A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  She fingered the package next to the bed.

  She should just send the box back to the guy who sent it: Ethan Scott. Write, No one at this address.

  ’Course, he could just show up. Then what? Maybe she could hide it.

  She crossed to the closet and pulled out her old school backpack. After tucking the package in the bottom, she stuffed a notebook and T-shirt on top, then slid the backpack under the bed. Not a great place, but she’d move it in the morning.

  The faceless man chased me. I ran, but my legs were molasses, slogging through the underbrush. Behind me, his shoes slapped against the pavement, growing closer, closer—

  I screamed. Hands grabbed me, and I screamed again.

  “Gwen, wake up! It’s me. Wake up!”

  Beth’s voice, then her words, reached me. I opened my eyes. Beth, eyebrows furrowed, stood beside me. On the other side, Winston pressed against me. The doctor said the nightmares from my last unsolved case would pass. He didn’t say when. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I was already up.”

  I nodded and peeked at the clock. I’d slept four hours. My notes and papers lay scattered on the floor. I bent to pick them up.

  “You’re soaking wet,” Beth said.

  “Cancer leftovers. Would you hand me that tablet?”

  She passed it to me. “You told me about this. Estrogen positive breast cancer.”

  “Yeah. Way fun. I’ve been on antihormone drugs. So, early menopause and night sweats.”

  She studied my face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just seeing if you’re growing a mustache.”

  “Ha. Very funny. I did buy season hockey tickets and a lifetime supply of beer and beef jerky.” I lightly punched her arm. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Good,” Beth said. “I’ve made coffee.”

  It didn’t take much time to shower and get ready. I checked my eyelids carefully. A thin line along the edge promised the growth of eyelashes. Finally. I tugged on my wig, applied a moderate amount of makeup, and followed my nose to the kitchen. Beth had apparently done more than turn on the coffeepot. The worn linoleum gleamed with a new coat of floor polish. I opened the cupboard for a mug and found new shelving paper under the crockery. “You cleaned?”

  “I needed something to do. Didn’t want to wake you by working in your studio, so I started to alphabetize your spice drawer, but they’re all outdated. You need to throw them out.”

  Before I could think of a suitable response, Winston alerted, then dashed to the door, barking.

  My heart sped up. “Hope it’s the good guys.” I looked out the window.

  Mike Brown emerged from a black Chevy Tahoe. Instead of the traditional Hoover blue suit and tie, he wore sharply creased, charcoal slacks, a thin-striped blue shirt, and a herringbone sports coat. He reached into the backseat and tugged out a black garbage bag, then approached the house.

  I opened the door and tried not to stare. Winston pushed past me. Mike’s eyes widened at the dog. “Hello there.” He offered his fingers for Winston to sniff. Winston looked at me for direction. I shrugged. The dog sat and politely offered an immense paw. Mike took it and pumped once.

  I let Mike into the kitchen while Winston inspected, then watered, the SUV’s tires. I waited until he’d finished his business before calling him back in.

  “You must be the FBI agent,” Beth said.

  “Mike Brown, and yes, FBI. You must be Mrs. Noble.”

  “Call me Beth.”

  “Beth. Good to see you again, Gwen. This young lady must be Aynslee.”

  Hair tangled, still dressed in a nightshirt, Aynslee froze at the sight of the stranger. “Are you—”

  I frowned at her. “Who did you think he was?”

  She retreated several steps into the hall.

  “Well, Aynslee, my name is Mike, and I work for the FBI. I’m here to make sure you’re safe, and to drop off some work I’m having your mother do.”

  Aynslee retreated to her bedroom and shut the door.

  Mike shrugged, then handed me the garbage bag. Inside was a second clear plastic bag with a large block of cream clay.

  I made a face. “Where did you get this?”

  “I . . . sort of borrowed it from my sister’s kids.”

  “You brought me eight pounds of some kind of Crayola clay?”

  “Hey, it was all I could find on short notice. They’d bought it for a science project, then didn’t do the project. The price was right.”

