The Great Reminder

by R. R. Irvine

  Traveler hefted Bill’s Folgers can. “It feels heavy enough for two or three jugs of Thunderbird.”

  “The poor box is not for drink alone,” Bill said.

  Traveler handed back the can, took out his wallet, and removed a five-dollar bill.

  “We’ve asked Lael out to dinner,” Bill said.

  “No Dee’s burgers for her,” Charlie added.

  Traveler donated twenty to their cause while wondering who else but Dee’s would allow the likes of Bill and Charlie inside. Then again, the presence of the prophet’s grandniece would insure entrance anywhere.

  “Is my father upstairs?” Traveler asked.

  “He says you’re supposed to pick him up for an early dinner.”

  Bill glanced at Charlie. The Indian folded his arms and nodded.

  “You’re welcome to join us and Lael at dinner,” Bill said.

  “Don’t look so worried. She’s all yours.”

  “Now, Moroni.”

  “You can tell me all about it in the morning.” Traveler pushed through the revolving door into the Chester Building. He bypassed the cigar counter where Barney Chester had customers and went directly to the elevator. Nephi Bates was sitting inside on his retractable seat. His eyes were closed, his earphones in place, his cassette player on his lap.

  Traveler’s 220 pounds rocked the elevator.

  Bates opened his eyes and held out a plastic cassette holder labeled The Spoken Word: The Book of Mormon on Tape.

  Traveler pointed up. Bates shook his head and stared at the floor as if expecting the pits of hell to open up. When nothing happened, he slid off his seat and pushed the start lever. The elevator shuddered. Somewhere above them cables clattered in the shaft. The cage lurched upward.

  Smiling, Bates nodded at the voices inside his head all the way to the third floor, where Martin was waiting in the hallway.

  “I saw you talking to Bill and Charlie from the window,” Martin said the moment the elevator sank out of sight.

  “They’re taking Lael out to dinner.”

  “How much did you give them?” Martin asked.

  “Twenty.”

  “Add that to my twenty and they ought to have quite a meal.”

  “Did you have any luck tracking down our prisoner of war?”

  “I got through to Otto Klebe on the phone. He’s in Brigham City all right.”

  Rather than discuss details in the hall, Traveler led the way to the office, where they first checked the street below. Bill and Charlie had moved across the asphalt to panhandle in front of the temple gate.

  With a sigh, Martin sank into his chair and put his feet up. “Klebe told me he didn’t remember our prisoner of war.”

  “You sound like you didn’t believe him.”

  “It’s hard to read someone on the phone. I like looking him in the eye. Still, it seems unlikely that he’d forget the one and only prisoner in his camp who went permanently missing. Especially since Cowdery Junction was one of the smaller stockades.”

  “We’ll have to talk to him in person.”

  “Not so fast. Klebe went into the electronics business after the war and struck it rich. He’s Nauvoo Techtronics, the largest employer in Brigham City.”

  “So?”

  “You haven’t heard the rest of it. He joined the church and you know how Mormons love successful businessmen. He’s a member of the Council of Seventy.”

  “We still need to see him,” Traveler said.

  “Are you listening to me? You’ve got the prophet at the top, then the Twelve Apostles, then the Council of Seventy. You know the rules. In this state, the church is a six-hundred-pound gorilla. You don’t mess with it.”

  “So we’ll be careful.”

  Martin groaned. “Ten minutes after I hung up on Klebe, Willis Tanner was on the phone asking for you.”

  “Did he mention Klebe?”

  Martin shook his head. “Willis may work for the prophet, he may even speak for the prophet, but I haven’t trusted that boy since the day I caught the two of you in the basement with cigarettes and girly magazines.”

  “I would have bought them myself if I’d known where to go.”

  “That’s the trouble with Willis. He always knew the angles. Now call him back and find out what’s on his mind.”

  “I’m not up to it at the moment,” Traveler said. “Let’s have dinner first.”

