Pillar of Fire

by R. R. Irvine

  The phone rang.

  “What’s the first rule of survival?” Martin said without preamble.

  “Are you suggesting that I broke it?”

  “A father knows when his son is getting himself into trouble.”

  Traveler checked the street again, half expecting to see his father on the sidewalk out front armed with a cellular phone.

  Martin said, “Tell me that I’m wrong, that Willis Tanner’s phone call was nothing but a bad dream.”

  “I should have known.”

  “You’re damn right. That boy’s been getting you into trouble since the sixth grade.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It’s what he didn’t say that worries me. And how the hell did he know where I was? Pioche, Nevada, for Christ’s sake. I’m having breakfast with my old friend Pete Biscari, the phone rings, and Willis says, ‘Hi, Martin, I’m glad I caught you,’ as if he’d just stepped across the street from the church office building to pay his regards. ‘I have a message,’ he says. ‘From Moroni?’ I ask. ‘No,’ he says, which gives me the willies, because I know he speaks for the prophet. So I’m sitting there, holding my breath, waiting for the word. And what does he say? ‘If I were you,’ he tells me, ‘I’d stay there by the phone and wait for Mo to call.’ Right then, I knew the church was involved, and that you’d broken my first rule of survival.”

  “I haven’t seen Willis in a week,” Traveler said, blinking against the sweat running into his eyes.

  “I don’t have time to sit around here all day, waiting for you to call and confess.”

  “Technically speaking, I’m not working for the church, so I haven’t broken the rule.”

  “Was Willis right? Were you going to call me?”

  “Hold on a minute.” Traveler set the phone aside, pulled his shirt over his head, and used a relatively dry spot to towel off his face. Considering the timing of Tanner’s call, Josiah Ellsworth hadn’t been acting on his own. At the very least, his request—the vetting of a potential messiah—had the tacit approval of the prophet.

  Traveler tossed his shirt in the direction of the coat rack and picked up the receiver. “Since I’m going to need your help, I had to phone you sooner or later.”

  “Let’s hear it. Let’s hear the shoe drop.”

  “Josiah Ellsworth just left the office.”

  Martin groaned. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “He wants us to look for the messiah.”

  “I’m hanging up,” Martin said, but there was no sign of a dial tone.

  To himself, Traveler counted to fifteen before Martin said, “What did he really want?”

  Traveler told him about Ellsworth’s estranged daughter, a dying grandson, and a would-be messiah, all to be found in cult country, where polygamists and self-proclaimed prophets had been killing one another in the name of God for a hundred years.

  “Do you remember what you said the last time you did business in cult country?”

  “Remind me.”

  “ ‘Never again, no matter who’s involved.’ Your exact words.”

  They both knew that was a misquote, that Traveler had said never again when a young woman and polygamists were involved. Particularly a young woman like Lynn Ann, whose name by tacit consent they’d never mentioned again.

  Traveler said, “The subject of Kary came up.”

  “And what did he say about your mother?”

  “Mostly he avoided the question, the same way you do.”

  “I know how he feels,” Martin said, “because I can’t go running off to someplace like Fire Creek. Pete Biscari’s in bad shape. He needs a shoulder to lean on, maybe two. Besides, he’d like to see you again, Mo.”

  Biscari’s son, Petey, had been missing for a little more than a month. Considering the desert terrain and 100-degree-plus temperatures in that area of Nevada, the official search had been called off a long time ago, as soon as survival was no longer considered possible.

  “Is he asking us to investigate?” Traveler said.

  “We’ll talk about that when you get here.”

  “We’re needed in Fire Creek.”

  “Young Petey went missing with another boy, whose body was found almost immediately. You’d understand why if you saw the terrain. A Gila monster would have a tough time surviving around here.”

  “Ellsworth’s grandson, Josiah Smoot, is still alive,” Traveler said quietly.

  “The Ellsworths and the Smoots,” Martin said. “Names to be reckoned with, church names that violate rule number one.”

  “You haven’t seen the boy’s picture. He looks like something from a death camp.”

  “They say Orson Smoot is a rising star in the church, maybe even a member of The Fifty.”

