by R. R. Irvine
Hickman rolled over and folded his hands on his chest as if preparing himself for burial. “Ask him. He called me. He told me to get you here and come myself. He said you were in danger.”
Nibley backed against a Victorian armchair and sat down abruptly.
“Let me give you a hand,” Traveler said to the sheriff.
Nibley shook his head sharply as if to clear his vision. “You’d better lay down there beside him, Mr. Traveler.”
“You’re not going to shoot anybody,” Hickman said, pulling himself up to a sitting position with Traveler’s help. “Now put that gun down. I intend to sit on something more comfortable. Either that or I’m going to be sick.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but slowly made his way across the room to a Victorian love seat upholstered in green velvet. Traveler settled onto a carpet-backed rocker.
Nibley laid the revolver in his lap but kept his hand wrapped around the grip, his forefinger curled inside the trigger guard. “I made a mistake hiring you, Mr. Traveler. I realize that now. That’s why I asked you here. I want the sheriff to run you out of town.”
“All you had to do was fire me. It would have been easier.”
“You wouldn’t have left, not after what happened to the Bennion woman.”
“I told him that when I got here a few minutes ago,” Hickman said. “That somebody was going to get hurt, probably me, if I tried running you out now.”
“It’s nice to know I have an ally,” Traveler said.
“You don’t.” Hickman leaned back and closed his eyes. “I was about to tell Ellis I had a good reason for keeping you around, when he grabbed me.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “I always prefer keeping an eye on the devil I know.”
“Is that when he hit you?” Traveler asked.
“It was more of a scuffle. I lost my balance and fell and hit my head on the ottoman. That’s when he took my gun.” The sheriff touched a finger to his head wound, which was already clotting. His eyes opened to glare at Nibley. “I’m willing to forget all about this, Ellis, if you give me back my revolver, now.”
Nibley stared down at the weapon as if he’d never seen it before. When he looked up, his unblinking eyes fastened on Traveler’s face. “I got a phone call. About what went on in Doctor Joe’s office. I was never so embarrassed in my life, hearing things like that from women.”
“Who called you?” Hickman said.
“I can’t repeat such things.” Nibley’s trigger finger tightened.
Traveler rolled his eyes at the sheriff, trying to signal caution. But the man seemed oblivious.
“I don’t know if it’s true or not,” the sheriff said. “Part of me wants to think it’s mass hysteria or something like that. Whatever the case, it’s over and done with. The man’s dead.”
Nibley twitched. “Dear God. Did everybody know about Doctor Joe but me?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hickman said.
Nibley jerked up his arm, extending it until the .357 was pointing at the sheriff’s chest. The weight of the weapon made his arm tremble. At a range of ten feet the shakes wouldn’t matter.
Nibley said, “Why wasn’t I told what he did to my Melba? I could have saved her.”
“I didn’t know then,” the sheriff responded. “Like I said, I still don’t know for sure. But we agreed at the Bishop’s Court not to cause you any more suffering.”
“If you’d told me, I’d never have called in an outsider, a Gentile. You, Mr. Traveler.”
The .357 swung in Traveler’s direction. “The longer you stay here, the more stories will spread about my wife. All my customers at the store will know. I won’t be able to face them. I—”
“Dammit, man,” the sheriff interrupted, “you can’t undo what’s already done.”
Jesus, Traveler thought. That was no way to talk to a man holding a gun.
Hickman stood up, patting his gun belt and winking at Traveler. “It’s time to stop playing games, Ellis.”
The knocker banged against the front door. Nibley twitched so badly Traveler expected the gun to go off.
“Who’s that?” Nibley said, swinging the .357 around to aim at the sound.
My father, Traveler answered to himself, and launched himself at Nibley. The Victorian chair shattered under the impact of his two hundred and twenty pounds. Nibley screamed. His eyes rolled up into his head.
“Goddammit,” Hickman muttered. “I was trying to tell you it wasn’t loaded. I never load my gun around town.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?”
“Couldn’t you see there were no bullets in the chambers?”
