Flight of the Serpent

by R. R. Irvine writing as Val Davis

  He’d been the one hit by shrapnel, right in the ass, when the Lady-A took a hit. A huge hole had opened in her side, but somehow her aluminum skin had deflected just enough shrapnel to keep Yarbrough and Perry Goddard, his brother waist gunner, from being killed.

  But Perry was gone now, too. A car accident. God almighty! Twenty-five missions they’d spent together, standing back-to-back in the Lady-A’s waist. Sometimes as much as five and six hours without fighter cover, with the Luftwaffe trying to kill them. Flying at twenty thousand feet in an unpressurized plane, with the thirty-below-zero temperature a death sentence if you were seriously wounded. Then some drunk flattens him with a Buick. Christ.

  Janie’s whinny startled Yarbrough out of his reverie. Donna’s meadow lay just ahead.

  “Good girl.”

  It was time to lay flowers on Donna’s grave, maybe for the last time.

  Chapter 34

  Nick was startled when she reached the LDS Family History Library on West Temple Street. She’d been expecting something lavish, awe-inspiring even, not the gray slab two-story building in front of her. It had a gray slab twin next door, the Church Museum. Both were drab and utilitarian compared with the soaring, six-spired Gothic temple directly across the street.

  As she looked up at the temple, she was overwhelmed by the faith it had taken to build such a structure. She knew that decades had been needed just to haul those massive granite stones from the mountain quarries twenty miles to the east.

  But at least those pioneers had achieved their goal in the end. In archaeology, that wasn’t always possible.

  Still, you had to try, Nick told herself as she entered the library. Once inside, she sat through the fifteen-minute orientation program, then headed for the computer stations on the second floor, where records were kept for the United States and Canada.

  As she began accessing data, she was awestruck. Here at her fingertips were more records than could be found anywhere else in the world. On top of that, the orientation session had included the information that duplicates of everything were stored in the Granite Mountain Records Vault that had been sunk deep into the Wasatch Mountains. There, they were said to be even safer than if they’d been buried inside the NORAD complex at Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado.

  Nick took a deep breath and decided to look up her family history first to make certain she had the hang of things. She entered her own name. In the blink of an eye, the microfiche reference appeared on the screen. All she had to do was pull the film and settle down in front of one of the readers if she wanted a look at a copy of her birth certificate.

  This was a researcher’s paradise. Literally millions of man-hours had gone into assembling the vast genealogical archives. Thank God for the church doctrine that demanded it, she thought, for the belief that the dead must be identified in order to baptize them retroactively into the church.

  Nick was lucky. Benson was a common name, and she already knew the full names of the sisters’ parents and where the family had lived prior to moving to Ophir. Fortunately, Lillian had left her that clue by mourning the loss of her Ohio home.

  Five minutes later, Nick fed microfiche into the optical reader and made a startling discovery. The sisters’ birth certificates had been registered in Lancaster, Ohio, on the same day in 1888. That made Lillian and Pearl Benson twins! There’d been no hint of that in the diaries. Quite the contrary, in fact. Nick had been under the distinct impression that Lillian was older than Pearl. Was she the dominant twin? Or was the theory of one twin being dominant an old wives’ tale? And were they identical twins? Nick wondered.

  She searched for the death certificates. Lillian had died in 1936 in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Pearl’s certificate gave Ophir, Arizona, as the place of death. The year was 1922, the year of the fire.

  But if she’d died then, why had there been no mention of it in the newspaper clippings? And if she’d perished in the fire, why had Lillian pretended that it had never happened?

  The obvious reason was that it was Pearl who had set the fire in the first place.

  Nick shook her head. Don’t start creating history, she told herself. Research the facts, then put them together. Make no assumptions in advance.

  So think! Nick closed her eyes and thought about the diaries. Lillian’s entries had been rather sketchy immediately after the fire, but that could be considered normal after such a calamity.

  With a sigh, Nick went back to the computers, looking for more Bensons. Maybe another branch of the family still existed.

