by R. R. Irvine
“I’d still like to see the menu, Joy.”
“Oh, that’s not my name. It’s to remind people that they should be happy. Our turkeys are home-grown.”
When Traveler didn’t respond, somebody in the crowd spoke up. “Wasatch is the turkey capital of Sanpete County.”
The remark produced a chorus of gobbles.
“Just a hamburger,” he said.
“All we’ve got is turkey pie.” The gobbles grew aggressive, wiping away her smile, replacing it with a look of embarrassment.
Rare turkey had been one of his mother’s specialties.
“That’s what I’ll have, then.”
The waitress sighed with obvious relief and disappeared through a swinging door into the kitchen. He watched the crowd in the mirror. They seemed perfectly content to stand there and watch back. The stare-off continued until the turkey pie arrived. It looked better than it smelled.
He was about to dig in when feet shuffled on the linoleum floor behind him.
“Here they are,” someone said.
Traveler pretended to examine a forkful while watching the reflected door.
“Nobody messes with the Nibley boys,” another man added.
Christ, he thought, and swung around. The two young men swaggering through the doorway looked to be just out of their teens. They wore Levi’s rolled up at the cuff, not tailored, and tight knit shirts to show off their biceps. Their cowboy boots had sharp metal points on the toes. They could have been the younger brothers of the trio Claire had sicced on him. Men who bullied their way through life. Angry men afraid of their weaknesses.
Traveler eased off the stool, positioning himself for flight through the kitchen door. He was a half foot taller than either Nibley, but they made up for that with a lot of muscle— hard-work muscle, not the showy kind acquired in gyms. Even so, he figured he could take them. The odds were against him, though, since everyone in the place would probably jump him if it came to a fight.
They stopped short when they saw how big he was. But they weren’t going to back off. Not in front of their peers.
“Do you know who we are?” one of them said.
“I heard someone mention the name Nibley.”
“That’s us.” The one talking hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his Levi’s, making himself vulnerable if Traveler wanted to hit him. The other flexed his finger like a movie gunfighter. “I’m Mel. This is my kid brother, Junior.”
“Ellis Junior,” the younger Nibley corrected.
“Neither of us want you poking your nose into our business.”
The crowd pressed back against the front window, clearing floor space for action.
“I’m working for your father,” Traveler said softly.
“You’re leaving town,” Mel said.
“You should talk to your father about that.”
“We already have.”
“And?”
Ellis licked his lips. “Dad isn’t himself right now.”
“I understand how you feel,” Traveler said, stepping forward suddenly with an outstretched hand. “I’m worried about him too.”
Caught unaware, Ellis accepted the handshake.
If it weren’t for the bystanders, now was the time to hit him and narrow the odds, Traveler thought. They were small-town boys after all; they wouldn’t expect that kind of dirty trick.
Traveler wrapped an arm around the young man’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. At the threshold he whispered, “Never discuss family business in public.”
To save face, Ellis spoke up. “Hey, everybody. This is Nibley business. We want a little privacy.”
His brother added, “That’s right. We don’t want anybody coming out this door in the next few minutes, understand?”
That got a few nods.
By the time the three of them crossed the parking lot to the Nibleys’ heavy-duty pickup truck, Traveler was congratulating himself on having defused the situation. That’s when Mel’s fist caught him on the side of his forehead near the left eye. Traveler staggered but still had sense enough to grab hold of Ellis on the way down. Traveler landed on top. The impact knocked the air out of the boy’s lungs.
Traveler shook his head, partly to clear it, and partly to condemn his own stupidity. These weren’t boys. These were men. And Mel had a fist like a roll of quarters. But at the moment, it was the metal tip of Mel’s cowboy boot that had Traveler worried.
Traveler rolled. The toe grazed him but caught Ellis in the chest. Bone cracked. Ellis screamed.
Traveler’s ears rang. His eyes watered. He blinked, saw Mel moving forward again, and kept on rolling. But he needn’t have bothered. Mel had been going to his brother’s aid, who was making gasping sounds as he curled into a fetal ball.
“Jesus, Junior, are you all right?”
Junior shuddered. Bone and breath grated.
“Help me, mister. He’s dying.”
Though still a bit dizzy, Traveler walked on his knees to join them. “Let’s sit him up. It will help him breathe.”
As soon as they got Ellis righted, his gasps softened to sobs.
“Junior’s hurt bad.”
“It’s a cracked rib, that’s all. I’ve had them. They feel worse than they really are. There’s no problem unless you move around a lot and puncture a lung.”
“He needs a doctor,” Mel said.
“If we can get to a drugstore, we can bandage him ourselves.”
“To hell with that. I’m driving him to the doctor’s in Ephraim. All I need from you is help to get him into the truck.”
“I thought there was a doctor here in Wasatch.”
Mel shook his head. “Ephraim’s the closest.”
“How far?”
“Twenty miles.”
“That’s a lot of bumps and jolts. I still say we ought to try the drugstore, at least to get him a painkiller.”
“There’s only one drugstore in town. Old man Odell’s place.”
Traveler had seen it next to the hotel.
“He’s closed this time of night,” Mel added.