  They left the office and rang for the elevator. For once Nephi Bates didn’t keep them waiting. The grillwork door opened within seconds, and Bates announced, “I have a message for Moroni.”

  Traveler and Martin stepped inside.

  “You’re to call Willis Tanner,” Bates said during the descent. “At once.”

  At ground level he settled onto his stool instead of opening the door. “This is my elevator,” he said. “I take good care of it.”

  “No one’s disputing that,” Martin told him.

  “Someone’s been running it when I’m off duty.”

  “People still have to get where they’re going.”

  “I’m here first thing in the morning and don’t leave until dark.”

  “Barney runs us up to the third floor once in a while,” Martin admitted.

  “I smelled something strange on my starter’s handle, like vanilla extract.”

  “Lael Woolley’s perfume,” Traveler said.

  Bates’s eyes widened at the mention of the prophet’s grandniece; he slid off his stool and backed against the rear wall of the cage.

  “Don’t worry about Willis Tanner,” Martin told him. “I’ll make sure my son calls him after dinner.”

  9

  TRAVELER AND his father were halfway through their spaghetti at the Rotisserie Inn when Willis Tanner joined them. Judging from his blue suit, starched white shirt, and dark maroon tie, he’d come directly from his office in the old Hotel Utah building. The prophet’s penthouse was there, too, atop what was once the finest hotel in the West.

  “We didn’t tell Nephi Bates where we were going,” Martin complained.

  “You’ve been eating here for forty years,” Tanner said, looking around the long, narrow dining room with its dark wood wainscoting, white tablecloths, and trademark red water pitchers.

  “Not on any kind of schedule, I haven’t.”

  Tanner raised an eyebrow. “A man in my position has to know things.”

  “Are you having us watched?”

  “Why would I do something like that? It would be an invasion of privacy, maybe even harassment.”

  “I telephoned Otto Klebe.” Martin’s shoulders rose and fell abruptly. “That’s all.”

  “We can’t have you annoying a member of the Council of Seventy.”

  “Did he complain about me?” Martin asked.

  Instead of answering, Tanner picked up a menu and read the restaurant’s motto. “East or West, at Rotisserie Inn, you are served the best.”

  Martin said, “I spoke to Mr. Klebe about a prisoner of war he once knew in southern Utah during World War Two. That’s ancient history. So why should he sic you on us?”

  Shaking his head, Tanner signaled for a waitress. When she arrived, he ordered a glass of milk and a cheese sandwich. He waited until she was out of earshot before replying. “Part of my job is to head off bad publicity. To that end, high-ranking members of the church contact me all the time. It’s their duty.”

  “The missing man was a German soldier, not a Mormon,” Traveler said. “He was assigned to the stockade in Cowdery Junction along with Klebe.”

  “Brother Klebe,” Tanner amended. “Besides, what good can come of raking up old tragedies after so many years?”

  “Who said anything about a tragedy?”

  Tanner ran a hand over the top of his crew cut. “People don’t hire private detectives for the fun of it.”

  “I promise you, this has nothing to do with the church,” Traveler said.

  “Everything that happens in this state concerns us.”

 
“We’ll keep that in mind.”

  “We can’t afford to have those rumors starting up again,” Tanner said.

  Martin pointed a fork at him. “What the hell are you talking about, Willis?”

  “I’ve studied my history. I know about the shooting in Salina and about those unexplained deaths in Cowdery Junction right after V-E Day.”

  His cheese sandwich arrived, along with lettuce, pickles, bell peppers, olives, and relish. He pushed the trimmings aside. “You can’t blame people for hating the Germans during the war.”

  “Who’s talking about blame?” Martin said.

  Tanner concentrated on his sandwich, speaking only after he’d washed down the last bite with milk. “Considering the atrocities the Germans committed, it’s a miracle more prisoners weren’t killed. So you can forget all that talk about murder. It was never proved and even if it had been, it would have been justified.”

