by R. R. Irvine
Johnson read it and clicked his tongue. “Thank God. My nose is still working. Private lawmen are better than nothing.”
Traveler said, “It might be best if we kept this conversation to ourselves.”
“Mum’s the word. Safe as houses, that’s me as long as I haven’t got the shakes.”
“What does it take to keep you steady?”
“A bottle a day keeps the doctor away.”
Traveler set up a weeklong, paid-up account with the Pastime’s bartender before he and Martin left. They were halfway to Emma’s boardinghouse before he said, “I’m not coming back to town with you.”
“You’re damn right. Someone’s got to stay here and look after Marty’s interests until he and his parents are out of the hospital.”
“And if they don’t get out?”
Martin shook his head. “I’d stay with you if I didn’t have an appointment at the City and County Building tomorrow morning. That’s when my contact is running a computer check on the Chester Building.”
26
AN EAST wind off the Great Salt Desert cleared the air in Bingham Canyon the next morning, pushing the smelter fallout toward Salt Lake City. The thermometer in Emma Dugan’s kitchen read seventy-six degrees as Traveler sat down to a bowl of oatmeal at seven A.M.
“The radio says ninety by noon,” Emma told him. “My bones tell me ninety-five. If you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you here alone for a while and go vote early, before it gets too hot.”
“Why don’t I walk with you as far as the hospital?” He started to get up but she waved him back into his chair.
“It’s a sin to waste perfectly good food, young man. I can wait a few minutes until you finish.”
The oatmeal, laced with brown sugar and butter, soothed his stomach.
“I took a casserole over to the Odegaards last night,” Emma said as she poured him coffee. “There till all hours, I was. I couldn’t bear to leave those poor children. Young Dr. Snarr did drop by before I left, but he didn’t have good news. Hannah and Hattie are still unconscious. If you ask me, the doctor’s going to make himself sick if he doesn’t get some rest. There are plenty of volunteers, myself included, but he won’t leave his mother’s side except to see the children.”
She took Traveler’s empty bowl and began rinsing it in the sink. “Father Bannon is opening his church for special prayer services this morning. The old place was already boarded up, but he went out last night and pulled the planks off the door himself. You’re welcome to join me there after I vote.”
“I appreciate the invitation.”
A church bell rang in the distance.
“Dear God,” she said, dropping the plate and breaking it. “That’s too early for services. It means bad news, young man. We’d better get going.”
******
A good-size crowd had gathered in front of the Holy Rosary Catholic Church by the time Traveler and Emma arrived. Mayor Odegaard, already wearing a black armband, stood in the bed of a pickup truck, hands raised in a gesture of patience, unable to speak until the bells stopped ringing. The church’s double doors stood wide open. All but one window, the one nearest to the peak of the church roof, had been nailed over with plywood sheets so badly weathered they must have been in place a long time.
Shaky Johnson, wearing a service cap and looking steady and reliable, was stationed at the rear of the truck, his back against the tailgate, his arms folded as if he were on duty again. Traveler nodded at him, but the man refused to be distracted.
The bells slowed, then stopped, though their echo continued up the canyon for several seconds. By the time the sound died away, Father Bannon and Father Balic appeared in the church’s doorway, wiping the sweat from their faces. At a nod from Father Bannon, the mayor said, “As most of you know already, Hannah Tempest has passed on.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Emma murmured, crossing herself. “Her poor husband, and that dear little child. To lose a mother so early.”
“I’m sorry to say,” the mayor continued, “that Hattie Snarr has been put on life support and is in very critical condition. Her husband and the little boy have taken a turn for the worse too, though Garth Tempest seems to be holding his own, thank God. We can also be thankful that no one else has been stricken.”
“Amen,” Emma said.
“Doc Snarr is getting ready to transfer the survivors to the hospital in Salt Lake. In the meantime, Father Bannon and Papa Joe Balic ask that you come inside and join us in prayers for their recovery.”
