The Spoken Word

by R. R. Irvine

  “He can’t afford to cross someone like Elihu Moseby.”

  34

  DESPITE GATHERING thunderheads along the western skyline, good weather held all the way to Hyrum. But when Traveler and his father turned north, a squall line descended from the Wasatch Mountains, slowing their progress. As a result, they didn’t reach New Eden, population 1,692, until dusk.

  They cruised the length of Main Street before backtracking to park in front of the Tithing Office. Lights were on in half a dozen buildings along the two blocks that made up the town’s business district.

  Traveler opened the glove box, took out the .45, and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Jesus Christ,” Martin whispered, a prayer. “I hope you don’t have to use that.”

  Together, they climbed out of the Jeep and headed for the squat, rock-faced building across the street. A sheet metal sign hanging from brackets above the door squeaked in the wind. HANSEN’S DRY GOODS, NILES HANSEN, PROPRIETOR AND SHERIFF.

  The man behind the counter was wearing a heavy flannel shirt and Levi’s new enough to have come off one of his own table displays. He was Martin’s height, five-six, bald-headed, and somewhere in his fifties. He took one look at Traveler and said, “If you’re looking for the sheriff, that’s me, Niles Hansen.”

  Traveler and his father introduced themselves and handed over their IDs.

  “I don’t do much real police work around here,” Sheriff Hansen said after checking their credentials. “We’re not like Salt Lake yet, thank God.”

  “We’re looking for a young woman,” Traveler said.

  “A runaway?”

  “Her name’s Lael Woolley.”

  “Not the Woolley?”

  Martin nodded. “The prophet’s grandniece.”

  The sheriff shook his head emphatically. “I’d know if she was around here.”

  “What about the motel up the street?” Traveler asked.

  “That’s our one and only, the Garden of Eden. The last time I talked to Scott Miller, its owner, only two cabins were rented. What with the weather we’ve been having, he’s lucky to have anyone staying there.”

  The sheriff hit himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Son of a bitch, pardon my French, but there’s a honeymoon couple staying up there. Is that what this is about, an elopement?”

  Traveler unwrapped Lael’s photograph and handed it to the sheriff.

  “You know how it is with honeymooners.” Hansen rubbed his bald head and grinned. “They never come out of their room.” He returned the photo.

  “Does this man Miller have a phone?” Traveler asked.

  “We’re not that far out in the sticks. Before I call him, though, I want to know what’s going on.”

  Martin shook his head. “The Woolley name ought to be enough to get your cooperation.”

  The sheriff smiled. “The trouble is, I’ve only got your word for it so far.”

  “This ought to help.” Traveler gave him the prophet’s carte blanche.

  Hansen swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple shimmied. “Jesus, pardon my French again, just tell me what you want.”

  “Call the motel, but be careful.” Traveler moved to the wall phone behind the counter so he could listen in. “If we’re right, the girl is being held against her will.”

  “My God, kidnapping.”

  Traveler handed him the receiver.

  The sheriff took a deep breath and dialed. “Scott, is that you?”

  “Who else would it be, Niles?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Just like always.”

  “That honeymoon couple you’ve got there. I want you to describe the girl.”

  “You’re turning into a dirty old man.”

  “Just do it.”

  The motel owner sighed. “Dark hair, light skin. Maybe twenty, twenty-one. Pretty in a thin sort of way.”

  “What about her eyes?” Traveler mouthed into the sheriff’s ear, who passed on the question.

  “You’d remember them if you saw her,” the motel man said. “Big dark eyes, eyes that eat you up.”

  “That’s her,” Traveler whispered.

  “They’ve got a friend with them,” the man added. “He’s in the cabin next to theirs.”

  “Listen to me, Scott. Don’t say a thing about this call.”

  “You still haven’t told me what it’s all about.”

  Using both hands, Traveler made a beckoning motion.

  “On second thought,” the sheriff translated, “I want you to get down here as fast as you can. Now.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The sheriff hung up. “What now?”

  Traveler didn’t want anyone overreacting, especially the local law. On the other hand, backup was always a good idea. “We ought to have some help,” he said.

  “I’ve got one volunteer deputy, Marv Hatch.”

  “You’d better call him.”

  “You’re damn right,” Martin said. “We’ll need the two of you covering the back of the motel.”

  The sheriff rubbed his forehead hard enough to redden the skin. “You think there’s going to be trouble?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

  “I’ll never get Marv on the phone. He sleeps like a hibernating bear. I’ll have to go get him myself. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. When Miller gets here from the motel, make sure he stays put.”

  ******

  The sheriff’s deputy had come out of hibernation with cowlicked hair, rumpled clothes, and a 12-gauge pump shotgun that was pointed at Traveler’s chest.

  “It’s just like you wanted,” the sheriff said. “Marv here is my backup. He’s going to make sure we all stay put until more help arrives.”

  “What kind of help?” Martin asked.

  Hansen tapped the side of his head. “You didn’t expect me to take a letter like that on face value, did you? Anyone could forge the prophet’s signature.”

  “Who the hell did you call?’

