A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  The woman dropped the sketch and covered her mouth with both hands. She closed her eyes, then folded her arms and appeared to be praying.

  I wasn’t familiar with the social and spiritual customs of fundamentalist Mormons. Had she reacted to my drawing, something I said, or did she simply need to pray at that precise moment? I cleared my throat.

  She finished, then fished the drawing from her lap and handed it to me with trembling hands. “It’s true, then. Someone from our faith took Bekka’s identity. That’s so . . . dishonest.”

  “Umm”—I nodded encouragement—“so, you do know her? The girl in the drawing?”

  “No. But you called her Bekka.”

  “Yes, that’s the name Jane Doe went by.”

  “Only those close to our family knew Rebekah went by that name.”

  I waited, nodding my head again.

  She laced her fingers together, then stared at them. When she finally spoke, her voice was so soft I leaned forward to hear. “Did someone murder this girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? How was she murdered?”

  “It was pretty . . . bloody.”

  Frances stared at me, face pale. “Please. I must know. How?”

  “Someone . . . they sliced her throat and cut her torso.”

  She sucked in a breath of air. “Blood atonement.” The words came out as a whisper. “We don’t share our troubles with the Gentiles. But now there’s . . . this.” She glanced at me, then back to her hands. “About ten years ago there was a terrible split in the family. Prophet Kenyon, of course, had the keys. But the other claimed he was the one mighty and strong, the true son, and he had the scepter of power.”

  “This other. What’s his name and where is he now?”

  Frances rolled her lips together, then covered them with her hand. I pushed for an answer. “Please help me, Frances.”

  “I’ve said too much. You need to go now.” She turned off the light, then faced forward.

  It would seem our interview was over. “Thank you.” She didn’t acknowledge my words. I slipped out of the van. As soon as I’d closed the door, she sped off.

  The car was drivable, though banged up. Before heading toward home, I found my notebook and wrote down her comments. Now all Deputy Howell had to do to find Jane Doe’s killer was to look for a mighty and strong fundamentalist prophet without the proper keys who practiced blood atonement.

  Whatever that meant.

  Sweat ran down Aynslee’s back and she shivered in spite of the heat. Car trunks made her claustrophobic, but to escape this stupid school, it was the only way. She’d already waited two days to find an unlocked ride in the visitor’s lot. What time is it? Their idiotic exercise period lasted an hour, then showers and lunch. They wouldn’t notice she’d gone AWOL until the midday head count. By then she should be in Sandpoint, Idaho. She figured the driver would stop to eat, and she could look around for another ride.

  She’d been shocked when her mom enrolled her in the Selkirk Academy, a school for out-of-control kids. She wasn’t the one acting out. Her mom should have enrolled herself here. Aynslee smiled, picturing her mom in gym class.

  The warmth and gentle rocking of the car made her sleepy, and she drifted off, only to awaken when the car slowed, turned twice, stopped, and the engine shut off. She waited until she heard the door slam, then counted slowly to ten.

  The lock release seemed as loud as a gunshot. She waited for someone to scream at the noise. Silence. She raised the trunk lid just high enough to slip out.

  A family strolled by, and she pretended to be tying her shoe, then stood and glanced around. The golden arches of a McDonald’s were surrounded by an enormous parking lot about three-quarters full. She recognized the location. Dave had stopped here when he’d driven her to the school three weeks ago. She was just north of Sandpoint.

  Thumbing a lift was asking for the cops to pick her up. She sauntered toward the drive-through, checking out the possibilities. She spotted him almost immediately. Under a dirty baseball cap, the dude had unkempt, wavy hair and a pathetic attempt at a mustache and beard. He wore a faded Deadhead T-shirt. He opened the door and jumped into a rusty Chrysler Cordoba.

  Perfect. Her parents, and Dave, would really be sorry they’d been so mean.

  I had degrees of tired. This qualified as the highest, sort of the Oscar of exhaustion. With the windows wide open, I regularly pinched myself to stay awake and keep the car off the center line. The words ran through my brain like a pagan chant . . . Provo, Provo, Provo.