When some people hesitated the mayor said, “All faiths are welcome.”
Emma touched Traveler’s arm and said, “Are you coming inside?”
“There’s something I have to do first.”
“Us Catholics aren’t devils, despite what you Mormons think.”
He hated misrepresenting himself at a time like this, but now was not the moment for confession.
She stood on tiptoe to look him in the eye. “You have your own devils, I can see that in your face.” She joined the crowd filing inside.
Claire had been a great one for devils, too. Never cross the threshold of a Catholic church, she said whenever they passed one. The devil lives inside, just waiting to get hold of one of us Saints so he can drag us down to hell.
Traveler’s mother had her own variation. All Catholics work for Satan. They do his bidding and steal bad little boys and girls. Do you know why? Because they have tender flesh and can be eaten alive.
Once, on a double-dare, Traveler and Willis Tanner had sneaked into the Catholic cathedral on South Temple Street after dark, seeking the graven image of the devil supposed to be hidden there. They hadn’t gotten more than a few steps inside when they’d disturbed a roosting bird, whose fluttering wings sent them running for blocks, causing Willis to swear that the devil had changed himself into a bat.
27
IDA ODEGAARD was seated on a chrome-trimmed Naugahyde sofa in the hospital’s waiting room, reading a Dr. Seuss to the Snarr children, who were crammed as close to her as they could get. At Traveler’s approach she stopped reading and looked up, eyes red and swollen, and shook her head to warn him to be careful in front of the children.
The little girl tugged on Ida’s sleeve. “More, please, the way Mommy does.”
“Your Aunt Ida has to rest for a minute and talk to this man.”
“Let me try,” the boy said.
“All right, but don’t lose my place.” She handed him the book. “We’ll be right outside.”
Traveler followed Mrs. Odegaard across the faded green linoleum and out the door into the oppressive sunlight, where she sat on the narrow step that was all the front entrance the hospital had. Traveler joined her, feeling the sun-scorched concrete through the seat of his jeans.
“I was with Hannah Tempest before she lost consciousness,” Ida said without preamble. “Traveler.”
“She told you my name?”
“I don’t think she meant to at first. For a while there she was out of her head and kept calling me Claire. ‘Claire,’ she’d say, ‘why have you done this to me? He wouldn’t have found us if you hadn’t made me promise.’ Do you know what she meant, Mr. Traveler?”
“I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”
Ida shaded her eyes to stare at him. “My husband and I spent most of last night talking. The way we figure it, you and Hannah were lovers, though I would have thought she wasn’t your type.”
“I’d never met her before coming to Bingham the day before yesterday.”
Ida shook her head. “A woman doesn’t name her child after a stranger.”
“There’s no tie between us, blood or otherwise.”
“Yet you’re here.”
Traveler saw no way out except the truth, though he confined it to recounting his turbulent relationship with Claire, her whims, her games, and her determination to give up her child, not his, to Hannah Tempest.
For a long time, Ida stared him in the eye, not sp
eaking, challenging him to flinch, to show any sign of weakness that might reveal him as a liar. When finally she spoke, she sounded weary. “Some of the guilt has to be yours, Mr. Traveler. She was reaching out to you, your Claire, but you didn’t help her.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“At least you have a conscience. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you? Checking up on a child who isn’t yours. I think Garth will be comforted to know there’s someone around like you in case he takes a turn for the worst.”
“What about Hattie’s husband?” Traveler said.
“Lyman and young Marty went on life support ten minutes ago and they’re about to be called home if you ask me. That’s why I fear for Garth’s life too.”
“Goddammit,” Traveler said. He closed his eyes and saw the boy, looking so much like Claire.
She knocked on the wooden door frame. “So far, Garth Tempest’s fine, but you never know with food poisoning. If I thought he’d agree to it, I’d adopt Angel myself right this minute. Go in there and get his signature on a legal paper. Garth Tempest’s not the kind of man to bring up a child alone.”
