The Great Reminder

by R. R. Irvine

  “The way I feel now,” he said, teetering on the lip, “they might as well keep that open for me. Better for everyone if I just fell in and they covered me up.”

  “A man ought to be buried next to his wife,” Martin said.

  “I don’t know as she’d want me anymore.”

  “Women don’t let go of men that easily.”

  “They’re something, aren’t they. They make up their mind to something and that’s it. My Helen was that way. You couldn’t cross her, not once she set herself to something. Like her temple flowers for the cemetery. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

  Before Traveler could answer, an engine revved in the distance. He knew it was a pickup truck even before it rounded the cottonwoods and came into sight. Lowell was driving; Hubert was sitting beside him. They both came out of the cab armed with twelve-gauge pump shotguns.

  “Fern told us where to find you,” Hubert shouted.

  It wasn’t clear if he was referring to his father or Traveler.

  While Hubert spoke, Martin moved to one side, improving his angle of fire.

  “Your sons are farmers,” Traveler told Broadbent. “We’re professionals.”

  “You heard me when I told them to leave you alone.”

  “I know about the milk sickness, so you’d better tell them again.”

  Head down, Broadbent plodded toward Mahlon’s grave, stopping short to point at his wife’s nearby headstone. His sons joined him.

  “Your mother is watching everything we do here,” Broadbent told them.

  Martin moved again, continuing to improve his angle.

  Broadbent read from the stone. “ ‘Disturb me not, nor my repose / Nor from my grave to take one rose. / But let them bloom and fade away / Like me, to bloom another day.’ ”

  His sons exchanged quick looks.

  “The guilt is not Moroni’s,” Broadbent added. “Wait for me in the truck.”

  They obviously didn’t like it, but lowered their shotguns anyway, trudged back to the pickup, and reracked their weapons.

  Traveler motioned to his father, who moved within earshot without giving up his field of fire.

  “My sons are innocent,” Broadbent said. “I want you to know that. That goes for Mahlon, too.”

  Traveler shrugged. “The war was a long time ago. They were only children.”

  “It’s the old men like me who are cursed. We remember the past while everything else fades away. I thought about going to war, but farming was crucial to the war effort, so I was exempt. Maybe that’s why I worked so hard, bringing in bumper crops. Then we ran out of manpower in ‘forty-four and -five. On top of that, the prisoners they gave me didn’t have the strength to do a full day’s work. They weren’t starved like those walking skeletons you saw in the newsreels, but they were weak just the same. Six of them, the ones in the worst shape, I assigned the easiest work, the dairy. I fed them extra and gave them fresh milk. Morag’s milk. When they took sick, I didn’t know what was wrong at first. Only when they died did I remember stories my grandfather had told, that he’d lost half his family to the milk sickness back in the 1870s. In those days, they didn’t know the cause, but in 1945 I knew the culprit, all right. Snakeroot. I guess I should have been on the lookout for it. Instead, it was one of my prisoners, that man Falke, who figured out what happened. He said he was going to report me.”

  Broadbent sank to the ground next to his wife’s tombstone. His skin was ashen, his breathing ragged. Traveler knelt beside him while Martin kept his eyes on the pickup.

  “I’m telling you this for one reason only,” Broadbent said. “So that no one else in my family gets hurt. I want your promise on that.”

  “I’m not out for revenge,” Traveler said.

  “First off, you’d better know how things were back then. That machine-gunning in Salina had spooked everyone. The newspapers played it up. It was even on radio. Then, just when things started quieting down, those six up and died on me. My neighbors were so afraid the rest of the prisoners would escape they started carrying guns everywhere. You could feel the tension. I guess that’s why I lost my head when Falke confronted me. We got into a fight in Morag’s stall. The next thing I knew a board came loose in my hand and I hit him as hard as I could. Jesus, I can still hear the crack when it broke his back. Then he was lying there, staring at me, taking so damned long to die.”

  Broadbent twitched. The twitch became a tremor that started his hands shaking. He grabbed hold of his wife’s headstone to steady himself. “I told the army Falke ran off. Now God’s punished me. My son would still be alive if I’d told the truth. Poor Mahlon, he was the only one who knew what happened besides my wife. He was there during the fight. He was only eleven, but I told him he had to be a man. He had to be sworn to secrecy.”

  Broadbent touched his forehead to the stone. “Helen said we had to make amends. She raised her temple flowers and I set aside Morag’s field partly as an offering, partly because I was afraid the snakeroot would come back. But it wasn’t enough.”

  He raised his right hand as if taking an oath. “In all the years since Karl Falke died, Mahlon never said a word about it, not to me, not to anyone. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about it.

