A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I limped up the bare and dusty rise to the road, grit sliding into my open-toed sandals, my passage dislodging small rocks that clanked on the underside of the car. This was all Deputy Howell’s fault. He’d sent me on this backcountry hike.

  Yeah, but you’d agreed to go, the reasonable voice in my head reminded me.

  Be quiet. I needed quality griping time.

  The road was still empty. The blinding sun dipped below the rolling hills, backlighting a line of brown-and-white pronghorns watching me with their deer-like curiosity. With the passing light, the temperature dipped. Nine miles. In sandals. I turned and started trudging up the road. The landscape turned grayish blue, and the sky glowed with gold merging into coral, then lavender. I paused in appreciation. God sure knew how to paint the sky.

  The light dimmed and the first stars blinked down coldly. I clutched my purse closer, hugging it for warmth.

  A coyote yodeled in the distance and night crept closer. Without thinking, I kicked a small pile of gravel, jamming a rock under my big toe. Pausing to tug it out, I heard a murmur behind me. Tiny yellow headlights popped into view.

  With my luck it would be two teens on a killing spree in a stolen car.

  I’m in the . . . what? Not the buckle of the Bible belt. Magnetic middle of Mormonism? I hoped it was a farmer returning from town. The headlights grew larger.

  Then again, Gwen, you’ve been working on a Mormon massacre site.

  I stepped to the side of the road, trying to make up my mind. Hide or wave them down? I wished I didn’t know quite so much about crime. The light blinded me. I cupped my hand to block some of the glare. I’d look pretty darn stupid if I hightailed it off the road now.

  I waved my arms.

  A van stopped and road dust enveloped me. Only when the cloud settled did the driver roll down the window, but not before I heard the click of locking doors. The driver was a plain-looking woman with long, braided hair. “Kinda far from civilization. Had an accident?”

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Yes, I need to call someone to pull my car out.”

  She seemed to chew on my words for a moment. In the light from the dashboard, I could see some of the passengers. All were female, with braided hair, wearing matching calico blouses.

  “What are you doing here?” she finally asked.

  My reason for coming was really none of her business. On the other hand, the night was approaching, the town at least nine lonely miles away, and Ted Bundy’s apprentice could be driving the next vehicle up the road. “I don’t know if you know the Kenyon family?”

  She nodded.

  “I have an appointment with them.”

  “Oh?”

  “They know I’m coming. My name is Gwen Marcey.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gwen Marcey.”

  Okay, this wasn’t getting me a ride into town. “I’m here to talk to them about their daughter, Rebekah.”

  “But Rebekah’s gone. Died maybe four or five years ago.”

  “Someone took the identity of their daughter, Rebekah—”

  One of the girls in the back gasped.

  Maybe I had more folks to interview. “Uh . . . and I’m following up on it.”

  “I’ll take you there.” She looked in the rearview mirror. “Girls, make room for Sister Gwen.”

  The van door slid open. A line of white grocery bags declaring Bee Prepared formed a small barrier. The girls shifted several bags, creating a narrow passage, and two girls hopped on laps to provide me a place to sit. I paused for a moment, staring at their clothing. What I took for calico shirts were long, pioneer-style dresses. I crawled in, shut the door, and wiggled my adult-size behind between the tiny rumps of the girls. Seat belts didn’t seem to be an issue, so I just prayed we wouldn’t encounter another pronghorn.

  The radio played the same hellfire speaker, now pounding a point about “going forth.” It was either a popular radio station or the only station. The girls whispered in each other’s ears, shyly glanced at me, and giggled.

  “So,” I said. “Did any of you girls know Rebekah Kenyon?”

  Silence except for the radio. “In these last days, lookin’ forward to the Day of Judgment and destruction, where the faithful will return to Adam-ondi-Ahman, and Zion shall flourish . . .”

  I folded my hands and stared ahead, trying to figure out what an Adam-ondi-Ahman was.

  We finally pulled up to a well-lit, sprawling house at the end of an abbreviated driveway. The woman turned off the radio, pointed, and said, “Prophet Kenyon’s.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He’s a prophet.”

