The Spoken Word

by R. R. Irvine

  “On the other hand,” he said, “God must know about these rumors. If they are true, if the devil has risen, then God must fight him.”

  Ware looked down at the ball in his hands and shook his head. “Forgive me. I’ve been wrestling with this all day. I thought sounding out someone might help, but I’m afraid only the prophet can help me now.”

  He wiped his brow with a forearm. “Now, about my daughter. She and Lael have been friends since childhood.”

  “I was told they met at the Army of Nauvoo,” Traveler said.

  Ware sighed. “I’m afraid Lael Woolley learned of the Army of Nauvoo from my daughter. When Amanda told me of this, I urged her to keep an eye on Lael. You see, that girl isn’t like the rest of us.”

  Traveler shifted his feet in the puddle he’d created on the floor around the pulpit.

  Ware looked down at the spreading pool and shook his head. “There are those who would have my daughter excommunicated for her membership in the Army of Nauvoo. They also condemn me for her sins.”

  “We’re not here to make judgments,” Martin said.

  “If she has sinned,” Ware replied, “so has Lael. If Amanda is excommunicated, Lael must suffer the same fate.”

  “Where is your daughter?” Traveler said.

  “She was to be Lael’s mission leader for the Army of Nauvoo. When Lael disappeared, Amanda came to me. I’ve kept her safe from her enemies and mine.”

  “We’re working for the prophet,” Traveler reminded him.

  Ware stared at Traveler intently before reaching out and taking his hand. For a man known as a liberal, Ware still seemed to be believe in the old ways, like looking for devils by touch.

  “Pray God he hasn’t risen,” Ware said. “Pray God you’re not too late.”

  After giving them an address in Salt Lake, he dribbled away, attacking the basket with such ferocity that Traveler wished him luck chasing away the demons that haunted him.

  25

  ONCE BACK in Salt Lake, Traveler dropped his father at the genealogy library before going on to see Amanda Ware. Her apartment was at the end of a four-unit row house on First Avenue, not far from the Eagle Gate. The building had an unmistakable pioneer look, 1870s brickwork with crumbling buttresses and limestone bays.

  The young woman met him on the narrow stoop despite the torrents of rain sluicing from the overhang. Looking at her, Traveler knew why the Army of Nauvoo had made her a missionary. She was petite, about five feet tall, and nonthreatening, with long blond hair and smiling blue eyes. Had he been ten years younger, he’d have joined up himself.

  “My father called to tell me you were coming,” she said, still smiling. “But I want to see some ID to be on the safe side.”

  When he handed her his wallet, she flipped through all the celluloid windows before returning it.

  “Being named Moroni must be a burden for you,” she said and motioned him inside.

  The main room was bare except for a metal folding chair.

  “My father owns this place,” she said. “When he asked me to stay here for a while, I agreed because it would serve as a reminder of what the Army of Nauvoo is fighting for. You see, it was built by a polygamist in the last century. Four houses in a row. Four wives. My father claims that’s the reason he bought it, for the history. But you never can tell with men, even fathers.”

  Her smile faded. In that moment he knew she’d been using it as a mask to hide her fear.

  “My father filled the cupboards with food and told me not to go out. Now you show up. Something’s happened to Lael, hasn’t it?”

  Traveler tried reassuring her with a smile of his own. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I should have known better than to let Lael join the Army of Nauvoo. I believe in our movement, but it’s not for the likes of her.”

  Traveler walked around the room, pretending to examine the architecture while hoping his silence would prompt more information.

  “Look at this place,” she said. “Imagine what it must have been like for the women, lined up here in a row waiting for their lord and master to pick his partner for the night. It’s a wonder they didn’t murder him.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “A woman named Sojourner Truth, a black woman, was fighting for women back when Joe Smith and Brigham Young were enslaving us. ‘Where did Christ come from?’ she’d preach. ‘From God and a woman. Man had nothing to do it.’ ”

  She went to the window and stared out. “Do you think the rain will ever stop?”

  “Tell me about Lael,” Traveler said softly. “Please.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with Reuben Kirkland.”

  Amanda sighed. “Lael and I were alone on the desk at army headquarters the day he walked in. Looking back on it, I think he’d come deliberately to meet Lael. At the time, of course, we thought it was our big chance to recruit a new member. We take men too, you know.”

  She settled onto the window’s deep sill. “You should have seen Lael’s eyes light up when he told us he was an atheist. She took it as a personal challenge to convert him to the church, or so she said later.”

  “Did you ever see him with anyone else?”

  “Only that creep friend of his, Wayne Farley.” She hugged herself. “The way he looked at me gave me the willies.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing really. He never said much, but he was always there, ready to do whatever Reuben told him.”

  “That’s good to know,” Traveler said. “Now tell me about the woman who gave you the thousand-dollar donation.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Sarah Decker and I had a long talk.”

  “I’ve been trying to phone the general all day.”

  “Miz Decker told me she was going to visit relatives out of state,” he said.

  “I couldn’t get hold of Jemma Hoyt either.”

  “I think she went along.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it? Worse than I thought.”