  “It took me a while, but I finally got through to church headquarters in Salt Lake. They said help was already on the way.”

  “How did they know you needed help?” Traveler asked.

  “They didn’t say.”

  “What did they say about my letter?”

  “I talked to a man named Tanner. He said I could trust you, but not to make a move until the troops got here.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Martin said.

  The sheriff checked his watch. “Thank God the rain’s held off, because just about now my counterpart in Hyrum is turning on the lights at the high school football field so the helicopters can land. Once they do, he’ll convoy the bunch of them over here.”

  Twenty minutes later, Elihu Moseby walked into Hansen’s Dry Goods. He was dressed in a hunting jacket, fatigue pants, and army boots. With him were a dozen men carrying automatic rifles and wearing flak jackets. Their heads were covered with black baseball hats embroidered with golden beehives.

  Martin shook his head in despair. Traveler knew how he felt. No uniforms meant church security, maybe even Danites.

  Sheriff Hansen described the situation at the Garden of Eden Motel. The honeymooners, registered as Mr. and Mrs. Reuben Kirkland, were in one cabin, their friend, Wayne Farley, in the adjoining unit, which had a connecting door.

  “What do you know about the friend?” Moseby asked.

  “Just what our motel man tells me. He’s big and rough-looking.”

  Moseby turned to his troops. “You all know what to do. Your team leader will move you into position. Wait for my signal.”

  Silently, the troops filed out in the night.

  Traveler waited for the door to close behind them before asking, “What are we supposed to do?”

  With a jerk of his head, Moseby sent the sheriff outside.

  “Willis Tanner is at the hospital waiting for
your call.” He handed Traveler a paper with a telephone number on it. “He’s with the prophet.”

  Tanner sounded jubilant when he came on the line. “Elton sends his congratulations. New Eden was a stroke of genius on your part.”

  “We haven’t got the girl yet.”

  “I trust you, Mo. So does the prophet.”

  “Moseby’s here. I thought I was in charge.”

  “He’s there as backup only. The prophet made that clear to him.”

  “Is that right?” Traveler said, relaying the comment to Moseby.

  The First Apostle confirmed the fact.

  “You see,” Tanner said, “I take care of you when it counts.”

  “You mean I’m the fall guy if something goes wrong.”

  “God is with you now. I know it. The prophet has taken a turn for the better. The doctors say he’s going to recover fully.”

  “Does Moseby know that?”

  “That’s why he volunteered to join you there and help, so I could stay behind and transmit the prophet’s personal instructions.”

  “Willis says we’re in charge,” Traveler told his father.

  The grimace on Martin’s face said he was as leery of the setup as his son was.

  “Go on,” Traveler said into the phone.

  “The prophet wants you to know how special Lael is to him.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? I don’t think so.”

  “Out with it, Willis.”

  For a moment the only sound on the line was Tanner’s heavy breathing. Finally he said, “I’m with the prophet right now, Moroni. In the same room. He’d speak to you personally, only the doctors don’t want him tiring himself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Willis, your men are wandering around in the dark out here. It will be a miracle if Kirkland doesn’t hear us coming.”

  “Exactly, Moroni. A miracle is what we’re talking about. The prophet says that one day Lael may become the church’s first female apostle. But that can happen only if his long- range vision comes to pass.”

  Traveler shook his head at Martin. “Spell it out, Willis. Are we talking revelation?”

  In the background he heard Elton Woolley’s ragged voice. “Do anything you have to, Moroni, but save her for me. If you do . . .” His voice broke.

  Traveler wet his lips. “Are you there, Willis?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell the prophet I’ll do my best.”

  “He knows that already.”

  “One more thing. I want Bill and Charlie out of jail.”

  “Consider it done,” Tanner said.

  35

  THE DANITES, or whoever they were, had taken up positions about twenty yards back from the cabin, just beyond the edge of light cast by a pair of yellow porch bulbs. Even so, Traveler could make out their firing positions in the moonlight.

  “Let’s hope they haven’t heard us moving in,” Martin whispered.

  “My men know what they’re doing,” Moseby responded.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Traveler said.

  The three of them were crouched a few feet behind the perimeter, facing the cabin’s front door. Pale shades had been drawn at the two flanking windows. Reuben Kirkland’s camper, complete with the license plate once attributed to the Sisters Cumorah, was parked in an attached carport.

  “Keep one thing in mind,” Moseby said. “You don’t want me for an enemy.”

  “Do your men know who’s in that motel room?” Traveler asked.

  Moseby whistled softly. The team leader crept over to join them.

  “Tell him whatever you want,” Moseby said.

  Moseby sounded too sure of himself to trust, but Traveler wanted everything on the record. “Elton Woolley’s niece is being held in that cabin.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that.”

  “Her safety comes first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Talk’s fine,” Moseby said, “but how do we get her out of there?”

  If the Danites hadn’t been present, Traveler might have suggested negotiation. Pick up the phone, explain the situation, and ask the kidnappers to surrender themselves and their hostage. But with so much firepower and so many zealous trigger fingers, he thought it best to control the situation himself.

