A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Huh?”

  “Garments. Underwear.”

  I looked up. “Doesn’t that come under the heading of too much information?”

  “No. It’s like holy underwear. Anyway, they weren’t wearing any. Said it was too hot.”

  “Is that significant?”

  Beth shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Modern LDS members consider their garments a symbol of their covenant with God and very sacred. It’s strange . . .”

  “Well, make note of that and go on.”

  “Joseph’s, or whoever’s, body and that of his brother were taken to a nearby hotel owned by Artois Hamilton, a non-Mormon.”

  “Who moved the bodies?” As Beth read for a moment, I mounted the prosthetic eyes, molded the eyelids, and blended them into the cheek.

  Beth let out a little squeak. “Oh wow. Conspiracies and cover-up come next. Samuel Smith, Joseph’s younger brother, arrived and helped move the two men—”

  “That’s not—”

  “Wait. Samuel died mysteriously thirty-four days later. His family believed it was due to foul play. He was poisoned.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  I WAS STILL STARING AT BETH WHEN ROBERT stuck his head into the studio. “I’m taking Aynslee to lunch in town.”

  “Did Mike say it was safe?” I asked.

  Robert’s face darkened. “I don’t need anyone’s permission.” He slammed the door.

  I could feel a hot flash building. I folded my hands into my lap to keep from mashing the reconstruction. I needed to take my thoughts captive. Anger, bitterness, and revenge wouldn’t faze Robert at all. But it could change me into something I’d hate.

  “Well,” Beth finally said.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry about the fireworks.” I stared at the drawn blinds, my mind returning to another quiet room, decorated with warm colors and strategically placed boxes of tissue, where I’d tried to pull my fractured life together after Robert left. I sought someone to talk to who wouldn’t choose sides, but who would instead listen and give sound advice. I’d heard the counselor speak at my church’s cancer support group as a fellow cancer survivor. Her first question surprised me. Do I feel sorry for myself? I thought it over carefully. Was that the emotion? When I shook my head, she smiled slightly. Good.

  Later, I’d asked her when I would know there was no hope for my marriage. She told me my union ended when I realized I no longer cared. In spite of his cutting words, I did care to keep Robert safe. I’d never forgive myself if Aynslee, Beth, or Robert were hurt or—Lord forbid—killed because of something I’d done. Even if I hadn’t really done anything.

  Someone tapped at the door.

  “Yes?”

  Mike entered, carrying a cup of coffee. “I thought you could use this.”

  I took the coffee and made a show of drinking it.

  “I’ve made some phone calls. It’s all set to take the reconstruction to the Peace Conference,” Mike said. “How’s the research going?”

  I was grateful he didn’t mention Robert’s exit. “So far, so good. We have a plausible way for Smith to have survived.” I placed the cup on the window ledge.

  Mike sat on the overstuffed, wingback chair. Beth read him the details and our conclusions, then sat back and beamed at him.

  “Really?” he asked. “Wouldn’t people have recognized him?”

  I rolled out a piece of clay while I thought. “Well, in 1844, there wasn’t mass media, television, or the Internet. So only those people who actually saw Smith knew what he looked like.”

  “Weren’t there paintings?” Mike asked.

  “In his lifetime, only a profile drawing by Sutcliffe Maudsley existed.” I applied the clay. “Profile accounts for only a small recognition factor.”

  “What about this one?” Beth turned the screen so I could see the image.

  “No documented history. It was probably painted from the death mask.”

  “Hmm, we didn’t think about that. There was a death mask,” Beth said.

  I touched the cheek where the bone was chipped. If someone hit Smith in the face with the butt of his gun or a bayonet, why wasn’t there a mark on the mask? “Beth, I need to know more about the mask’s history.”

  She nodded. The sunlight through the blinds lit up floating particles. A fine layer of dust covered all the surfaces in the studio. Once I finished this project, I’d do a thorough cleaning. Assuming I survived the Avenging Angels.