  “Thank you, Willis,” Traveler said. “We didn’t know there was a murder involved.”

  Tanner closed one eye, a sure sign his nervous tic was about to act up. “It was a rumor only. There was nothing to it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Relax,” Traveler said. “All we want to do is help an old man who’s about to die. We’re not in the business of starting new rumors or adding to old ones. We’re not going to hassle a member of the Council of Seventy. All we want is an interview with the man. Talking to us may refresh old memories.”

  Tanner turned his open eye on Martin. “What happens if I don’t help you?”

  Martin grinned maliciously.

  “Just don’t get the prophet’s grandniece involved.”

  “Lael’s got nothing to do with this,” Traveler said.

  “Then why is she hanging around your office all the time?”

  “What do you want us to do, throw her out?”

  “I hear she’s going out to dinner with Mad Bill and that Indian.”

  “Why worry?” Traveler said. “Church security follows her everywhere she goes.”

  “Thanks to me, it does. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know what the hell was going on.”

  10

  THE NEXT morning, Martin insisted on leaving for Brigham City at dawn. That way, they’d have time to visit a pioneer graveyard he’d heard about from Miles Beecham, an old friend who was also a Mormon historian. To get there, they exited 1-15 north of Ogden, turned east on State 39 into the Wasatch Mountains, then north again at Huntsville, climbing steadily on Highway 165. Forty miles later, at an altitude of nearly six thousand feet, Martin parked his Jeep Cherokee next to a dilapidated sign that said PARADISE, UTAH, AHEAD.

  “It’s best to walk from here,” he said.

  Traveler looked both ways along the mountain highway. There was nothing to see but spring wildflowers and a forest of pinyon pines. The sun wasn’t high enough to ease the morning chill.

  “Brigham Young sent people up here in 1863 to grow flax,” Martin said. “After a few years, the winters did them in. The last survivors had to abandon everything, including their graveyard.”

  Martin began walking north, counting his paces from the sign. When he reached a hundred, he turned onto a narrow footpath leading northeast.

  “How far is it?” Traveler asked. Stinging nettle was everywhere and dew was soaking his trouser legs.

  “About half a mile.”

  They went single file with Martin leading the way.

  “What are we looking for this time?” Traveler asked.

  “The same as always. Undiscovered Travelers.”

  “The church has them all on computer in the genealogy library.”

  “It’s our duty to be certain. Only last year I turned up a Traveler in Huntsville that nobody knew about.”

  “The church hasn’t verified him yet.”

  The pines gave way to a small stand of red cedars. Beyond them, the ground leveled out to reveal a graveyard. Stone piles marked some resting places. Of the dozen or so surviving wooden markers, most were children. One of them said, simply, BECKY, TWO MONTHS, GONE TO BE AN ANGEL.

  ******

  “She had no last name,” Martin said when they got back to the car. “She could have been a Traveler.”

  “It’s not likely.”

  “I want people to know where I am.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Traveler said.

  “You and the boy can come visit me.”

  “He’ll be grown up long before you’re gone.”

  “We’ve got to find him, you know. He has to know about his past.”

  Traveler sighed. “I’ll drive.”

  “Do you still have that poem your grandfather wrote for you when you were a child?” Martin asked.

  “I suppose it’s around the house somewhere.”

  They both knew that Traveler had the original copy locked away in his safe deposit box at Zion’s Bank.

  Martin took a deep breath before reciting:

  “Are you planning so soon to climb the hill

  To reach for the moon and stars?

  Is the future calling my baby boy

  away from his blocks and his cars?

  “Won’t you stay but a little while

  Just as you are, my son?

  Is the road so long, the years so short,

  That you feel you have to run?”

  Martin paused. “There’s more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Shaking his head, Martin consulted the map on which he kept track of graveyards visited. “It’s faster to keep going north and then double back on Highway Ninety-one.”

