by R. R. Irvine
“Mo,” Willis Tanner said immediately, “our German mission just called to confirm Lael’s request. Have you taken her on as an assistant?”
“Get to the point, Willis.”
“I gave them the go-ahead, if that’s what you mean. Even as we speak, missionaries are being dispatched to do your dirty work.”
“I didn’t ask her to make the call,” Traveler said.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mo, fooling around with the prophet’s grandniece.”
“You know better than that.”
“Do I?”
“You sound like you’re up to something, Willis.”
“ ‘My Lael needs protection,’ the prophet told me.”
“Not from me,” Traveler said.
“ ‘I won’t be here forever,’ the prophet said. ‘Who will watch over her when I’m gone?’ ”
“That’s one job I don’t want, Willis.”
“That’s what I hoped you’d say.”
13
THE SUN was setting when Traveler parked in front of the police building on Fifth South. He got past the metal detector only to be caught by Sergeant Aldon Rasmussen.
“I should have been off duty half an hour ago,” the sergeant complained.
“That sounds like you’ve been waiting for me.”
Rasmussen was a tall, gangly man, whose goal in life was to prepare for retirement. To that end, he’d been selling real estate on the side for years, using his wife’s license to shield him from charges of moonlighting. He was also a part-time dealer in sports memorabilia, though he claimed the enterprise was only a hobby.
“I have a message for you,” Rasmussen said. “I even copied it down.”
He handed Traveler a piece of scratch paper on which was written, “ ‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.’ ”
“Willis Tanner?”
“Someone is watching over you, that’s for sure.” The policeman winked. “I suppose you want to see the sandwich man? I hear he’s refusing bail.”
“I hope to change his mind.”
“Are you selling anything?” Rasmussen asked.
“You own most of my life already.”
“How many local boys played linebacker in the pros?”
“You got the last of it when I gave you my shoulder pads.”
“Football cards are starting to get hot. I have a few you could sign for me. Too bad you didn’t play baseball. Some of those cards are worth a fortune these days.”
“I’d like to see the arrest report, too.”
“It’s waiting on my desk,” Rasmussen said. “All you’ve got to do is sign the cards.”
Traveler’s fingers were cramping by the time he got through a two-inch stack of football cards.
The arrest report confirmed what Davis, the antiques dealer, had said. Clipped to the report was a facsimile of a receipt from Era Antiques: On consignment: one Eardley Bros/Seventh Ward earthenware jar, estimated value $4,000.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Traveler said. “Bill doesn’t know anything about Mormon collectibles. Neither does Charlie.”
Rasmussen began sealing his signed football cards in individual plastic envelopes. “It’s always nice when we can clear our books with a conviction.”
“They’ve never taken anything worth more than a few dollars before. Usually they peddle it to me and I return it to the Era along with a penalty fee.”
Rasmussen stood up to peer over the escrow walls on either side of his desk. When he sat down he said, “There are lots of people around here who’d like to see your friends in jail.”
“So?”
“I have more cards at home,” Rasmussen said.
“I’ll sign them any time you want.”
The sergeant pursed his lips for a moment. “Could be somebody around here tried to get the man at Era Antiques to ID the Indian, too. Lucky for Charlie, the dealer stuck with the Sandwich Prophet.”
“I might be able to come up with a jersey,” Traveler said.
“I’ll keep that in mind for the future. Right now, the only thing else you’re getting from me is ten minutes with the sandwich man.”
******
Bill wouldn’t look Traveler in the eye.
“I’ve talked to the antiques dealer,” Traveler told him. “A lot more than a few dollars is involved this time.”
Bill continued to stare down at the lawyer/client table in front of him. His hands were out of sight, folded in his lap. His orange, jail-issued jumpsuit gave his skin a jaundiced tint.
Without looking up he said, “On behalf of the Church of the True Prophet, I thank you for past donations.”
“You were seen taking the vase. The antiques man will have to testify against you if it comes to a trial.”
“A prophet expects harassment.” Bill’s voice lacked its usual conviction.
“They’re really after you this time, so don’t expect probation.”
“Jail is full of lost souls in need of saving.”
“You’ll find even more of them in state prison,” Traveler said.
Bill twitched.
“Look at me,” Traveler said.
Slowly, Bill raised his head. His cheek had swollen to the point where it distorted his entire face.
“Your tooth is worse, isn’t it?”
“I need my disciple, my medicine man.”
“If you’re in pain,” Traveler said, “they’ll have to provide you with a dentist while you’re here.”
Bill raised a shaky hand to his face. “My cellmate warned me against it. Once they get you in the chair, he says, you’re fair game. They tie you down and go to work. Under the drill, everyone confesses.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Bill swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple shimmied. “I’m afraid, Moroni.”
“Stop playing martyr, then. I have your bail in my pocket.”
The Sandwich Prophet took a deep breath, grimacing as air hit his bad tooth. “I have sinned, Moroni. Pride made me turn away Barney and your father when they came here offering to help.”
“I can have you out of here in less than an hour.”
Bill nodded.
“Before I go, I want to know why you stole that Mormon pottery.”