  “No you don’t. The White Prophet is bogeyman enough, without bringing in The Fifty.”

  They both knew that the names of The Fifty were a closely guarded secret. They were the men who controlled, anonymously, the finances of the Mormon Church, the wealthiest church in the United States.

  Martin said, “The word on the street is that by marrying into the Ellsworth family, Smoot put himself on the fast track to becoming an apostle one day. Maybe even prophet. Not the kind of man you’d want for an enemy. And remember, Mo, this isn’t one we’re going to win. Sooner or later, Hodgkin’s disease is going to kill that boy, and when it does some of the blame is going to rub off.”

  “I already told Ellsworth yes.”

  Martin snorted. “Men like Ellsworth usually get what they want, one way or another.”

  Traveler took a deep breath. “Ellsworth did admit one thing about Kary. He said he knew her. He came right out with it, as if he expected me to know that already.”

  “Your mother knew a lot of people, all of them her best and dearest friends until the next batch came along.”

  “What kind of male friends are we talking about?”

  “I raised you most of the time, because your mother declined the responsibility. She never forgave me for that. I can hear her now. ‘Look what you’ve done to that boy,’ she’d say. ‘You’ve influenced him to the point where he’ll never make anything of himself. Another keyhole snooper is the last thing we need in this family.’ ”

  Martin chuckled. “ ‘What will my friends think?’ ” he went on in a falsetto. “ ‘Every time I look in the Yellow Pages, I’ll see Moroni Traveler and Son and know people are laughing at me. You might as well take away my temple recommend, and my chance at salvation.’ ”

  “Kary didn’t have a temple recommend,” Traveler said, referring to the Mormon state of grace—all tithes paid, the Word of Wisdom followed to the letter—that allowed members in good standing access to the temple.

  “I asked her about that once. ‘It pays to have friends in high places,’ she told me. ‘A bishop here, an apostle there.’ ”

  “Men like Josiah Ellsworth?”

  “Like I said, her friends came and went.”

  Traveler remembered some of them, big men, as tall as Ellsworth, at least to a boy stranded among giants. Their names eluded him. Angel, Kary had called them, or sometimes, my Moroni. Their faces were lost in time, all except Marv’s.

  He’ll be your new father, Kary had said when she left Martin and took Traveler with her to live in an apartment in Sugar House. You’ll change your name as soon as Marv and I are married.

  You’d better practice writing your new name now, Marv had told him, writing out a sample at the top of a lined page, the first in a thick notebook. I’ll be back later to check on you.

  Marv had laid a hand on the young boy’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to transmit the threat. The remembered pain had kept him writing for hours, his head down, his face wet with tears, while Marv took Kary into the bedroom.

  A week later Kary took her son with her when she went to see Martin about the divorce. Marv’s getting anxious, she’d said. He wants the settlement taken care of.

  How much does he want?

>   Half the house is mine.

  Martin nodded. What about our son?

  He’ll be staying with me.

  Martin had knelt beside his son. Is that all right with you, Mo?

  Will I have to change my name like Marv says?

  What?

  He makes me practice writing it.

  I’ll talk to him. They’ll be no more of that.

  The next day, Kary and her son had moved back home. Her stay was temporary, Traveler’s permanent. He never saw Marv again.

  “Answer the question,” Traveler said. “Was Josiah Ellsworth a friend of Kary’s?”

  “Under the circumstances, I’d tell you if I knew with any certainty.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “Sure, I’ll drive across the border and meet you in St. George. It’s a hundred and five degrees here, so you’d better junk that Fairlane of yours and rent something that’ll make it this far. You can drop it off in St. George.”

  Traveler sighed. “I should be there by dark.”

  “One more thing. Did you get a retainer from Ellsworth?”

  “He gave me a church credit card with my name on it.”

  Martin laughed. “Now I know we’re in trouble.”

  3

  TRAVELER PACKED a bag for cult country: two .45 automatics, plus extra ammunition and a change of clothes. Martin already had his own overnight bag with him in Nevada, but no weapon.

