“You’re not going religious on me, are you?”
“Why not? I’m getting old, too old for this kind of thing. I told you before, if you work for the church you have to play by their rules. And their rules change to fit the occasion, even for murder.”
“I didn’t know you could quote from The Book of Mormon,” Traveler said to avoid an argument, theological or otherwise.
“My mother used to read the damned stuff to me every night. That’s the trouble when you get old. You can remember the past fine, but not what happened yesterday.” He opened the car door and started to get out.
“I’m not coming in,” Traveler said.
Martin’s body froze in place, while his head came around to face his son. The overhead light cast shadows dark enough to turn his eyes into black holes. “Where the hell are you going this time of night?”
Traveler decided against mentioning Pearl Varney’s galoshes.
“Okay,” Martin said, gesturing surrender with his hands, “but you’re coming inside for a cup of coffee first. I don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.”
Traveler grumbled but got out of the Jeep.
A manila envelope was taped to the front door. A single word, Moroni, was scrawled across it. Traveler recognized Claire’s handwriting.
So did his father. “That’s all you needed,” he said, pulling the envelope loose before opening the door. Once inside, he handed it to Traveler and then disappeared into the kitchen.
For a moment Traveler considered leaving the envelope unopened. Morning, the rational light of day, would be soon enough to deal with Claire. Better yet, ignore it altogether. But he knew that was impossible. Curiosity and old lust wouldn’t allow it.
“Do you want anything in your coffee?” Martin called out.
Traveler was tempted. Something alcoholic to dull the edge of memory.
“Black and strong,” he shouted back.
“Ten minutes,” Martin answered, his way of being diplomatic, of telling his son just how much time he had alone to himself.
The envelope contained a letter and half a dozen Polaroid photographs.
Dear Moroni,
I know how you love playing detective, so I thought we could play together. Six clues are enclosed. Work them out correctly and you’ll be able to find me in no time at all. If you do, I’ll love you as never before. If you don’t, I’ll know you no longer care.
Love,
Claire.
P. S.—For help with the clues you can reach me at one of the numbers on the backs of the Polaroids.
One after the other he turned over the snapshots. Each one had a different telephone number. As for the pictures, they were all of Claire, looming large in the foreground while the backgrounds were undoubtedly meant as clues. He identified a bar, a gas station, a cemetery, and a Mormon church, distinguishable because of its utilitarian architecture. (When it came to their churches, Mormons were strictly pragmatists. No-frills religion. Even the main meeting rooms were convertible, so they could be used as basketball floors to promote youth leagues.) The backgrounds in the other two photos were less obvious.
He decided that phoning six telephone numbers would be easier than trying to read the machinations of Claire’s mind into each of the Polaroids. But midnight was not the best time to call. Or do anything else for that matter.
“Forget the coffee,” he told his father. “I’m going to lie down for a while.”
******
The first telephone number that Traveler tried in the morning was the Holy Cross Hospital, the second the city morgue. Claire was playing more than detective. She was making him relive his first frantic search for her, when he’d suspected the worst.
She answered on his third try. “I’ve been waiting all night,” she complained.
“I’m on a case.”
“You’ve been with another woman?” It was half question, half accusation.
“Sure.”
“You don’t deserve my help with the clues.”
“I know.” Listening to Claire’s voice brought her image back to him so vividly. Beautiful but bone-thin when they first met, with almost no breasts to speak of. But as soon as they began living together she had started gaining weight, though without ever seeming to eat. Her voice, now that he thought about it, sounded hungry, as if he were what she fed upon.
“Why did you call, then?”
“To hear the sound of your voice.”
“What’s wrong, Moroni? Are you sick?”
“Just tired, that’s all.” Even talking to her was draining him of energy.
There was a moment’s hesitation before she said, “Well, you have to find me today, then. Otherwise, the game’s over.”
“Fine.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to play?”
Traveler closed his eyes. “For once we’re going to use my rules.”
“What?”
“You find me.”
“But I know where you are.”
“No, Claire. That’s one thing you’ve never known.”
32
THE SUN was shining in Federal Heights. Spring lawns, not yet fully green, were emerging from beneath the melting snow. Runoff had the gutters overflowing. A rooster-tail of spray kicked up where the rushing waters pounded against the tires of Will Tanner’s car, which was parked at the curb in front of the Varney house.
It was Tanner who opened the door. He was smiling, his face relaxed. His squint was gone.
“Somehow I expected you to show up on our doorstep this morning.” His voice was as cheerful as the sunshine but did nothing to enlighten Traveler.
“Why are you here, Willis?”
“I go where I’m needed. This is a difficult time for the Varneys. No matter what kind of man Dixon was, he was still part of their family.” Tanner’s smile persisted. “His widow stayed the night here. John and Pearl were a great comfort to her.”