“If you hurry, I’ve still got time to make my eight o’clock dinner with Lael.” Bill sounded confident again.
“That was last night.”
“It’s her treat this time.”
“Talk to me about the Mormon ware.”
“It was a posy pot, nothing more.”
“Where is it, then?”
“We’re talking tithing here, Moroni. That comes under freedom of religion, which means you’re messing with my constitutional rights.”
“Why are you lying to me?”
Bill wiped his hands on the front of his jumpsuit. “Are you going to bail me out of here or not?”
Sighing, Traveler stood up. “I’ll be waiting for you out front with the truck.”
“Don’t bother. I’m going to see a dentist before my date with Lael.”
“Where will you find one at this hour?”
“That’s the difference between us, Moroni. I have faith. I know God takes care of his lost children.”
******
Traveler was waiting across the street when Bill left the police building. The Sandwich Prophet looked around carefully, a waste of effort at that time of night, before heading west on Fifth South. Since he was on foot, Traveler walked too.
At State Street, Bill turned north. The bright lights and empty sidewalks forced Traveler to fall back far enough to avoid being seen. When Bill crossed the street at Exchange Place, he started jogging west toward Main Street. By the time Traveler reached the corner, Bill was in full flight. He disappeared a block later where Exchange Place dead-ended into Main Street.
Traveler was out of breath when he reached Main. There was no sign of Bill. No
stores were open in the immediate area. The Boston Building, on the north side of Exchange Place, showed only dim lobby lights. Its companion on the south side, the Newhouse Building, was dark except for exterior spots.
Traveler tried the doors to both buildings. The Newhouse was open. He had to use his penlight to read the directory inside. Only one dentist was listed, Franklin Guthrie, DDS, on the fourth floor.
14
AT SUNRISE the next morning, Traveler was on his way to Kearns. When he was a boy, Kearns was considered a long drive out in the country. Now it was just another suburb, ten miles west of the temple in downtown Salt Lake.
Kearns began as an air force base in 1942. Before the war was over, a thousand buildings had been constructed, barracks, mess halls, chapels, warehouses, enough to make Kearns Utah’s second-largest city.
The Nauvoo Techtronics plant included half a dozen leftover Quonsets along with a remodeled barracks and a new black glass cube. Grant Hansen, Otto Klebe’s brother-in-law, was waiting in front of the cube. On the phone the night before, he’d insisted on a 6:30 A.M. interview.
Traveler swallowed a yawn and shook hands.
“Sorry about the hour,” Hansen said, “but Mr. Klebe insists that his managers set the example, first man in, last man out. You know how the Germans are.”
Behind Hansen, a uniformed guard unlocked the door to the cube. The sound of it made Hansen sigh. “I could have retired two years ago at sixty-five.”
Traveler nodded sympathetically. Hansen, with his sagging body, white hair, and pale, translucent skin, looked seventy-five. He was wearing a winter overcoat against the chill wind blowing off the Wasatch Mountains. Yesterday’s mild spring weather had given way to heavy cloud cover and the smell of rain, snow if the temperature dropped another ten degrees.
“This is Mr. Traveler,” Hansen told the guard. “He’ll need a visitor’s pass.”
Once the guard had clipped a plastic badge to the lapel of Traveler’s tweed jacket, Hansen led the way to a nearby office. The sign on the door said EMPLOYEE INTERVIEWS. The room, ten by ten with a single Formica-topped table and two plastic chairs, was as bleak as the one where Traveler had interviewed Bill at the police building.
“You’ll have to be out of here by eight,” Hansen said as soon as they were seated in facing chairs. “Mr. Klebe is due in from Brigham City at eight-thirty to inspect the plant.” He didn’t sound happy about the prospect.
“Is that normal procedure?”
“He called late last night, though I don’t see why that’s of interest to you.”
“As I told you on the phone,” Traveler said, “I was in Brigham City yesterday when Mr. Klebe gave me your name.”
Hansen’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Are you working for him?”
Traveler shook his head. “I’m trying to locate a former German prisoner of war. Your brother-in-law said you might remember a man named Karl Falke.”
“Knowing my brother-in-law, he probably forgot to tell you that I was a captain in the U.S. Army. I was in charge of a POW camp. I had a platoon of guards and several hundred prisoners under my command. Now everything’s upside down. The Germans and Japanese own everything. Look at my brother-in-law. You know why he’s here in this country, don’t you?”
Hansen jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. “Because I sponsored him. I helped him emigrate here. I put myself on the hook for him financially and promised the government he’d have a job.”
He glared at Traveler expecting a response.
“I hope he appreciates what you did for him,” Traveler obliged.
“My father was a car salesman. A good one, too. The war almost did him in, though, because there wasn’t much stock to sell in those days. When he finally managed to swing his own dealership, the war was over. Maybe you remember Hansen’s Kaiser-Frazer. Our showroom was down on south State Street. You know what happened to those cars, of course. They were ahead of their time. That’s why General Motors and Ford forced them out of business. It ruined my father. Me, too, for that matter. Not my brother-in-law, though. He came out smelling like a rose. How he did it, I don’t know. He came to this country without a penny to his name. The next thing you know, he’s investing in property. That’s how I came to be working for the enemy. What do you think about that?”