  Mike left, then returned with a small device to imbed behind the mandible. As he handed it to me, our fingers touched.

  I jerked my hand away, almost dropping the device.

  Mike sucked air through his teeth.

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t look at him.

  The overstuffed chair creaked with his weight as he sat. I was acutely aware of his gaze and concentrated on the emerging face.

  My stomach let out a rumble worthy of a locomotive. So much for professional appearances. “Sorry, again.” When was the last time I ate?

  Beth looked up from her work. “I need to prorogue this session. Prorogue. Now there’s a nice word . . .”

  “Food, Beth,” I said.

  “Right. I’ll scrounge around your kitchen.”

  After she left, Mike asked, “Does she always talk like that?”

  “Yeah. She works crossword puzzles with a pen.”

  The lips were next. I cut the rectangle of clay and placed it over the teeth.

  “When do you expect Robert and your daughter to return?”

  “When he wants to.” It came out far more bitter than I intended. I paused in my work. I didn’t want to talk about Robert, at least not to Mike.

  I continued to work on the mouth, splitting the chunk of clay into two halves, then pushed my thumbs upward, creating the upper lip. Soon the smell of something cooking made my stomach growl again. I glanced at Mike.

  “It’s all right.” He smiled and winked at me.

  Was he flirting? I resisted the urge to check my wig.

  Beth poked her head in. “Lunch.”

  I charged for the door. Beth had moved Mike’s things to a corner of the counter and turned my battered kitchen table into an attractive setting, with placemats and colorful bowls. I checked the clock. After three. I sat down and enjoyed the rich smell of homemade chicken noodle soup. “How on earth did you make this? I didn’t think I had any food in the house.”

  “I found a few bouillon cubes and dried pasta. Under the stack of frozen pizzas, I found chicken breasts and stir-fry vegetables. But you and I are going shopping as soon as this work is done.”

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered. I grabbed up my spoon, then noticed Beth’s closed eyes and moving lips. Placing the utensil down, I waited until I heard her soft “amen.”

  As we ate our lunch, we went over the research, looking for holes.

  “Sounding good,” he said. “What about Smith’s wife? She would need to be in on the plot.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “Also”—Mike scratched his chin—“let’s think about motivation for those people who would have concealed Smith’s supposed death. What about that non-Mormon—”

  “Artois Hamilton, the owner of the hotel where Smith’s body was supposedly moved. I’m on it,” Beth said.

  We finished eating in comfortable silence. Except for the tightly drawn curtains, the room felt like home for the first time in a long time.

  Beth offered to clean up so I could get back to my sculpting. Mike followed me and took his usual seat. I’d barely started when Winston’s barking and the revving of Robert’s new Porsche announced Aynslee’s return. Her high-pitched voice carried easily into the studio. “That’s the coolest car! Will you let me drive it again?”

  Aynslee was a master at playing one parent against the other, and now she had a truckload of guilt to dump on both of us. I could almost write her diary entry, titling the page “Neglected Daughter,” followed by a dissertation on her successful, but absent, father
and self-absorbed, sick mother. I snorted.

  “What?” Mike asked.

  I’d forgotten he was there. “Nothing.”

  Robert breezed into the room. “There you are. Do you know where my red leather notebook is? I’m also looking for that alabaster bowl.”

  The one I’d bought him for Christmas three years ago. Would he now bestow it upon a girlfriend? I pushed too hard on the clay and distorted the nose. “Look on the top shelf in your office.”

  Robert left, and I smoothed the clay nose. “Mike, is there any danger in taking this sculpture to the Peace Conference? Is there a chance someone could get hurt?”

  Mike coughed. “No. No one knows you’re working on it.”

  “What about Jane Doe, George, and Ethan?”

  “They were murdered because the Avenging Angels wanted their missing . . . treasure. Also, the victims were alone. The Peace Conference will be crowded.”