  It wasn’t all that late, but the combination of the long drive and hitting my head in the crash had taken a toll. As I drew near the city, I watched for an exit promising motels nearby. Finally, an eternity later, I turned off the highway and watched for the most beautiful word in the world: Vacancy.

  Next to a store catering to survivalists was a budget-chain motel. I opened my trunk to pull out my suitcase, but the results from all the day’s adventures had turned the trunk into a junk heap. Forget it. I’ll sleep in my shirt. Tomorrow I’d rummage through and find something fresh to wear.

  Room 210 smelled faintly of cleaning solution but was serviceable. A quick spider check between the sheets and I hopped in. The last thing I remembered was my head sinking onto a clean pillow.

  The slamming of motel and car doors woke me the next morning. Soon housekeeping would be adding their gentle nudge for me to get going. The lime-green room featured a Lilliputian coffee machine, two paper cups, white powder pretending to be creamer, and decaf. Decaf? Life could be so unfair.

  I made a cup of the nasty stuff, then jumped back into bed to get some work done. Using my laptop, banged up but still functional, I started a report on my interview of the Kenyons for Deputy Howell.

  Report on interview with the Kenyons, first draft.

  I met with Prophet Kenyon and Mrs. Kenyon, or a Mrs. Kenyon as I’m not sure . . .

  Don’t assume there are more Mrs. Kenyons.

  [delete, delete, delete]

  I met with Prophet Kenyon and Mrs. Kenyon at 1900 hours at their home, 12745 West Jarom Road, Jarom, Utah.

  I typed our conversation, double-spaced, then added my concerns.

  Prophet Kenyon is unconvinced that his visions are coming closer . . .

  Hmm. Maybe that’s not the part he’s lying about?

  [delete, delete, delete]

  Prophet Kenyon lied at least once, and may be a person of interest in the blood atonement killing of Jane Doe. You might look into judgment and destruction, Adam-something, Zion, someone mighty and strong without the proper keys . . .

  I sounded like an idiot.

  [click, move cursor, highlight, delete]

  Just send the interview without any conclusions. I uploaded the report, then raised my arms over my head and gave it a Rocky send-off. “Da-da-daaa, da-da-daaa.” Phone calls were next. I felt like I’d lost contact with the world, not having my cell.

  Beth accepted my collect call but didn’t wait for my excuse. “Where are you? I tried calling several times.”

  “I’m at the Budget Stays Motel in Provo.” I told her about my car and the Kenyon interview.

  “Outstanding! You’ll solve the girl’s murder, and that older man—”

  “George.”

  “Yes. George. You’ll clear up the whole thing.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ve done my part.”

  “Don’t be boring. On television, the heroine always stays on the case until it’s solved.”

  “Beth, I’m hardly a heroine. And that’s television. Reality is that a forensic artist does her part, then turns her work over to the lead detective or deputy. Done. Finished. Anything more is considered the Superman Syndrome.”

  “That sounds intriguing.”

  “Hardly. It’s a negative term.”

  “Definition?”

  “It’s a forensic artist who thinks their contribution alone can resolve a crime. Like a superhero.”

  “We
ll, I think you’re a superhero,” Beth said softly.

  “Maybe my image will tarnish when I tell you I was fired.”

  Beth was silent for a moment. “A mistake on their part. Your work at the interpretive center is world class. When you return there—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I. Was. Fired. My work’s done. My contribution to the case, done. Finished. Completed. Ended—”

  “At least your vocabulary’s improving.”

  “Do you always look for a silver lining?”

  “Of course. There’s a reason for everything.”

  I snorted. “Yeah. Right.”

  “At least you’re involved in that homicide of the girl. My research—”

  “Oh no, Beth. I’m not involved in that case. I’m only helping out.”

  “Then you don’t want to hear about blood atonement—”

  “What did you say?”

  “The ritual way that someone killed that girl. Blood atonement.”