  “It’s Otto Klebe I blame. He sent word that you were looking for Falke. That’s when Mahlon went looking for you to protect me.”

  “Was Grant Hansen his messenger?”

  Nodding, the old man grabbed hold of the tombstone and levered himself to his feet. “The rest isn’t fit for Helen’s ears.”

  With that, he moved on to Mahlon’s grave, standing at the head where the stone would go eventually. “Klebe and Falke were close friends, close enough that Falke told Otto about the milk sickness before tackling me. I didn’t know it at the time, of course. Not until years later when Klebe was taking out citizenship. He came visiting and said he needed money to start up in business. To meet his price, I had to sell off half of what I owned to old man Richards. The old bastard got a bargain, too, but I was in no position to dicker. I robbed my sons of half their heritage.”

  With the toe of one shoe, Broadbent smoothed out the fresh soil on his son’s grave. “I know my boys. They’re not going to let you take me off to jail without a fight.”

  “I was hired to find Karl Falke. That’s what I’ve done.”

  “A man has to pay his debts. I know that now. Otherwise, someone else pays. Someone like Mahlon.”

  “Tell your sons to stay in the truck while my father and I leave.”

  Broadbent waved his sons away, and kept on waving until the truck drove off. He didn’t speak again until the engine sound died away. “I’ll be driving to Brigham City first thing tomorrow to collect my loan from Otto Klebe. It’s about time he learned that his side lost the war. I’ll give half of it to the church, that’s a promise I made to Helen.”

  42

  TRAVELER AND Martin checked out of the motel early the next morning and drove to Salina. They’d called ahead the night before. As promised, Sheriff Woodruff was waiting for them in his office.

  He greeted them warily, like a man bracing himself for bad news. Two chairs were already set out in front of his battered desk.

  Without a word, Traveler sat down to endorse Major Stiles’s check for $132.07, the money that Karl Falke had coming to him.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Woodruff said.

  “Buy a tombstone for Falke once they decide where to rebury him.”

  “It’ll cost a hell of a lot more than this.”

  “I have a feeling that someone in Cowdery Junction will pick up the rest.”

  “If they don’t,” Martin added, “send the bill to us.”

  Woodruff grunted. “I hope this means I’ve seen the last of you two.”

  “We’re done with what we came to do.”

  “I kind of figured that out when Owen Broadbent dropped by last night and gave me something to hold for him. An envelope sealed and notarized, to be opened wh
en he’s been called home.”

  Woodruff shook his head. “Things like that shouldn’t be necessary around here. If you two weren’t already leaving, I’d run you out on my own.”

  ******

  After leaving the sheriff, Traveler and Martin drove as far as Provo, where they had an appointment at Brigham Young University’s Department of Archaeology. Once they got there, Bishop Walter Clawson and his security men were sitting in for the archaeologists.

  “I’ve had people working all night,” Clawson announced. “You have a good friend in Willis Tanner. He called and gave the financial go-ahead. He said he owed you one.”

  Martin raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t look at me,” Traveler said. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “My archaeologists came up with a tentative identification, though they say they couldn’t swear in court it was your man Falke.” Clawson smiled. “Naturally, if Mr. Tanner insisted, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

  “It’s a matter for our client,” Martin said. “Not the legal system.”

  The bishop rubbed his hands together. “Good, good. Mr. Tanner told me you’d say that. I do have something you can show your client. My sculptor worked straight through the night to create an interesting likeness. Mind you, we didn’t prejudice him by showing him your POW photograph. The result can’t be moved yet, but I had a Polaroid taken of the head.”

  Clawson passed the photo to one of his security men, who handed it on to Traveler. The grainy black-and-white print reminded him of a pioneer daguerreotype.

  “We’ll show it to our client,” Traveler said.

  43

  THE LDS Hospital stood high on the avenues overlooking the Salt Lake Valley. The expensive, private rooms had a view all the way to the Great Salt Lake. Lewis Stiles’s small window looked out on D Street’s Depression-era bungalows.

  His son, Colonel Stiles, whispered in Traveler’s ear. “We thought we’d lost him yesterday, but he rallied. ‘I’m holding on,’ he told me. ‘I’m not letting go until Mr. Traveler gets here.’ ”

  The old man’s bed had been elevated slightly. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored; his gnarled, spotted hands lay on top of the flimsy hospital blanket.

  “I owe you an apology,” the colonel said. “I didn’t really expect to see you again.”

  His father’s eyelids fluttered. “Crank me up.” His scratchy voice was barely audible.

  While the colonel raised the bed, Traveler moved to the old man’s side and took his hand.

  “I knew you’d come,” Stiles said. “You being named for an angel.”

  Using his free hand, Traveler removed the photograph and showed it to Stiles.