Traveler looked closely at his friend. Sunlight reflected through the crystals of the chandelier, casting abstract patterns on his face, turning his smile jagged as though cut into a Halloween pumpkin.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Mo. The prophet wanted me to thank you personally for your help last night. The police department will be commending you, too, in writing. You’re a hero. There’s a distinct possibility of a bonus.” His tone of voice was bright enough to make Traveler suspicious.
“I’m being rude, aren’t I? Keeping you standing here in the doorway. There’s hot cocoa on the stove in the kitchen.”
Tanner led the way. While pouring the cocoa with one hand he gestured enthusiastically with the other. “It was your tip that did it, Mo. Because of it, we staked out every one of Jake Ruland’s offices.”
“Hold on. When I talked to you on the phone last night I got the impression that you already knew about him.”
“Elton Woolley is smiling on you. Do you know what that means in this town? And you a gentile.”
“I like you better when you’re sweating, Willis.”
Tanner, who was leaning against the kitchen counter in front of the sink, tested the cocoa and theatrically smacked his lips. “Even as we speak, one of Jake Ruland’s assistants is being arrested for the murder of Reuben Dixon. Our lookouts spotted him driving a tow truck. That, combined with your eyewitness account of what happened, will put him away for murder. Besides which, we have his army records. They taught him demolition before dentistry. We feel certain that he’ll implicate Ruland as an accomplice. The fact is, I have Anson Horne’s guarantee on that.”
“And if he can’t deliver?”
Tanner peered into his cup and made a face. “What am I thinking about? Ther
e’s caffeine in this stuff.” A tic pulled at the skin around one eye, the forerunner of asquint.
“Why is it I don’t trust you, Willis?”
Tanner turned around to dump the remains of his cocoa into the sink. When he faced Traveler again, his squint had come back. “You got here too early, Mo. I haven’t had time to deliver the rest of the bad news to John Varney.”
Traveler had come with the intention of bestowing some bad news of his own but hadn’t counted on Tanner as a witness.
“Just how bad is it?”
Tanner chewed at his lip. “For a man like him? The worst, probably.”
“You’ll need my moral support, then.”
“I can’t do that. This is church business. Strictly confidential.”
“Consider my presence the bonus you were talking about.”
Tanner drew a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. “I’ll have to make a call first.”
Traveler pointed to a wall phone at the end of the tile counter.
Tanner’s sigh turned into a groan of resignation. He stepped to the phone, using his body to shield the buttons from Traveler, and punched in the number. Almost immediately he said, “There’s a complication, sir. Moroni Traveler is here. He insists on being present during my interview with Brother Varney.”
Tanner stopped speaking and began to nod. After a few moments he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll remind him.”
Following a few more Yes, sirs, he hung up the phone and reported, “The prophet trusts you, Mo. But he wants me to remind you that client privacy is involved here. Whatever you hear goes no further.”
“Am I officially on the payroll, then?”
“For all intents and purposes.”
Which meant Traveler would be expendable should push come to shove.
“When I saw you coming up the walk a few minutes ago, I told the Varneys to wait in the den until I called them,” Tanner said, sounding somewhat awed by the authority conferred upon him. “We’ll see them now.”
They found John Varney seated at his antique partners’ desk, his back to his leather-bound books. Pearl stood at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder. They reminded Traveler of one of those posed photographs touched up to look like an oil painting.
Tanner slid into the facing chair, pushing the telephone to one side so that nothing was between them. Traveler remained in the background, leaning against the study’s heavy oak door.
“What’s he doing here?” Varney asked immediately, nodding at Traveler.
“The prophet wants it that way,” Tanner said.
Varney’s mouth fell open. His jaw worked up and down but no sound came out. Finally he looked up at his sister, whose hand was massaging his shoulder reassuringly. He forced a smile. His teeth snapped down on whatever complaint he’d been about to utter.
Tanner, speaking softly, recounted the facts of Dixon’s murder. He had dropped to a near-whisper by the time he reached his conclusion. “Everything points to a conspiracy led by Jake Ruland.”
“Why do you sound surprised?” Varney countered. “We all know he’s a black bishop.”
“I’m sorry,” Tanner said after a moment’s hesitation. “Your daughter has become one of his wives.”
“That’s a lie.”
Pearl closed her eyes, though not before tears escaped. “Where were they married?” she asked.
Varney snapped, “There was no marriage.”
“Certainly not in the temple,” Tanner went on as if unopposed. “The fact is, Penny’s excommunication will be considered when the apostles meet tomorrow.”
Pearl Varney’s hands went to her mouth but were unable to stifle her agonized sobbing.
“I demand a chance to speak before the apostles,” Varney said.
“I have nothing to say about that. I’m only the messenger.”
Varney’s fists pounded the green leather desktop hard enough to dislodge the phone. “Dammit,” he muttered, snatching the instrument from the floor. “I’ll call the prophet myself.” He punched the buttons violently. Veins stood out on his neck. His entire body shook with the effort of self-control as he pressed the receiver against his ear. He looked like a man about to explode.