  “Oh.” I jumped from the van, but before I could thank them properly, they drove off. I sincerely hoped this was the Kenyon household or, if not, that at least they had a phone I could use.

  The house seemed to squat in the middle of . . . nothing. I strolled toward the front stoop. A small boy popped his head up in the window and cupped his hands around his eyes. I wiggled my fingers at him. Two girls with braids joined him. Then three more boys in denim overalls lined up and peered out. A second window filled with more young children.

  The setting sun glinted off a shiny bumper to my left. I squinted and stepped closer. I couldn’t see the color clearly, but it was a dark-colored pickup with a king cab. It reminded me of the pickup in the parking lot and the one that may have been following me.

  The light gleaming from the house suddenly grew dim. I glanced at the windows. One by one, the curious faces disappeared behind rapidly pulled venetian blinds. I didn’t appear to be welcome at the Kenyon household. Before I could check it out, the front door jerked open, and a lean, distinguished-looking man peered at me from under pale eyebrows. His tanned face was free of wrinkles, which belied the mass of snowy-white hair. A short beard trimmed his chin. “You must be Sister Gwen.”

  I blinked. This was the voice on the radio, the one talking about Adam-ondi-Ahman and Zion, the Jay-eeee-sas-a preacher. Or whatever Mormons called their ministers. I hoped he’d give me the necessary information, lend me a phone, and let me leave without hearing the rest of the sermon.

  “Hi, Mr.—Prophet Kenyon?”

  The man nodded, examining me as if attempting to read my soul. His intense gaze finally lingered on the small silver cross at my throat. His lips thinned for an instant.

  Rack up a cultural faux pas. I’d forgotten Mormons don’t wear, or display, the cross.

  As he opened the door wider, I surreptitiously tucked my cross into my shirt, then followed him into a living room the size of a hotel lobby. It was tidy enough but filled with well-used furniture representing the decorating styles of the last twenty years. Burnt-orange chairs squatted next to a mauve sofa with teal pillows, all sitting on an avocado shag carpet. The clashing colors briefly took away my appetite.

  A lank woman perched on a chair, hand sewing the hem of a dress. Next to her was a plastic laundry basket overflowing with more clothing. She wore the same kind of dress as the women in the van, but hers hung from her bony shoulders like wash hanging on a clothesline. Her white-blond hair was tightly pulled into a braid and her face—void of makeup—looked worn.

  “Mrs. Kenyon? I’m Gwen Marcey.” I held out my hand.

  The woman stared at it as if mesmerized before offering her own. Her hand was callused and limp. Interview techniques 101: learn the witness’s name and shake his or her hand. Bad idea if handshakes are not part of the culture.

  Taking the rocking chair next to her, I smiled. “Thank you both for talking to me. I’m sorry for the late arrival. An antelope drove me off the road.”

  Mrs. Kenyon paused in her stitching and stared at me like I had fuchsia spots on my nose. I shifted my weight, and the chair let out a mournful squeak. Mr. Kenyon, who sat on the nearest sofa, frowned at the floor. Establish rapport. Not established.

  “Yes, well, I’ll need a tow truck when we’re finished.” More silence. A pendulum clock thock-thock-thocked across the room.


  After clearing my throat, I tried again. “I’m so sorry about the loss of your daughter.”

  Mrs. Kenyon nodded slightly, then bent over her sewing.

  “God’s will,” Prophet Kenyon said. Mrs. Kenyon nodded again.

  “Yes, well, uh, do you have a photograph of Rebekah?”

  Mrs. Kenyon rose, moved to a bookshelf with cabinets below. Her long dress reached her ankles, exposing an incongruous pair of black-and-white Nike Air Max shoes. I gauged the size compared to the stomped face of my reconstruction yesterday. Maybe. I hadn’t seen any fundamentalists at the center, but they could have stayed on the far side of the room.

  Mrs. Kenyon rummaged around until she found a single photograph. She handed the snapshot to me. I accepted the photo with both hands, carefully touching only the edges. A pretty girl, about the same age as Aynslee, grinned at the camera. Dappled sunlight lit up her pale-blond hair worn in two braids. I swallowed hard. How would I handle losing a child? I glanced at Mrs. Kenyon. A single tear slipped from her eye.