  For a moment, Traveler considered dialing Willis Tanner’s private number at the Joseph Smith Memorial Office Building up the street, but had second thoughts. Knowing Tanner, nothing would be admitted, no White Prophet, no knowledge of a new messiah, and no advice worth taking. Not over the phone anyway. Tanner could only be pinned down face to face, if then. Even so, Traveler intended to give it a try.

  He studied the face of the dying boy one more time before slipping the snapshot into his wallet, along with the church credit card. Then he locked the office and walked down the long hallway to the cagework elevator. One ring brought the exposed cables to life, humming in the windy shaft.

  The elevator operator, Nephi Bates, opened the door with a smile.

  “He stood where you are,” Bates announced, “and gave me his blessing.” He breathed deeply and deliberately as if proud to be inhaling the same air that the White Prophet had been occupying a few minutes earlier.

  Traveler put a finger to his lips.

  Bates nodded. “I understand. Mum’s the word.” He came to attention and stared straight ahead as he piloted them to the lobby, where Barney Chester was pacing back and forth, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.

  “We need to talk,” Chester said the moment the elevator door opened. He grabbed Traveler by the arm and led him across the lobby to the cigar stand.

  “No you don’t, Barney. My clients are confidential, especially when it comes to apostles.”

  “Who cares about you and your White Prophet.” Chester thrust his mangled cigar into the eternal flame and lit up. “I don’t believe in the Danites anyway. What I need is your help with Bill and Charlie.”

  “I’m on my way to rent a car.”

  Ignoring the comment, Chester slipped behind the counter and poured coffee into heavy white mugs that had been set out in advance. The counter was actually a glass-topped display case filled with pouches of Bull Durham, Chiclets chewing gum, and Sen-Sen. The display hadn’t changed in all the years Traveler had been hanging around the Chester Building, first as a boy visiting his father’s office and then as a tenant. The postcard racks were the same too, displaying scenes that had long since disappeared—the Sugar House penitentiary, the Coconut Grove, and Black Rock Beach. The cigar stand itself was sandwiched between two massive Doric columns of marble that gave the impression that they alone held up the vaulted ceiling with its WPA mural of Brigham Young leading his pioneer flock to the promised land of Zion.

  “Artificial sweetener?” Chester asked, holding up the brandy bottle he kept hidden behind copies of the Deseret News, the church newspaper.

  Traveler shook his head.

  With a shrug, Chester topped off his own cup, took a long sip, and sighed. “You’re the only one Bill and Charlie listen to. Back me on this one, will you?”

  On cue, the door to the men’s room opened and out came Bill, stepping sideways to clear his sandwich board from the jamb. Today’s hand-printed proclamation read BAPTISMS PERFORMED. SEE BILL THE BAPTIST AT THE CHESTER BUILDING. Charlie was right behind him.

  “You see what I mean?” Chester said. “With advertisements like that, I’m going to lose what tenants I have left.”

  The Chester Building, though an Art Deco landmark dating from the early thirties, couldn’t compete with the air-conditioned concrete and aluminum structures that were turning Salt Lake into a California clone. As a result, only the long-time tenants remained, their offices emptying permanently as they died off. The present vacancy rate, Traveler figured, was about fifty percent.

  Bill, known as Mad Bill, Salt Lake’s Sandwich Prophet, so called because of the boards he wore over a long flowing robe, brought today’s Deseret News out from under his front panel and held it up. A black, bold headline read WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN RAISED. Smaller type, about an inch high, clarified: NEW SAINTS ADDED TO CHURCH ROLLS.

  “Soon there won’t be anybody left,” Bill said.

  Charlie, Bill’s Navajo disciple in their two-man church, raised a clenched fist. “Who’s to say Geronimo and Sitting Bull aren’t in danger?”

  Mormon belief required that all properly documented deceased ancestors be raised to heaven through temple baptisms. Even Holocaust victims were being raised by Jewish converts.

  “If we don’t step in,” Bill said, “everyone will be a Mormon sooner or later. We must have our own baptismal font, right here in our temple.”

  “I think they raised Thomas Jefferson last year,” Traveler said.

