The Spoken Word

by R. R. Irvine

  THE SPOKEN WORD

  A Moroni Traveler Novel

  THE SPOKEN WORD

  A Moroni Traveler Novel

  By R. R. Irvine

  To Ruth Cavin

  THE SPOKEN WORD

  Copyright © 1992 by Robert Irvine.

  All Rights Reserved.

  First eBook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  978-1-4821-0212-3 Trade

  978-1-62460-675-5 Library

  Cover photograph © iStock.com.

  Other eBooks by R.R. Irvine:

  Robert Christopher Series

  Jump Cut

  Freeze Frame

  The Face Out Front

  Ratings are Murder

  Moroni Traveler Mysteries

  Baptism for the Dead

  The Angels' Share

  Gone to Glory

  Called Home

  The Spoken Word

  The Great Reminder

  The Hosanna Shout

  Pillar of Fire

  Nicolette Scott Mysteries

  Track of the Scorpion

  Flight of the Serpent

  Wake of the Hornet

  The Return of the Spanish Lady

  Thread of the Spider

  Novels

  Horizontal Hold

  The Devil’s Breath

  Footsteps

  Barking Dogs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Women may pray, testify, speak in tongues, and prophesy in the Church, when liberty is given by the Elders but not for the instruction of the Elders in their duties. Women may vote in the Church, and yet keep silence. It is their privilege to make and mend, and wash, and cook for the Saints, and lodge strangers, and wash the Saints’ feet.

  —Parley P. Pratt,

  Mormon Apostle murdered by the

  legal husband of his twelfth wife

  Author’s Note

  The characters in this book are completely fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. There is no position of First Apostle in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and the Danites are the product of legend.

  1

  THE PHONE rang a second time as Moroni Traveler jerked awake. Two twenty-five A.M. glowed from the clock face. It was the dead of night. Only bad news came so late.

  Heart pounding, he groped in the dark for the phone. His father, Martin, had gone out with a new lady friend last night, and Traveler hadn’t heard him come home.

  He pulled the receiver against his ear. “Yes.”

  “Is that you, Moroni?” The distraught voice belonged to his lifelong friend Willis Tanner.

  Traveler swung his legs out of bed. Ice-cold linoleum shocked his feet. He should never have let his father go out in a rainstorm. “What’s wrong, Willis?”

  “I . . . I don’t know how to say this.”

  Traveler stood on shaky knees.

  “I don’t like doing this, Moroni. I hope you understand that, but I don’t have any choice.”

  The bedroom light snapped on. “For Christ’s sake,” Martin said from the doorway. “Who the hell’s calling at this time of night?”

  Traveler sagged back onto the bed. The breath he’d been holding leaked away.

  “Well?” his father demanded.

  “It’s Willis, Dad.”

  “He ought to have more sense than to disturb an old man’s rest at this time of night. Hang up on him.”

  Martin was still fully dressed.

  “Don’t hang up!” Tanner shouted.

  Traveler yanked the phone away from his ear.

  “The first time I laid eyes on that boy,” Martin went on, “I knew he’d come to a bad end.”

  “Moroni!” Tanner hollered. “This is an emergency.”

  Martin said, “How many times have I told you? Never get involved with the church hierarchy, and that includes the likes of Willis Tanner.”

  Traveler held the phone out so his father could hear.

  “Please,” Tanner begged. “I need help.”

  “Hang up before it’s too late,” Martin said.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Tanner cried. “Do you hear me, Mo?”

  “There’s no need to shout, Willis.”

  Martin pointed a finger at his son. “Whatever you do, don’t get me involved in it.”

  “You owe me,” Tanner said.

  Shaking his head, Martin backed out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  Traveler sighed and brought the phone closer to his ear. He’d been waiting nearly a year for Willis to call in his debt.

  “I have your promise on tape,” Tanner reminded him. “You said you’d do anything as long as I helped you.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead,” Traveler replied. “Just tell me what you want at this time of night.”

  “Meet me at the temple.”

  “Inside?”

  “More or less.”

  The back of Traveler’s neck prickled. Salt Lake City’s Mormon Temple was strictly out of bounds to the likes of him, a nonbeliever, a Gentile. Crossing its threshold would be sacrilege.

  “Why aren’t we using your office?” Traveler asked.

  “I’ll have someone waiting for you at the south gate.”

  “It’s raining, for God’s sake.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Traveler listened. Gone was the week-long sound of rain pounding the roof.

  “We don’t have time to waste,” Tanner said and hung up.

  ******

  The dashboard clock read 3:05. It had been reading that since the Ford Fairmont’s warranty ran out. It was correct twice a day, now being one of them.

  Traveler stared into the darkness. To be sure, the rain was gone. What Willis hadn’t said was that it had turned to snow.