“If you know where he lives, we can drive by and get him to open up.”
“No way. I wouldn’t ask him for anything.”
“Don’t you think you ought to leave that up to your brother?”
Behind them, the cafe’s screen door banged. One man came out first, tentatively. Another followed almost immediately. Soon the whole crowd would join them, Traveler knew. He didn’t want to be around when that happened. An outsider like himself, a Gentile at that, might get himself lynched.
“What about it, Junior?” Mel said. “Do you want to go to Odell’s?”
Ellis grunted “Unh-unh” through clenched teeth.
“All right,” Traveler said. “Let’s get him into the truck.”
Ellis whimpered when they lifted him to his feet.
“Try walking on your own,” Traveler said.
“Oh God,” he gasped at the first step.
They propped him between them, his arms draped over their shoulders, to ease the burden.
“Try again.”
Ellis took a tentative step, panted, and took another. “It’s okay,” he wheezed. “But Jesus, go slow.”
By the time they got him to the truck, the cafe had emptied and the pickup was surrounded. One word from either Nibley and Traveler knew he’d need an ambulance instead of a pickup.
Mel surprised him. “It’s all over, everybody. It’s my fault that Junior got hurt. Mr. Traveler here is helping me. I’m taking Junior to Ephraim.”
“You want company?” someone said.
“There’s no need.”
When Mel opened the passenger door, light from the Coors neon revealed a turkey-head logo on the side. The bird, with an exaggerated red wattle, was surrounded by a circle of red lettering that spelled out DORITY TURKEY RANCH. The pickup’s rear window held a full gun rack, hunters’ weapons: a .30-30 lever-action rifle, a pump shotgun, and what looked to b
e a .30-06.
“You follow me, Mr. Traveler,” Mel said and climbed in behind the wheel.
It wasn’t until they were out of the parking lot that Traveler started breathing normally again. As a precaution, he followed Mel on the highway out of town. When no headlights appeared in Traveler’s rearview mirror, he blinked his high beams, got a honk in return, and then pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He cut his headlights but kept the motor running. After five minutes without traffic in either direction, he U-turned and drove back to the Sleep-Well Motel.
11
BY MORNING the lump on Traveler’s forehead had turned a color he’d never seen before on human skin. Somewhere between green and blue with neon highlights. Gingerly, he tested the bruise with a forefinger. It wasn’t as painful as the headache throbbing at the base of his skull. Even his eardrums pulsated with pain. The mosquitoes batting against the window screen sounded like dive bombers from a war movie.
He left the clouded bathroom mirror to sit on the edge of his sagging bed. Once his equilibrium had adjusted to the abrupt change in altitude, Traveler squinted at his watch. It took a moment for the numbers to come into focus. It was nearly nine, the time he’d promised to telephone his father. A safe-arrival call, Martin had called it, but it was more than that. Morning talks were a ritual between them, in person or via Mountain Bell, depending on circumstances.
In broad daylight the motel room looked less cheerful than the night before. The knotty-pine walls were cracked. So was the Congoleum rug pretending to be Persian. The green shade covering the hanging bulb turned out to be green plastic instead of glass.
Traveler lay back on the prickly bedspread and picked up the phone. Instead of a dial tone, there was a ringing sound. His mind pictured the maze of cords dangling from the switchboard in the office. He was about to go in search of a phone booth when the ringing stopped and Norma Beasley answered. “Did you sleep well at the Sleep-Well Motel?” Her words sounded flat and meaningless.
“I’d like to call Salt Lake,” Traveler said. “Could you give me an outside line?”
“I’ll have to dial it for you.”
Traveler gave her the number, certain that she’d listen in out of boredom if nothing else.
“I was hoping you’d call last night,” Martin said as soon as he heard Traveler’s voice. “I couldn’t sleep worrying about you.”
“What could happen to me in a place like Wasatch?”
“The least you could have done was let me know where you’re staying.”
“I’m calling from the Sleep-Well Motel.”
“Sure. You sleep well. I worry.”
“What about Claire? Have you come up with anything?”
“You’ve only been gone a day.”
“Come on, Dad. I know you.”
“So I did some checking. That doesn’t mean I’m Sherlock Holmes.”
“Just tell me what you found. Please.”
“I dropped by the apartment where you broke that gazooney’s leg and talked to the manager. A nice woman. She gave me the eye, I can tell you. I might go back one of these days and ask for a date.”
Traveler sighed.
“In her sixties, I’d say, but still with a good figure. Damned good.”
“Did you learn anything else?”
“Have you forgotten what I taught you? A good detective doesn’t rush in and start asking questions. You do your groundwork first. You set up a relationship, soften them up, then move in for the kill.”
Traveler closed his eyes and rubbed the bump on his forehead. He knew better than to interrupt. If he did, it would take even longer to get the information.
“The apartment never belonged to Claire. She showed up with a man on her arm. The pair of them claimed to be engaged and looking for a honeymoon hideaway after the wedding. Those were her words, the manager said. Honeymoon hideaway. Needless to say, they didn’t take the apartment. But the man had a card with his name and address. I tried reaching him last night but he wasn’t in. If you’d like, I’ll try again this morning.”
