A Killing in Zion

by Andrew Hunt

  “Just the same,” I told him, “we’d like to follow up on all of our leads.”

  Our meat loaf arrived on a tray, along with a pitcher of ice water speckled with condensation droplets and a couple of glasses. The girl set our plates in front of us, filled our glasses, and placed cutlery inside of folded napkins on the table.

  “Enjoy,” she said. She rushed back to the counter, perhaps fearful of a confrontation at our table.

  Fork in one hand, knife in the other, I inspected the steaming contents of my plate. I raised the fork above the meat loaf when Steed slid the bottle of Heinz closer and uncapped it.

  “You’ve got to have ketchup on it,” he said. “It brings out the flavor.”

  I thanked him under my breath, doused the delicacy in ketchup, and spread it around with my fork. I dug in. It was the best meat loaf I’d ever had, probably because I was so famished. Roscoe was already a third of the way through his, washing it all down with water for a change.

  “News of Uncle Grand’s death hit folks ’round here hard,” said Steed. “Only thing you all are gonna accomplish is opening up the wounds.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Marshal,” I said. “My partner and I would like to spend a day or so here to rule out certain things.”

  “What exactly are you ruling out?” Steed asked, itching his cheek.

  “Shit,” said Roscoe. “We’re ruling out shit.”

  Steed scowled at Roscoe. I butted in: “We’re following up on leads.”

  Steed’s features softened when he looked at me. “What kind of leads?”

  “Information that may help us capture Johnston’s killer,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine what leads would bring you to Dixie City.”

  “We prefer to play our cards close to our chest,” I said. “I’m sure you get it.”

  “No. I don’t, I’m afraid.”

  “Why you doing this?” Roscoe asked Steed.

  “Doing what?”

  “Crowding us out.”

  Steed grinned, showing teeth. “I thought I was being cordial.”

  “Look, Steed,” said Roscoe, “if your little city upon the hill can withstand the scrutiny, then get the hell out of the way and let us do our work.”

  The grin stayed on Steed’s face as he leaned back. “You got quite a mouth.”

  Steed’s deputies, two of the heftiest men I’ve ever laid eyes on—twins with brown eyes, walrus mustaches, and round, shaven chins—strode up behind him. Both had on black Stetsons and their hands hovered near their guns. Steed sensed their presence on either side of him and gestured with a backward jerk of his head. “These here are the Kunz brothers. Dorland and Devlin. They assist me when troublesome elements rear their ugly head in town.”

  I laid down my fork, having made a significant dent in my dinner. “I’ve had enough,” I said. “What do you say, Roscoe?”

  Roscoe had initiated a staring match with the Kunz brothers, and his right hand dipped below the table, presumably to reach for his firearm. I knew Roscoe had the spine to challenge these men to a fight. Whether he’d come out on top was a different matter, one I didn’t care to find out. When I squeezed Roscoe’s arm, it brought him back from the brink.

  I fished out my coin pouch, opened it, and stirred its contents: quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies.

  “It’s on me,” said Steed. “Your money’s no good here.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Thank you,” I said, snapping the pouch shut. “We’ll be leaving now.”

  “A fine idea,” said Steed. “You all get a good night’s sleep. Leave bright and early in the morning, before the funeral. You can go out the way you came in.”

  Nineteen

  Water dripped at irregular intervals on my forehead. Lying flat on my back atop the cold escarpment, I puzzled over it, because there were no clouds in the night sky. Only stars. Yet these big dollops of water would plunge out of the heavens and nail me. Each drop made a sharp sound when it hit.

  The dream ended when I opened my eyes. My vision adjusted to darkness. Moonlight filtered into the window through the leaves, and when the wind blew, shadows of branches danced on the floor.

  I sat up in bed.

  CRACK!

  The sound at the window startled me. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, got up, and walked across the room to the window. Roscoe snored without stirring, making me wonder what it would take to awaken him.

  CRACK!