  April showers bring May flowers, Traveler reminded himself as he pulled out of the driveway and headed down First Avenue. Only this particular April downfall was so heavy the Fairmont’s headlights couldn’t penetrate more than a few yards. For good measure, there were no tire tracks in the foot-deep, overnight accumulation.

  He blazed a trail to the corner and turned onto South Temple Street, hoping the main thoroughfare might have been cleared. All he found was a few deep ruts. He drove them as best he could.

  Windshield mist, fed by the defroster, forced him to drive one-handed while wiping the glass with the other. He kept his speed to fifteen miles an hour, the car fishtailing constantly. Martin had been after him for weeks to buy new tires with proper treads.

  Leaning forward, Traveler squinted through his misty peephole. A yellow glow brought his foot off the accelerator. Instantly, the Ford began sliding sideways. The glow turned red. Traveler eased back onto the accel
erator, intending to run the traffic signal.

  Movement glimpsed out of the corner of his eye triggered his reflexes. He jerked the steering wheel away from the oncoming snowplow.

  The sedan spun in a full circle before skidding to a stop across both traffic lanes. The engine died. Traveler braced himself for an impact. All he got was a continuous blast from an air-horn as the plow driver swung around the Fairmont and continued down South Temple. The sound persisted long after the plow had passed by.

  Traveler restarted the engine, maneuvered the Ford back onto course, and followed in the plow’s wake. Its curved blade, only wide enough to clear a single lane, was funneling a continuous snowbank three feet high along the curb.

  Traveler fell back as far as he could without losing sight of the plow in the storm. When the defroster threatened to make that impossible, he rolled down his window to let in the cold. The windshield cleared. He took a deep breath. Somehow, the snow smelled cleaner than the rain that had been falling for so long.

  At Fifth East, another signal turned red. Logic told him to keep on going. But instinct got the better of him again. He tapped the brake pedal. The Ford made a beeline for the curb, burying itself in the freshly created snowbank.

  Traveler immediately rocked the car, shifting gears back and forth from forward to reverse. After a few seconds, the Ford’s transmission shuddered like a dying animal. He put it out of its misery by switching off the engine.

  “Thank you, Willis Tanner.”

  The temple was still a good mile away. The wind-chill factor, according to the radio, was ten degrees below freezing.

  With a groan Traveler climbed out of the car and started down South Temple Street, keeping to the cleared traffic lane. At State Street, the plow had turned left, leaving Traveler two blocks of trailblazing. Ice balls quickly formed on his jeans; snow began working its way into his galoshes. His feet, sensing the onslaught of frostbite, started to itch.

  With each struggling step Traveler remembered his father’s parting remarks. “Willis has no right to call you out in weather like this.”

  “I owe him,” Traveler had answered. “You know that.”

  “I warned you, Moroni. You should never have asked for his help.”

  “There was no other way.”

  “It didn’t change anything. Claire’s still dead.”

  “The debt has to be paid,” Traveler said. “The sooner the better.”

  Martin helped Traveler into his fleece-lined coat. “It’s women, Mo. You and I don’t have any luck with them.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “They give us trouble but still we can’t forget them. Their memory stays with us like static cling.”

  “I don’t see you giving them up,” Traveler said.

  “You’re talking about my new lady friend, aren’t you? Jolene’s a fine-looking woman. You’ll have to admit that.” Martin grinned. “If I’d known you were going out tonight, I’d have stayed over at her place instead of coming home to keep you company.”

  “Anytime you want to bring a woman home I’ll make sure you have plenty of privacy.”

  “You’ve got to be careful where you take a woman. Bring them home and they start thinking about marriage.”

  “I can always move out and find myself an apartment,” Traveler said.

  “Who’d keep an eye on you then?”

  “I’ll tell you what. I can drop you off at Jolene’s on the way downtown.”

  “Have you ever had a woman put her cold feet on you in the middle of the night? Something like that could give a man my age a heart attack. No, sir. On a night like this, stay away from women with cold feet.”

  Martin had put a hand on Traveler’s arm. “Willis Tanner’s no better, you know. He’s a cold man when it comes to Gentiles like us.”

  2

  WILLIS TANNER was pacing back and forth in front of the South Temple gate. He’d been there long enough for snow to accumulate on the shoulders of his camel’s hair overcoat. At Traveler’s approach, he brushed nervously at the flakes as if ridding himself of unsightly dandruff.

  “What kept you? I’ve been going crazy,” Tanner said in a rush.

  His outburst brought two men out from behind the temple wall. They looked like what they were, church security, probably ex-FBI, big men with unbuttoned overcoats in case they had to get to their weapons. They dwarfed Tanner, though Traveler had some pounds on them.

  “I told you it was an emergency,” Tanner said. “Why did you waste time walking here?”

  “Your technique’s showing, Willis. I refuse to feel guilty because my car’s stuck in a snowbank.”

  Tanner ducked his head, avoiding eye contact. His hat brim dumped snow at Traveler’s feet.