Traveler didn’t answer, didn’t have to. They both knew the rule. Approach all guns as if they’re loaded.
“All I wanted to do was keep him talking,” the sheriff said. “To hear what he had to say for himself.”
As gently as possible, Traveler removed the broken chair from beneath the unconscious man. The movement, though slight, pushed a piece of bloody collarbone through Nibley’s shirt.
“Keep him quiet, Traveler. I’m going to call Mrs. Joe. She’s the closest we’ve got to a nurse here in town.”
“Send my father for her. It will be faster.”
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Joe walked in, took one look at Nibley groaning on the floor where he’d fallen, and went to her knees. She bowed her head momentarily before laying hands upon him and anointing him with oil from the small flask around her neck. She began at his forehead and worked her way down to his wound. The application quieted him almost immediately.
“What’s happening to our town?” she murmured as her hands caressed the area where the bone had broken. Her starched nurse’s uniform made crinkling noises. “We were like a single family once, before evil came among us.”
She raised her head to stare Traveler in the eye. He had the feeling that she was looking right through him, at a vision discernible only to herself.
“I blame myself,” she said.
“Why?” Traveler asked softly.
“I could have come to Ellis sooner, taken him by the hand, and healed his soul.”
“Let’s worry about him here and now,” the sheriff said.
“The break isn’t a clean one,” she said. “The pain will return if you don’t get him to the hospital in Ephraim immediately. You can take me home on the way.”
Traveler and Hickman carried Nibley to the sheriff’s cruiser, while Mrs. Joe walked alongside, her trembling hands on the stricken man. Once they’d laid him on the back seat, she climbed in the front.
Before closing the door, Mrs. Joe looked at Traveler and said, “I have seen the devil in the flesh.”
40
AS SOON as the sheriff drove away, Traveler went over to the Jeep where his father and a frightened Dora Neff were waiting. He wanted them both out of Wasatch.
“For once don’t argue,” he said. “Just go.”
Traveler felt shaken by the knowledge that he’d come close to killing Ellis Nibley, that he’d wanted to kill him for aiming the gun in Martin’s direction.
“I’m supposed to be covering your back, remember?” Martin said.
Traveler shook his head.
“Okay. I know that look. At least let me stay with you until the sheriff gets back.”
“I’ll be fine. Once you’re gone, I’ll be the only man left in town.”
“A woman could have killed Claire.”
“Not by herself.”
“You’re on foot,” Martin said.
“I don’t have far to walk.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see a woman about the devil.”
Martin sighed and started the engine. Once the car was out of sight, Traveler walked to the corner and turned west on Heber Avenue. A block later he was standing in front of Doctor Joe’s house. Despite the hundred-degree temperature, heavy smoke was pouring from the chimney, adding to the haze from the forest fire.
On the way up the front walk, Traveler detoured around th
e side of the house to where the abandoned examination table stood. The metal fittings, especially around the stirrups, were beginning to rust. He ran his hand over the table’s padded leather top. It had been recently scrubbed, with a cleanser rough enough to discolor the surface.
He touched the stirrups, thought of the women who’d lain there, vulnerable women like Claire.
He pounded his fist into the leather. Questions filled his mind. Questions he should have asked Claire when she was alive. Things about her that were now gone forever.
He backed away from the examination table, from the images it cast, and returned to the front of the house. The door stood wide open. He stepped inside, felt the sucking draft of hot air rush past him, and followed the breeze into the living room, where it was fanning a fierce blaze in the fireplace.
In the center of the stifling room, Mrs. Joe was kneeling on an oval hearth rug, surrounded by stacks of manila folders. She must have felt a change in the air current, because she swung around, a startled look on her face. Her surprise gave way to a smile when she saw who it was.
After a moment, she turned her back on him and continued to feed folders into the fire.
“You told me you had your husband’s records cremated along with the body,” Traveler said.
“I lied.”
He stepped forward to save what he could.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said when he pulled her to her feet. “Only the men are left. I burned the women this morning.”