  When she found no other Bensons that she could relate directly to the sisters, she asked for help from one of the staff, an earnest young man who looked younger than most of her students. His name was Grant Kimball.

  As soon as she identified herself as an archaeologist and explained what she was after, he smiled knowingly.

  “Pioneer families can be tricky,” he said. “Going back into the nineteenth century can give you fits. Some of the polygamists were cagey when it came to their wives’ names. Then you have the problem of using the same name over and over again. It often happened that if a young child died, the same name was given to the next son or daughter.

  “I don’t think that’s what I’m up against here,” Nick told him. “Both Benson sisters lived in Ophir, Arizona. One of them died there, the other in New Mexico. I found their death certificates. What I need is surviving relatives.”

  “This may be your lucky day. One of our prophets was named Benson. It’s an important name in church history and has been extensively researched.”

  Kimball ushered her into an office where a computer with a large screen dominated the room. He selected a CD from a stack next to the computer and slipped the disk into the disk drive.

  Row after row of Bensons appeared on the screen. “I didn’t know there were that many Bensons,” Nick said.

  “These are all the Bensons that ever were or are,” Kimball replied. “Luckily I can cross-search either by first name or date of birth. Do you have a birth date?”

  Nick gave him the date and the machine seemed to click in a self-satisfied way and two names appeared.

  “Here we are.” Kimball pointed. “You’ve got two Bensons on that date, Pearl and Lillian. Let’s see, now that I have an index number I can move backwards and forwards in time. What’ll it be, parents or children?”

  “Surviving relatives, if you can trace them,” Nick replied.

  “Can do,” Kimball answered and busily started typing. Suddenly the computer made an indignant beep and a flashing message appeared on the screen. “Darn,” Kimball exclaimed.

  “What’s wrong?” For a brief moment Nick imagined that they had triggered some kind of security violation and she almost expected to see armed guards rushing through the door.

  Kimball turned toward her. “Our data’s only as good as what we put in, you understand. Sometimes the database gets corrupted or our volunteers aren’t as careful as they should be, although this shouldn’t have happened with a Benson. In any case, I’ve got a cross-link here.”

  “Does that mean that you can’t get the information?” Nick didn’t recognize the software that Kimball was using and suspected that it was custom-made.

  “Not exactly. This particular warning message indicates that links that we have set up to the name Pearl Benson may have gotten scrambled. Let’s see how bad it is. I’ll just dump all the links out.”

  Kimball activated the printer, which immediately started spewing paper, then pored over the printouts. “It seems we have an apparent contradiction here. We have two death certificates. Aha! We have a Pearl Benson with a death certificate issued on presumption from the town of Ophir.”

  “All formal records from that town went up in flames in 1922,” Nick said.

  “Some of these little towns were pretty slack about authenticating their documentation- We also have a Pearl Benson Taylor who died in Moroni, Utah, in 1946.”

  “Could it be a coincidence?” Nick asked. She tr
ied not to feel excitement, but her intuition kept telling her that there was a hidden message in those diaries.

  “Let’s find out. Taylor is another prominent church name.” Humming, Kimball inserted another disk into the computer. Within moments, he looked up from the screen and grinned. “That particular branch of the Taylor family, Pearl’s husband to be exact, were schismatics.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Nick said.

  “Polygamy was renounced by the church in 1890, but there’s always been a few splinter groups who have clung to the original teachings. This Taylor”—He tapped the screen—“was prominent in a group that settled in Arizona for a time. I told you this was your lucky day.” He grinned. “It’s kind of a hobby of mine, keeping track of all the misguided schisms.”

  “But this Pearl died in 1946,” Nick pointed out. “Surely she couldn’t still have been in a polygamous relationship.”

  Kimball smiled and shrugged. “Family life is very important to the Saints. Even now, divorce isn’t that common.”

  “But a polygamous marriage isn’t legal,” Nick persisted.

