The Hosanna Shout

by R. R. Irvine

  THE HOSANNA SHOUT

  A Moroni Traveler Novel

  THE HOSANNA SHOUT

  A Moroni Traveler Novel

  By R. R. Irvine

  To Dominick Abel

  THE HOSANNA SHOUT

  Copyright © 1994 by Robert Irvine.

  All Rights Reserved.

  First eBook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  978-1-4821-0214-7 Trade

  978-1-62460-677-9 Library

  Cover photograph © iStock.com.

  Other eBooks by R.R. Irvine:

  Robert Christopher Series

  Jump Cut

  Freeze Frame

  The Face Out Front

  Ratings are Murder

  Moroni Traveler Mysteries

  Baptism for the Dead

  The Angels' Share

  Gone to Glory

  Called Home

  The Spoken Word

  The Great Reminder

  The Hosanna Shout

  Pillar of Fire

  Nicolette Scott Mysteries

  Track of the Scorpion

  Flight of the Serpent

  Wake of the Hornet

  The Return of the Spanish Lady

  Thread of the Spider

  Novels

  Horizontal Hold

  The Devil’s Breath

  Footsteps

  Barking Dogs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  1

  A DISTANT trumpet sounded. Atop the Mormon temple across the street, the Angel Moroni had his horn to his mouth as if summoning the dead.

  Moroni Traveler opened his office window half expecting to receive the call. What he got was a faceful of smelter fallout from Kennecott Copper.

  Behind him, his father said, “Mad Bill’s at it again.” The bugle’s note rose, becoming more aggressive. Bill had been practicing all week in the basement of the Chester Building, sounding what he called his Cavalry Charge.

  “At least he plays better than Charlie,” Traveler said. “That won’t stop them from getting arrested.” The pair of them, Bill, sometimes called Salt Lake City’s Sandwich Prophet because of the hinged boards he wore advertising the tenets of his two-man church, and his lone disciple, Charlie Redwine, were marching in front of the temple gate. Halfway up the block on South Temple Street a uniformed policeman was already speaking into a handheld two-way radio.

  The bugle changed hands.

  “It’s Charlie’s turn,” Traveler said, glancing at his father.

  Martin remained seated at his desk with his back to the temple-facing windows. His feet were up, his hands laced behind his neck. “We haven’t had an Indian summer like this in years, Mo. It must be eighty degrees.” He drew a deep, sighing breath. “When I was growing up, October smelled like burning leaves, not Kennecott.”

  Charlie’s first bugle note rose to a wail before trailing off as he ran out of breath.

  “Indian summer should be quiet and peaceful,” Martin added. “Like the church library.”

  “Is that where you were this morning?”

  “I like to think of my dawn labors as a kind of penance.”

  Charlie tried again, this time hitting a note that made Traveler clench his teeth.

  Martin said, “Not ten minutes ago, Charlie told me his ancestors confiscated Custer’s bugle and have been playing it ever since.”

  “He’s a Navajo, not a Sioux.”

  “He claims to be a Plains Indian at heart, a warrior of the old school.”

  Traveler had heard that before, Bill and Charlie going on about Indian warriors who gained honor by counting coup, by touching their enemies and getting away with it. Anybody could take a scalp from a dead man, Charlie contended, but it took real courage to approach your enemy intending only to play tag. Those who did so successfully were entitled to wear eagle feathers as a sign of their bravery, or so said Charlie.

  Traveler saw no sign of plumage as he turned away from the window. “You heard them as well as I did yesterday, making up their own rules for counting Mormon coup. In this town, that could be dangerous.”

  “It was raining yesterday. They had to do something to kill time.”

  “You were the one who suggested the point system,” Traveler said.

  “I seem to remember that you thought it was a good idea at the time.”

  “We’d all been sampling Bill’s sacramental wine.”

  “We should have guessed that Charlie had spiked it.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Traveler said. “I still haven’t shaken the hangover.”

  “They probably feel as bad as we do, then.”

  “You weren’t there this morning when Bill salted his coffee from Charlie’s peyote pouch and said, ‘As of today, we’re changing tactics. Proselytizing by the laying on of hands. By counting coup in God’s name.’ ”

  Bill’s proselytizing usually confined itself to panhandling, with Charlie rattling a carefully primed donation can in the faces of people passing in and out of the temple grounds.

  Traveler groaned and turned back to the window in time to see Charlie standing directly in front of the gate blowing into the wrong end of the bugle as if something had become clogged inside. Beside him, Bill’s hands banged rhythmically against his chest board as if he could still hear echoes of their Cavalry Charge.

  “Do you remember the rules?” Traveler asked.

  “Don’t tell me they’ve actually started.” Martin got up to look for himself.

  Sunlight glinted off the bugle as Charlie held it to his lips.

  “One point for deacons,” Martin said. “Two for bishops.”

  “I was hoping I’d dreamed it.”

  “Members of the Council of Seventy count five, apostles ten.”

  “One hundred for the prophet himself,” Traveler added.