She twisted out of his grasp and reached into the front of her sooty uniform. When her hand reappeared, it held her phial of anointing oil.
With a sharp jerk, she snapped the chain and held the half-empty phial up before her eyes. Smiling, she unscrewed its golden cap. When the vessel was open, she refocused on Traveler. Her smile widened. She doused him with the clear liquid, then backed toward the fireplace, her eyes staring as if she expected him to disintegrate. When he didn’t, her smile faded.
“Did you think I was the devil?” he said.
“I had to be sure.” She sagged. The breath went out of her. “I’ve already met him once and cast him out.”
Stepping to her side, he grabbed hold of her bare arms, lifted her away from the flames, and carried her to one of the pewlike benches that had once held Doctor Joe’s waiting patients. When he put her down, she rubbed her arms where his fingers had been. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an empty quilt rack standing in one corner of the room. It hadn’t been there on his previous visit.
“Tell me about the devil,” he said, standing over her, intimidating her with his size, implying a threat of violence.
Without looking at him, Mrs. Joe stopped rubbing her arms and began hugging herself.
“Answer me.”
Her head came up. Her eyes widened, staring beyond him with such intensity that he glanced over his shoulder to make certain they were still alone.
She said, “The Book of Mormon tells us everything we need to know. They who are filthy are the devil and his angels; and they shall go away into everlasting fire.’”
She twisted sideways to peer around him at the fireplace. He moved so she had nothing to look up at but him.
“He’s there,” she said, nodding as if she could see right through Traveler. “In the flames, burning. I can smell him. I can . . .”
Her chin sank onto her breast. “God forgive me. Part of me loves him still.”
“I know all about your husband,” he said.
“Are they telling everyone now, even Gentiles?”
“Claire Bennion gives me the right to know.”
Her head tilted back, stretching her neck almost to the breaking point so she could look him in the eye. What she saw made her squirm.
“Tell me about Claire,” he said.
Her eyelids fluttered before closing down completely. “All those years I knew something was wrong. I sensed it. But I made excuses to myself each time we’d lose a female patient to the doctor over in Ephraim. I’d think, ‘It’s a personality conflict, that’s all. Nothing more. Nothing to do with Doctor Joe.’ ”
Her breath caught so suddenly she gasped. “I tried to be professional. I told myself that I was a nurse first, not a wife. That it was wrong for me to listen to any of the rumors, or feel any kind of jealousy toward my husband’s patients. But I should have listened to my heart. I should never have left him alone to examine those women.”
“Why did you?”
“He said they’d be embarrassed being examined in front of someone they grew up with. Pelvics were private, he kept telling me, something between doctor and patient. I wanted to believe him. I tried to believe him.”
Her eyes opened; her head snapped sideways hard enough to send tears flying.
“Claire,” he prompted, settling onto the other end of the bench, keeping his distance.
Mrs. Joe sneaked a look at him before ducking her head. “She was only a child when she came to us the first time. Thirteen or fourteen. Even then she was on the verge of womanhood. Men were already looking at her the way they do. Thinking back on it, I must have seen that. I must have known there was no need to give a girl of virgin age a pelvic. Certainly not a dilation. But when she left in tears, in pain, I knew that had been the case. She was just starting high school, here to take a physical exam for gym class. You know the kind, to make sure she didn’t have a heart problem, or anything that might make strenuous exercise dangerous.”
“Claire had a child when she was in high school,” he said.
Her hands pressed against her ears.
“I’m told that Doctor Joe arranged for the adoption.”
She shook her head.
“The baby died,” he said.
Her hands fell away. “You should have seen my husband’s baby pictures. They’d been hand colored to show his fine soft red hair.” She pointed to the empty frames on the mantel. “I burned them, all of his pictures.”
“The Beasleys’ son has red hair,” Traveler said.
“Do you think I’m blind?” Defiance flared in her voice, abetted by a thin joyless smile. “I’m stepmother to God knows how many children.”
“You could have saved them,” he said, “the ones like Claire. You could have been there when she tried to tell her father what happened. You could have stopped him from throwing her out.”
