Dave was hanging up the phone when I entered the kitchen. He frowned at the floor, then glanced up. “Deputy Howell is on his way here to talk to you.”
“Why? Can’t we talk on the phone?”
“He said he was following up on your email from last night and had to head out to Jarom and Provo today to reinterview the Kenyons. He wants to pick up the memory card in person, interview you, and check out the hand. Seems you were right about George.”
“I told you so.”
Dave briefly smiled. “I bet you love saying that.” He pointed toward my studio. “Would you draw the hand you saw?”
“Sure.”
Dave trailed me down the hall and sat in the oversize wingback chair. I settled at my drafting table, pulled out a sheet of Bristol paper, and sketched. Once I’d finished shading the hand, I drew an enlargement of the ring in the right corner, then held it up. “Done.”
Dave stood and took it from me. “Good. I’ll fax it to Deputy Howell.” He placed the drawing on the computer desk, sat down, and looked at me. “Now, why do you think Mormons are responsible for the murder of Jane Doe and the mutilation of George’s body?”
“I didn’t say Mormons—”
“Yes, you did.”
I stood. “I meant fundamentalist Mormons.”
“Same difference.”
“No. The Mormon fundamentalists are the polygamists.”
“So being married to several women leads you to mutilate corpses?” He folded his arms.
“That’s not what I said.” I started to pace.
“You’re giving me a hand in your yard and polygamist Mormons.”
“Forget the polygamy!” I so wanted to kick him.
“Then why bring it up?”
“Can I start over?” I stopped pacing.
“Please do.”
“The fundamentalists practice polygamy—”
Dave raised a finger.
“—AND believe in blood atonement.”
Dave put up both hands in surrender. “Keep going.”
“Blood atonement is a ritual form of punishment for particular sins and I believe, because of Jane Doe’s injuries, that she was murdered—”
“So what was her sin?”
“I don’t know.”
“So how do you connect George’s hand ending up outside your house to Jane Doe?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know and you’re not sure. Gwen, where’s that analytical brain of yours?”
“According to Robert, my brain’s forever corrupted because of chemo.”
“Forget Robert. Connect the hand and Jane Doe.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. Here’s my sequence of events leading up to the hand in the woods. Jane Doe was possibly meeting someone on her trip.”
“How do you know?”
“Ethan told me. Or rather, he told Deputy Howell.”
“Ethan. Now there’s an Ethan?”
“He’s Jane Doe’s boyfriend. I met him at the motel in Fancher. Oh!”
“What?”
“Ethan! The sheriff’s department had all of Jane Doe’s things except the memory card and whatever Ethan had. Even though Ethan didn’t want to give anything to Howell, I told the deputy about it. I also told Ethan to FedEx the items to Jane Doe’s parents’ house. I only found out later about her stolen identity. What if . . . what if it was something more than just a jacket and paperback? What if she was meeting someone to pass this item to?”
Dave tapped the table with his fingers. “Earth to Gwen. Helloooo? What was she supposed to be delivering?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it was, if I’m right, it was important enough to kill her for it. Maybe the item is still at the motel waiting for pick up? And Ethan may be in danger! No. No. He said his folks were picking him up. He’s probably home by now. Or back in class.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. Right. It’s not my case.” I nodded. “Of course, then George was late for work.”
“What?”
“And they’ve been following me ever since.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know, you’re not sure, George is late for work, some faceless ‘they’—”
“Not faceless. I can draw him! I saw him in Provo—”
Dave threw up his hands and gave me The Look.
He’d read Robert’s book. “Dave, I’m not crazy, and if I weren’t bald already, I’d tear out my hair right now.” I tried to slow my words but they tumbled out. “Jane Doe was delivering something or meeting someone. She fainted at the interpretive center and was escorted back to her motel. If she was meeting George, she’d missed him because she left early and he arrived late. The killer must have been at the center and witnessed her fainting, then followed her back to the motel and killed her. When he didn’t find . . . whatever it was, he went back to the center and killed George, then trashed the place looking for . . . the thing.”
“Why would anyone assume you had it?”
I chewed my lip, thinking. “I don’t know. Someone searched my room, though, because that prescription bottle—”
Dave sat up straighter. “What prescription?”
“Lorazepam,” I said reluctantly. “I don’t take it often. But if someone searched my hotel room, they’d know I had an anti-anxiety drug, and they’d know I didn’t have their treasure.”
Dave stared at me.
“So . . . so if they think I still have this item, and if they think I’m taking drugs because I’m unstable, maybe he followed me, waiting to kill me next, scaring me with George’s hand to make me feel more crazy . . . or . . . or . . .” I could feel tears welling up. I turned away and struggled to compose myself.
“It’s okay, Gwen, just—”
I spun around to him. “Jane Doe is dead.” I made a slashing motion across my throat, chest, and bowels. “Like this. Sliced up like a butchered lamb. Up until 1990, this was the LDS’s acted-out penalty for revealing secrets.”
Dave’s eyes widened.
I ticked off on my fingers. “George is dead, throat cut. His hand was cut off and placed so I’d find it. Someone’s been following me, driving a blue pickup, Utah license number B95 2DT. I can draw his composite. Someone should follow up on Ethan. I’m not crazy.”