“Angel?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who do you think we’ve been talking about.”
“Marty. Nicknamed for Moroni.”
“Good God, you didn’t know, did you? Marty’s named for his grandfather, Lyman Martin Snarr. The girl’s named for you. Hellsakes, they couldn’t call her Moroni, now could they? That would have sounded silly. So they called her Angel.”
Traveler felt stunned, though part of him realized that he should have expected Claire to play one last trick. He also felt ashamed of the relief he was feeling that Angel wasn’t the one on life support.
“Marty has Claire’s coloring,” he said.
Ida shrugged. “In case you haven’t noticed, Angel has your blue eyes.”
“How is she?”
“You saw for yourself when you came in the lobby. Angel and Tommy, the older boy, seemed to have been spared completely.”
“Thank God for that.”
“How old do you think Hannah Tempest was?” Ida asked him suddenly.
He shook his head.
“You don’t have to be diplomatic. She looked like an old woman. I was with her when she died, thinking the same thing myself, that she looked like my own mother when she died, used up. Too much hard work, too many hand-me-down clothes, and a husband who never made enough to keep body and soul together. The fact is, Hannah wasn’t much older than you are, Mr. Traveler. A young woman with a lot of life ahead of her.”
He nodded, remembering his first impression of Hannah, that she was his mother’s age, wearing Kary’s kind of housedress.
“It’s terrible to die like that,” Ida said, “thinking about what could have been. She was out of her mind, thinking I was Claire, but Hannah’s dreams still came through. ‘Claire,’ she said, look at what I have, look at my man. And you let one like that go. I would have traded with you. I would have loved him. I would have borne and raised his children, no matter what. I would never have given them up.’ ”
Ida blinked, expelling tears. “I didn’t realize it then, Mr. Traveler, but Hannah was talking about you. What she said makes some sense now that you’ve told me about Claire. It makes me sad, too, to know how Hannah felt about the life she had.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“That’s why I’m trusting you. It’s also the reason I’ll keep quiet about who you really are and tell my husband to do the same.”
“Do you know anything else about Garth that I ought to know?”
“He’s not the most likable man, but I wouldn’t wish what’s happened to him on anybody.”
“What happens to Angel if he dies?”
“You asking proves I’m right about you, but I don’t know and that’s a fact. You take my advice and go back to Salt Lake. I’ll call you if anything happens to Garth. That’s a promise.”
A car horn began honking in the distance, one long blast after another.
“That’s the signal,” she said. “The vote’s in early. Kennecott’s won. The town will be sold.”
28
THE WEATHER broke suddenly. By the time Traveler drove out of the Oquirrh Mountains and into the valley, thunderheads were crossing the Great Salt Lake, pushing a squall front ahead of them. In the thirty minutes it took him to reach the Chester Building, the temperature dropped from eighty-five to fifty. Indian summer had given way to a winterlike runoff that was nearing curb level as he parked on South Temple Street and made a dash for the revolving brass door.
Just inside, Barney Chester stood with his face pressed so close against the plate glass that his breath was fogging his vision. At Traveler’s entrance, Chester tore a paper towel from the roll he was holding, wiped a peephole, and said, “For Christ’s sake. You ran right by them.”
“Church security, you mean? I saw them. Tan, unmarked sedan, two men trying to look inconspicuous, with windshield wipers on intermittent.”
“They’ve been out there spying for the last two days.”
Chester rolled off half a dozen paper towels and handed them to Traveler, who mopped his face and blotted his hair.
His shirt was sticking to his back; his running shoes made squishing noises on the lobby’s granite floor.
“They’re driving me crazy, Moroni. Go out there and talk to them. Find out if they’re after me and my building or only waiting around for Mad Bill. Run ‘em off if you can. I asked Martin to give me a hand, but he had an appointment at the City and County Building.”
“You know they’re not going to tell me anything.” Traveler held out his hand for more paper towels. “There’s something I have to tell my father. Did he say when he’d be back?”