“How did Claire end up using the apartment, then?”
“They stuck gum in the lock, the manager told me. She remembered that Claire was chewing a big wad of bubble gum and getting it all over her chin every time she blew a bubble.”
“If the guy with her was in on it, he wouldn’t have given out a real card.”
“That makes sense.”
“Keep checking on him anyway, will you, Dad?”
“I’ve already got a realtor friend checking his computer for recent rentals. I’ve also called in a favor with the police department. If Claire’s still in Salt Lake, we’ll find her sooner or later. You can count on it.”
“There’s something else,” Traveler said.
“I can hear it coming in your tone of voice.”
“What?”
“Trouble.”
“This time, you’re right. I need some information from the State Medical Board.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve never had one of those damned doctors talk to me yet. What’s this got to do with the Nibley woman’s suicide?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. But I met a woman here who mistook me for an investigator from the state board. Apparently she and some others wrote asking for an investigation. It would help if I knew why.”
“Probably some malpractice thing or another.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. Give me the woman’s name.”
“Shirley Colton.”
“What’s the connection with your client?”
“She was a friend of his wife’s.”
“Do you remember Rule Number Twenty-five?”
Traveler grunted noncommittally. Martin had his rules all right, but the numbers changed with each recitation.
“Coincidence,” Martin said. “Never turn your back on one.”
“How soon do you think you can get me something from the board?”
“You know doctors. It will probably take me a month to get an appointment. I’d better start now. Call me tomorrow at the usual time.”
As soon as Traveler hung up, he went to the office in search of aspirin, catching Mrs. Beasley by surprise nursing her son. The moment she turned away to button her housecoat, Baby Joe started crying. When she faced Traveler again, she was holding the child at arm’s length, just beyond the reach of his breast-seeking hands.
“I should have knocked,” he said.
“Nat says I shouldn’t be embarrassed by something so natural.” Her face was as red as her son’s hair. “Now what can I do for you, Mr. Traveler?”
He touched his forehead. “If you’d be so kind, I’m in need of some aspirin.”
For the first time since he’d entered the office, she looked him in the face. “My God. You look like you need a doctor.” The thought seemed to please her.
“A couple of aspirin and some fresh air and I’ll be good as new.”
She made a face. Her arms were trembling from the strain of holding her son away from her breasts. “My husband and I don’t believe in over-the-counter drugs.”
She put her son back in his playpen. “A lot of us here in Wasatch stick to home remedies. A Gentile like yourself probably wouldn’t believe in such things, but they work. Let me tell you, I’ve seen miracles.”
“What do you suggest for a headache?”
“Prayer.”
Traveler had never thought of prayer as a home remedy. “What time does the drug store open?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Isn’t there a doctor here in town?” he said, recalling his initial interview with Ellis Nibley. “A Doctor Joe?”
Despite tears, Baby Joe reached through the wooden bars and began tugging at his mother’s housecoat.
“Doctor Joe was the answer to our prayers,” she said. “He was a saint. I named Baby Joe after him.”
At her mention of his name, the boy hit a high, whining note that made Traveler wince.<
br />
“Me and my husband were childless for years.” Her eyes lost focus. Her face glowed. Traveler had seen the same look on Willis Tanner’s face when he spoke of his work for the prophet, Elton Woolley. “We prayed for help, for guidance. That’s where Doctor Joe came in. We went to him for exams and tests. It took a long time, but he never gave up hope. There were times when he got down on his knees and prayed right beside me. God answered our prayers and I had Baby Joe. I named him Josiah Beasley after Doctor Joe.”
Her son stopped crying and made a sucking motion with his lips.
She blushed again. “Doctor Joe said long nursing makes a child feel secure.”
Baby Joe released his mother’s dress to knead the air with his fingers.
Traveler leaned against the lowboy and closed his eyes. Kaleidoscopic flashes of painful light burst against his eyelids.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said. “I’ll get him a bottle.”
Traveler opened his eyes to see the boy shaking his head at that suggestion, but by then his mother was disappearing through the rest room door. Baby Joe turned his attention to Traveler, saw no breasts, and let loose another high-pitched wail. He didn’t stop until he was lying on his back in the playpen sucking juice through a rubber nipple.
“When the Lord helped us,” Norma Beasley went on as though no time had passed since her previous comment, “I knew me and Nat were close to Godhead.”
Her facial glow intensified. Her eyes, showing white, rolled up in search of heaven. “ ‘And the Father and I are one. I am in the Father and the Father in me; and inasmuch as ye have received me, ye are in me and I in you,’ ” she recited from The Book of Mormon.
She tilted her head to one side as if listening to inner voices. Traveler heard voices of his own, childhood voices, Sunday school teachers, his mother, all trying to explain Joe Smith’s concept of Godhead. Man is God in embryo form. As man is, God once was, suffering and struggling toward the knowledge and power that made him God. Thus, man may eventually rule over his own heavenly kingdom, as God rules over us.
“I’d like to meet Doctor Joe,” Traveler said.
The woman clasped both hands over her breasts. “Since the moment you arrived, I’ve felt a burning in my bosom.” She turned and fled through the rest room door once again.