  “May I send this photo to the Washington County Sheriff’s Department? Deputy Howell is in charge of the case. He’s the one who called you and set up this meeting.”

  They both nodded. I pulled my sketchpad from my purse and opened it. On top was the list of surviving children from the display in Mountain Meadows. I’d forgotten I’d kept it. I glanced at the Kenyons, but they didn’t seem to notice. Good. I didn’t know how sensitive they would be to seeing a reminder of an ugly chapter in Mormon history. I tucked the sign into the back of the pad, then removed my sketch of the unknown girl and handed it to the prophet. “Would you please look at this drawing and tell me if you recognize her?”

  The couple bent over the image, and I watched their expressions carefully. I knew before they shook their heads that the face wasn’t familiar to them.

  “Was Rebekah’s obituary published in a newspaper or—”

  “No.”

  “Did your daughter have much contact with . . . those outside your faith?” I asked, taking back the drawing.

  Mrs. Kenyon’s gaze flickered for a moment toward her husband.

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Well, then . . .” I glanced again at Mrs. Kenyon’s drawn face and pale lashes, then at the snapshot of the young girl. Same bone structure, coloring, and braided hair as her mother, and wearing the same type of long calico dress, but with one difference.

  Rebekah was wearing mascara.

  “Did your daughter grocery shop, or ever go to town on her own?” I asked.

  “Not alone. She was never alone.” Prophet Kenyon looked like he was slurping vinegar.

  Poor Bekka. I’d have bolted long ago if constantly surrounded by these people. But she hadn’t bolted. She’d died. And our Jane Doe knew it.

  “Mr.—uh, Prophet and Mrs. Kenyon, someone either knew Rebekah, or knew enough about her to take her identity. Please help me understand how this could have happened.”

  The preacher stood and began pacing. “We are being tested.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “The time of Gathering is nigh. Only the chosen, mighty one can lead. Only a prophet.” His Southern drawl deepened. “He must prepare the way of the Lord, make His path straight. The visions are coming faster.” He jabbed a finger at me.

  I dropped my gaze and studied the small notebook in my lap. I had no idea what he was talking about, but whatever it was, he was lying.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  BEFORE I COULD FIGURE OUT WHAT TO DO NEXT, the doorbell chimed. I peeked at Mrs. Kenyon. Her shoulders relaxed for a moment. Mr. Kenyon raced to the door as if he, too, was grateful for the interruption. I cleared my throat. One shot. Talk to her now. “My friend, Beth, is a quilter. Do you like to sew?”

  She looked at the mound of clothing beside her. “Like? I suppose. The Lord calls us to do our part.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. I tried again. “Pretty country around here.” Dumb comment. It’s dried-up dessert. How would I know?

  Her eyebrows rose. “I guess.”

  “I love these wide-open spaces. Can’t tolerate the cities.”

  She leaned forward a bit. “It can get overwhelming. It can all get overwhelming.”

  Somehow I didn’t think she was referring to her location. Push on. Time’s almost out. “I’m from Montana. Living remote like that, I worry about forest fires. Here I assume it would be wild fires. Do you worry about that?”

  “I hadn’t thought much about it. Several of my . . . the young men around here are on fire crews, so I suppose we’re safe enough.”

  Bingo. Pulaski-wielding, Mormon fanatics. Eat your heart out, Sherlock Holmes. I’d give Deputy Howell a heads–up as soon as I found a phone.

  Prophet Kenyon stepped into the room and motioned me over. “Your car is ready.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sister Frances, the woman who picked you up, sent some men to pull your car out of the ditch. She’ll drive you over.”

  “That was kind of her.” A warmth spread up my neck, and I hoped it wasn’t showing on my face. I’d just been thinking his flock was a bunch of murdering nutcakes. Could a leader inspire both kindness and destruction? His earlier behavior, based on studies and research into deception and lies, told me that Kenyon was concealing something. His physical action, finger pointing, should have come just before his passionate comments about a prophet and visions. Jabbing the air afterward showed he either wasn’t convinced or wasn’t telling the truth.

