by R. R. Irvine
Traveler thanked the receptionists and accompanied his escorts, one of whom stayed behind him all the way. Tanner’s office was on nine, the floor directly beneath the penthouse where Elton Woolley lived.
One of the escorts knocked and then stepped back, a practiced move. Their adherence to procedure reminded Traveler of his days on the L.A. police force, when he and his partner had knocked on dangerous doors.
Tanner opened the door and gestured impatiently at the Tongans to wait outside. Then he grabbed Traveler by the arm and attempted to pull him across the threshold. Traveler resisted just long enough to let his friend know who had the muscle.
The moment Tanner slammed the door he jabbed a finger in Traveler’s chest. “You never listen, do you, Mo? I’m your friend. All I wanted was your cooperation. But what do I get? You playing games with motor vehicle records.”
“Are you sure it was me?”
Tanner’s face twitched as he fought to keep his squint in check. When he attempted another finger jab, Traveler caught hold of his hand and knocked it aside.
Stepping quickly, Tanner skirted his document shredder and retreated behind his desk. “Let me tell you something, Moroni. Hackers may be stealing atomic secrets from the government, but nobody messes with the church. That’s gospel.”
“Gospel according to St. Willis?”
“Go ahead. Make jokes. But your friend Judd Hatch isn’t laughing. He‘s been suspended from his job pending a civil service review. His future is in your hands. If you do as you’re told, I’ll see that he’s reinstated. Otherwise . . .” Tanner drew a finger across his throat.
To hide his anger, Traveler sat in the chair facing the desk and folded his arms. “I still want to know why you’re making such a fuss about a missing missionary.”
“That’s not the point. You’re prying into church business.”
“His fiancée has a right to know what happened to him.”
“Does she?” Tanner swung around in his chair and stared out the window. His office was on the west side, looking down on the temple. “Do you know what I see, Mo?”
Traveler said nothing. He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one.
“I can see all the way to the Hill Cumorah.”
The Hill Cumorah lay in western New York state, where the Angel Moroni revealed the golden plates of Mormonism to Joseph Smith in 1823.
“A blink and I see Nauvoo where we built our first temple.”
Tanner tilted his head to one side, giving the impression that his vision was much more complex than that. When he turned around his eyes glistened, either with tears or inspiration, Traveler couldn’t tell which.
“When a missionary is called,” Tanner said, “he belongs to us. Not to the woman he leaves behind. Not even to his parents. For the next two years he is an ordained minister with the authority to baptize, conduct funerals, and marry members of our faith. But foremost he is a teacher, sworn to reveal our principles. Faith in Jesus, repentance, and the baptism of fire. Simple enough, wouldn’t you say?”
Again Traveler knew better than to interrupt.
“Doctrine and Covenants, Mo. ‘And to confirm those who are baptized into the church, by the laying on of hands for the baptism of fire and the holy ghost.’ ”
“I want to find Heber Armstrong, not destroy his faith.”
“He was honored. Do you understand that? Joseph Smith sent out his first missionaries in 1837. And where do you think they went? England, of course. Heber Armstrong was following in their sacred footsteps. Brigham Young himself went to England on a mission in 1840. In the next two decades, seventy-five thousand were converted to the church.”
“What you say has nothing to do with the fact that he’s missing.” “You’re my friend, Mo. I don’t want this to get out of my control.” “You make that sound like a threat.”
Tanner held a finger to his lips and then ripped a sheet of paper from a notepad on his desk. He placed the paper on a piece of glass before writing on it. As soon as he finished, he held it up for Traveler to read the single, scrawled word: Danites.
A secret society had been formed in the early days of the church. It was known under various names, the Brothers of Gideon, the Daughters of Zion, the Sons of Dan, or simply the Danites. They were said to have sworn a blood oath to the prophet, though the blood spilled invariably belonged to critics of the church. Present-day teachings said the Danites were nothing but myth, then and now.
Tanner shredded the paper.
“You’ve known me a long time, Willis. I’m not out to embarrass the church. All I want to do is help a young woman get married.”
“It’s me you’re talking to, so let’s stop fencing around. You smell blood and want in like everyone else.”
“For God’s sake. What the hell are you talking about?”
Tanner’s jaw fell open. His eyes widened, as if looking for damage caused by the utterance of such obscenities. He pointed toward the penthouse. “My instructions come from the highest authority. Do you understand me?”
“Elton Woolley,” Traveler mouthed silently.
“Exactly.”
“I’m listening.”
“These murders are off limits to you.”
Traveler blinked in surprise.
Tanner sprang out of his chair. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“I still don’t.”
Tanner’s teeth snapped as he clenched his jaw. His Adam’s apple bobbed, giving the impression that he was swallowing an obscenity of his own. He lurched around the desk to whisper in Traveler’s ear. “I’ve vouched for you myself. My career is on the line.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Traveler whispered back.
Tanner mouthed, “Please.”
“I want an explanation,” Traveler said out loud.
With a sigh Tanner stretched out his hands and turned them palms up. “ ‘Shed my blood that I may be saved,’ ” he said, quoting Brigham Young.
