The Spoken Word

by R. R. Irvine

  Traveler blew on his hands. “I could sure use something hot to eat.” He was hoping to buy himself more than food. Asking questions now might save time, because knocking on doors after dark in a town like Paradise would get him nothing but hostility. “I just drove in from Salt Lake and missed my supper.”

  The customer stopped giving Traveler the eye long enough to say, “Come on, Dottie. Warm him up one of your specials.”

  She pulled a paper napkin from one of the counter dispensers and wiped her lips sullenly. “If that’s the way you want it, Kenny.”

  As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, Traveler did his best to look sheepish. “I hope I’m not causing any trouble.”

  “Hell, Dot gets that way when interrupted. There’s plenty of time for what she wants.” Kenny rubbed his hands together with the same kind of eagerness for information that Traveler felt. “Take a stool and tell me what kind of weather you hit on the way in.”

  “It was solid rain all the way to Brigham City. After that, it was worse, what with the wind blowing. The radio says it’s a record rainfall for April.”

  “When it comes to records, ask a farmer.” Kenny jabbed himself in the chest. “April showers brings May flowers is so much crap. Likely as not, April showers will ruin your crop.”

  Traveler eased onto the stool, spreading his legs so his knees wouldn’t hit the kickboard.

  “It’s going to get a lot worse,” Kenny went on. “You can take it from me. I’ve been farming around here for more than thirty years, and can smell disaster coming. I can do the same thing with people. Take you, for instance. One look at you and I said to myself, ‘Kenny, there’s a man who wouldn’t drive a hundred miles through the rain for one of Dottie’s specials.’ ” He winked. “Even the kind of service she gives me ain’t worth that much trouble.”

  He leaned toward Traveler expectantly.

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

  “Even in good weather, the only people we get through here are feed and tractor salesmen.” Kenny pushed his cap back on his head. “Right now, nobody’s buying much of anything in Paradise except sandbags.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  Kenny nodded. “I haven’t lost my touch, that’s for sure. Like I said, one look at you and I knew. What are you, state police?”

  “Not exactly, but I could call on them if I had to.”

  Kenny smiled, showing a lipstick-stained tooth. “That may be, but you’re still going to have to prove it to me. Otherwise, I’d be a fool for talking to you.”

  While Traveler was providing a business card, Dottie returned with the day’s special, a hot beef sandwich with dark gravy covering everything: the two slices of white bread topped with meat and an ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes.

  At the first bite, Traveler sighed. The food had that comforting feel of a childhood lunch at Woolworth’s.

  Kenny held the card at arm’s length. “It says here that Mr. Moroni Traveler is an investigator. What do you make of that, Dot?”

  “Maybe your wife’s checking up on you at last, Kenny.”

  Kenny snorted. That sounds like wishful thinking on your part.”

  Outside, the wind drove rain against the front window hard enough to rattle the pane.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Kenny said, “I think you’d brought the wind with you.”

  Dottie, who’d come around the counter to sit next to Kenny, shivered and hugged herself. “It sounds like the devil himself’s out there.”

  “Don’t mock him,” Kenny said. “Don’t tempt fate. You know what they say, that he’s walking the land.” He winked at Traveler to show that a man didn’t necessarily believe what he said to a woman.

  Dottie rubbed her arms. “He could be out there right now, looking for sinners like us.”

  “Have you been listening to old Naomi again?” Kenny asked.

  “She saw him when she was a girl.”

  Kenny shook his head but angled himself on his stool so he could watch the door and Traveler at the same time. “You never did say who you were looking for?”

  “The name I have is Reuben Kirtland.”

  “We’ve got a Kirkland around here, with two Ks.”

  “Don’t talk to him,” Dottie said, “not until you shake his hand.”

  Kenny smiled nervously. “Are you willing?”

  Traveler didn’t hesitate. He knew what was happening, that they wanted to perform Joe Smiths never-fail test for discovering devils. “Shake their hands,” Smith had said. “If you feel nothing, he belongs to Satan.”

  Traveler held out his hand.

  Kenny accepted it gingerly. Traveler squeezed hard enough to make the man grimace.

  “Well?” Dottie asked.

  Kenny flexed his fingers. “He’s one of us, all right.”

  “Tell me about Reuben Kirkland,” Traveler said.

  “Fix us some coffee,” Kenny said to Dottie.

  She shook her head. “I won’t be party to breaking the Word of Wisdom. Not with Satan walking the land.”

  “Hot water then. Mormon tea.”

  “I’ve got Postum,” she said and went back into the kitchen.

  Kenny tilted his head to one side as if listening to the wind howl. “She’s right, you know. In times like this it’s best not to tempt fate.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a prolonged sigh. “Reuben’s a wild one, I can tell you. Maybe it was because his parents weren’t from around here originally, I don’t know.”

  “Are they still living here?”

  “They were killed in a car crash. As a matter of fact, in just this kind of weather. Their car turned over and pinned them inside. They weren’t hurt badly, but we didn’t know they were missing until they’d frozen to death. There were some around here who blamed Reuben. His sins had to be paid for, they said, because he was already smoking, and him only in junior high school.”