“An hour or so.” Chester tossed the roll. “Nephi Bates says we’re all under surveillance. He says they follow him everywhere he goes.”
“If he’s the church spy you’ve always claimed, he ought to know.”
“We’re lost. We might as well go into the desert and join Bill and Charlie.”
“Don’t give up yet. I spoke with a man from the Historical Society while I was in Bingham. He’s a great fan of the Chester Building and said he’d look into the story about Thomas Hart Benton.”
“I know. Wayne Pinock. He showed up an hour ago with Gussie Gustavson’s son in tow. Nephi’s upstairs right now giving them the tour.”
Traveler ran off the last of the paper towels and began mopping up the puddle at his feet.
“You should have been here when they arrived,” Chester said. “Gussie Junior gave me quite a start. He looks just like his father at that age. Fifty-two Gussie was when he died. I’d known him for twenty years by then. After that, Junior never set foot in this building again, not until today. The moment he did, you know what he said? ‘I don’t care what you call this place, to me it will always be the Gustavson Building.’ Like father, like son. Gussie was just as ornery and would have said the same thing.”
Traveler balled up the soggy towels and carried them to the wastebasket behind the cigar counter.
Barney followed. “There’s mulled coffee to take the chill off.”
“I’d better go up to the office and change first.”
As Traveler was about to ring for the elevator, the cables hummed and the grillwork cage descended slowly. At ground level, Nephi Bates opened the brass door to emit Wayne Pinock, who was carrying an aluminum equipment case, and a middle-aged man whose dark blue suit looked freshly pressed, his shoes so highly polished they could have been patent leather.
“Gussie, this is Moroni Traveler,” Chester said.
“Gustav Gustavson,” the man corrected. He didn’t offer to shake hands, so Traveler ignored him and reintroduced himself to Pinock, who raised an eyebrow behind Gustavson’s back before stowing his case next to the cigar stand.
Gustavson’s appearance, despite Chester’s claim, didn’t match the old photos of Gussie Senior, who’d been bald
, with only a fringe around the ears, while Junior’s hair was as precise as his clothes. Traveler moved closer. The hair was too precise, he decided.
Gustavson noticed Traveler’s stare, started to reach for his scalp, caught himself, and backed up a step.
Intending to convey sympathy, Traveler smiled.
Gustavson misinterpreted. “Having a handicap isn’t funny, Mr. Traveler. I still remember the day when a bishop came to our Sunday School and told us that Catholics never go bald. ‘They’re all in league with the devil,’ he said, ‘and need hair to cover their horns.’ When I started to lose mine, I left the Saints for the Pope, but it didn’t do any good. I still went bald, just like my father. It was all the inheritance he left me, though he always said this building should have been mine, that it was stolen from me.”
“I heard he lost it to Barney gambling.”
“Gambling debts aren’t legal, my father said.”
“This should all go on tape,” Pinock put in, “not for legal reasons, you understand, but for an oral history to go along with the photographs I intend to take.”
“You already have my father’s photo collection,” Gustavson said.
“Technically,” Pinock said, making it obvious he was speaking for Traveler’s benefit, “those photos are still your property. According to our records, they were only loaned to the Historical Society.”
“My father took them himself when they were building this place. That was before I was born.”
“Can you remember what he told you about those days?” Traveler said.
“Like what?” Gustavson sounded belligerent.
“Who painted the murals, for instance.”
Gustavson studied the ceiling for a moment. “My father was shrewd there. I remember him telling me that he made a deal to get the government to pay most of the costs.”
“That was the WPA at its best,” Pinock said.
“Amen,” Nephi Bates added.
Gustavson stepped over to the cigar stand, where the eternal flame was flickering badly, leaned against the counter, and craned his neck to examine the ceiling from a different angle. “My father said the mural was a religious experience for him, but I don’t see it. I don’t see much of anything but soot. You wouldn’t recognize Brigham Young if it wasn’t for the wagon train.”