  Traveler followed his father’s directions, north through Avon and Paradise, east at Hyrum, then south again at Wellsville. Despite the backtracking, they reached Brigham City in time for their 10:00 A.M. appointment with Otto Klebe, who lived in an expensive development on the east side of town, an area that had been peach orchards when Traveler was a boy. Where roadside fruit stands once stood, there were now well-watered lawns and winding driveways.

  At the end of one such driveway, Klebe stood waiting in front of a massive two-story brick colonial. He was a big man, Traveler’s size, with a deeply lined face and large hands that gripped Traveler’s with authority.

  “I’m usually the first man in at Techtronics,” he announced in a voice that had lost all trace of Germany. “Work keeps me fit, so I decided to do some yard work before you got here. That’s the only way to keep the Jap gardeners honest.”

  The house was surrounded by an acre of lawn worthy of a golf course.

  “We could have met at your office,” Traveler said.

  Klebe moved onto the veranda, where he kicked off his dirty boots next to a rough hemp mat. “I don’t believe in mixing business with my personal life.”

  He turned his back, bracing himself against the brick wall to shed his overalls. Beneath them he was wearing a bright red sweatsuit. He left the overalls where they’d fallen and led the way into a two-story entrance hall that culminated in an impressive double-winged staircase where a woman was polishing one of the gleaming oak banisters.

  “Norma,” Klebe called to her, “come here and meet our guests.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron before greeting them. “My husband’s already had his breakfast, but I could fix you something if you’d like.”

  “These are the gentlemen Willis Tanner called about. You remember. They’re both named for our angel, Moroni Traveler and son. I’m sure they’ve already eaten.”

  His wife lowered her eyes and began tucking stray gray hairs into the bun at the back of her head.

  “My wife was born into the church,” Klebe went on. “As for me, I had the good fortune to find God’s word after the war. We’re both sealed now, though, aren’t we, dear?”

  “Married in the temple for time and eternity,” she agreed without looking up.

  Traveler had the impression she wasn’t pleased about the prospect, Mormon dogma or not.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Klebe said, “co
me into the living room and sit down.”

  Double oak doors, as highly polished as the banisters, opened onto a room a good forty feet long and thirty feet wide. It was carpeted in rose chenille and furnished with sofas and chairs that looked as if they’d never been used. Traveler’s mother had spent her life trying for such an effect, to the point of covering everything in plastic, but had never succeeded.

  Klebe settled onto a gold brocade sofa in front of a green marble fireplace. His wife stood behind him, her head bowed as if she were studying the top of her husband’s head. Traveler and Martin took up flanking positions on white satin wing chairs.

  “Those are our children,” Klebe said, indicating the silver-framed photographs that ran the length of the marble mantel.

  Dutifully, Traveler and his father got up again to examine the offspring, two boys and three girls.

  “The boys are in the business with me. Vice-presidents already.”

  “And your daughters?” Traveler asked, as was expected of him.

  “Still having daughters of their own, which makes us grandparents ten times over.”

  His wife shook her head slowly. “What’s a woman to do with all those souls waiting in heaven to be born? The children have to keep coming.”

  “Don’t start,” Klebe said.

  She backed away from the sofa. “We must accommodate the waiting souls, the spirit children. It would be a sin to do otherwise.”

  “Mother, these gentlemen aren’t here to discuss theology. They have a schedule to keep. So do I.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said and left the room.

  Klebe rubbed his hands together. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “As I told you when I called,” Martin said, “we’re trying to locate a missing prisoner of war, a fellow German named Karl Falke.”

  “I misled you on the phone. The name only came back to me after I started thinking about the war again.”

  Klebe shook his head as if surprised at his own memories. “I was taken prisoner in Africa and held in the desert for quite some time before being shipped to Boston. The whole time, in the desert and on the boat, I kept thinking I was going to be tortured and killed. That’s what we were told to expect if we let ourselves be captured. The fact is, I ate better as a prisoner than I ever did as a German soldier.”