  This time, I saw the rock hit the window. My wristwatch said 2:18 A.M.

  CRACK!

  Open the window, I thought, before a rock hits too hard. I lifted the window as high as it’d go and the next stone pelted me in the chest. Ow! It hurt. I backed away and rubbed the sore spot. I knelt and picked the rock up off the floor. That would’ve been the window breaker.

  I peered out the window. Between cottonwood leaves I saw a silhouette of a girl or woman standing in the side yard.

  “Stay there!” I called out, loud enough for the thrower to hear. “I’m coming down!”

  I stumbled in the night, pulled on my shirt and trousers over my temple garments, and sat on the edge of my bed to put on my shoes.

  “What’s going on?” asked a groggy Roscoe. Lurching upright, he rubbed cinders out of his eyes.

  “We’ve got a visitor.”

  “At this hour?” Roscoe grunted as he rolled out of bed. “Time is it?”

  “Not quite two thirty.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Outside.”

  “Wait! How do you know it ain’t some crazy polygamist come to kill you?”

  “A crazy polygamist wouldn’t throw rocks at the window,” I said. “Besides, I can see it’s a woman.”

  “You think it’s her?” he said, clearly referring to the missing girl.

  “I’m not sure. It’s hard to see. I didn’t get a good enough look.”

  Roscoe’s belt buckle clinked as he pushed a leg into his pants, then the other. He pulled his trousers waist high, zipped, and tightened the belt.

  “Go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Somebody’s gotta watch out for your scrawny behind,” he said, buttoning his shirt.

  “All right. C’mon.”

  Roscoe followed me on the trek through the hall, down the staircase, across the foyer, and out the front door. Out in the warm air, a symphony of crickets performed as we rushed down the porch steps. I spotted the figure, a woman in a long dress, standing beside a tree in the side yard.

  “This way,” I whispered back to Roscoe. “Watch your step.”

  Closing in on our late-night caller, I got a better look at her face. It was Talena, the waitress from the Covered Wagon. A strap on her shoulder held a leather bag buckled shut.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” she said. “I overheard you earlier tell Steed that you were staying at Mr. Larsen’s.”

  “What can we do for you?” I asked.

  “I’m as good as dead if anyone finds out I’m here.” Her voice trembled. She glanced in both directions. “That’s why I came so late.”

  “Sounds like you’ve taken a big risk,” I said. “Tell us why.”

  She crouched, unbuckled her bag, and fished something out. She handed me a snapshot. I struggled to get a better look at it under the faint light of the moon.

  “Here.”

  She pulled a flashlight out of her bag and passed it to me, one of those long and heavy numbers. I switched it on and shined light on the picture. I instantly recognized the boy in the picture as the same boy in the cherished photograph belonging to the mysterious girl staying at my house. I am pretty sure that Talena saw my eyes widen with recognition, or maybe my Adam’s apple jump.

  “You know him,” she said, more a declaration than a question.

  “I’ve never met him.”

  “But you’ve seen him.”

  Roscoe sidled toward me and saw the photo be
fore I shut off her flashlight and returned it, along with the picture, to her.

  “Is he alive?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Her eyes widened and her voice grew panicky. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  I shushed her. “Try to keep it down. I’ve only ever seen a picture of him.”

  “Who else has a picture of him? Nelpha? Is she alive?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” said Roscoe. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Why don’t you start by telling us the boy’s name?”

  “I thought you already knew,” she said. “His name is Boyd Johnston. He’s my brother.”

  “You two any relation to LeGrand Johnston?” I asked.

  “He is—was—our father.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. I gave her a moment to collect herself. She shook when she inhaled and I feared she’d start crying. I headed her off with a question: “You mentioned somebody named Nelpha?”

  “Yes. Nelpha Black, Rulon’s youngest wife. That was her picture you showed to Steed at the Covered Wagon.”

  “I see,” I said. “We’re looking for Boyd and Nelpha and anyone else who might’ve gone missing around here. We’d appreciate you telling us what you know.”

