The Hosanna Shout

by R. R. Irvine

  The driver and his cohort exchanged looks and fled toward the flatbed as if fearing a sermon.

  “I thought I’d be glad to be rid of this place. Now . . .” The priest nudged Traveler onto the threshold to point out a stained-glass Madonna and child glowing in the morning light behind the altar.

  Traveler was about to walk down the center aisle when Joe Balic, the Orthodox priest, parked his car behind the truck, stepped out into the middle of Main Street, put both hands to the small of his back, and stared up at the church’s two-story wooden spire.

  “I’d offer you a seat, old man,” Bannon called out good-naturedly, “but the pews are gone, sold off and hauled away by some antique dealer.”

  Shaking his head, Balic joined them at the front door.

  “We got no takers for the stained glass,” Bannon said. “It’s too badly cracked because of the blasting.”

  Balic dismissed the comment with a backhanded wave. “It’s the memories that count, the history. Think about it, Father. Generations have gathered here for services. God alone knows what confessions were heard here over the years, especially back in the days when Bingham’s red-light district was going full blast. I know. I grew old up here in this canyon.”

  Bannon raised an eyebrow. “And I’m a newcomer, is that what you’re saying?”

  The old priest smiled. “I envy you the long road ahead.”

  “I don’t know how far I’ll get with the load I’m carrying. I wanted a parish in Salt Lake, a large congregation, not the handful I was ministering to here. And why? For pride’s sake, I realize now, not for God’s. I wanted an audience. I wanted success. To get it, I took sides. I wanted the town sold. Now people are dead because of the enmity I helped arouse.”

  He looked at Traveler. “You have every right to accuse me,” Bannon said. “Even at the football game, I caused trouble. For all I know, the fire I lit there turned to hatred and murder.”

  “I don’t understand,” Balic said.

  “Mr. Traveler does, I think. Do you remember when we first started playing? Traveler wasn’t really trying all that hard. That’s when I took a couple of cheap shots at him because he was on the other side, the side that wanted to fight the company buyout. I told the others, too. ‘Take a shot at the old pro,’ I said. I thought it was funny at the time, since you didn’t seem to want to fight back.”

  “You told them who I was?” Traveler said.

  “Sure. During one of the huddles, or maybe it was a beer timeout. ‘That’s Moroni Traveler,’ I said. “He used to play linebacker for L.A.’ You’d been calling yourself Martin.”

  “What did Garth Tempest say?”

  “Something I won’t repeat.”

  “Did you know his daughter’s full name?” Traveler asked.

  Bannon shook his head.

  “Her name’s Moroni Traveler Tempest,” Balic supplied. “Angel for short.”

  “Dear God,” Bannon said.

  Traveler touched the bruise on his forehead where Tempest had hit him during the game.

  “I’m an old man,” Balic said. “I don’t want to pass on with a child on my conscience.”

  “I agree,” Bannon said.

  The two priests stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the younger man nodded, giving way to Father Balic. “There are people in this town, people I trust, who say Garth Tempest beat his wife. I never saw it happen myself, and Hannah never said a word to me. She wasn’t my parishioner, though I did see her looking the worse for wear on a number of occasions.”

  “She attended my church,” Bannon said.

  “We can’t ask you to break the seal of the confessional,” Balic told him.

  “Is it true?” Traveler asked. “Did he abuse her?”

  Bannon turned away, but not before Traveler saw the answer on his face.

  Traveler clenched his teeth. “And the child?”

  The priest walked away without answering.

  38

  TRAVELER WENT looking for Garth Tempest but found Martin and Wayne Pinock first, drinking a lunchtime beer at the White Elephant Saloon along with half a dozen others, none of whom he knew by sight. Hand-lettered signs taped to the mirror behind the bar said, OFFICIAL FAREWELL PARTY STARTS AT 6. EVERYTHING MUST GO, DRINKABLE OR NOT. Crepe-paper streamers had been draped through the dozen or so deer antlers that decorated the walls.

  Martin took one look at Traveler and said, “You look like you’re about to explode.”

