A Cry from the Dust

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  He put on a pair of sunglasses.

  Ha. Hiding his eyes. Aynslee found an old tennis ball and moved toward the middle of the field, still furtively watching him. Sure enough, his head turned in her direction. She planned to slip away from Beth during their shopping trip. If this creep stalked her . . . But if she took Winston with her, she’d be safe. He’d die protecting her, but she could hardly merge into the Seattle background with a Great Pyrenees. She’d need a new strategy.

  Home was north of Utah. I sped on. A helpful sign just outside of Manti informed me I was in Sanpete Valley on Utah Heritage Highway. Salt Lake City lay a hundred and twenty-four miles ahead.

  Home would be another eight hours beyond that.

  I’d wanted to call Mike from the first pay phone, but the number was on the long-lost dead cell he’d given me. I could try my house, just in case he was still there. Kidnapping across state lines was a federal crime. Plus, I’d found his true “Avenging Angels.”

  Stopping anywhere in Utah made me twitchy. Someone might recognize the distinct attire of the remnant men and drop a dime to the Zion Gathering. At some point the remnant folks would figure out I’d escaped their compound. They might even find my wig and clothing and put my altered appearance together. They undoubtedly knew where I lived. Hopefully they’d be too busy with their Gathering to try to find me, especially since Jane knew I wouldn’t add much to their breeding stock.

  I was kidding myself. I was a liability.

  Four hours later I reached the potato country of eastern Idaho. Both the car and I ran out of gas outside Pocatello. I’d stuffed two twenties and a five in my pocket before meeting with Deputy Howell, which was enough to fill the tank. The remaining few dollars bought me a burger and soda from the dollar menu at McDonald’s. Without shoes, I used the drive-through. The teenage girl at the window did a double take on my appearance as she handed me the change.

  I could see a pay phone at the corner of the parking lot, but that would put me in sight of the girl. I drove up the road a few blocks before locating another phone. Parking so the car would partially block the booth, I scurried across the baking pavement praying everything worked. It did, but if Mike was still at my house, he wasn’t answering the phone.

  I raced back to the car. Home lay four weary hours away.

  The LDS Temple in Idaho Falls reminded me that I was still in a region where members of the Remnant Church could live. I stayed on Interstate 15, passing through the wide vistas where cowboys still rounded up the herds of cattle, until just outside of Dillion, Montana, where I turned on Highway 278. All homes, towns, and traffic left behind, I kept alert, watching for deer, elk, or wandering moose that might cross the road. The September sun beat through the windows, heating up the car in spite of the air-conditioning on high. My eyes felt like sandpaper, and the burger was now just a memory.

  In less than two hours, I’d be home.

  I couldn’t just drive up to the front door. The remnant could have someone waiting for my return. Sneaking around might not be the best decision either, as Mike and his fellow FBI agents could still be waiting for the Avenging Angels to pay a visit.

  The thought of the old men murdered in the mountains brought tears to my already burning eyes. The road blurred to a gray ribbon. I’d been awake for somewhere around thirty-six hours. I was hardly in a position to make wise decisions, let alone act quickly. I pulled onto the highway, watching for an access road. The visitor’s center of the Big Hole National Battlefield appeared on my right. I could park there for a bit, but if I overstayed, the park rangers might get suspicious. Several more aching miles passed before trees again embraced the road. A pullout appeared ahead, and I turned off, continuing into a thick matting of trees, and stopped. After waiting to see if any vehicles slowed to check out the slight stirring of dust from my exit, I slipped into the backseat and closed my eyes.

  Telling Beth about the stranger at the dog park would ensure Beth would call her mom and then she’d hover over Aynslee like a worried chicken.

  Aynslee rolled onto her stomach and inspected her snaggy nails, then stood and peered out the window. Their hotel was a scant block from Lake Washington, but the black marble convention center blocked the view. The street leading up to the center was below. The news vans were now replaced by a steady stream of cars pulling up to the front of the hotel. Baggage handlers trotted around like so many ants, unloading, ushering visitors inside, and directing traffic.