  Chester groaned. “Don’t encourage them, Moroni. You got me into this last winter when it was so cold, by urging me to let them live in the basement next to the furnace.”

  “You provided the bedding,” Traveler said.

  “They’ve declared my building a shrine.”

  Bill stabbed a forefinger into the air, pointing at the recently restored ceiling fresco, where Joseph Smith’s face, once hidden by generations of cigar smoke, had been revealed in the billowing thunderheads that rose above Brigham Young’s wagon train. “We must raise our own army of the dead.”

  Chester rolled his eyes.

  “Come with me,” Bill said, grabbing Chester by one arm while Charlie took the other. Together, they led him across the lobby to the plate glass window that looked out on South Temple Street. Traveler followed.

  “There.” Bill made a teepee of his boards, then ducked out from under them to point at a busload of young high-school-age males unloading in front of the temple gate across the street. “I know a field trip to heaven when I see one. It’s probably time for a shift change, one relay team swapped for another. I can see them now, lining up in front of that great golden font, jumping in one after the other to steal souls before Charlie and I can get our hands on them. Thousands of souls every day, snatched away from us.”

  “Maybe it’ s just a temple tour,” Traveler said, though he knew Bill’s assessment was probably correct. Raisings were said to run into the millions each year.

  Bill said, “We must compete, Moroni. Give us our own font and Charlie and I will take turns dunking ourselves.”

  Traveler winked at Chester. “It would keep them clean at least.”

  Chester jerked free of Charlie’s grasp. “For Christ’s sake. I can’t have them doing something like that. The church will picket me.” He turned to eye the lobby as if assessing its potential for soul raising. “Besides, baptismals run into big money, not to mention the plumbing that goes with them.”

  Charlie raised a hand for attention. “It doesn’t have to be elaborate. We could use a galvanized
tub.”

  Bill hugged himself. “The water’s heated in the temple.”

  Charlie stroked the peyote bag that hung from his neck. “God has provided us with insulation.”

  “You’re not dragging a tub in here,” Chester said. “This floor is genuine temple granite.”

  “We could run a hose from the men’s room,” Bill said. “That wouldn’t cost much and that way we’d have hot water. What do you think, Barney?”

  “I give up.” Chester marched back to the cigar stand to relight his cigar.

  Bill laid a hand on Traveler’s arm. “What about you, Mo? How about a donation to help us raise souls from their fiery torment?”

  “I’ve got a car to rent and work to do in Fire Creek. Until I get back, all I can spare is a little eating money.”

  With that, Traveler pushed through the ornate bronze revolving door and out into the scorching heat. Crowd noise caught his attention immediately. Up the block, where Main ran into South Temple Street, the landmark statue of Brigham Young was being hoisted onto the back of a flatbed truck.

  Behind Traveler, the revolving door whooshed into action.

  “It’s a sign,” Bill muttered as he and Charlie joined Traveler on the sidewalk. “History is being revised. Like Stalin and Lenin before him, Brigham is being demystified.”

  Brigham had been standing there in bronze since 1897.

  “They’re moving him out of the way, that’ s all,” Traveler said. “He’s been holding up traffic for years.”

  Bill shook his head. “We must spread the word, Charlie.”

  The Indian nodded. “Perhaps they’re melting him down for commemorative coins.”

  “Or maybe he’s hollow,” Bill went on. “Full of incriminating documents and love letters to his twenty-seven wives.”

  With that, they rushed to join the crowd surrounding the displaced prophet.

  Traveler left before trouble started.

  4

  WILLIS TANNER agreed to meet Traveler in the lobby of the Joseph Smith Building, once the Hotel Utah. The lobby still had soaring marble columns worthy of a Greek temple. The walls were covered with elaborately carved gold scrollwork beehives, and the stained-glass ceiling put most cathedrals to shame. But the desk clerks, bellboys, and wealthy guests had been replaced by funereal docents, matrons mostly, one of whom sat at a desk facing an enormous alabaster statue of Joseph Smith. At Traveler’s entrance, she smiled, gestured at the statue, and said, “We encourage our guests to touch the prophet.”