  “Frances used those very words! What is it?”

  “Only if you make me Samwise Gamgee to your Frodo Baggins.”

  “I thought you said you were Watson to my Holmes?”

  “You’re not addicted to opium. Anyway, Brigham Young addressed it in a sermon in 1856. He taught that Jesus’ blood was not enough to save you from certain sins. Therefore, it was necessary to kill the sinner and spill his blood.”

  I shook my head, even though Beth couldn’t see it. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Hardly. Brenda Lafferty and her fifteen-month-old daughter were murdered that way in 1984. The story about her case became a best seller.”

  “Can you find me a copy of the book?”

  “I’ve already checked it out from the library for you.”

  “That’s great—”

  “There’s more. Let me read this to you: Place your right thumb under your left ear with the palm of your hand downward. Now slice your thumb quickly across your throat to your right ear—”

  “No!”

  “Wait. Place your right hand on your left breast and draw your hand quickly across the body before dropping your hand to your side. Finally, slice your thumb swiftly across your body, then drop your hand again to your side.”

  Goose pimples broke out on my arm. “Make it a knife rather than a thumb, and you’ve just described the three wounds to Jane Doe’s body. Where did you get that?”

  “Those actions were part of the secret endowment ceremony in LDS Temples to portray the death penalty for revealing secrets. They stopped doing the motions in 1990, but fundamentalist Mormons still believe in it.”

  “You’ve just made sidekick status.”

  “Do I get a badge?”

  “Wear a shiny belt buckle. Listen, I’m going to breakfast, then will check out of here and head home. It’s about an eight-and-a-half-hour drive without stops, so expect me later tonight.”

  “Good. What do you want me to research next?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. Let me think about it.” I hung up and yanked on my jeans but left off the wig, instead putting on my favorite baseball hat with Titanic embroidered across the brim. I didn’t care who stared at me while I rummaged around for clean underwear in my car.

  My pencils were scattered among the dirty clothes, and graphite from an open pencil sharpener turned a pair of white shorts a blotchy gray. I found the art case, then picked through shoes, notepads, sculpting tools, books, and a box of forgotten Girl Scout cookies, plucking out errant lead holders. After righting an empty cooler, I repacked a box of watercolors. Under a tube of Naples yellow was a small plastic container. I picked it up. It was a memory card for a digital camera.

  I turned the tiny piece of metal and plastic, about the size of a postage stamp, over in my hand. This wasn’t mine.

  Like a movie playing across my mind, I saw Deputy Howell grabbing Bekka’s, or rather Jane Doe’s, backpack, spilling the contents into my trunk and onto the street.

  She had a camera.

  This might be another important lead for Howell. I’d call him when I got home.

  I slammed the trunk shut and started toward my room, then stopped. If someone was watching me, they’d seen me find the card. I glanced around. Other than a family with five carrot-topped children piling into a van on the other side of the motel, I didn’t spot anyone. Just to be safe, I decided to check out the parked vehicles. Across the lot, perched almost by itself, was the backend of a deep-blue pickup. Utah plates. Maybe more navy than indanthrene. King cab. I memorized the number, B95 2DT. I am obsessing on blue pickups.

  I returned to room 210, taking one last peek at the truck. After showering, getting dressed, and choosing an artfully twisted peach scarf for my headdress, I asked the woman pushing the cleaning cart for breakfast suggestions. She jerked her thumb toward the highway and muttered something in Spanish. The pickup was gone.

  I drove in the indicated direction, but slammed on my brakes and pulled over when I came to a grocery store named Bee Prepared. I thought about the bags in Frances’s van.

  I turned into the lot and parked under a tree near a corner. Women wearing prairie-style dresses pushed their overloaded carts to waiting vans. Gathered around the side of the unpainted cement building huddled several groups of teenage girls. Their dresses varied, as did their hairstyles and coverings.

  Pulling out my notes from the interview with Prophet Kenyon, I found what I was looking for.