  “Who’s delivering it? It’ll have to be hand-carried, not shipped. This clay doesn’t harden.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  I hoped he would figure out something before we all ended up sliced and diced by a vengeful clan of extremists. “Do you know if the Avenging Angels have committed murder before? You mentioned you’d been following them for years.”

  “The FBI tracks all types of radicals: the Posse Comitatus, skinheads, the Order, as well as fundamentalist fringe groups. Until Jane Doe’s ritual death, we didn’t consider the Avenging Angels particularly dangerous.”

  “Then why were you tracking them at all?”

  “Well, actually, the church—”

  “What church?” Beth asked, entering the room and drying her hands with a towel. “Have you been discussing something interesting while I cleaned your kitchen?” She sat in the computer chair and picked up a lavender spiral-bound notebook.

  I placed a wad of clay on the top of the head and started creating the appearance of hair. “Mike’s telling me about the Avenging Angels.”

  “They regard the LDS Church as the enemy. Technically, I suppose, the head honchos of the church, but we considered their beef a matter of philosophical differences.”

  “But now someone is dead. No, make that several someones.”

  “It’s taken care of,” Mike said. “They’re guarded better than the president. Any threat sends them to bunkers, like bomb shelters, under Temple Square in Salt Lake City.”

  “Bunkers? That’s weird.”

  “Not really. They started out as underground passages to allow the leadership of the church to move quickly and easily between buildings. It didn’t take all that much to convert it, and they often have practice drills for safety. The trashing of the interpretative center, for example, triggered an alert.”

  I paused in my work. “How do you know all that?”

  He gave a wry smile. “The FBI hires a ton of agents that are members of the LDS Church.”

  “Why’s that?” Beth asked.

  “Their faith keeps them squeaky-clean. No drinking or smoking, let alone drug use. They can pass any background check. When they retire, the Mormon Church hires them, so many of these church security officers were former colleagues. In fact, I recommended most of them for the job. Word gets around.”

  “How about—”

  Robert entered my studio without knocking. “I’ve looked on the shelf in my office. Why can’t you ever put things away where someone can find them? You’ve always been so irresponsible.”

  My eyes felt like they bulged from their sockets. The clay squirted between my fingers. My jaw clamped shut. I wadded a hunk of clay, then threw it. The clay struck Robert’s forehead.

  That felt good.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  ROBERT PUT A HAND OVER HIS FOREHEAD AND opened his mouth, undoubtedly to yell at me, but I was just getting started. The hot flash shot up my chest, and I knew my face would turn beet red. I jabbed my finger at him. “Irresponsible? I’m irresponsible? What about you? You’re not some jet-setting playboy, you’re a father. And your daughter needs you! I know you don’t care what happens to me, but if I’m murdered because of some—some crazed religious group, you’ll have a daughter to raise by yourself.”

  I spun toward Mike, who looked like he’d rather be on the moon. “And you! I don’t know what your plan is, but it had better include protection for my family and friend until you catch these guys.”

  He glanced away from me and rubbed his nose.

  “Wait a minute.” I rested my fists on my hips. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Mike said.

  “You don’t have to, pal.” Robert glared at Mike. “She reads body language like a book.”

  The two faced each other.

  Like a headline running across a newspaper, I remembered Mike’s words, “We need to set several traps and bait them.” The first trap would be the sculpture, but what if the feds couldn’t catch them? Once the Avenging Angels saw the sculpture and realized the “item” displayed with it wasn’t their prize, they’d keep hunting for the treasure. The item they believed Ethan gave to me. I’m the second trap.

  But my family had to be far, far away from here. The Avenging Angels watched this house.

  I glanced at the drawn blinds.

  Mike said transporting the sculpture was safe. If Beth and Aynslee delivered it, they’d be clear of here. “Robert, you’re driving this reconstruction to Seattle. You’re taking Beth, Aynslee, and Winston with you, and you will protect them.”

  “Hardly. You’re not putting that slobbering dog in my new Porsche—”

  “You’ll leave your precious Porsche here. You can take my car.”

  He stomped from the room.