  Traveler shook his head and ordered a beer. He didn’t speak until it was gone. “I’ve just come from the Tempest place, but no one was home.”

  “We ran into Garth Tempest half an hour ago,” Pinock said. “Up at his souvenir shop.”

  “There’s no hurry to catch him,” Martin added, his eyes never leaving Traveler’s face. “He told us he’d be at the Copper Keepsake most of the day, packing up for the movers.”

  “Before you go looking for him,” Pinock said, “your father and I have got news. Not five minutes ago we got off the phone to the Chester Building. Your friend Bill was right about the mural. They’ve been cleaning the ceiling all day and there is a face in the clouds.”

  “Barney says it looks a little like Joseph Smith,” Martin said. “Joe’s spirit, anyway, looking down from heaven to oversee his flock’s trek to the promised land. Barney’s words anyway, or maybe Bill’s. The bunch of them sounded like they’d been celebrating.”

  “We’re going to meet there first thing tomorrow,” Pinock added, “so I can photograph their discovery. If Thomas Hart Benton painted Joseph Smith, the Historical Society will want it fully documented. So far as I can remember, the Gustavson collection showed no close-ups of the clouds. I copied a few prints, though, and I’ll bring them along for comparison.”

  “We’ll be there,” Traveler said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Without a word, Martin followed him outside. “Jesus Christ, Moroni. You should see the look on your face. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Garth Tempest knew who I was during the football game. Father Bannon told him.”

  “No wonder he tried to take your head off.”

  “The priest says he beat Hannah.”

  “And Angel?” Martin asked.

  “I don’t know, but I want you covering my back when I talk to him.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  39

  KENNECOTT’S WARNING siren sounded as Traveler opened the door to the Copper Keepsake. The shop, already a shambles, shook violently when the blast came a moment later. A string of shiny cowbells, hanging like a mobile from the low-raftered ceiling, clanged loudly. The few copper souvenirs left on the shelves began tumbling onto the floor where Garth Tempest stood, surrounded by partially filled packing boxes. The shaking raised enough dust to make Traveler’s eyes water.

  “For Christ’s sake!” Tempest shouted. “You’d think they could let us leave in peace.”

  Behind the waist-high customer counter a child began to whimper. When Traveler edged past Tempest to peer over the barrier, he saw Angel’s tear-streaked, dirty face. She grew quiet at the sight of him and stuck a thumb in her mouth.

  “I thought she was staying with the Odegaards,” Traveler said.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. Keep your nose out of my business.” Tempest moved behind the counter to stand beside Angel.

  “I’m a detective,” Traveler said.

  “I know all about you. When the police talked to me, I gave them your name. Talk to him,’ I said. ‘He seems to know more about my life than I do. He’s responsible. Nobody died until he showed up.’ ”

  “The poison was a solvent used to clean mining equipment.”

  “I’ve never met anyone named for an angel before,” Tempest said. “Except my daughter.”

  Traveler glanced over his shoulder to reassure himself that Martin was standing outside the shop window.

  “If you had any balls,” Tempest said, “you’d tell me the truth.�
��

  “About what?”

  Tempest looked down at the girl, who was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. “I know my slut wife named her after you. Miss Moroni Traveler Tempest.” He clenched his teeth so hard veins stood out in his neck. “What a laugh you must have had about that, fucking my wife and sticking me with your kid.”

  “I never met your wife before I came here.”

  “Sure. Tell me another one. Mr. Sucker who believes his wife after she walks out on him, stays away nine months, and then comes back with his baby.”

  “The child’s real mother was Claire Bennion. She named Angel after me. Your wife had to promise to keep the name before Claire would agree to an adoption.”

  Tempest twitched. “ ‘Look,’ Hannah says to me when she hands me the kid, ‘she has your eyes, your coloring.’ And me buying it, too dumb to know she’d been spreading her legs for someone like you. How was she, huh? Did she—”

  Traveler leaned over the counter, grabbed Tempest’s shirt, and shook him. “Keep your mouth shut in front of your daughter.”