The storm broke, the rain pelting against the roof with a volley of oversize drops.
“You said you told Deputy Howell about Ethan, but I’ll call him when I get back to the office. And I’ll suspend judgment for now on some of your conclusions.” Dave leaned against the counter and was silent for a few moments, then took out a notepad and jotted down the license number. “I’ll get a tracking dog to see what we can find with the missing hand. We’ll test for latent bloodstains. The storm won’t help, but we’ll give it a try. Speaking of dogs, where’s yours?”
“Winston’s still with Beth.”
“Get him back. You need a watchdog.” He picked up the sketch from the table.
“Let me put that in something. I don’t want it to get wet.” I found a small box that once contained Bristol paper, placed the sketch inside, then put the box in a plastic grocery bag.
“I’ll follow up on the license. In the meantime, please stay home. And . . . don’t . . . uh . . . share your theories with anyone else.”
“What about the memory card?”
Dave rubbed his face. “What memory card?”
“The one belonging to Jane Doe. The one with the photograph of Joseph Smith’s death mask that resembles my Mountain Meadows reconstruction.”
“Why don’t we get to that later. Stay home.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. You good?”
I nodded. “Go. Call me when you’ve set things up.”
“We’ll talk soon.”
Dave raced through the deluge to his car and tossed the plastic bag on the seat beside him. After cranking up the heat, he headed toward the highway
. On one hand, it did seem as if someone were playing mind games with Gwen, but she seemed obsessed with the whole Mormon thing. Her last comment about Joseph Smith and her reconstruction was bizarre. He should give her a call and ask if she had any meds left over from her visits with the shrink. Traffic was light, so he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers until he found Gwen’s. Catching a blur of movement, he snapped his head left. The window filled with the towering chrome grill of a careening truck.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
THE STORM PASSED QUICKLY. WATERY SUNSHINE peered through the clouds and cast a jaundiced glow into the kitchen. I picked up the top package from the small stack by the door to carry to my studio. When I turned, Aynslee stood in the doorway.
I couldn’t help staring at my daughter. Her long ginger hair fanned out from her face in spiral curls. Her skin alabaster, her figure slender. Her size zero jeans hugged her almost nonexistent waist, and a sleeveless T-shirt barely covered her navel. The tiny, silver nose ring was the only hint of her ongoing rebellion. She was beautiful, and I desperately wanted to hug her and tell her that everything would be fine, that her world, and mine, would be the way it used to be. I wanted to lie.
She sniffed, blew her nose, then said, “Sorry.”
I debated sending her back to her room until her apology sounded genuine. I decided to let it go for now. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I guess.”
I put the boxes down and pulled out a kitchen chair, but before I could sit, a car pulled up next to the house. Aynslee rushed to the door before I could say anything and charged outside. I followed.
Beth slipped from her silver Sequoia, followed by Winston. The dog beelined for the nearest tree. Beth brushed the dog hair from her navy slacks, straightened her khaki jacket, then removed her sunglasses and placed them into a leather case. “I had to wait until Norm left for his fishing trip. You know, he really would have canceled it for you.”
“I know.” I squeezed her arm.
She waved at Aynslee. “Aynslee! I’m so glad you’re home. And I must say you look pulchritudinous today.”
“I do not!” Aynslee said.
“Oh dear.” Beth frowned. “That was my word of the day. It means beautiful.”
“Oh.” Aynslee shoved a strand of hair off her face. “Mom got fired.”
I stiffened.
“I know. She told me.”
“Come on in.” I stopped and looked at Beth. “You didn’t, by the way, see anyone driving a blue pickup on your way over?”
“This is Montana. Everyone drives a pickup. But no, I didn’t notice.”
I turned. Aynslee shot past us toward the dog. “Aynslee, come into the house and please bring Winston with you. Dave’s calling for a tracking dog, and I don’t need Winston to muck things up.” Winston and Aynslee tussled a bit before she paused, shrugged, and grabbed Winston’s collar.
Beth trailed me into my studio, formerly a screened-in porch, occupying the entire north end of the house. Large windows on three sides provided perfect light for watercolor painting, with the fourth wall a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. I’d always dreamed of being a full-time artist, and Robert surprised me eight years ago with my own room. He knew me so well then that he’d even chosen a functional, melamine-surfaced drafting table and chair and a matching sculpture stand. I would have preferred the warmth of wood now, but I didn’t have the funds to replace them. Near the bookshelves, my “thinking spot,” a cozy, floral-covered, wingback chair—my addition to the room—invited me to sit for a spell. I crossed to the corner built-in computer desk.
“You must catch me up on this case.” Beth took the wingback chair.
“Well . . .”
“And no holding back. Remember, you gave me sidekick status. Robin to your Batman and all that.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not doing this so you can wear a costume?”
Beth waved her hand as if wiping away the vision. “Hardly. I have an idea what you’d look like in spandex.”
“Ouch!”
“I couldn’t resist. Anyway, I love doing research, and I have some interesting facts to share.”
“Okay, you start.”