  “Oh, look”—Kimball again tapped the screen, diverting Nick—“they had a daughter, Lillian Taylor.”

  Lillian, Nick thought. She named her daughter Lillian. It was too much of a coincidence. This had to be the right Pearl.

  “What can you tell me about Lillian Taylor?”

  Kimball went through two more disks before he shouted, “Eureka!”

  Lillian Taylor, married name Lillian Taylor Cowley, was now living only a few blocks away, in Salt Lake City.

  Nick couldn’t believe her luck. “You wouldn’t have her address, would you?”

  Kimball grinned. “Personal informational on the living isn’t my area of expertise. For that, you need a phone book.”

  Chapter 35

  “Working late, are we?” Voss leaned over the back of the computer terminal and grinned at Chet.

  The young reporter had been so intent on the story he was working on that he hadn’t heard Voss and Wiley approach. He looked up and Wiley could see the dawning realization in his eyes that none of his coworkers were around in the Herald’s newsroom.

  “Look at this place,” Voss continued. “Nobody home but us chickens.”

  “Hi, guys. You startled me.” Chet tried a weak grin, but Wiley could see his fear.

  Voss pressed harder on the terminal, bending it forward on its stand until it was tilted toward Chet’s lap.

  “Uh, you’re leaning on my computer,” Chet pointed out.

  “And now we’re going to lean on you,” Wiley said, moving to Chet’s side. “We paid you five grand for that little erase job and you gave the computer back to the Scott woman.”

  “I can explain that,” Chet replied eagerly. “It was a model 2000, see? With the money you paid me I could afford a model 3000. I’ve got it right here.” He lifted a slender black laptop from under the desk.

  “A model 3000. Wow!” Voss commented sarcastically.

  “It’s got an active matrix screen,” Chet persisted. “Want to see it?”

  “Do we want to see it?” Voss asked Wiley.

  “I don’t think we want to see it,” Wiley answered. “I think we want to know how come you took our money and gave Gault’s computer back with the cookies file intact.”

  The reporter looked confused. “Cookies file?” he repeated. “What’s a cookies file?”

  “You tell us, bright boy.” Voss leaned over and grabbed a fistful of the reporter’s shirt, half-lifting him up from his seat.

  “Now let’s not get hasty,” Wiley intervened. “We should really go someplace quiet and talk this over.”

  “Look, guys. I did what you asked me, but if you’re not happy you can have the computer. I mean I can’t give you back the money. I spent it, you know, on the 3000.” Chet’s voice trailed off.

  “Where can we go that’s quiet, Chet?” Wiley asked.

  “What’s wrong with right here? There’s nobody else around.” Chet literally clung to his desk.

  “Aren’t you expecting anybody?” Voss asked. “Like the night watchman or somebody from the presses?”

  “We’re okay here, guys. That’s why I like to work late. Nobody comes up here this time of night.”

  The killing blow came so fast the reporter was still smiling when Voss snapped his neck.

  “Now we’re going to have to carry him,” Wiley said disgustedly. “I was going to sweet-talk him onto the roof.”

  “I got tired of listening to his bullshit.” Voss grunted as he lifted the body in a fireman’s carry. “You handle the elevator.”

  By the time they reached the roof, Voss was sweating badly. “Christ!” he complained. “It’s even hot up here.”

  “If you had exhibited a little more self-control, you wouldn’t have to be working so hard,” Wiley pointed out.

  “Seize the moment,” Voss replied, balancing the body on the edge of the building’s roof. “You ready?”

  “Half a minute.” Wiley opened up the laptop and quickly typed:

  I can ’t take the low pay and lack of advancement anymore.

  Sorry.

  Chet

  “Bombs away,” he called out.

  “That thing works on batteries, doesn’t it?” Voss seemed reluctant to let go of his victim. “What if the batteries go dead before they get up here?”

  Wiley pried Voss away and sent the body over the edge.