  “There’s only one thing to do. I’m going in there.” Traveler stood, pulling his father up with him.

  After a moment, Moseby rose too. “If they take you hostage, Traveler, we’ll be moving in.”

  “I want the sheriff in on this,” Traveler said.

  “Suit yourself.” Moseby whistled again, a different signal than before. A moment later, the team leader arrived with Sheriff Hansen in tow.

  “I’m going inside to try making a deal for the prophet’s niece,” Traveler told the sheriff. “If something happens to me, I expect you to protect her interests.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “What about me?” Martin said.

  Traveler reached out as if to shake hands. When his father took hold, Traveler pulled him into a bear hug and slipped him the .45.

  “You protect my interests,” Traveler whispered.

  “Jesus. Both of us may have to be raised before this night’s over.”

  “Remember,” Moseby said. “You save the girl, but the kidnappers belong to us.”

  “I’m beginning to think you really are Danites.”

  Moseby chuckled softly. “That’s nothing but old wives’ tales.”

  The sheriff caught his breath before creeping away into the darkness.

  “There goes your backup,” Moseby said.

  “Stay close to the First Apostle,” Traveler told his father.

  “Count on it.”

  Traveler moved forward into the yellow light, laced his fingers behind his neck, and stepped up onto the cabin’s wooden porch. He tapped the door with his toe. The lights inside went out, but the porch bulbs stayed on. He heard movement a moment before the door opened a crack.

  A man’s voice said, “Let me see your hands.”

  Traveler unlaced his fingers and wiggled them near his ears.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Of course he’s not alone,” another voice said from inside the cabin.

  “I don’t see anybody.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Wayne.”

  “Is that Wayne Farley and Reuben Kirkland?” Traveler said, remembering advice he’d gotten at the Cache & Carry Cafe in Paradise. Find one, you’ll find the other. “I represent the prophet.”

  “That’s us.”

  “Jesus, Wayne. Get him in here.”

  The door opened far enough for the porch light to glint on the barrel of a shotgun. Moving slowly, Traveler eased sideways across the threshold.

  The door closed behind him an instant before the gun barrel jabbed him in the back.

  “It’s about time you got here.”

  “Think about it, Wayne,” Kirkland said. “We haven’t made the deal or set up delivery yet. Nobody should know we’re here.”

  “Goddamn it, Roo. You said we were going to be rich.”

  “I did, didn’t I.” Kirkland snorted.

  A small table lamp came on, its light as dingy as its parchment shade.

  Traveler found himself staring into Lael Woolley’s dark, yearning eyes. Her hands were tied to the arms of a chair, though her feet were free. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth.

  Reuben Kirkland matched the description Traveler had been given, good-looking and blond with a California tan. The stainless steel revolver in his hand was a .357 magnum.

  “Search him, Wayne.”

  Wayne Farley was dark-haired and wiry, with that ground-in dirt look that Utah’s Carbon County coal miners get after too much digging. His blue steel shotgun was a pump model just like the sheriff’s. He kept it in one hand while patting down Traveler with the other.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Farley said when he finished his
search.

  Traveler smiled at the girl. “My name is Moroni Traveler.”

  “Sure,” Kirkland said. “Give me your wallet.” He checked the money before the ID. “What we’ve got here, Wayne, is a private investigator with thirty-two dollars to his name.”

  “Shit.”

  Traveler crouched in front of the girl. “Your uncle sent me.”

  Her face crinkled as if she were trying to speak behind the tape. She looked thinner than her photos and older, with dark patches under her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Let me untie her?” he said.

  Kirkland shook his head. “There’s no way you came here alone.”

  “The First Apostle’s outside with a platoon of Danites armed with automatic rifles.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Farley said.

  Kirkland shook his head. “If they start shooting, she dies.”

  Traveler rose to his feet. “They know that.”

  Kirkland stepped around him and pressed the .357 against his neck. “Kill the light, Wayne, and take a look-see through the window.”

  “I always get the short end,” Farley muttered, but did as he was told, being very careful with the window shade. “Nothing, for Christ’s sake. Like I said, the guy’s shitting us.”

  “Quiet. Let’s listen . . .”

  Traveler kept himself perfectly still. After a while, Farley moved to the door and opened it just wide enough to accommodate his ear. The .357 trembled against Traveler’s skin.

  Half a minute passed before Farley closed the door and threw the deadbolt. “I told you. The guy’s lying.”

  As soon as the light came back on, Kirkland faced Traveler again. “How’d you find us?”

  “Let me get the tape off her,” Traveler said, staring into the girl’s pleading eyes.

  Kirkland shrugged and moved back against the wall. “Suit yourself, but she was driving us crazy. We had to shut her up.”

  Traveler knelt down and gently peeled off the tape.

  “God has sent the Angel Moroni to save me,” Lael said the moment her lips came free.

  “See what I mean? All she does is pray and fast. ‘God’s angel will come. God’s angel will save me.’ We’ve been hearing that for damn near a week. Only you don’t look like an angel to me, or a Saint either.”

  “When the devil rises,” Lael said, “God sends down an angel to fight him.”