  “You should be dead, goddamn you. A man named for an angel shouldn’t drink beer. I thought you were a Mormon. Mormons drink lemonade.”

  Traveler threw the punch without thinking. Even as it landed, he saw the terror on Angel’s face. The impact of the blow hurled Tempest into the wall shelves behind him, which broke free of their brackets. Traveler lunged headfirst across the counter, using his own body to shield Angel from the falling debris. He was about to pick her up when Tempest’s fist caught him on the back of the neck, slamming his chin against the countertop and sinking his teeth into his tongue.

  Despite the pain, he left himself vulnerable and continued to shield her. But Tempest didn’t follow up. When Traveler turned his head to see why, Martin was standing in the open doorway, holding a .45.

  Carefully, Traveler cleared away the debris. As soon as he freed Angel, she ran to her father and wrapped her arms around his legs, sobbing.

  “To think I invited you to share my food,” Tempest said.

  At a nod from Traveler, Martin handed over the .45 before retreating outside, where he kept watch from the curb across the street.

  Tempest glared at the top of his daughter’s head. “God was on my side at that football game. I knew that when Father Bannon called me over. ‘You see that big bastard,’ he said, ‘that’s Moroni Traveler. He used to play in the pros.’ After that all I could think about was your name. Moroni fucking Traveler. ‘We’ll name her Moroni, after the angel,’ Hannah told me. I wanted to kill you then and there. I tried to kill you, but it was no use. I wasn’t big enough. That’s when I got the idea. I had the solvent in my trunk. I shouldn’t have had it, you know. It’s too dangerous. They told us that at the mine, that it caused cancer. Only I’d seen how well it cleaned the machinery, so I figured it would do the same for my car engine. I told myself it would be all right as long as I was careful. Only I never got around to using it.”

  “But you drank some of that lemonade yourself,” Traveler said.

  “I took a handful of aspirin to make myself sick.”

  “What about Angel and Tommy?”

  “There was no need. By the time the kids left for the chocolate cake, the guilty had already done their drinking, so I pretended to find a bug in the lemonade and dumped it out.”

  “And Marty?”

  “Once he drank it, there was nothing I could do.”

  The .45 shook in Traveler’s hand, ‘if it was me you were after, why kill the Snarrs?”

  “Hannah stayed with them those nine months. They had to know the child wasn’t mine. They lied for her, they covered up her adultery.”

  Traveler looked at Angel, who continued to hide her face against Tempest’s leg.

  “Believe me,” Traveler said, “it wasn’t your wife who was unfaithful. She wanted a child and Claire Bennion came along. That’s all there is to it.”

  Tempest shook his leg. “Let go, Angel.”

  She didn’t budge.

  “You were the only one who was supposed to die,” Tempest said. “I wanted to give the rest of them cancer. I wanted them to suffer a long time. I wanted them to pay for what they’d done to me.”

  He grabbed hold of Angel’s ear and twisted it until she cried out. “You let go of me when I tell you.” He kicked out suddenly, throwing her against the counter and knocking the wind out of her. Her shorts rode up far enough to expose old bruises on her thighs.

  Traveler released the safety and raised the pistol. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Martin running toward the shop.

  “You can’t shoot me.” Tempest smiled. “You have no proof, and a three-year-old bastard child can’t testify.”

  Martin opened the door.

  Without another word, Tempest walked out into the street. Traveler followed onto the sidewalk where he took careful aim at the man’s retreating back.

  Martin touched Traveler on the shoulder. “My grandchild’s watching you.”

  Traveler watched Tempest out of sight before handing the .45 back to Martin.

  “What happened?” Martin said.

  Quietly, Traveler summarized Tempest’s confession. As soon as he finished speaking, Martin said, “I’ll take her to the Odegaards for safekeeping.”

  Nodding, Traveler headed for the White Elephant Saloon where Garth Tempest had disappeared.