  “And Winston doesn’t slobber,” I yelled after him.

  A creak and bang told me Robert had pulled down the folding attic stairs. I soon heard him thumping around overhead.

  Mike cautiously sidled toward the door. He gave me a speculative glance before leaving.

  I picked up some clay and settled down on my stool, hoping my busy hands would slow my racing pulse.

  Beth cleared her throat. “Not all fireworks occur on the Fourth of July.”

  Aynslee dashed into the room. “What did you say to Dad?”

  I stared at my daughter and then at my friend. The Avenging Angels wouldn’t stop until they found their holy grail and took revenge on those who had secreted it away. I stretched my lips over my teeth in what I hoped was a reasonable smile. “Robert agreed to drive you two, the sculpture, and Winston to the Peace Conference. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Winston?” Beth asked.

  “There’s no time to find a boarding kennel. He’s crate-trained. You can leave him in your hotel room while you attend. I have a folding, nylon mesh crate you can use.” I didn’t want to point out that Winston was a terrific watchdog.

  “Why aren’t you coming with us?” Beth asked.

  “I’ll follow you, but I need to write the press release on Joseph Smith’s ‘death.’ Also, Deputy Howell is on his way here to meet me.”

  Beth bit her lip, but said nothing.

  “Let’s go tie up those loose ends to the Joseph Smith story,” I said. “We still need the history of the death mask.”

  She turned to the computer. “Right. And what motivated Emma Smith and the non-Mormon, Artois Hamilton, to remain silent about the actual events.”

  “Doctor Haller to ER. Doctor Haller to ER,” the hospital loudspeaker announced.

  Dave poked at the cherry gelatin with his fork. Hospital fare wasn’t fit to eat. Plus, for some reason, everything on his tray was red: tomato soup, cranberry juice, and the gelatin. How was that supposed to help him heal? It reminded him of blood.

  The doctor said he’d be released in the next couple of days. Dave couldn’t wait. The miniature television was too far away to see without glasses, and sleeping for any length of time was impossible. Just as he’d drift off, the nurse w
ould check him, or an alarm blared on the machine next to him, sending his heart rate soaring. Sleep deprivation made him hallucinate.

  The voice of the man who shot him—he was sure he’d heard that voice before.

  Winston sauntered to his chosen corner of the studio, then curled up on his oversized dog bed. Aynslee joined him, using the dog as a hairy beanbag. “I’m bored. When do we go to Seattle?”

  “As soon as I’m finished,” I said. “Do you want to help Beth?”

  “That’s boring.”

  “Since you’re not going back to the Academy, why don’t you find that homeschooling flyer we looked at earlier this summer?”

  “School’s boring.”

  “Ooookay . . . since you came up with it, why don’t you figure out why the official record had seventeen names, and you counted eighteen. There’s a book over on the shelf about the massacre.”

  “Read a book? That’s—”

  “Boring,” Beth and I said in unison.

  We worked in silence for a bit before Aynslee stood, then trudged to the shelf and pulled out the book. She curled up with Winston to read.

  “Find anything on the death mask?” I asked Beth.

  Aynslee looked up from her reading. “What’s that?”

  “Before photography was widely utilized,” Beth said, “people created plaster castings of the faces of the deceased. James Joyce, Leo Tolstoy, and John Keats all had death masks.”

  “Who?” Aynslee asked.

  “How about John Dillinger?” Beth asked.

  “Wasn’t he with that old singing group the Mamas and the Daddies?” Aynslee said.

  “Mamas and the Papas. No. Dillinger was . . . never mind.” So much for her education to date. Something tapped gently on my memory. Before I could focus, Beth spoke.

  “We’ll talk about literature later, young lady.” Beth looked at me and crossed her eyes. “Moving on, I started with the official history of the church. There’s no mention of Joseph’s or Hyrum’s masks. I searched elsewhere. They officially appear in the church archives more than five years later.”

  “So who made them?” I paused in my sculpting.