  He held up a hand to keep Traveler from interrupting. “I know what you’re thinkin’. You, me, damn near everybody was wild when we were that age. But Reuben was different. He didn’t believe in the Lord after his parents died. He stopped going to church. He even made fun of living here. I remembering him saying, ‘If this is paradise, give me hell.’ Some say that’s where he’s living now, in hell.”

  “Are you saying he’s dead?” Traveler asked.

  Kenny shook his head slowly. “Worse. He’s turned Gentile.”

  “I need an address.”

  “Some relatives came out from the East to take care of Reuben after his folks died. They were supposed to run the ranch until he came of age and into his inheritance. They were good people, name of Jesperson, but they were no farmers. The place had to be sold off to pay the bank a while back.”

  “And the Jespersons?”

  “They moved back to where they’d come from.”

  “What about Reuben?”

  “It was like you’d expect. He blamed them for losing his inheritance.”

  “Where is he?”

  The waitress, carrying two cups of Postum, returned to say, “You won’t find him around here.”

  Traveler questioned her with a look.

  “He stopped in here for lunch on his way out of town about six months ago, after the bank took over. He and that no good Wayne Farley. They’d both been drinking and started shouting they were giving up Paradise for Eden. They said they were going there to find themselves an Eve.”

  Traveler suppressed a groan. He hoped he wasn’t in for a trip to the Mormons’ Garden of Eden, which, according to Joseph Smith, was located in Kansas City, Missouri.

  “I was here that day,” Kenny said. “I got the feeling Reuben was making fun of us again. More than likely, he meant the town of New Eden, thirty miles north of here.”

  “Who’s Farley?” Traveler asked.

  “In some ways he was wilder than Reuben even, though Wayne you could excuse because he’s not too bright. Shot himself through the hand once playing Russ
ian roulette on a dare. Lucky for him it was only a twenty-two. Anyway, the two of them started running together in high school, Reuben the brains, Farley the follower. You find one, you’ll find the other.”

  Traveler stood up and reached for his wallet.

  “You won’t be driving there tonight,” Kenny said. “The road’s dirt partway and washes out in this kind of weather.”

  “Is there a motel here in town?”

  “Hyrum’s the closest.”

  Traveler didn’t relish the idea of more night driving. “Is there anybody in town who rents rooms?”

  “If you’d arrived in daylight, maybe we could have found you a place. But now”— Kenny tucked his head against his shoulders—“what with all the talk of Satan going around, people want to get a good daylight look at who they’re dealing with.”

  For a moment, Traveler considered using Elton Woolley’s carte blanche. But that would be overkill and might earn him a night rooming with Kenny.

  Traveler dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and walked out without waiting for his change.

  20

  TWO MILES outside Paradise the swirling, wind-driven rain glowed red as Traveler rounded a curve. His foot came off the accelerator. A moment later, the glow became the steady pulse of emergency flashers on a car at the side of the road.

  He slowed the truck to a crawl. He didn’t see the young woman until he was within a few car lengths of her frantic waving. Carefully, he pulled in behind her stranded car, leaving his headlights and emergency flashers on while he got out to help.

  She wasn’t dressed for rain, let alone a downpour, but was shivering in a cocktail dress, high heels, and one of those skimpy wraparound coats with no buttons in the front. As wet as she was, she was still good-looking.

  “Thank God,” she said, moving toward him, touching his arm lightly. “We haven’t seen a car for an hour.”

  As Traveler leaned down to look into the front seat, the door on the passenger side opened. Another woman got out and came around the car. Although her face was turned away from him, she too appeared young and pretty and dressed for a party rather than the stormy Utah outback.

  “What’s wrong with your car?” he said.

  The driver pulled on his arm. When he turned to face her, the point of her high-heeled shoe caught him between the legs.

  Gasping, he went down so hard he bit his tongue. Pain and self-preservation curled him into a ball. The pointed toe struck again, searing his ear before he had time to cover up more completely. He tasted blood.

  “It’s my turn, sister,” the other one said.

  His head rocked under the impact of another shoe-point.

  “How do you like it?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t want to expose his face or his tongue to further damage.

  “It’s only fair,” his attacker said, “paying a man back for taking advantage of women all his life.”

  He panted through clenched teeth, while a distant part of his brain marveled at the quality of women’s shoes. Were the toes reinforced, he wondered, like steel-tipped workman’s boots?

  He tightened his fetal curl when a toe began probing for a vital spot. Even so, the shoe found a place that made him groan.

  “Do you hear me, Mr. Traveler? Or do you prefer Moroni?”

  Somehow that made him mad, that they knew his name while remaining anonymous.

  “If you don’t answer the question, we’ll play footsies until you do.”

  What the hell, he thought, and mumbled, “Yes, I hear you.”

  “Well then, the Sisters Cumorah say hello.”

  A toe prodded him.

  “Hello,” he said thickly.

  “When we say goodbye, we mean it. The Sisters don’t want to see you ever again. Do you understand, Moroni?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to forget all about us, aren’t you?”

  When Traveler shook his head, they continued to kick him until his world was nothing but pain and the taste of blood.