Pearl’s sobs stopped as she held her breath.
The room was quiet enough for Traveler to hear the phone ringing at the other end. The sound went on and on.
“Your number is no longer in use,” Tanner said. “A decision on future access has yet to be reached.”
Varney glared across the desk, his eyes wide like those of a cornered animal. The phone in his hand came away from his ear and suddenly looked like a weapon.
Traveler eased away from the door and into position to protect Tanner if necessary.
Then all at once the fire in Varney died. His eyes glazed. He stood up slowly, like a man in a trance. “The prophet will see me if I go to him in person. If I beg.” He walked out of the room without another word.
“They won’t let him anywhere near Woolley,” Tanner said. “He must know that. He knows procedure.”
“Maybe you ought to go after him, Willis.”
“If he wants to waste his time, it’s nothing to me.”
From the side of the house came the sound of a car engine starting up.
“He could cause a fuss, maybe even generate some bad publicity.”
The car drove away.
“My God. I never thought of that.” Tanner ran from the room. The front door slammed, followed a few seconds later by the sound of another revving engine.
Through it all Pearl Varney hadn’t moved, but remained standing at attention like a soldier awaiting orders. Traveler took her by the shoulders and guided her into her brother’s vacant chair.
Then he knelt down beside her. “Why didn’t you tell Penny that her mother was dead?”
She stared at him, unblinking. But her eyes were alive and defiant.
“You’re forgetting something,” he said. “I saw your galoshes in the kitchen that first day I came here. They were covered with red mud, the kind you pick up in southern Utah.”
Her head turned slowly from side to side denying any such allegation.
“There’s an old man living in Hurricane. He told me a woman had been there ahead of me to see Martha Varney’s grave. If I showed him your photograph, I’m quite certain he could identify you.”
“What does it matter? There’s nothing left of my family. You and that man, Tanner, have seen to that. You’ve destroyed everything, all my years of work to save us gone for nothing.”
She hugged herself, at the same time sighing so hard she seemed to shrink. “Why do you suppose I went looking for Martha in the first place?” she asked, gesturing away any need for a response. “I thought that if I found her, if I proved to Penny that her mother was still alive, why then everything would be all right again. I thought Penny would come back to us, be our little girl again. But when I discovered that Martha was dead, I couldn’t tell Penny such a thing, though Martha had gotten exactly what was coming to her. Her own adultery killed her, Mr. Traveler. That man she was living with, in sin, beat her to death. It was a judgment.”
She stopped speaking and stared at him. Her expression seemed to want acknowledgment from him, agreement that God and justice were on her side. He said nothing.
She nodded as if affirming some preconceived notion of her own. “Good riddance, I say, Mr. Traveler. I thought my brother would feel the same way. But I should have guessed. Men are so weak. Even after all those years, after all Martha had done, he still loved her.”
“Did you tell him about Earl Jordan?”
“What else could I do? My brother went there to inflict a beating on the man, nothing more. A little justice, not God’s vengeance. The shooting was an accident.”
“The police don’t believe in accidents when they’re reported this long after the fact.”
“I’m not reporting it. If you do, I’ll confess myself. You’ll never prove otherwise.”
TRAVELER DIALED an emergency telephone number that Will Tanner had given him a long time ago, one guaranteed to work no matter what. An operator answered after the first ring. Her voice sounded incredulous, as though no one had ever called her before. If the church was running true to form, she was probably speaking from one of the lower, bombproof levels of the LDS office building.
“I wish to speak to Willis Tanner,” Traveler told her. “Immediately.”
“Your authorization code, please.”
He thought about saying “life or death,” but settled for, “I’m a detective and this is an emergency.”
She hesitated. “You should have been provided with a code.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Name?”
As Traveler provided the information he could hear the sound of keys typing in data to a computer. No doubt lost soul was flashing on her screen right now. Or worse.
“I’ll have to put you on hold,” she said, doing just that without waiting for a response.
No Mormon Tabernacle Choir this time, only Mountain Bell’s static.
Traveler rubbed his eyes hard enough to produce a kaleidoscope of bursting images. When they faded he saw in his mind’s eye a montage of faces, all distorted by the self-inflicted pain of religious flagellation. Three people were dead: Earl Jordan, Martha Varney, and Reuben Dixon. One way or another Utah’s God had a hand in their killing. And there was more violence to come, he felt certain of it.
The line cleared. “Mo, is that you?” Tanner asked, his voice a deferential whisper.
“Did you get to Varney?”
“No, I lost him.”
“Where?”
“He turned off South Temple before he got downtown. He must have changed his mind about seeing the prophet, otherwise he would have kept straight on. But I didn’t take any chances. I came right here to the Hotel Utah. There’s no sign of his car. President Woolley hasn’t been disturbed, thank God.”