“I did my best. I kept track of her child until he died.”
“Tell me about him.”
“The records are burned.”
Traveler grabbed her wrist, squeezing too hard, not being able to help himself, stopping only when she whimpered.
Ashamed, he said, “I’m sorry.”
She began rocking back and forth. Her eyes were unblinking, fearful, staring at the fireplace as if hell were opening up for her.
“Do you think children pay for the sins of their mothers?” she asked.
“I hope not.”
“What about a wife like me?”
Traveler said nothing.
“A wife who denied Melba Nibley when she came to me for help. ‘You’re being hysterical,’ I told her, denying what I’d secretly known to be true for years. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I have sinned with your husband.’ The poor, shamed woman. She thought she was alone, the only sinner among his patients.”
“Rape is not a victim’s sin,” he said.
“I dreamed about Melba that night,” Mrs. Joe went on. “I saw her up in the stirrups. I saw . . . You can imagine what I saw. The next day, I checked my husband’s records while he was busy with other patients. I counted pelvics against the reason for the office visits. They didn’t match the patients" symptoms.’
She looked beyond him, her unblinking eyes dripping tears. “Still, I had to be certain, didn’t I? I had to see for myself. My chance came with a young girl, seventeen and naive, new in town, who was about to be married in the Manti temple. She was a lunch hour patient, working summers to save honeymoon money and unable to see Doctor during regula
r office hours. I prepared the examination room as always, the sanitary paper cover on the table, the modesty drape, the dilators. I saw her in, waited for her to disrobe, helped her up onto the table, into the stirrups, arranged the drape, and then left the room when Doctor entered, like always. Only I didn’t close the door all the way. I left it ajar so I could listen. ‘And when is the wedding to be, my dear?’ ‘Two weeks, Doctor Joe.’ Her voice was slow and slurred by the tranquilizer. ‘We’ll have to see if we can help you then, won’t we?’ This is my first pelvic, Doctor. I—’ ‘Yes, I know. I’ve studied your records, but there are more questions I have to ask. Try not to be embarrassed.’ ‘Yes, Doctor.’ ‘Have you had relations before, with a man?’ ”
Mrs. Joe’s face shone with sweat. Her bulging eyes reminded Traveler of a deep- sea fish brought to the surface too quickly. “ ‘No, Doctor,’ she told my husband. ‘I’ve saved myself for marriage.’ ‘Well then, it’s my job to help you along, isn’t it? To get you ready for your husband by taking away the pain and turning it into a purrrrr.’ ”
Mrs. Joe stretched out the last word until breath failed her. She had to pant before continuing. “ ‘Now relax, dear,’ he said. The bastard. ‘I’ll try not to be too rough.’ ‘What are you doing, Doctor? It hurts.’ ‘That’s a special instrument you’re feeling. We call it a dilator. It’s designed to stretch you a little at a time. We begin with a small dilator and increase the size until we approximate your husband. I do this for all the young women who come to see me. It helps them on their wedding night.’ ‘It hurts, Doctor.’ ‘Just a little more, then I’ll switch dilators. Each one should be a little easier.’ ”
Mrs. Joe groaned. But her eyes, her facial expression didn’t change. “That’s when I opened the door. It squeaked, but Doctor didn’t notice. He was extracting the dilator with one hand, unzipping with the other. I wanted to scream, to stop him then and there before anything happened. But I couldn’t. I knew it would be the end of us if I did. The end of our marriage. Though it already was. I just wasn’t thinking it through. All I did was stand there and watch. He’s a big man, you know. Triple the dilator. Quadruple. Even the tip, the glans, made her cry. He stopped immediately, holding himself there at the ready, wheedling her. ‘We can’t stop now, dear. Think of your wedding night.’ The girl was clutching at the table, trying to back away, but the stirrups held her, kept her fully exposed the way they’re designed to. ‘All right?’ ‘I’ll try, Doctor.’ ‘Good, dear. Take a deep breath. It won’t hurt for long.’ ‘Oh. Oh, please stop. I beg you.’ ”