  She picked at a hangnail. Once Beth fell asleep, Aynslee’d have several hours to get away. Downtown Seattle wasn’t that far.

  A black SUV pulled up to the front of the center. The stranger from the dog park stepped out and glanced around.

  Aynslee jerked away from the window.

  He strolled to the main doors and rapped on the glass. The woman agent appeared.

  What the heck? Was he an FBI agent? Did Mom, or Mike, send someone to watch her?

  The two spoke for a moment, then the man nodded. He turned and stared at the hotel.

  Aynslee ducked behind the drapes. That complicates things.

  Ultramarine shadows dappled the car windows as I sat up. I’d kill for a cup of coffee, and my breath could be the weapon. I felt like someone took a baseball bat to my body. A glance at the bruise on my hip showed an impressive dioxazine purple with a hint of yellow ochre. I worked my tongue to raise some spit, wishing I’d saved some pop from McDonald’s. At least I was somewhat rested.

  The lack of traffic allowed me to pull onto the highway unobserved. I couldn’t assume some of the clan hadn’t been dispatched to search for me, and my home would be the first place they’d look. But without a driver’s license, credit cards, and different clothing—not to mention another vehicle—I had nowhere to go. Beth and Aynslee were safely tucked into the masses of attendees at the Peace Conference. Dave would help, but he was still in the hospital when I’d left. Mike would absolutely believe me, but he might have moved operations elsewhere. I’d have to call the Salt Lake field office to get in touch with him.

  What if members of the clan worked at the field office? Every car I’d seen waiting in line at Zion looked like your average, clean-cut, Mormon family with their legion of kids. Mike said the FBI was full of Mormons. Would that include fundamentalists?

  I had to get home, and I had one advantage. I knew the land around the house intimately.

  The sun set and shadows covered the last few miles to the turnoff for the county road leading to my place. Mike had circled the old McCandless farm, about a half mile from my driveway, as a possible surveillance spot. An overgrown logging road cut through the woods just before their farm and circled around behind the abandoned homestead. If I didn’t encounter any downed trees, I could almost drive to my own land. The track bumped for several hundred feet before a large log blocked my progress.

  A pack of coyotes tested their voices higher up on the ridge, and pines murmured overhead. The densely clean fragrance of cedar told me I was near the stream that crossed the McCandless farm. I was heartily sick of going barefoot.

  The crescent moon gave scant light, but it was clear that the McCandless homestead was void of human occupants. After passing it, I studied the area to my right, seeking a glint of metal from the chimney cap. I thought I’d passed my place when I finally spotted it. A game trail wove through a patch of snowberries in the right direction. I edged forward, moving as silently as possible, listening for any human sounds.

  My home came into view.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  CROUCHING BENEATH A THICK CEDAR, I WATCHED for any sign of life. No light glowed from the windows, and the only sounds came from crickets, a few frogs, and an occasional coyote. I sidled closer, using a pine to block my approach. No cries of alarm sounded.

  The house seemed empty, that unexplainable feeling that no one lingered in the dark, waiting. Though early September days could be summer-hot, the nights grew progressively colder, and the smell of snow drift
ed in the air. Taking a deep breath, I strolled to my car, which was parked next to the house. The engine was cold and the hood sported a light powdering of dust. I left a faint outline of my hand on the surface. Someone had locked the back door. My keys rested in my purse, but I always had a spare hidden in a fake, rubber dog poop under the bushes to my right. After retrieving the key, I opened the door.

  The kitchen table still had the look of a command center with scattered papers, books, and a notepad, but my laptop sat open in place of Mike’s computer. The counter and sink were squeaky clean and a single cup rested in the bamboo dish rack. The same cup I’d left two days ago. Beth had cleaned the kitchen and put all the dishes away. I chewed my lip.

  My jacket draped over the back of a chair and my purse rested on the seat. A quick check showed no one had helped themselves to my credit cards. I wandered through the house, my footsteps sounding loud in the silence, peering in each room. The house was dead quiet and deserted.