  “Don’t worry,” Wiley said as they both headed for the exit. “The batteries will last. It’s a model 3000, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 36

  The next morning Nick left her hotel armed with a street map of the city. The air was clear, the temperature sizzling as she headed uphill toward the avenues in search of a missing piece of Ophir’s history.

  Lillian Taylor Cowley lived on Eighth Avenue, high on the city’s north bench. The house was one of those sturdy brick bungalows built to survive winters rather than please the eye. At the moment, the house was closed against the heat, with shades drawn at every window.

  The woman who opened the door looked to be in her seventies, about the right age to be Pearl Benson’s daughter. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her glasses austere and rimless, and her housecoat old-fashioned. She could have been a face from one of those bleak pioneer daguerreotypes.

  “Mrs. Cowley?” Nick asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “I’m Nick Scott. I called ahead.”

  “Of course you did, dear.” Her smile changed her face completely, from reserved to motherly. She held open the screen door. “Call me Lily. Now come in before the heat does.”

  She led the way into a small, darkened living room dominated by a large sofa and two flanking overstuffed chairs. The smell of baking permeated the air.

  “Whatever that is, it smells wonderful,” Nick said, thinking that there must be something in the local water that encouraged everyone to bake.

  “It’s best to get your baking done early in this kind of heat,” Lily said. “I’m making cookies for my great-grand-children.”

  Nick breathed deeply. Something about the aroma intrigued her, a long-gone memory perhaps, though it wasn’t memory of her mother’s cooking. The only cookies Elaine had mastered came in packages.

  “Come meet our guest,” Lily called.

  Another woman, a younger version of Lily, appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “This is my daughter, Pearl,” Lily said. “It’s her daughter’s brood we’re expecting to feed.”

  Nick shook hands, feeling triumphant. Lillian and Pearl. The search at the Genealogy Library had been on the money.

  “She’s named for my mother,” Lily confirmed as if reading Nick’s mind.

  “And you are named for your aunt,” Nick said,

  “Before we get to that, dear,” Lily said, “tell us again what this is all about.”

  She motioned Nick toward the sofa. As soon as Nick sank into
the plump cushions, she went over the facts of her dig one more time, including the buttonhook find and Lillian’s diaries that had been left to the university.

  “I’d like to see that buttonhook one day,” Lily said.

  “I’ll send you photos,” Nick promised. “And a copy of my article as soon as I finish it.”

  “When will that be?” Lily’s daughter asked.

  “That depends on what you and your mother can tell me. At the moment, I’m having trouble piecing together exactly what happened after the great fire.”

  “Of course you are,” Lily said, winking at her daughter. “It’s a family secret.”

  Pearl beamed. “It’s a story I loved hearing as a girl. It was so romantic and exciting. I always hoped something like that would happen to me.” Her tone said her wish hadn’t come true.

  “I hope it’s not so much of a family secret that you’ll feel unable to tell me,” Nick said.

  “It depends on why you want to know,” Lily replied.

  “An archaeologist’s job is to preserve the past. But Ophir’s gone now, lost to time, and a cliff slide ruined my chances of understanding Lillian and Pearl Benson. If you don’t help me, they’ll be lost forever.”

  Lily smiled. “They’ve been baptized properly and raised to heaven.”

  Nick said, “Think of it this way. If I write their story, your great-great grandchildren will be able to read about them a hundred years from now.”

  Lily laughed. “At the rate we’re going, there’ll be a lot more generations than that in a hundred years. It might be nice, though, for the family.”

  “We should do it, Mother,” Pearl added.

  Lily nodded. “I think you’re right. So many memories are lost when a person dies. Where would you like us to begin, dear?”

  “Tell me about the fire in Ophir,” Nick replied. “I found one death certificate that says Pearl died in that fire. But if that had happened, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” Lily smiled. “Well, dear, this is one time being old helps, because these days my memory works backwards. The stories my mother told me are fresher in my mind than what happened yesterday.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “If I concentrate hard enough, I can still see my mother and hear her voice.”