According to Mormon gospel, horrendous crimes could be forgiven only by the shedding of the sinner’s blood. There were times when Traveler believed in such a doctrine of blood atonement, but for different reasons.
12
THE THERMOMETER in direct sunlight outside the Chester Building was obviously broken. Either that or the city was about to reach the ignition point.
Traveler pushed through the bronze revolving door and breathed a sigh of relief. The building, faced with Wasatch Mountain granite on the outside and Italian marble on the inside, was a fortress against the heat.
Mad Bill was lying on the marble floor being fanned by Charlie Redwine, while Barney Chester and the two missionaries Traveler had seen yesterday looked on. Bill had exchanged his T-shirt for one of his ankle-length robes. A sandwich board proclaiming THE LOST TRIBE OF ISRAEL IS STILL LOST Stood propped against the nearest wall.
“I told him not to go out in the sun dressed like that,” Barney said. “But would he listen?”
Bill opened one eye and then the other. “Arabs do it. Besides, my disciple must be protected from the evils of proselytizing.”
Charlie grinned.
“I could use a drink,” Bill added.
When no one else made a move, Traveler hurried over to the cigar stand. Barney kept a jug of cheap red wine hidden under the counter for emergencies, which both Bill and Charlie contrived to effect on a daily basis.
Bill sat up to receive the offering that Traveler had poured discreetly into a coffee cup. Each time Bill swallowed, Charlie licked his lips in vicarious pleasure. But the missionaries had eyes only for Traveler, which made him wonder if they’d been sent by Willis Tanner.
“They’ve been following me and Charlie all day,” Bill said, rising slowly to his feet with the Indian’s help. “We were visiting the Era Antique Shop to collect our tithing when God spoke to me.”
“They were stealing,” one of the missionaries clarified.
“He told me to don my sandwich board and spread the word. Charlie, my La
manite, must be secure from the likes of them. Do you realize that I barely got out of that place without having to pay?”
From beneath his robe Bill produced an old photo album, covered in faded brown velvet and trimmed in brass scrollwork. “Take a look at this, Moroni.” He pointed out the price tag. “I have parishioners just waiting to pay a ten percent tithe on the dollar.”
The tag said $100. Traveler took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Charlie. “Your ransom is paid. Now take it back and tell them it was a mistake.”
“We haven’t looked inside yet,” Bill complained.
“The price stays the same.”
Bill shrugged and began thumbing through the album while Traveler looked over his shoulder. Pioneer faces, stern and dark-eyed, stared from one oval frame after another. Halfway through the album Bill came upon an old postcard that had been cut to fit into one of the photo insets. The Coon Chicken Inn, a Salt Lake landmark torn down in the late 1950s, jumped out at Traveler and caught him in its time warp. The memory wasn’t a pleasant one.
******
He‘d been eight, maybe nine. For him, walking into the Coon Chicken was always the best part. The door was a bright white tooth, set in a grotesque smile that belonged to a thirty-foot-high caricature of a black man. One of his eyes was winking, an invitation to try his famous fried chicken and biscuits.
Traveler’s father made it a point to wink back. “One of these days,” Martin said, “those teeth are going to snap someone right in two.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Traveler’s mother asked.
Martin shrugged. “You tell me, Kary.”
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“Don’t start. We came here to have a good time.”
“Me? You’re the one with the big mouth.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Saying something like that could frighten the boy.”
Traveler shook his head to deny any such thing. The Coon Chicken Inn was his favorite restaurant. No place else was like it. Inside was all knotty pine and red leather booths. It even had a bandstand and dance floor, though the latter wasn’t much bigger than a desktop. Above all, it had black waiters who looked like the face outside. The only other black men Traveler had ever seen were porters at the train station.
A white hostess showed them to a booth.
The grinning, trademark face was repeated on the menus. When their waiter arrived he grinned, too, and even winked.
“Who the hell are you smiling at?” Kary demanded.
“Just the boy, ma’am.” The waiter ducked his head and seemed to shrink. Even so, he was the tallest man Traveler had ever seen.
Traveler slid down in the booth until his head was at table level.
“I think we know what we want,” Martin said.
“Don’t rush me,” Kary exploded.
The waiter started to back away.
Kary glared at Martin and then the waiter. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Showing those big buckteeth of his. You said it yourself, Martin. He‘s just looking for someone to bite.”
“Now, Kary.”
“A white woman shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
Martin shook his head at the waiter to apologize.
“You’re the goddamned war hero,” Kary shouted. “You ought to be able to handle a nigger, no matter how big he is.”
******
Traveler reached over Bill’s shoulder and turned the album page to escape the memory. A yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor. Bill pounced on it, his heat stroke forgotten.
“An omen,” he announced as soon as he unfolded the disintegrating paper. He held it out at arm’s length.
It was from one of those supermarket tabloids. The headline said: YOUR CO-WORKER COULD BE A SPACE ALIEN.
Bill retracted his arms and began to read out loud. “Here’s how you can tell. One: Watch for odd or mismatched clothes.”
He eyed the missionaries up and down, looked disappointed, and went on. “Two: Strange diet or unusual eating habits.”