  Talena said, “I was hoping you’d tell me. I haven’t seen my brother in a while. I’m scared something bad happened to him. You said you saw a picture of him?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact—”

  “We got a few more questions to ask you first,” interrupted Roscoe. “Can you be a little more precise about when it was you last saw your brother?”

  “This would have been, oh, late May,” she said. “I knew something wasn’t right. He quit coming to church. I no longer saw him around town. It wasn’t like him, never to come around like that.”

  “Where do you suppose he went?” I asked.

  “They banished him,” she said.

  “Banished?” Roscoe asked. “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes lit up in the darkness, and at first I couldn’t tell if she was afraid to answer or relieved someone had the nerve to ask. “It happens around the time the boys reach their teens. They get sent away, forced to go off and fend for themselves.”

  “All the boys get banished?” asked Roscoe.

  “No, only the ones judged impure by the apostles. It’s all secret-like. One day a boy is gone, just like that.” She snapped her fingers for effect. “That’s what happened to my brother. Truth is, all of the boys in town live in fear of being sent away, out into the desert.”

  “Don’t the families of these boys miss them?” I asked.

  “Oh goodness, yes,” she said. “Whenever a boy disappears, you can hear his mother wailing. It’s a terrible noise. Some mothers get real scared and upset and they search all over town for their missing sons. The apostles tell the townspeople to accept it. They say banishments are a part of life and the will of God. That doesn’t make them any easier, especially when it’s your son who gets pushed out.”

  “These boys wouldn’t survive a week out in this desert,” I said.

  “The way I hear it, most make their way up to Salt Lake City. A goodly number of the boys stay with Claudia.”

  “Who’s Claudia?” Roscoe asked.

  “She used to be a child bride, till she ran away. I heard she got herself a big house up in Salt Lake City. She takes in the banished boys and child brides who run away.”

  “I noticed your wedding ring,” I said. “Were you a child bride?”

  “I got married at age twelve. My last name isn’t Johnston anymore. It’s Steed. Talena Steed. I’m the wife of Ferron Steed.”

  “Damn. I don’t know what’s worse: being married to that goon, or getting married when you’re only twelve,” said Roscoe. “Both are about equally tragic in my book.”

  Talena didn’t quite know how to respond to Roscoe’s comment, but she did her best. “The apostles say the girls are at their purest when they’re young. They say a young girl makes old men feel young again. That’s how the apostles look at it.”

  Roscoe noticed my teeth grinding, and maybe the glint of rage in my eyes, even in the darkness. He said, “We’ve heard some other boys went missing, too.”

  “Yes. There were three others who disappeared around the same time as Boyd. There was the Christensen boy. Garth Christensen. Frankie—um, Franklin—Boggs. Chester Hammond. Ches, they called him. They were all around the same age—thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. All of ’em went missing in late May and they haven’t been seen or heard from again.”

  “You mean they didn’t make it up to Salt Lake City?” asked Roscoe.

  “No.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Couple of the sister wives are still in touch with Claudia,” said Talena. “She tells ’em what’s what.”

  “Why those four?” asked Roscoe. “Any idea?”

  Talena shook her head. “I don’t know. Don’t make no sense, exceptin’ for Boyd. Rulon found out about Boyd and Nelpha. After that, Boyd up and vanished.”

  “What exactly was it that Rulon found out?” I asked.

  “Nelpha and Boyd were close. Real close. Even after Nelpha married Rulon.”

  “So Nelpha was a child bride, too?” I asked.

  “Yup. She’s probably thirteen now. Maybe fourteen. I’m not sure.”

  I could no longer conceal my sighs of disgust. No point in trying, I figured.

  Talena went on: “Nelpha and Rulon were wedded, but that didn’t stop Nelpha from sneaking away with Boyd. I recollect seeing the lovebirds out by the creek one day, holding hands. They took risks, spending all this time together. I’ve heard Rulon is a jealous man. I heard whispers going around that Rulon found out about Boyd and Nelpha. Some say Rulon thought Satan got into my brother, but I can tell you right now that wasn’t so. My brother is as good a boy as you’ll ever find.”