  The old man sighed with relief. “That’s him. Corporal Falke. He hasn’t changed a bit. I’d know him anywhere.”

  He tightened his grip on Traveler’s hand. “Did you give the corporal the money I owed him?”

  “Everything’s taken care of,” Traveler said. “You can close your books now.”

  Stiles sighed and nodded at his son.

  “My father wants you to have a bonus.” The colonel handed Traveler a check for one thousand dollars.

  Before Traveler could return it the old man was gone.

  44

  WHEN TRAVELER left the hospital, the smell of spring rain was in the air despite a cloud-free sky. By the time he reached the Chester Building fifteen minutes later, thunderheads were spilling over the Wasatch Mountains.

  Martin was in the lobby drinking coffee with Barney, Mad Bill, and Charlie.

  Traveler accepted a cup. “It’s time I talked to Willis.”

  “Do you want a witness?” his father asked.

  “If I need one, I’m in trouble.”

  “Good. I feel like getting drunk.”

  “Charlie’s way is best,” Bill said.

  The Indian fished out his medicine bag and nodded.

  “Charlie’s right,” Bill added. “There’s no hangover and no sin in his religion.”

  Traveler studied Bill’s face, which was no longer swollen. “How’s the tooth?”

  “My dentist came through with a new crown, thanks to you, Moroni. Charlie’s elixir is taking care of everything else.”

  Traveler left them spiking their coffee and took the elevator upstairs. Settled behind his desk, he called Willis Tanner’s private number. A recorded female voice asked for an access code. “If you don’t have one or if you have a rotary phone,” she went on, “stay on the line and someone will help you.”

  Traveler put his feet up and waited.

  “Mo, I’m glad you called,” Tanner said a moment later. His computer, Traveler knew, had registered the calling number and identified to whom it was listed. “I was just about to phone you myself. Why don’t you and Martin come up to the office. We’ll have some doughnuts and chat.”

  Traveler swiveled his chair to look out the rain-streaked window. “The temple view’s better from here.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Five minutes later, Tanner arrived wearing a raincoat and matching hat and carrying a soggy paper bag. He shed the coat and tore open the bag, revealing half a dozen doughnuts.

  “Help yourself,” he said, selecting a frosted one for himself.

  Traveler moved his coffee cup to the center of the desk.

  “I just got off the phone with your friend Cody Petersen at the Tribune,” Tanner said. “They’re putting out a late-morning extra and wanted to give me a preview. What a tragedy, a member of the Council of Seventy being shot like that.”

  Traveler said nothing; he’d heard the news when he called Petersen from the hospital.

  Tanner dunked his doughnut in Traveler’s coffee.

  “It has caffeine,” Traveler said.

  Tanner swallowed the evidence of his sin. “Before this happened, there’d been talk that Otto Klebe was in line to become an apostle. Why would a man like Owen Broadbent do that, shoot a bishop and then kill himself?”

  “My client could have told you, but he’s been called home.”

  “So I heard.” Tanner snagged another doughnut and dunked it to the hilt. “The trick is to get it in your mouth before it disintegrates.”

  “I need a favor,” Traveler said.

  Tanner finished his doughnut and smacked his lips. “Don’t look so worried. I won’t call it in. I owe you.”

  “What for?”

  “We’ve been friends a long time, long enough for me to tell you how I feel about Lael. I’ve been in love with her for years, but she had her eye on you. So I stepped aside, but now that you’re out of the running, she’s come around. She’s going to marry me.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “Now what can I do for you, Mo?”

  “There’s an old man who wants to be buried in the cemetery at Fort Douglas. He’s getting ready to die and needs a plot.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of the separation of church and state? We have no say on federal land.”

  “Come on, Willis. All you have to do is pick up the phone and ask Washington for a favor.”

  “In the prophet’s name, you mean?”

  Traveler nodded. “His name is Jacob Decker. The only friends he has are buried up there, where he used to be caretaker.”

  “Consider it my wedding present to you, Mo. Naturally, Lael and I would like you to be our best man. Of course, you’d have to convert to the word. Soon, too, because we’re planning a very short engagement.”

  “You wouldn’t want to wait for me.”

  “A Gentile to the last, eh? I told Lael you’d say that, but we’ll still name the first child after you. You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type.”

  Tanner moved to the east-facing window. “Take a look at this, Mo.”

  Even in the rain, repair work was continuing on Brigham Young’s monument at the head of Main Street.

  Tanner reached into his suit coat and brought out an envelope. “Here’s your bill fo
r damages to the prophet. We understand you’ve come into money, so the thousand dollars shouldn’t be any trouble. Besides, there’s no one else to pay. Think of it as the price you have to pay for being a Gentile in the promised land.”

  THE END