Bill shook his head. “Three: Bizarre sense of humor. Space aliens who don’t understand earthly humor may laugh during serious moments or tell jokes that no one else understands.”
As if on cue one of the missionaries giggled.
Bill’s arm stretched out, his forefinger pointing like Michelangelo’s God about to touch Adam. “Mormons are from outer space. There’s no other explanation.”
Traveler held out his hand, palm up.
Reluctantly Bill surrendered the clipping. Traveler tucked it back into the album, which he then gave to Charlie. “Like I said before, take it back.”
Charlie glanced toward the cigar stand.
“He needs refreshment,” Bill interpreted. “Especially in this kind of weather.”
“How about a nice cold glass of water?” Barney asked.
Bill folded his arms. “Jesus turned water to wine. Should you do less?”
“I give up,” Barney said, and headed for the jug, his steps dogged by Bill and Charlie. The missionaries stayed behind with Traveler.
“Will you join us, Moroni?” Barney called as soon as he was behind the counter.
“I’ve got work to do.”
When Traveler reached the elevator he paused to look back at the missionaries. They were whispering like spies who wanted to follow him upstairs but didn’t have the nerve.
13
TRAVELER CALLED home, got no answer, and then tried the LDS Hospital. The Outpatient Clinic confirmed that his father had been there for tests but had already been released.
He decided to see Dr. Murphy in person, walking the four blocks to the Boston Building on Exchange Place despite the heat. Murphy’s office had air conditioners providing enough cross-ventilation to keep the temperature in the low seventies. As a result the doctor wore his usual gray herring-bone sports coat and charcoal slacks. His tie was regimental English, his tasseled loafers Italian, his outlook strictly parochial. He‘d been a friend for years.
He rubbed his bald head before shaking Traveler’s hand. The grip felt too firm, too deliberately reassuring. But he met Traveler’s questioning stare without flinching.
Even so, a surge of fear soured Traveler’s mouth. He swallowed dryly and sat down. His old football coach, Bart Siddons, would have gotten a kick out of how badly Traveler’s hands were shaking. “You’re never afraid, are you?” Siddons used to say every so often during one of his locker-room talks. “You’re reckless. You throw your body at people like you don’t give a damn. Tell me honestly. Have you ever been afraid?”
What the hell kind of question was that to ask a man in public?
Dr. Murphy, who’d moved behind his desk, came to Traveler’s rescue by speaking first. “There was no problem with the anesthetic or the biopsy. Martin came through that fine.”
Traveler tried to nod but his neck muscles wouldn’t budge.
“In most cases we get a preliminary culture reading immediately. It’s not conclusive of course, but we can usually get a good idea about what we’re dealing with, whether it’s malignant or not. In Martin’s case there was a difference of opinion, so more tests have to be run.”
“When will you know for sure?”
“In addition to workups at the hospital, I’ve had samples sent to the university. The best medical research in the world is being done right here at home, you know. So I’d say two days. Three at the most. Certainly not long enough to make a difference.”
“Did you look at the culture yourself?”
“Of course. I was standing right there beside the surgeon all the time.”
Traveler held his breath. He‘d been coming to Dr. Murphy since childhood and had absolute faith in the man’s judgment.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I did your father. I don’t like it. I never do when I see anything that’s out of the ordinary.”
“What did the surgeon say?”
“That it looks operable. But it’s in a bad location if it’s malignant.”
Traveler glanced down at his trembling, ice-cold fingers. “How did Dad take all this?”
“He had a friend with him. That always helps. An elder of the church.”
“I know.”
“I’ve known Martin a long time, perhaps too long to be able to keep any kind of professional distance. But one thing I do know. He‘s not the kind of man to give up without a fight.”
The doctor came around his desk to hug Traveler. “Like father, like son, I always say.”
Traveler fled before emotion got the better of him.
The sweltering heat of the Chester Building’s third floor felt good at first. It warmed Traveler’s fingers. But it took half a glass of whiskey to stop them shaking. Once they did, he picked up the phone and dialed the direct number to Missing Persons at the police building.
“This is Sergeant Rasmussen speaking.”
“It’s Moroni Traveler. Is your lieutenant listening in?”
“I’ve never heard of you. Besides, you’re too big to be named for an angel.”
“I need a little information.”
“You’re too late. Those computer files have been erased.”
“Then you won’t mind giving me what you have on that murder in Jordan Park.”
“Call homicide, for Christ’s sake.”
“I don’t know any football fans there.”
“Hold on, Traveler. Let’s keep everything straight between us. I’m a businessman, not a fan.”
“I’ve still got my old helmet.” At least so he hoped. Everything, including a couple of helmets, had been shipped home for storage after his early retirement from football. He‘d never asked Martin what he’d done with the stuff but, knowing him, it was probably stored away carefully somewhere.
“The one you wore in the Super Bowl?”
“It’s got the dents to prove it.”
“What the hell do you want, my right arm?”
“Everything you can give me on the murders.”
“It ain’t much. Even so, it’ll be my ass if somebody finds out I’ve been talking to you.”
“I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