Beth crossed her legs and plucked a dog hair off her neatly creased pants. “No, you lead.”
I thought for a moment. “I need to make a phone call and update an FBI agent on the events. How about you listen in?”
“Excellent. No duplication of effort.”
Aynslee wandered in with Winston. The dog slumped on his bed in the corner, and Aynslee joined him, using the Pyrenees as a large, hairy pillow.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Mike Brown.”
His voice left me tongue-tied for a moment.
“Hello?” He sounded impatient.
“Oh, hi, Mike. It’s me. Gwen. Gwen Marcey.”
“Hi there, Gwen. I was just thinking about you.”
A warm flush crept up my neck. I turned so Beth and Aynslee wouldn’t see. “I’ve had a couple of things happen that I thought you should know about.” I told him about the hand.
A slight gasp made me turn. Beth’s mouth was open, and Aynslee sat straight up in the corner.
I nodded at Beth and made a writing motion in the air. Beth opened her purse, pulled out a small lavender pad of paper, and started writing furiously.
I spoke slower so Beth could keep up. I covered the resemblance between my sculpture and Jane Doe’s photograph of the death mask.
Aynslee stood and peeked out the window.
“—and Zion, and Adam-on-something, and someone with the proper keys.” I finished, then held my breath, hoping Mike wouldn’t think I was crazy.
“You think the murders are connected by an unknown object?”
“Yes.”
“This might be the break we’ve been waiting for.” He spoke faster. “You need to stay put and lay low until I can put something together. Did you order the skulls recast?”
“Yes, they’re here. But Bentley fired me. I’ll have to send them back.”
“The FBI just hired you to finish the one you think looks like Smith.”
I sank into my drafting chair. “What did you just say?” I glanced at Beth and mouthed the words, “He’s offering me a job!”
Beth mouthed, “Yeah!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Bait. Maybe we can lure these killers out of hiding.”
“Killers? Do you think there’s more than one?”
“I don’t know.”
I glanced at Aynslee. “Are we safe?”
“I’m on my way, but, you know, you shouldn’t leave your house.”
“But I can’t do the reconstruction without more clay. I need to get to the art store in Missoula to buy more.”
“No. Don’t drive anywhere. I’ll get what you need.”
“Okay. I’ll need about eight pounds of clay to be safe. Oil-based, nonhardening. In a Caucasian flesh color or combination of colors that I can mix.”
“Will do. You know, I’m looking forward to seeing this reconstruction.”
I shook my head slightly. Mike just said several “you knows.” That meant something he just told me was a sensitive topic. What was the man concealing? “Uh . . . Mike, if we’re not in any danger, why do I need to stay here? It’s really not any problem to get the clay myself.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. “You should understand what’s happening. The ring you saw on George with the flag and wings belongs to a domestic terrorist group called the Avenging Angels. They leave it as a signature of their handiwork.”
“Avenging Angels?”
Beth let out a squeak.
“I’ll explain when I see you.” Mike hung up.
I looked at my friend. “Well?”
“That was what I wanted to tell you. My research.”
“I didn’t ask you to look into anything.”
Beth stood. “I know. But all this started at M
ountain Meadows, so I did some research. I came across the name Avenging Angels.”
“So—”
“They’re responsible for the Mountain Meadows Massacre. Brigham Young’s secret death squad.”
Dave shoved the airbag away from his face. Blood pooled below him. Blood? He shook his head and more blood dripped into the growing puddle. I’m upside down. Accident. The seat belt suspended him above the crumpled ceiling of the car. His leg pounded like a jackhammer. Smelling gasoline, he turned the engine off.
“Hey, are you okay?” Cascading dirt and rocks marked the descent of a Good Samaritan. “Hold on. I’m almost there.” More dust filtered through the broken window, then two khaki-clad legs appeared. “I called 911. They should be here any minute.”
“Thanks.” Dave braced one hand above him and reached for the seat belt release. He briefly glimpsed the man’s face, then the muzzle of a gun.
I sank into my chair, trying to figure how an eighteen hundreds death squad fit into a present-day series of murders. I simply didn’t know enough, and I was heartily tired of looking like a deranged idiot when I tried to explain. I nodded at the desk computer. “Beth, as my new sidekick, I’m officially appointing you deputy in charge of research. I need help so I can present a coherent case when everyone converges here.”
“Who’s coming?” Aynslee asked.
“Deputy Howell and Agent Mike Brown. Dave’s following up on the missing hand and will call in a tracking dog—”
“Winston tracks, after a fashion,” Beth said.
“People. And he knocks them down.” I glanced at the dozing mound of white fur. “Mike hired me to work on the one skull. I need a few things from the car, then we’ll get to work.”
“What task do you want me to perform?” Beth launched to her feet.
“Mike mentioned bait. If he’s going to make the case that the skull I reconstructed was Joseph Smith, I need to know more about the man. Would you look up where Smith was supposed to be buried? Aynslee, come with me.” I called Winston to heel, and we stepped out just as the sun dipped behind the mountains, pitching the valley into cobalt-blue shadows. Winston would be our early-warning system if someone lurked in the woods. Aynslee helped me unpack the car.
A Cry from the Dust Page 11