  A slight ripple of unease tripped up my spine. People, strangers, had been in my home while I was gone. They’d touched my things, used my dishes. I hadn’t thought about it when I left Mike, Janice, and Larry here, but it made me twitchy now.

  My stomach grumbled. I returned to the kitchen where the freezer yielded a frozen pepperoni pizza. I preheated the oven, then trudged to my bedroom for a change of clothing. After taking a clean outfit to the bathroom, I returned to the kitchen to chuck the pizza into the oven. While it baked, I took a hot shower. I didn’t own back-up breast prostheses, so opted for a baggy top.

  The timer beeped just as I finished, and the smell of melting cheese permeated the house. I stood at the counter and bolted down half of it.

  I finally felt human. My bed called for me to curl up under the covers and sleep for a week, but the tiny matter of a crazy remnant showing up at anytime kept me moving.

  The too-still house made me itchy. After turning on the kitchen radio to the local soft-rock station, I assembled all the cash I could find, then threw some clean underwear, change of clothing, and a dark-brown wig into a small case. My pistol was missing. Maybe for the best, considering I’d blown away a plaster head, but not having it bothered me.

  Revisiting the living room, I opened a few drawers just in case someone had moved the gun. The room yielded no results beyond looking exceptionally tidy. Beth must have dusted before she left.

  No. She didn’t have time. She left before me. Odd.

  The ripple, now more of a wave, of unease returned. The living room wasn’t just dusted, someone had vacuumed. The furniture was slightly out of place as well. I continued to the studio. It, too, looked clean except for the sculpting stand. A boxwood modeling tool rested on a small hunk of clay.

  I swallowed hard. I was sure I’d used all the clay in the reconstruction. I picked up the clay ball and rolled it around in my hand. It looked and felt just like the clay I’d used before. After putting it down, I strolled to the center of the room and slowly turned. Tiny things stood out to me. A hand-thrown pot was in a different place. Watercolor trays were in a reverse order. A basket of spray bottles sat at an angle. On the third shelf, behind the mounting adhesive and varnish, was a spray can I didn’t recognize. I pulled it out. Krylon spray paint, the same color as the graffiti at the interpretive center.

  My heart pounded faster. I sprinted to the hall closet and pulled out the vacuum cleaner. It contained a new bag.

  The bathroom was next. I’d used the shower, and my wet towel hung over the rod. The medicine cabinet was the usual clutter, but the prescription drugs were in the front. A jar of shells from a trip to Florida sat on the tank of the toilet. The fluffy peach cover had a slight impression where the jar originally rested. I removed the shells and pulled off the tank lid. A clear plastic bag floated in the water.

  The bag was full of cash.

  I left the money and replaced the lid with shaking hands. My mind didn’t want to put the pieces together. Racing to the bedroom, I found the same overly tidy results I’d missed. Clothes hung where I’d left them, and my shoes lined up on the floor, but a shoe box behind a wicker laundry basket caught my attention. I licked my lips, nudged the box closer, then removed the lid.

  A white pair of newer Nike walking shoes nestled inside, my size, and covered with rust flecks.

  I found myself in the kitchen without knowing how I got there. The only clutter in the house had been the kitchen table. I’d thought Mike’s notes covered the surface, but the papers were Beth’s notes, a printout of the article I’d written on the reconstruction, and a large, leather-bound book of LDS scriptures.

  The old woman’s voice whispered in my ear, “Soon. So very soon. You’ve prepared? Read the section?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Section . . . um . . .”

  “Sixty-four, child, sixty-four.”

  Snatching the book, I ripped through the pages. Section sixty-four. Doctrine and Covenants. I skimmed the words until I reached the final verses. They leaped from the page.

  “. . . the willing and obedient shall eat the good of the land of Zion in these last days . . . Behold, I, the Lord, have made my church in these last days . . . a judge . . . to judge the nations . . . if they are not faithful in their stewardships shall be condemned . . . And the day shall come when the nations of the earth shall tremble because of her, and shall fear because of her terrible ones. The Lord hath spoken it. Amen.”