  “Forget it. They’d never get through his church security people, not alive.”

  Traveler caught sight of a police car at the head of Main Street, its red lights flashing, its siren silent as it edged its way through the midmorning traffic clotted around the bronze statue of Brigham Young.

  “Women don’t count,” Martin said before returning to his desk. “No points at all. I don’t think it has anything to do with their lack of status in the church. More likely Bill and Charlie are afraid of them.”

  As soon as the police car made it through the intersection, the officer holding the walkie-talkie stepped into the street and waved it to the curb a good hundred feet shy of Bill and Charlie.

  “What the hell are they doing now?” Martin asked.

  “Heading west.” Traveler turned his back on the temple to sit on t
he deep granite windowsill. “In full retreat, sandwich boards flapping.”

  “I’d like to borrow a bugle and sound the retreat myself.” Martin swiveled his chair to point at the Angel Moroni perched on his 210-foot spire, the highest of six that crowned the Mormon temple. “For the last three mornings I’ve been staring at a computer screen in the hall of records looking for our namesake.”

  “And?” Traveler prompted.

  “Our luck with women continues. I don’t know if they’re smarter than we are or just more devious. Anyway, I give up. I can’t find hide nor hair of a third Moroni Traveler.”

  With a grunt, Martin rose, went to the office door, opened it, and rapped a knuckle against the frosted glass where black, gold-edged lettering read MORONI TRAVELER & SON.

  “I think Claire did it on purpose, got an old man’s hopes up just to get even. She knew I wanted a grandson.” His fingers traced the name Moroni. “Moroni Traveler and Sons. Is that too much to ask, for another generation of Travelers?”

  No answer was expected; Traveler knew that.

  “You should have married her,” Martin said.

  “You were the one who advised me against it,” Traveler answered with a smile.

  Nodding, Martin closed the door. “She was too much like your mother.” He returned to his desk, this time settling into the client’s chair.

  Their one-room office on the third floor of the Chester Building held two side-by-side desks, each fronted by its own client chair. To avoid the pain in Martin’s eyes, Traveler left the windowsill for his client chair and immediately had the feeling that they were both pretending to admire the temple view across the street.

  Finally, Martin said, “I checked the records for both of Claire’s towns, Milford and Milburn. I even tried Midvale. No luck. So much for that theory, that the letter M was the key. Claire’s story must have been lies. For all we know she was never even pregnant.”

  “We have a witness who said she was.”

  “Sure. The same one we paid money to for information about M as in Milford.”

  Traveler was about to lay a hand on Martin’s arm when his father stood up again and returned to his desk chair, leaning back hastily and closing his eyes. “They say everybody’s listed in the church’s computers. That’s why I had such high hopes for Milburn.”

  When Martin opened his eyes, Traveler closed his. Claire was in the dark waiting for him, still sharp in memory, still alive, her reach long enough to play one last trick on him from the grave.

  I’ve named the child Moroni after you.

  He’s not mine.

  He has your name.

  So does my father.

  Maybe it’s his.

  Let me see the boy, then.

  Only when you’ve paid.

  What do you want?

  That’s for you to know.

  Traveler rubbed his eyes until Claire disappeared. “It’s time we gave up looking.”

  “Do you think she was lying, then?”

  “Even if Moroni the Third exists, we have no claim on him.”

  “Blood ties, you mean.” Martin pursed his lips. “Look at the pair of us. Blood isn’t important.”

  “I thought it was when I was a boy.”

  “Your mother was foolish when she told you I wasn’t your father.”

  “She never told me his name.”

  “Are you asking me for it again?” Martin said.

  “Don’t you think I should know?”

  “Your mother wanted me to go back to using the name Moroni. Did I ever tell you that? She said it sounded more refined than Martin, more inspirational. You know what I told her? ‘Kary,’ I said, ‘I had to fight my way through grade school to live that name down. I’m not about to change back to it.’ ”

  A fresh Cavalry Charge—Bill’s, judging by the sound of it—sent Traveler back to the open window. Their retreat had been a diversion only, the preparation for a new assault. Around the temple gate, people were scattering as Charlie approached doing a war dance and shaking his donation can like a tambourine. Directly behind him, Bill now wore a hand-lettered sign on his sandwich board. God’s touch is at hand. Feel it now before it’s too late.

  “Christ,” Traveler said, “I think they’re actually going inside to count coup.”

  “It’s that smelter smell. It’s rotting everybody’s brain.” Martin joined him at the window, leaning out far enough to look west toward Kennecott. Traveler held on to him.

  “It breaks my heart,” Martin said, “to see what they’re doing to the Oquirrh Mountains.”

  Traveler didn’t bother to look. He knew what he’d see, Kennecott’s vast mining and smelter complex chewing away at the Oquirrhs where they ran into the Great Salt Lake.

  A shout went up across the street. Traveler pulled his father back inside. By then, there was no sign of Bill and Charlie, only a crowd surging around the gate. Up the block, the patrol car switched on its siren. Another, more distant siren answered.