  “I . . . well, here’s my card if you can think of anything else. I’m a reserve deputy for Ravalli County, Montana. The sheriff’s number is there as well, if you need to talk to him.”

  I trotted to the waiting van, slipped into the passenger seat, and nodded at Frances. “Thank you so much. I was prepared to call a tow truck—”

  “You’d have to wait a long time to get one.” She flashed me a grin. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten, so I made a sandwich. There’s a water bottle next to you.”

  “Thank you.” I unfolded the wax paper to find a slab of homemade bread slathered with butter and honey. The sweet flavor rolled across my tongue. I moaned and she smiled again. Frances—calling her Sister Frances made me think of a convent, not an escapee from Little House on the Prairie—loosely held the steering wheel and hummed as we turned down the road.

  “That’s a nice tune,” I said.

  “ ‘The Unknown Grave,’ by Joseph’s last son, David.”

  So many questions about Rebekah piled into my brain. I had this single chance to talk to her alone, and only nine miles to get answers. “Did you know Rebekah Kenyon?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows everyone here. It was so sad when she died.”

  “Did she have much contact with anyone outside of Jarom? I need to find out who knew her or at least was aware that she died.”

  Frances scrunched up her mouth for a moment. “Well, we go to town for groceries, get together with our families a couple of times a year, like Pioneer Day . . . but there would be no reason to take someone’s identity. That would be . . . a sin or something.”

  “Okay, maybe someone close to your LDS—”

  “We’re not LDS.”

  “Oh. So, what’s the name of your church?”

  “The First Born Apostolic Brethren in Christ.”

  I bet she couldn’t say that fast ten times. “You’re an offshoot of the Latter-day Saints?”

  “We are Christ’s true church as restored by Joseph Smith.”

  “Ah, okay, uh . . .” I thought for a moment. “Let’s assume that it wasn’t a member of your church. Maybe someone living in Jarom that’s not a church member—”

  “No. We have the Law of Consecration. The church owns all the property in Jarom.”

  If the church owned all the property, and Kenyon was head of the church, he would have considerable power and control, both being good motives for murder. �
��Tell me about Prophet Kenyon. What, for example, makes him a prophet?”

  She turned her head and gave me a speculative glance. Apparently my face reflected nothing disparaging. “God speaks to him.”

  I’d discussed a few issues with God myself, but this sounded decidedly different. “Don’t you believe God talks to you?”

  She puckered her lips in thought. “Yeeeess, but God reveals things to Prophet Kenyon. Future events, rules, laws, what people should do or not do. He speaks for God.”

  “Oh.” Careful here, Gwen. “What if Prophet Kenyon says God told him something different from the Bible?”

  “The Bible’s been corrupted over time. It’s not accurate.”

  “What about, say, the Book of Mormon?”

  “God can change His mind.”

  “I see.” I looked out the window. “Doesn’t the LDS Church have a prophet also?”

  She made a harrumph sound. “They may call someone prophet, but he doesn’t have the keys.”

  I kept silent and continued to watch the landscape unfold in the beams of the headlights.

  “Prophet John Taylor had the keys to the kingdom,” she continued. “Prophet Kenyon received the authority through the prophets following Taylor.”

  She might as well have told me about deriving a formula using pi. “And John Taylor is . . .”

  “Was. He died in, I think maybe 1887. He was there, you know.”

  “There?”

  “At the martyrdom. Of Joseph Smith.”

  Before I could work out this bit of information, I spotted my car. My helpful Mormon AAA crew managed to drag it from its resting place back onto the road. Frances aimed her headlights so I could check out the damages, but before I got out of the car, I pulled out my Jane Doe sketch. “Would you look at this drawing and tell me if you recognize the girl?”

  Frances took it, then turned on an overhead light. She pursed her lips in concentration, then looked at me. “God has blessed you with a mighty art talent, Sister Gwen.”

  “Ah, well, thank you. She . . . Do you know this girl? The one who took Bekka’s identity?”