  The outline at the top of the page informed the reader that the revelation was given by Joseph Smith, then gave the date and location. The date was September eleventh.

  Today was September tenth.

  Tomorrow was the day when the nations of the earth would tremble. But where?

  Again the words from the outline jumped from the page. The stronghold in Kirtland will come to an end . . .

  Kirkland.

  The Peace Conference was in a suburb of Seattle.

  Kirkland, Washington.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE SOFT VOICES OF ALISON KRAUSS AND Union Station crooned from the kitchen radio, at odds with my racing pulse and thoughts. The song ended with a station break, then a male voice said, “Bringing you news at the top of the hour. The FBI and local authorities advise you to be on the lookout for a suspected terrorist. Gwen Marcey, of Copper Creek, Montana, escaped custody this morning. She’s a person of interest in several murders at Mountain Meadows and Fancher, Utah, and is considered armed and dangerous. She is described as a white woman—”

  The book dropped from my numb fingers. Terrorist?

  Terrorists blow up things, kill people. How could I be—

  “No. No. No.” I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop the mindless chant. Chunks of the puzzle dropped into place as I ran to the studio.

  I booted the computer on my desk and paced until it was on. I kept mistyping the words, but finally the website came up. The photo in the center of the page showed a cream-colored block of material. How can I know for sure? I picked up a tiny chunk of clay from my sculpting stand. Grabbing up a piece of paper, I put it in the utility sink and placed the clay in the center. After finding a match, I lit the paper and backed away as far as the door.

  As the flame lapped at the edge of the clay, it caught fire.

  I raced forward and turned on the faucet, blasting the flames with water, then jumped back as the last wisps of smoke drifted upward.

  Oil-based modeling clay doesn’t burn.

  The website photo exactly matched the substance I’d used to reconstruct the face of Joseph Smith.

  Mike hadn’t brought me child’s modeling clay from his sister’s kids. He’d given me C-4. Plastic explosives. Over eight pounds. And he didn’t hand me a tracking device to plant in the mandible. He handed me a detonator.

  Now that reconstruction was at the Peace Conference.

  Thousands of other innocent people were there.

  And so were Beth and Aynslee.

  I yanked the phone and tried to dial Dave. The nu
mbers jumbled in my brain, but I kept punching buttons.

  Louise answered. “Moore residence.”

  “Oh. Louise. I called Dave—”

  “Gwen, it’s you. Dave’s here. He can’t come to the phone. Now listen, child, you’re in a world of hurt. You need to turn yourself in. This will all get sorted out. It’s just a big mistake—”

  “Listen to me, Louise, I have to speak to Dave—”

  “Now, now. That’s just not possible. They’re getting a search warrant right now for your home. Just sit tight—”

  “How did you know where I was calling from?”

  “Caller ID. I just know—”

  I gripped the phone tighter. If they had a search warrant, I had precious little time. “Louise, a whole bunch of people’s lives depend on you. Write down this number.” I recited the phone number from the Avenging Angels’ cell phone. “Did you get that?”

  “Yes, but, dear—”

  “Give that number to Dave. Tell him that Mike Brown, the FBI agent, is planning to blow up the Peace Conference tomorrow! The bomb is Joseph Smith—”

  “Oh dear. You need to take some of that medicine—”

  I slammed down the phone. No time to argue. I had to get out of here.

  With his plaster-covered leg propped on the couch in the living room and his patience worn as thin as silk thread, Dave stifled the urge to snap at Louise. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Now, Dave.” Louise made as if to plump the pillows behind his head.

  He caught her arm. “Louise, I’m not an invalid. Just answer my question.”

  “Harrumph.” The older woman sniffed. “If you must know, it was Gwen.”

  “What did she want?” Getting Louise to talk was like eating broth with a fork.

  “She was just babbling on about some man and a conference . . . I don’t know. It didn’t make any sense. Would you like your tea now?”