  21

  TRAVELER’S HEAD began to beep. He reached for the alarm clock, found only a handful of mud, and tried to go back to sleep. The sound persisted. It had to be the phone. He was groping for it when the realization hit him. The pain was fading, deadened by the cold steady rain.

  He opened his eyes and saw nothing but blackness. If they’d taken his truck, he was a goner.

  The phone beeper Willis Tanner had given him kept raising hell.

  Groaning, Traveler worked his leaden arms under himself and sat up, producing pins-and-needles pain everywhere at once. A good sign, he reminded himself, as he attempted to stand up. It took him three tries to make it. Even then, he might not have stayed upright if his outstretched hand hadn’t found the truck’s grille. He caught hold and held on, shuffling his feet to get the blood circulating. When the pins and needles turned into knives, he felt his way along the fender to the passenger door. His fingers responded like swollen sausages when he tried to work the handle. Had they locked the door and taken his keys? Think. Only one thing came to mind, that he’d left the truck running with its lights on and the keys in the ignition.

  He sucked his fingers. They didn’t so much as tingle. He took a deep breath, stored it long enough to warm up, then blew on them. He did that several times, until finally the thumb responded enough to work the mechanism. Opening the door and climbing inside was exhausting. But he knew better than to give in to temptation and lie down on the upholstery.

  Instead, he inched across the bench seat until he was behind the wheel. Panting raggedly, he felt for the ignition. The key-ring rattle was like a shot of oxygen. He straightened his shoulders and turned the key. The engine started immediately. The headlights came on, revealing the telephone poles that had transmitted Willis’s miraculous beeps.

  He switched the heater to its highest setting and headed for the town of Hyrum.

  Traveler checked into the Zion’s Tourist Lodge, a U-shaped court of 1940s cabins just off Main Street. Only after a long hot shower did he feel up to calling Willis Tanner.

  “Mo,” Tanner said, his voice rising sharply, “I’ve been trying to get you for two hours.”

  “I’ve still got my teeth, not to mention my balls.”

  “All hell has broken loose,” Tanner said.

  “I damn near died of exposure.”

  “Listen to me, Mo. This is important. The Sisters Cumorah called the newspapers and every TV station in town to announce they’re holding Lael Woolley for ransom.”

  Traveler fingered his swollen ear. It felt like a catcher’s mitt.

  “So far, the press is cooperating, but sooner or later some wire service will get hold of the story and then we’re in the soup.”

  “Are you through, Willis?”

  “The First Apostle wants you back here on the double.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Tanner said. “Haven’t you been listening?”

  “Your turn, Willis. I’ve traced Lael’s boyfriend. His name is Reuben Kirkland. I think he lives in the town of New Eden.”

  “He’s not important anymore. It’s the Sisters Cumorah who have the girl. Otherwise, how would they know she’s missing?”

  Traveler wet his lips. “What do you want me to do?”

  “We’ve tracked down the real estate agent who’s handling the house in Magna. When Opal Taylor rented it for the Sisters Cumorah, she had to give references. You’ll never guess who they were.”

  “I’m tired, Willis.”

  “Members of the Army of Nauvoo, that’s who. Sarah Decker and our Lael Woolley.”

  “Did the agent contact either of them?”

  “He didn’t bother.”

  “Then how—”

  “We’re holding the Decker woman right now. I’ve got Moseby’s backing on this. We’ll round up the army’s entire membership if we have to.”

  “Come on, Willis. You don’t have police powers. Not yet any
way.”

  “You’d better know this, Mo. We’ll place them under threat of excommunication if necessary. The fact is, there are those here in this office right now who advocate force if we meet any kind of resistance.”

  “Do you mean Moseby?”

  “You know what’s at stake here, besides a girl’s life. Our vision. Everything our forefathers fought for. Protecting that is all that counts.”

  “I want it spelled out, Willis.”

  “If the Decker woman won’t talk of her own free will, then other measures will have to be considered.”

  “Not by me.”

  “We’re holding her for you right now. Moseby wants you to question her.”

  Traveler took a deep breath. His groin throbbed; his head ached. The thought of driving back to Salt Lake tonight intensified the nausea he’d felt ever since being kicked. “It will take me three hours, maybe four.”

  “She’s staying with your father, under guard.”

  “Goddammit, Willis, that’s kidnapping. I don’t want Martin in the middle of something like that.”

  “The sooner you’re back here, the sooner we can let her go.”

  22

  IT WAS nearly dawn when Traveler reached home. By then exhaustion had taken the edge off his anger, though his groin continued to throb along with several other points of interest.

  The moment he stepped out of the truck he felt chilled to the bone. The rain had turned slushy, on the verge of becoming snow again, but was still melting when it hit the ground.

  Traveler was fantasizing about hot coffee and a change of clothes when Willis Tanner came around the side of the house to intercept him on the front porch.

  “I thought I’d warn you,” Tanner whispered. “The First Apostle is waiting inside.”

  Traveler stomped his feet on the doormat. “Let’s get this over with. I want Mrs. Decker out of here as quickly as possible.”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Moroni. We brought her here for your convenience.”

  “Tell the judge that when we’re arrested for kidnapping.”