Traveler hesitated, figuring any answer would probably be the wrong one.
“The prisoners’ lives were in my hands,” Hansen went on suddenly. “That goes for Otto, too. He was in my convoy, the one I headed up when we transferred POWs down south to Cowdery Junction to help bring in the sugar beets. That’s where he met my sister, Norma, the times when she used to come down south to visit me. The situation was quite informal, you understand, with prisoners out in the fields working like regular laborers.”
“Do you remember any of the prisoners’ names?” Traveler asked. “Or even the guards’. Anything would be helpful.”
“The men under my command weren’t exactly one-A. In any case, the only German I remember is the one I’d like to forget. One name sticks, though, a guard named Maw, like old Governor Maw, only they weren’t related. My Maw was an old guy back then, recycled from World War One. He was a local, though, from right there in Cowdery Junction. That was the only reason we took him on, so we’d have someone who knew the area. He must be dead by now.”
“I understand there were deaths in Cowdery Junction,” Traveler said.
“I was gone by then, thank God, back to Camp Tremonton.”
“I’m surprised you don’t remember Falke’s name. He was the only escaped prisoner never accounted for.”
“That I remember, but not the name. I made it a policy not to fraternize. My sister should have followed my example.”
Traveler pushed back his chair and stood up.
“She’s the one you should talk to, you know. The war changed her life more than it did mine.”
“Your brother-in-law didn’t give me the chance yesterday.”
“She’d like to get a few things off her chest. That’s why she came down from Brigham City with Otto, expressly to see you. She’s at my house right now. Otto insists on staying with us when he’s in town. He says it’s to save on hotel bills, but I know he likes to keep an eye on me. He treats my wife, Juanita, like a maid. That’s why she’s staying with her sister out in Bingham Canyon.”
Hansen led the way back to Techtronics’s main entrance. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. But what the hell. My retirement’s already vested.”
The guard took back Traveler’s visitor’s pass.
“My address is 42 Rigdon Avenue in Bacchus,” Hansen said when they reached Traveler’s truck. “Keep an eye out for my brother-in-law’s Mercedes. I don’t want you walking in on Norma until he’s left for the plant.”
15
NORTH FROM Kearns, State Highway 111 ran along the base of the Oquirrh Mountains to Bacchus. Originally a small company town created by Hercules Powder, Bacchus was on its way to becoming another Salt Lake suburb. The house on Rigdon Avenue dated from the turn of the century, one of those cube-shaped houses known as the Prairie School of architecture, though with typical Utah modifications: Corinthian columns holding up a Romanesque architrave posing as a porch roof. The entire structure set on a badly cracked concrete foundation, attesting to Hercules’s explosive past.
Norma Klebe, wearing a white apron and knitted shawl over a flowered blue housedress, hunched her shoulders when she opened the door. She squinted at Traveler’s face, then shifted from side to side to peer around him.
“Otto sometimes doubles back,” she said, stepping out onto the porch to look up and down Rigdon. “It’s a good thing you didn’t park in front, Mr. Traveler. Don’t just stand there, come in.”
She closed the door and threw the deadbolt before escorting him into a small parlor whose walls were covered with faded paper depicting flowers similar to those on her dress. She drew the drapes, then shook her head and jerked them open again.
“This time of the morning a closed house might look suspicious.”
“Why don’t you call Techtronics,” he said, “and make sure your husband’s arrived.”
“What a good idea.” She tucked a stray hair into the bun at the back of her head. “I’ll be right back.”
After she left the room, he could hear her talking on the phone, though without being able to distinguish the words. After her voice faded, water began running somewhere deep in the house.
He looked around for a place to sit. The room held one fragile-looking Victorian sofa and four chairs, all upholstered in ornate needlepoint. Crocheted antimacassars were pinned to every arm and headrest. None of the furniture looked capable of holding his 220 pounds.
“We’d better move into the TV room,” she said when she returned. “These are all family heirlooms my brother inherited from our parents. I wasn’t so lucky. Otto didn’t bring anything with him from Germany.”
The TV room, furnished with a Naugahyde sofa and two Barcaloungers, had originally been a back bedroom. All three pieces of furniture faced a large-screen television set; all three had knitted afghans folded over their backs.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Traveler. My brother has promised to call the moment Otto leaves the plant, so we don’t have to keep an eye on the street. Even speeding he couldn’t get here in less than five minutes. It’s a ten-minute drive normally. That’s why my brother lives here, because Otto insists that his managers be within ten minutes of their work.”
She pointed to one of the loungers and waited for him to settle in before perching on the edge of the sofa.
“There are times when I wanted to hire a detective myself,” she said. “The trouble is, when you go looking for something, you might not like what you find.”
Traveler stared at her until she lowered her eyes. Finally, he took out a business card and handed it to her.
She tucked it away before continuing. “It’s not Otto’s fault the way he is. He became an American too late in life. I should have realized that. Are you married?”
He shook his head.
“I said my vows in the temple. They say that seals me and Otto together for time and eternity. Do you believe it?”