  “They’re as good as in jail,” Martin said.

  Church security forces, looking very much like a SWAT team, seemed to materialize from nowhere.

  “You stay out of it,” Traveler told his father, but Martin was already on his way out the door, forcing Traveler to run to catch up.

  Down the hall, the elevator was waiting for them, the brass door open, its operator, Nephi Bates, crouched over the controls. “Ave Maria” spilled from the earphones hanging loosely around his neck. Beside him, Barney Chester, the building’s owner, was waving frantically, urging haste.

  “It’s my fault,” Barney said as soon as they were inside the grillwork cage. “I bet Bill and Charlie they didn’t have the nerve to do it.”

  Nephi slammed the lever hard over. The elevator plummeted.

  2

  UNIFORMED POLICE, reinforced by church security, had a path cleared to the temple gate by the time Traveler and Martin got there. Fire engines and police vans already barricaded South Temple Street, backing traffic to Brigham Young’s statue in one direction, and all the way across West Temple Street in the other.

  Yellow crime scene tape, stretching hand-to-hand between police officers, stopped Traveler twenty feet short of the gate. From behind the temple’s granite wall, he heard Bill shout, “Feel the touch of God!” Judging by the volume, Bill had to be close by, since the walled temple grounds encompassed an entire city block.

  “Sacrilege!” someone shouted in response, also from inside the walls.

  Charlie answered with a war whoop that triggered rumbles from the crowd outside.

  “What the hell kind of coup are they counting in there?” Martin said.

  Before Traveler could answer, a door slid open on one of the vans. Two sharpshooters, both armed with military assault rifles, jumped out. At the same time, firemen unhooked a ladder from a nearby truck and carried it forward, flanked by the riflemen. When the crowd parted to let the group pass, Traveler moved to intercept Lieutenant Anson Horne who was bringing up the rear.

  “Christ,” Martin said into Traveler’s ear. “It would be him.”

  With Horne was his partner, Sergeant Earl Belnap.

  “Go back to the Chester Building and call Willis,” Traveler told his father. “We’re going to need some help.”

  Most times Martin might have argued, since he considered Willis Tanner more trouble than he was worth when it came to favors asked. But this time, he merely nodded and trotted back across South Temple Street.

  Traveler caught Horne’s attention.

  “What the hell do you want?” the lieutenant said.

  “That’s Bill inside.”

  “I should have known. The call said some kind of terrorist had stormed the temple grounds.”

  “Two terrorists,” Belnap added, running a hand over the short nap of his military haircut. He had the forearms and shoulders of a serious weight lifter.

  “Charlie’s with him,” Traveler confirmed.

  Horne tapped Traveler on t
he chest. “Just stay out of my way.”

  “I’ve called Willis Tanner for help,” Traveler said.

  “I heard he was on his honeymoon.”

  Traveler shrugged, knowing that Willis’s name could work miracles when whispered in the right ears. Tanner, Traveler’s friend since childhood, was in charge of public relations for the church and a spokesman for the prophet, Elton Woolley.

  “I suppose you want to go inside,” Horne said.

  “Bill trusts me.”

  Horne took a deep breath and nodded at his sergeant. “Bring him along. It’s easier than arguing.”

  Traveler forced himself not to struggle against Belnap’s painful grip. The sergeant took Traveler’s acquiescence as a sign of weakness and elbowed a kidney, no doubt a technique he’d learned during his stint with the LAPD. Traveler was about to unclench his teeth and protest when they cleared the gate and caught sight of Bill. Even Belnap must have been stunned by the spectacle, because his grip went as slack as his mouth.

  Bill was perched atop the Sea Gull Monument, clinging to the bronze birds that commemorated the thousands of gulls who’d devoured the locust plague threatening the harvest of the first Mormon pioneers.

  Horne stopped in his tracks. “It is sacrilege.”

  “What do you expect from a Gentile,” Belnap answered. Since moving to Salt Lake, Belnap had transferred the LAPD’s hard-nosed attitude against blacks to non-Mormons, or Gentiles as they were called in Utah. He was the perfect partner for Horne, a second-generation cop and third-generation Mormon bishop.

  Church security, augmented by the regular police and the sharpshooters, surrounded the sixteen-foot Doric column at a distance of about twenty yards.

  Bill raised one hand toward heaven. The gesture cost him his balance and he had to grab a bronze wing to keep from falling.

  “Shoot him off of there,” Belnap said.

  The sharpshooters, apparently seeing that Bill was unarmed and in no position to harm anyone, were concentrating on Charlie, who still had the bugle.

  “Sound the call,” Bill shouted.

  From the lip of the monument’s granite reflection pool, Charlie raised the bugle to his lips and produced a shrill, ragged note.

  Horne waved the sharpshooters back, then signaled two of his regular officers to move in and secure the Indian. Once Charlie was handcuffed, the church security men, all dressed in suits and ties like the ex-FBI agents they were, faded back to the visitor information building near the gate. There was no sign of the armed church SWAT team that Traveler had seen from his office window.