  Q. Did your daughter grocery shop or go to town on her own?

  A. She was never alone.

  Q. Who might know enough about Rebekah to take her identity?

  A. We are being tested.

  He hadn’t answered my questions. Rebekah could have met with other fundamentalist girls while her mom shopped for groceries. And Rebekah’s fate would be fodder for these girls’ gossip.

  One piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  After snapping a photo of the girls, I continued the short drive up the road to a strip mall where the Country Inn Cafe snuggled between Camera Corral and Big Eddie’s Discount Bakery.

  I parked and charged toward the entrance to the cafe, then halted.

  Camera Corral. The memory card.

  Of course, it wasn’t any of my business. I’d send the card off to Deputy Howell the first chance I got.

  But a tiny peek wouldn’t hurt. No one would know. It wasn’t like developing film.

  That wouldn’t be professional.

  It’s not your case, not your job, and it will make Beth happy. Someone should have a smidgen of satisfaction.

  I diverted to the photography store.

  The clerk, a clean-cut young man, strolled from behind the counter. “May I help you?” He seemed fascinated by my turban.

  I held up the memory card. “Can you make me a set of prints? Fast?”

  “Absolutely. Do you want me to delete the images afterward?”

  “No. How long will this take?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  I nodded. “I’m grabbing breakfast next door, then I’ll be back.”

  “Perfect. Try the huckleberry pancakes. They’re the best.”

  The smell of bacon and buttered toast seduced me when I opened the cafe door. A baby in a high chair was the first to note my entrance. He pointed a yolk-dipped finger at me. His mother stopped chatting and turned to see what had attracted the child’s interest. A waitress passed me with a pot of coffee. “Take any seat, hon.”

  When I sat down at an empty table, a matched pair of towheaded children rotated in their chairs and gazed at my head until their mother tapped them around.

  I should have worn a wig.

  After my hair first fell out from chemo, my hairdresser shaved the remaining strands. In anticipation of the inevitable baldness, I’d purchased several wigs and cleverly constructed hats that hid my condition. I found the experience of wearing one of those hats for the first time in public excruciating. I figured everyone knew. I soon got over being self-conscious,
finding my naked head more of a cancer banner. See? I’m a warrior, fighting and winning this battle. Now I was more concerned about my appearance making others uncomfortable.

  The diners finally stopped gawking and returned to their meals.

  The pancakes were, in fact, the best. Several people entered after me, each greeted like long-lost family. Apparently this was the local hangout. I felt even more the outsider, sitting alone.

  Just as I paid for my meal, a tall, slender man entered the restaurant. He caught my gaze, then turned his head as if searching for a place to sit. As the waitress counted out my change, I watched him through a mirror behind the cash register. The man took a table by the wall, sitting so he faced the door, then stared at my back. Not my turban. Either he had a lot of Sikh friends, or he was watching me. I took a mental snapshot of his features. If he was following me, I’d just mentally drawn him: wavy, burnt-umber hair, narrow nose, deep-set blue eyes, in his midforties. I could draw a composite and turn it over to Dave along with the license plate. That’ll teach someone to shadow a forensic artist. I have a pencil, and I’m not afraid to use it.

  The clerk held my prints up as I entered the store. “I made you hard copies and a CD with the images on them.”

  I paid for them, then stood at the counter and opened the packet, rummaging through the images. College photos, cowboys, a town, then one I recognized: the Utah visitor’s center. My heart thumped faster. Another grouping of images showed the inside of a building. I froze at what I saw next.

  I brought the print closer. It can’t be.

  “I need a nine-by-twelve of this one.” I held it out.

  Moments later I had the enlargement. A glassed-in display case with two faces. One looked almost exactly like my recent reconstruction from Mountain Meadows: the unfinished third man. The photograph showed the same face, although younger and without the scar, and carved from a creamy-looking clay. The resemblance was remarkable.

  The clerk nodded at the photograph. “That’s a good one, good angle and lighting. I took the same picture about a year ago.”

  “You’ve seen this sculpture before?”