  “Well.” I looked at the clay again. At least the cream color would be similar to the death mask. I placed the bag on the kitchen table just as my stomach rumbled. “Sorry. Have you had breakfast?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know why you’re offering a meal,” Beth said. “You don’t have any food in the house, remember?” Beth politely refrained from pointing out I was also the worst cook in Ravalli County.

  Mike slowly checked out my kitchen. I tried to see it through his eyes. The decor was too new to be antique, too old to be charming. Avocado-colored appliances weren’t back in vogue. I wanted to hurry him into the living room, but it was more of the same, with the addition of dust. He glanced at his watch. “Gwen, how fast can you do the reconstruction?”

  “With sculpting neck and shoulders—”

  “No. Just the head and maybe neck. Make him younger, thirties, and without a scar.”

  “That’ll speed me up quite a bit. I guess I could do it in a long day. Let me take some notes.” I picked up the bag and trotted it to the studio, returning with a sketchpad and pencil. Doodling my thoughts always helped me focus.

  Beth sat at the table hanging on Mike’s every word. Winston sprawled like a hairy island in the middle of the floor. I joined Beth.

  Mike looked at my friend. “Ah, I appreciate you spending the night, Beth. If you need to leave or have work to do, you are free to go.”

  “Beth is my partner,” I said. “I need her here.”

  Beth’s face turned pink. “Thank you,” she mouthed to me.

  “Okay then. We’ve tracked the domestic terrorist group Avenging Angels for years.” He glanced at his watch. “But haven’t been able to infiltrate them, which would make us proactive—”

  “Excuse me, but why is that important?” Beth asked.

  “If we can anticipate their next move, we can take steps to prevent it. The two murders, Jane Doe and George Higbee, might not have happened if we’d known more.”

  “So they are connected.” I sketched angel wings, then a big question mark. “I speculated that Jane Doe might have been meeting George or delivering something. Ethan told me Jane Doe gave him some personal items but didn’t say what they were.”

  “And I think you’re right,” Mike said. “Deputy Howell sent me a copy of your interview with the Kenyons, Gwen. Nice work, by the way.”

  I bent my head over my sketches to cover my blush.

  “I’m working on the premise that Jane Doe stole something from a fundamentalist group,” Mike continued. “Took Rebekah’s identity, and went into hiding.”

  “She stole money? Jewelry?” Beth asked.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of something connected to the Mormon Church or Joseph Smith,” Mike said. “The involvement of the Avenging Angels points to a Mormon connection.”

  Winston flopped on his side and let out a doggie sigh.

  “What on earth could be so valuable that people have to die?” I asked.

  “A first edition of the Book of Mormon can sell for more than a hundred thousand dollars,” Beth said. “Actually, anything written by Joseph Smith would be very valuable.”

  Mike continued, “Later, for whatever reason, she could decide to sell it or use it for blackmail.”

  I pictured Jane Doe’s kind face. Somehow I didn’t picture her as a blackmailer. I circled the angel wings on my sketchpad, then drew an open mouth with fangs about to bite the wings. “I’m not sure I’m buying the bl
ackmail angle. Was she selling it to George? He was just a security guard.”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “But he was in the right place at the right time to meet with Jane Doe and not be suspicious. And he was a Mormon.”

  “So the LDS Church is involved.” Beth scratched her head.

  “Well . . .” Mike pulled out a chair, sat, and grabbed my pencil and paper. “Let me illustrate.” He drew two circles, then wrote, LDS Church in the first circle and Fundamentalist LDS in the second. “This is a huge simplification of what could be happening. I’m lumping the fundamentalists into one circle, but there are many subgroups within here, and they don’t exactly all get along. Now, both these groups”—he tapped the circles—“could be interested in Jane Doe’s treasure if it relates to Joseph Smith.” He placed a big X between the two circles. “And the main LDS Church and the fundamentalists hate each other.”

  “Why?” Beth asked.

  “Quite simply, each thinks they have the true teachings of their prophet, Smith,” Mike said. “So both have a motive to try to gain whatever Jane Doe was selling or delivering.”