  40

  THE ONLY cars on Main Street were parked in front of the saloon. Inside, a crowd of maybe twenty people was getting a midafternoon start on the evening’s farewell party. Most looked to be old-timers, men still lean enough to wear jeans low on their hips, but with stomachs that overlapped their belt buckles. At a guess, Traveler placed smelter men at one end of the bar, miners at the other, with a knot of pale shopkeepers, Garth Tempest among them, in the center. As promised, Dr. Jesse Snarr was behind the bar where half a dozen whiskey bottles, at various levels of depletion, stood at regular intervals.

  Traveler took a quick breath of fresh air and plunged across the threshold into the thick cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke. The conversation lulled as the men turned away from the bar to stare at him.

  “Just the man,” someone said from among the smelter group. As one, they waved him over; the miners came too, even the shopkeepers, though Tempest held back.

  “The name’s Zeke,” the man who’d spoken said, shaking hands. “We’ve been talking about that football game at the picnic.” He looked around, received nods of encouragement from his cronies, and continued. “I say a professional linebacker’s just like a boxer. If he hits someone it’s as good as using a gun.”

  “I was holding back at the picnic,” Traveler said.

  “Jesus,” Zeke said. “I’d hate to see you playing for real.”

  Another man said, “I saw you play for L.A. You crippled some running back, I remember that. Put the gazooney in a wheelchair for life.”

  Traveler, feigning nonchalance, glared at Tempest. “In the pros, you had to hurt people to keep up your reputation.”

  “We could have used you during the strike,” Zeke said.

  “That was before my time.”

  “Hell. That was before everyone’s time.” Zeke’s comment produced laughter from his cohorts. As soon as it subsided, another man said, “Our fathers told us what it was like, though. Company spies and gunmen were everywhere, doing their best to intimidate us workers. They killed Joe Hill, the union man, that’s for sure.”

  “Give the man a break!” Snarr shouted from behind the bar. “He looks like he could use a drink.”

  The men parted to let Traveler through to the bar, where Snarr immediately filled a shot glass with whiskey and drew a mug of beer from the tap.

  “Don’t mind them.” The hollows under the doctor’s eyes were smudged with exhaustion. “They’re reliving the past to keep from thinking about the future, when their town’s gone for good.”

  Traveler gulped his whiskey while watching Tempest’s reflection in t
he bar mirror.

  “I know how you feel,” Snarr said. “I tried to get drunk myself last night but ended up sick instead.”

  “More beer,” someone shouted.

  “My patients need me.” Snarr moved down the bar refilling mugs.

  Tempest now stood at the far end of the bar, near the White Elephant’s back door. Except for Traveler, everyone else had gathered at the front of the saloon.

  Traveler pointed a finger at Tempest’s reflection and fired an imaginary round. The man turned toward the rear door in time to see it opened by Martin.

  From the front of the saloon came the cry, “Let’s hear it for Joe Hill!”

  The song started raggedly but quickly grew in volume.

  “I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night

  Alive as you and me.

  Says I, ‘But Joe, you’re ten years dead.’

  ‘I never died,’ says he.

  ‘I never died,’ says he.

  ‘In Salt Lake, Joe, by God,’ says I,

  Him standing by my bed,

  They framed you on a murder charge.’

  Says Joe, ‘I didn’t die.’

  Says Joe, ‘I didn’t die.’ ”

  Traveler hadn’t remembered the words, but he did know the story. Joe Hill, an organizer for the old IWW, the Industrial Workers of the World known as Wobblies, had been convicted and executed about the time of the First World War at the instigation of the Utah Copper Company, the forerunner of Kennecott. Or so the union litany went.

  “ ‘For the copper bosses, they framed you, Joe.’

  ‘They shot you, Joe,’ says I.

  ‘Takes more than guns to kill a man.’

  Says Joe, ‘I did not die.’

  Says Joe, ‘I did not die.’ ”

  Traveler walked down the bar until he was close enough to Garth Tempest to be heard over the singing. “If I remember my history,” Traveler said, “they tied Joe to a kitchen chair and shot him at the old Sugar House prison.” He looked around as if seeking a similar chair.

  “These are my friends in here,” Tempest said. “They’ll protect me.”

  “For how long?”

  “You’re not going to catch me outside alone, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’ll stay here all night if I have to.”