  “The woman with the check,” he reminded her.

  Amanda shrugged. “Lael and I had gone on campus at BYU. We took Reuben with us too, against army regulations. Anyway, when I saw the amount of the check, I thought it was a joke.”

  “What did she look like, the woman who gave it to you?”

  “Older. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. She was wearing a nice suit with a bag and matching shoes. Her clothes were expensive, like they’d come from Makoff’s or someplace like that.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She just handed it over and walked away. That’s what made me suspicious. Reuben too. He thought the check was a hoax just like I did, but not Lael. She said, ‘If you work for what you believe in, God will step in and give you a hand.’ That’s when he kissed her.”

  Amanda flashed an on-off smile. “No one’s ever kissed me like that.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “He asked her to marry him, did you know that? Right there in front of me.”

  “What did Lael say?”

  “What could she say? She told him he’d have to become a Saint and get his temple recommend so they could be bound together forever.”

  Traveler had heard the same thing from Claire once during one of her repentant, born-again moods. Even now, part of him still felt bound to her, and probably would while he lived, though the thought of dealing with her through eternity made him squirm.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Amanda said, “but you’re wrong. Reuben didn’t bat an eye. He kissed her again and said, ‘All right, let’s get me started on the way to sainthood.’ After that, Lael couldn’t wait to drop me off at army headquarters so they could go looking for a bishop to begin Roo’s instruction.”

  Her eyes glistened. “Our mission never did get off the ground after that.”

  “Do you have any idea where they might be?”

  “Do you know what they�
�re saying about the weather?”

  “Tell me.”

  “At church Sunday they read from Genesis instead of The Book of Mormon. ‘And the water prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered. And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man: All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died.’ ” She turned to stare at him. “Do you think it’s going to happen again?”

  “I’m not a theologian.”

  “They say that our land of Zion is the ark now and that only the faithful will be saved. But Reuben isn’t one of us. I don’t think he means to be, either.”

  She shuddered. “I remember Lael saying, ‘I’ll take Roo to New Jerusalem one day, where we’ll follow in the footsteps of Joseph Smith.’ ” Amanda wet her lips. “Maybe that’s where they are now.”

  New Jerusalem, Traveler remembered from Sunday school, was in Missouri, where Joseph Smith said the land of Zion would be located one day along with the Mormons’ Garden of Eden. Shortly after Smith’s pronouncement, Missourians drove him and his followers out of their state.

  “Do you know what Roo said to that?” she asked, then answered her own question. “ ‘You’ve got a deal. We’ll go to Paradise together and find our own Eden.’ ”

  26

  TRAVELER SAT in the Cherokee a long time trying to digest Amanda Ware’s conversation. Even if he believed her every word, he didn’t like what was happening. Paradise and Eden kept coming up in too many conversations, like deliberate road signs meant to guide him. But where exactly? To kidnappers, or along some convoluted path to salvation.

  He snorted. Martin had taught him better than to think like that. Find the girl, Martin would say, leave everything else to the church.

  Traveler checked his watch. There was an hour to go before he was scheduled to pick up his father at the genealogy library. That was more than enough time to wheedle a diagnosis out of old Dr. Murphy. Putting it to him was the problem. Say, Doc, my father’s been trying to phone the dead for the past week. What do you make of it? A touch of Alzheimer’s or maybe a spot of senility?

  Groaning out loud, Traveler started the engine and headed higher on the avenues, where crossing State Street’s Little Jordan was still possible.

  Two blocks later, he’d come to a stop at the intersection of Third Avenue and B Street when someone rear-ended him. A gray Plymouth filled his rearview mirror. Both its doors opened.

  Traveler switched on the Jeep’s emergency flashers and was about to get out when Stacie Breen tapped on the passenger-side window. Without thinking, he reached across the seat and unlocked the door. As soon as she opened it, her boyfriend, Jon, stepped out from behind her holding a gun.

  “Shit,” Traveler said.

  Jon slid into the passenger seat. “Park behind Stacie.”

  “Point the gun somewhere else.”

  Grinning, the man cocked a cheap-looking revolver and stuck the muzzle against Traveler’s ribs.

  “Your size doesn’t mean fuck against a thirty-eight,” Jon said.

  Traveler clenched his teeth and watched silently as Stacie returned to her Plymouth. She backed away from the Jeep and turned onto Third Avenue, heading downtown. Traveler followed. She parked half a block later. He pulled in right behind her.

  She immediately abandoned the Plymouth for the Jeep’s backseat. He watched in the mirror as she leaned forward to touch his shoulder.

  “You hung up before I could say no,” Traveler said. “I don’t pay for information.”

  The .38 jabbed him.

  “This is a nice car,” Stacie said. “What do you think, Jon.”

  “Why not?”

  She touched Traveler again. “You sign the registration over to us and I’ll tell you where the boy is.”

  Traveler shook his head.

  “Show him the picture,” Jon said.

  “I was getting to it.”

  Traveler heard her purse snap open.

  “He looks just like you,” she said, flicking his ear with a snapshot.

  When he reached for it, Jon increased the muzzle pressure against Traveler’s side. Carefully, moving in slow motion, he grasped the photo and eased it into his field of vision. The focus was soft. The boy squinting into the sun looked like any other two-year-old.

  “Cute, isn’t he?” Stacie said.

  “He isn’t mine.”

  “Claire told me otherwise.”

  “We’re wasting time.” Jon began digging in the glove compartment with one hand while holding the .38 in the other. “Where’s the goddamned registration?”

  “This is my father’s car,” Traveler said.

  “Bullshit. Look at this.” He held up an insurance identification card. “It’s in the name of Moroni Traveler.”

  “Senior,” Traveler clarified. “I’m junior.”

  “Don’t screw with me. “

  “That could be right,” Stacie said. “Claire named the boy Moroni Traveler the third.”

  Jon shook his head. “Are you going to give us the car or not?”

  “What the hell. The registration’s in there somewhere. My father won’t sue if I sign his name.”

  Jon shifted his body to get a better angle at the glove compartment. The .38 shifted too.

  In one quick motion, Traveler rammed the web of his hand between the hammer and the firing pin and jerked the gun away. Jon’s trigger finger snapped. His agonized cry sent Stacie fleeing into the rain. Only when Traveler failed to follow did she return to her Plymouth.

  “You’d better straighten that finger before it swells,” Traveler said.

  Jon stopped panting long enough to say, “What the hell do you know?”

  “I did worse than that playing football.”

  “You bastard,” he said, cradling one hand in the other.

  Traveler flipped open the cylinder and pretended to examine the cartridges. “Tell me where the boy is and you can walk away.”

  “I don’t know, for God’s sake.”

  Traveler shook his head.

  “Stacie never told me.” Jon blinked against the sweat running into his eyes. “She says that’s her insurance policy.”

  “Where’d the snapshot come from?”

  “She got it in the mail. That’s all I know.”

  “Someone had to mail it.”

  Jon held up his misshapen finger, now the size of a knockwurst. “I gotta get to a doctor.”

  “That’s just where I was headed. Do you want me to drive you?”

  Sweat went flying as the man shook his head. Traveler reached across him to open the door.

  “I’m good at finding people,” Traveler said. “You remember that. Now get out.”

  “What do you want me to say to Stace?”

  “Tell her we’ll negotiate after she helps me find the boy.”

  “She’ll kill me.”

  27

  DR. WALLACE Murphy had his office in the Boston Building on Exchange Place. To get there, Traveler circled around to West Temple Street, avoiding the Little Jordan, turned east on Broadway, and then south on Main Street, which was running shoe-high at the moment.

  He parked carefully, angling the Jeep Cherokee’s front wheels against the curb and setting the emergency brake before fording Main Street. By the time he reached the Boston Building’s wide granite steps, he was wet to the knees and feeling guilty about taking time out for personal business. Even so, he wanted a medical opinion about his father’s erratic behavior.

  A frieze of buffalo heads had formed a waterfall across the front of the building. Wondering what had happened to the pigeons that usually roosted on the stonework, Traveler plunged through the downpour and dripped across the marble lobby.

  Memories of vaccinations and tongue depressors followed him into the elevator and up to Doc Murphy’s office on the eighth floor. As usual, t
he waiting room was empty. Murphy hadn’t taken on a new patient in years. Instead, he was retiring gradually, waiting for his longtimers to either die off or get tired of him.

  A moment after Traveler rang the reception bell, the doctor slid back the frosted glass panel himself. “Moroni. Lucky you caught me. I was about to close up shop and go home before they close down Main Street.”

  Murphy shut the panel and opened the connecting door that led to his office on the left and his examination room to the right. Traveler turned left.

  “I take it you’re not sick,” Murphy said, slipping behind his desk which was cluttered with medical journals. He was dressed the same as always: gray herringbone sport coat, charcoal slacks, and oxblood loafers.

  “It’s Martin,” Traveler said.

  Murphy sighed. “I’d be a rich man if I had a dollar for every time you or your father had said that about the other.”

  Traveler sank into the patient’s chair. “Martin tried to phone his father.”

  The doctor pursed his lips. Wrinkles spread from his brow across the top of his bald head.

  “His grandfather, too,” Traveler added. “He’s suddenly obsessed with the dead.”

  “Is that all? In this town, that’s normal behavior.”

  “Not for Martin.”

  “I know all about it. It’s this new lady of his, Jolene Clawson. She’s a part-time researcher at the genealogy library and a patient of mine for the last twenty years. Hell, I introduced them when Martin asked me if I knew anybody who could research family trees.”

  “When was this?”

  “A month ago, maybe a little less. Just last week he called and thanked me for putting him on to her. He said he’d hired her to write your family history.”

  “I’ve been asking him about it for years,” Traveler said.

  “I’ll tell you what I told Martin. Some things are best left to memory.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  Murphy shrugged. “That he was going to have it bound in red leather.”

  “Martin was in the army when I was born,” Traveler said.

  The doctor steepled his fingers but said nothing.