  “Okay,” Beth said.

  “So we have to look at what happened to the girl and Higbee. It’s the fundamentalists who have a recent history of violence, and the Avenging Angels are probably acting as the hit squad for one of those groups.” He tapped the fundamentalist circle.

  I thought for a moment. “The severed hand? I told Dave I thought placing then removing the hand was meant to make me look crazy.”

  Mike peered out the window. “There’s another message here. Removing George’s hand could be a graphic way of saying they see him as a thief, and sending it to you may mean they think you have their treasure—”

  “But I don’t!”

  “And they’re watching your house.”

  I needed to sketch that composite. My gaze shifted to the closed blinds, and I shivered.

  “Did you have any contact with Ethan Scott, the boyfriend of Jane Doe?” Mike asked.

  “I gave him my card.”

  “Did you receive any packages in the last day?” he asked.

  “Just my sculpting supplies and castings from FedEx. They’re in the studio.” I jerked my head in that direction. Mike followed me down the hall. The stack of boxes sat in the center of the room and on my drafting table where Aynslee had moved them. I sat on my stool as Mike knelt down and examined each parcel.

  “What about the post office?” he finally asked.

  “I haven’t checked. Why?”

  “Ethan was murdered after you left—”

  “Oh no!” Stupid, stupid me. I assumed his parents would arrive, take him away. And Dave was going to follow up on Ethan.

  “Would you like a drink of water?” Mike asked.

  “No, no, ohmigosh.” Dave was shot, and I forgot about checking on Ethan. He’s dead because I forgot.

  “—he would have known where to send it.”

  “What?” Maybe Robert was right about my pickled brain.

  “I said if your business card was in his room, he might have sent something to you.”

  I could never trust myself again.

  “Gwen, do you hear what I’m saying?” Mike asked.

  “I . . . I think so.”

  “I’m telling you that the desk clerk spoke to Ethan about shipping something. She saw him in the business center but got busy and didn’t notice if he put something in the shipping drop box. I’ve got someone tracking that lead, but we’re running into difficulties.”

  “I’ll call the post office.” It took me several attempts to dial. No luck. This seemed to deflate Mike. We returned to the kitchen. I shook my head at Beth, then slumped at the table. “How was Ethan killed?” My question came out as an exhale. I was glad I was sitting.

  “Apparently he’d stayed at the motel in Fancher waiting for his parents to pick him up,” Mike said.

  “He said he was waiting for his folks.” My voice was a whisper. “How—”

  “The same way as Jane Doe,” Mike said.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  Mike coughed. “Throat cut. Gutted.”

  I prayed his parents didn’t find his body. My head buzzed. Whether or not Ethan sent me something, the presence of my business card could have led the Avenging Angels to believe I had their treasure.

  “Can you put Gwen into protective custody?” Beth asked.

  “Well, Beth, we have two choices. We can sit around and wait for the Avenging Angels to show up, or we can be proactive and have them dancing to our timetable and on our terms. We have to control the game plan here.”

  “A sting operation!” Beth said.

  “Exactly,” Mike said. “We need to set several traps and bait them.”

  “Ooookay.” I looked back and forth between Beth’s and Mike’s excited faces.

  Mike looked at me. “You gave me an idea when you told me about your reconstruction’s resemblance to Joseph Smith.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this,” Beth said.

  Mike slipped off his jacket and draped it over a kitchen chair. A Glock pistol rested in a tan leather holster attached to his belt. He paced from the table to the sink and back. “Gwen, didn’t you tell me Jane Doe fainted when she saw your reconstruction?”

  I blinked. “Yes.”

  Mike nodded. “Because she thought she was seeing Joseph Smith’s actual reconstructed face. So, let’s give the Avenging Angels what they want. We’ll announce that two unusual treasures are going to be on display: your reconstruction of the face of Joseph Smith and a priceless artifact.”

  “Brilliant!” Beth said. “Using the bait of Smith’s face.”