  “Do you have any idea why Nelpha made the trip up to Salt Lake City?” I asked.

  Talena said, “I don’t know Nelpha all that well, but she’s first cousins with Eliza. Eliza’s my best friend. Eliza says Nelpha took off one night and went all the way up to Salt Lake City to find Uncle Grand to tell him what happened to Boyd. Boyd being Uncle Grand’s son and all.”

  “Can we talk to this Eliza?” asked Roscoe.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Talena. “She’s in the same boat I am. Child bride. I got a feeling her husband won’t take too kindly to you fellas questioning her.”

  “We’ll leave her be,” I said. “This Nelpha. What did she look like?”

  Talena spent the next couple of minutes describing—to a T—the girl who had stayed at my house. It gave me the chills, hearing her detailed outline of the girl’s appearance, and she confirmed that Nelpha was mute. They have to be the same person, I thought. There is no way she could be describing someone else. I politely excused myself. I hurried inside the house and up to the room where we were staying. I found the picture of the girl and brought it downstairs with me. I closed the screen door gently, crept down the porch steps, and handed the photograph to the girl. She shined her flashlight on it and began to weep. I gently tugged the photo free of her grip.

  “She’s alive, isn’t she?” asked Talena, wiping tears. “Please say it’s so.”

  “Yes, she’s alive,” I said. “She was staying with my family. But she ran away. I need to find her. She’s a witness in a murder investigation, and she needs to be protected.”

  “What about my brother?” she asked. “Can you find him?”

  “We’ll try,” said Roscoe. “We can’t make any promises.”

  She lifted the bag’s strap over her shoulder. “I got to be going. I’ll cut out the back. They’re watchin’ this place.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Dorland and Devlin,” she said. “They drive a brown car. That’s why I jumped the fence in the backyard, so’s they wouldn’t see me.” She paused and the light of
the moon illuminated her gentle smile. “You know, Mama always said that if I prayed hard enough, God would send angels down to help us.”

  She bolted in the direction of the backyard. Her footsteps picked up to a run. Somewhere out there, a rickety wooden fence squealed under her weight. The night took her away as quickly as it had delivered her.

  Where we stood, we could not be seen from the street in front of Larsen’s house. I walked to a set of neatly trimmed chest-high hedges nearby. The sedan came into view, parked by the curb across the street. I was hunched down far enough and it was sufficiently dark that the two figures in the front seat could not see me. I wondered: How long have they been there? Why are they watching us?

  “That must be their car,” I said. “I wonder if they saw Talena…”

  I checked over my shoulder but saw no sign of Roscoe. Where did he … I took off toward the backyard, jogging across the grass, dodging trees, stumbling a couple of times in the darkness. I hiked out to the arroyo behind the Larsen place and put up a thorough search with only the moonlight to guide my way. No sign of Roscoe. I returned to the boardinghouse and spent the next few hours lying awake, tossing and turning, worried sick about my friend.

  Twenty

  The morning sun blazed in the sky, baking everything around us. I parked the car up the road from the cemetery, under the shade of an Arizona Ash. We were at the top of a hill overlooking the grounds, distant enough to remain unnoticed by all of the mourners streaming in through the gates, yet sufficiently close to command a good view through the black iron railings surrounding the sea of dry grass and tombstones. A thick layer of perspiration covered both of us, and I was starting to imagine the sun brushing up against the earth at any moment.

  My eyes burned from lack of sleep. It had been a long night. Talena Steed dropping by out of the blue coupled with Roscoe wandering off into the night and not telling me where he was going fueled my insomnia. When he finally crept back into the room, around quarter past seven, I was splashing water on my face over the basin. I asked him where he’d been. He muttered something containing the word “pussy,” and I had no intention of asking him to repeat it.