  “I’ve walked damn near a mile,” Traveler told him. “My feet are half frozen and water’s dripping down the back of my neck.”

  Instead of responding, Tanner turned and entered the temple grounds. Until then, Traveler hadn’t noticed the briefcase chained to his friend’s wrist.

  Traveler stepped carefully, following in Tanner’s booted footprints. Behind them, the temple gate clanked shut. After a moment, the security men caught up with Traveler, breaking their own trail in order to flank him like a military escort.

  Directly ahead, ground lights glowed in the falling snow, illuminating the temple’s iron inner fence, the boundary beyond which only the faithful could pass. It was still too dark to see the temple itself, though Traveler sensed its massive presence.

  Tanner veered to the right, away from the temple fence and toward a squat gray granite building that wasn’t much larger than a family mausoleum. There, he paused to knock on a bronze door covered with sea gulls in bas-relief. The birds, shown in flight, were carved with yawning, hungry beaks. That hunger had saved the Mormon pioneers from a plague of locusts and gave the birds a permanent place in church symbology.

  The door opened with quiet, vaultlike precision. Bright light spilled out, glaring off the snow. One of Traveler’s escorts touched him on the shoulder. He took the hint and followed Tanner into a small antechamber, where another pair of security men were waiting. The granite alcove was bare and windowless. Traveler found himself facing a second bronze door, which showed beehives instead of sea gulls.

  “I’m sorry,” Tanner said, “but you’ll have to be searched.” He held up his hand to forestall argument. When Traveler said nothing, Tanner began rubbing his left eye, the one that tended to squint when he was nervous. “That is the spoken word of the prophet.”

  “I should have listened to my father. Never mix business and religion.”

  “I can’t break the rules, not even for a friend. When the prophet speaks . . .” Tanner shrugged.

  “All right, Willis.” Traveler took off his coat, tossed it to a security man, and raised his hands. “Just tell me when we’re even and the debt’s paid off.”

  The body search was personal enough to make Traveler clench his teeth.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Mo.” Tanner unchained himself from the briefcase, then handed his camel’s hair coat to one security man. The other guard opened the inner door with his card. A granite-lined tunnel sloped down into the earth.

  “We’ll go on alone,” Tanner told the security men. He reattached the case before leading the way.

  Lights had been set into the walls at close intervals, coinciding with areas of blackened stone, apparently where torches had lit the tunnel before the advent of electricity. Somewhere, machinery throbbed. Unseen vents flooded the tunnel with warm air.

  After a while, the slope gave way to stone steps. By then, Traveler guessed they must have been deep underground. The granite walls felt cold and clammy.

  Tanner stopped in front of another bronze door. This one was guarded by a remote television camera perched on a rock ledge above the lintel.

  “Where the hell are we?” Traveler asked.

  “You’re treading new ground, Moroni, where no Gentile has gone before. Pho
ne men, plumbers, electricians, even the cleaning crew must have temple recommends to enter this, God’s kingdom.”

  “I’m beginning to understand how the fatted calf felt.”

  Tanner turned his gaze from Traveler to the camera lens. The door opened almost immediately.

  “Welcome to the temple’s security center,” Tanner said as soon as they were inside.

  The room, a good forty feet square, was crammed with computers, phone gear, and dozens of TV monitors, plus the technicians to go with them. A few of the TV screens were dark; others carried exterior shots of the temple gates and grounds, the tabernacle, and several vast rooms that Traveler suspected to be interior shots of the temple itself.

  “What do you think?” Tanner asked.

  “Meeting in your office would have been a hell of a lot easier.”

  “This area is absolutely secure.”

  “You’re making me nervous, Willis.”

  “Come on. We’ll use the conference room.”

  Traveler followed Tanner through another door. Beyond it was another forty-foot room. Only this one contained nothing but a massive oak table, surrounded by chairs. Traveler counted them, twelve matching chairs upholstered in maroon velvet, and one larger chair done in gold fabric. He took a deep breath. He was looking at seating for the Twelve Apostles and the Prophet.

  The walls were like windows into Mormon scripture. Floor-to-ceiling murals depicted the Angel Moroni delivering the golden tablets to Joseph Smith on the Hill Cumorah, Smith’s martyrdom at the hands of Illinois Masons, and Brigham Young’s trek to the promised land.

  Tanner pointed at the ceiling, where Renaissance angels were at work building the temple.

  “No, you don’t, Willis. Men did the dirty work. They always do. What kind of dirty work do you want from me?”

  Traveler headed for the golden chair slowly enough to allow Tanner to intercept and steer him into one of the others.

  “I know you, Mo,” Tanner said. “At heart you’re a Saint.”

  Traveler turned away to study his namesake on the wall. The Angel Moroni’s foreshortened finger was pointing at him like a wartime recruiting poster. Join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and see the world.

  “Stop playing missionary, Willis. I’m cold, wet, and tired.”