  I frowned at Mike. “I see at least four problems with your plan. Whoever destroyed the Mountain Meadows Center knows that the reconstruction is over plaster—”

  “We’ll announce the actual skull is under the clay,” Mike said.

  “Problem two: We don’t know what the missing object is.”

  “You could cover something,” Beth said. “With a . . . a blue velvet covering . . . and announce it will be revealed on a certain date. Like a grand unveiling.”

  “Excellent idea, Beth,” Mike said. “On to problem three.”

  I stared at him a moment to see if he was mocking me. “Everyone who’s studied Mormon history knows that Joseph Smith was murdered in a shootout in Illinois, not Utah.”

  Mike’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well then, I guess we’ll have to figure out another scenario for how Smith survived and made it to Utah. The more we can focus attention away from you, and your family, the safer you’ll be.”

  Great. My next case after cancer and chemo was to find the unfindable or prove the impossible.

  “But do you really think Gwen’s sculpture is Joseph Smith?” Beth asked.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. That’s for the Mormon Church to sort out. What’s important is that the Avenging Angels believe it’s Joseph Smith and that their treasure is near the reconstruction.”

  Aynslee, now dressed, drifted into the kitchen.

  “So, I’ll move on to problem four,” I said. “You mentioned displaying the items—”

  “What items?” Aynslee asked.

  “Never—Uh, my reconstruction.” I smiled at her. “Maybe you and Beth could think of someplace where we could display it, someplace where a lot of people would see it.”

  “That’s easy,” Beth said. “The Seattle Peace Conference.”

  Mike nodded. “An excellent suggestion. Massive media coverage.”

  “The organizers did put out a prospectus for an art show,” I said slowly. “But this isn’t art—”

  “Ha! Have you seen what passes for art lately?” Beth said.

  “And the deadline for entry is past,” I pointed out.

  “I can fix that. The FBI is already involved, with all the religious leaders, politicians, and celebrities attending.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “A putting a
side of religious and political differences and celebrating American shared values,” Beth said. “Remember I asked you if you would go to an event with me? I have tickets.”

  Mike nodded again. “Anticipated attendance of over twenty thousand.”

  Aynslee’s curiosity loosened her tongue. “You’ll show Mom’s sculpture and catch ’em when they try to steal it?”

  “No,” Mike said. “We want them to steal it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Beth said.

  “We don’t want to just catch one or two Avenging Angels. We need to locate all of them.” Mike reached in his pocket and pulled out a tiny black object. “This is a GPS tracking device. We’ll plant this in the reconstruction. With all those people milling about, we’ll make it an easy target.”

  I sketched a hand reaching for the skull. “But what if they don’t take the bait?”

  Crunching gravel sent Winston to the door barking. Beth, Aynslee, and I froze. Mike rested his hand on his pistol and peered through the curtains. “Do you know this person?”

  I moved to the window.

  Robert.

  My mouth tasted of ashes. “Yes. It’s my . . . ex-husband.”

  He let go of the pistol and opened the door.

  Robert jerked to a halt.

  Mike stepped away from the door.

  Robert, hair artfully tousled, new porcelain veneers on his teeth, and sporting tanning-booth mahogany skin, entered and paused at the tableau. “Having a party?”

  “Dad!” Aynslee launched into his arms.

  I exchanged glances with Beth. “What brings you here?” My voice came out high and strangled.

  “Hi to you too, Gwen.” Robert held out his hand to Mike. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Robert Marcey.”

  “Ah yes. The author. Mike Brown, FBI.” The two men shook hands, then stepped apart. Aynslee clung to her father and seemed oblivious to the building tension.

  Starting with Mike’s cowboy boots, Robert’s gaze slowly lifted, paused at the pistol, then ended at the other man’s face. He smirked and winked at me.

  I wanted to claw his eyes out.

  “Well now,” Robert said. “I had a break in my book tour, and I’m moving to a new condo in Bigfork. Thought I’d pick up a few things. Figured you’d still be in Utah.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke.