by R. R. Irvine
The office reminded him of a movie set. Everything was on too large a scale: the walnut desk flanked by state and federal flags, the wall of photographs and plaques, the conference table, the richly upholstered chairs.
He took a seat. Beecham perched on the edge of the desk, giving him the advantage of height for the first time. “I’m here for one reason only, Moroni, to do what’s best for you, just the way I did for Martin. I personally conducted a healing session for him this morning, which wasn’t easy, I assure you. Normally such gatherings are reserved exclusively for the faithful.”
“Are you claiming a cure?”
Beecham launched himself at Traveler, who resisted the urge to duck. The man grabbed hold of Traveler’s shoulders; his fingers dug in.
“I laid hands upon your father. What happens now is up to God and the strength of Martin’s faith.”
“You’ve known him too long to believe something like that.”
“ ‘Behold, I came into the world not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.’ Apt, wouldn’t you say? The Book of Moroni, eight: eight, from The Book of Mormon.”
“And what about Maria Gomez? Is she a sinner?”
“You and Brother Critchlow saw her. There’s nothing to be done about that now.”
“I don’t understand your interest in this.”
“The church is interested in everything. As an advisor to the Council, it’s my job to bring men like Reed Critchlow back into the fold.”
“He can take care of himself. Maria Gomez can’t.”
“I don’t know what she told you, but the truth is she’s being held here for her own protection. She’s a witness. Her life could be in danger.”
“She says she didn’t see the killer.”
“She’s not one of us, Moroni. Not one of the Saints, not even a citizen. Those people aren’t like us.”
“Don’t count me among your Saints.”
“Yours is a pioneer family. You will always be one of us, willing or not. It’s the outsiders we have to stand against. With them, with people like the Gomez woman, lying is a way of life.”
Traveler snorted. “Too bad there’s no mirror in here. You ought to see your own face. It’s better than a lie detector.”
Beecham rubbed his ruddy cheeks as if to erase the evidence.
“Maria Gomez had no reason to lie about the murder. Or the note she saw, which, I gather, was stuck in the dead woman’s vagina.”
Beecham winced. “Pioneer Days are coming. We can’t have things like that in the papers.”
“I’m not interested in publicity.”
“Nevertheless, I’m ordering you to disengage from this case.”
“Exactly who are we talking about, Maria Gomez or Heber Armstrong?”
“Today’s the twenty-first, Moroni. Seventy-two hours from now marks the date when Brigham Young first set eyes on our valley. ‘This is the place,’ he said. And it is, Moroni. It’s ours and nobody can take it away from us.”
“I love it, too.”
Beecham’s brow wrinkled. “What do you think Brigham Young would say to us? I ask myself that question all the time. Would he blame me for what’s happened? Or the Council? Or the Apostles? Could we have done our jobs better and kept our missionaries from defecting?”
16
THE SUN was past its zenith and heading west toward the Great Salt Lake when Traveler left the police building. Seagulls, like the ones that had saved the first settlers’ crops from locust, were cooling off under sprinklers set on random timers to keep street people from roosting on the grass. As Traveler watched a single bird took flight, followed almost immediately by the others. Their easy freedom made him wonder about his own. Miles Beecham wasn’t the kind of man to make idle threats about jail.
Traveler looked around, saw no sign of being followed, and started walking. The heat had slackened off, or maybe he was getting used to it. But the Ford’s metal skin was still hot enough to fry bugs, and the upholstery provided a thrill.
By the time he reached the Chester Building’s parking lot, cool air had just started trickling from the air-conditioning vents. A long limousine with darkened windows was straddling his parking space. The attendant was nowhere to be seen.
Traveler pulled into a vacant space and was opening the door to get out when he saw the two men approaching his car, one blond, one brunette. He had the impression they’d come from the direction of the limousine. Both were big and rangy. He had twenty pounds on them. They had twenty years on him. Their staggering walk said they’d been drinking and were looking for trouble.
“Look what we’ve got here,” the blond one said.
“A fucking football hero,” his dark-haired buddy answered.
“They’re all locker-room fags, Blackie.”
They separated so they could come at Traveler from both sides. Their calculating eyes and precise movements spoiled the drunk act.
Traveler stole a quick look at the limo but the glass was impenetrable.
“Moroni Traveler,” the blond spat out, making it sound like filth.
“Named for an angel,” Blackie picked up. “But our schools weren’t good enough for him. He had to go to USC.”
They had the tough look of coal miners from Price, or maybe smelter workers from Bingham. Or even cops.
“If you’re police, I want to see ID.”
“You won’t be seeing anything when we get through with you.”
Traveler smiled. Whatever they were, they were amateurs. Professionals didn’t brag.
Their loud talk had attracted a West Temple wino from behind one of the cars at the back of the lot. He held a brown-bagged bottle in one hand and was scratching his ass with the other.
Traveler’s breathing changed, part of the psyching technique he used to get himself ready for football games. Coach Siddons had taught him how to do it. Turn yourself into a psycho. It’s the only way to survive. You’ve got the eyes already, Mo. The mad eyes of a linebacker.
The blond moved first, without bothering to feint. Traveler took him out with a forearm to the throat and was turning to meet Blackie when the sharp edge of a shoe caught him on the thigh. His right leg went numb, collapsing him so suddenly the next blow missed. He caught the man’s foot on the way by, yanked it, but didn’t have the leverage to dislocate the joint.
Blackie rolled like a tumbler and bounced to his feet. Traveler climbed through pain to stand against him. He felt blood running down his leg where he’d hit pavement. His slacks were torn, an elbow skinned. The pins and needles torturing his right leg told him he might not be able to keep his feet against another attack.
But Blackie made a mistake. He didn’t follow up. Instead, he stopped to look at his gagging partner who was writhing on the ground concerned with one thing only, sucking air through his damaged throat.
Traveler positioned himself carefully, keeping his right thigh out of the line of attack.
“I could have killed him if I’d wanted to,” he said.
Blackie’s eyes lost focus. He lunged like a berserker.
Traveler reacted instinctively, launching himself like a true linebacker. His shoulder rammed into the man’s solar plexus. Air whooshed out along with a recent meal.
But Blackie surprised him. Though gasping for breath, he rolled out of reach and regained his feet. The look on his face said he wasn’t through yet.
Traveler caught movement at the extreme edge of his vision. A viaduct derelict, pushing a wire supermarket basket filled with his belongings, had joined the wino. Traveler adjusted his head slightly to expand his field of vision. Beyond the pair a police car was cruising by, the officers inside obviously aware that a fight was taking place. They didn’t stop.
Blackie grinned. “That’s right, asshole. No one’s coming to your rescue.”
Traveler ground his teeth. This was Beecham’s move, a setup. Those cops would keep circling the block until the fight was over. Win or lose, he was the one who’d be arrested. If h
e lost badly enough, bail would only get him out of jail and into the hospital.
His hands went ice cold despite the heat. He had two minutes, maybe less before the car came around again.
The blond was up on one knee, wheezing. The fight was just starting to come back into his eyes. Traveler broke his leg with a single kick. The snap of bone and the scream were almost simultaneous.
The wino cheered. Blackie’s face grew old and tired in an instant. He held his hands up and began backing away.
One minute to go, Traveler reckoned, and limped toward the limousine. The engine roared just before the car lurched over the curb and out onto First West, where it stopped momentarily to pick up Blackie.
By then the blond’s voice had given out. He was reduced to sobs.
Traveler left him to the police and got back into his own car and drove away. Half a minute later he parked in a loading zone in front of the Chester Building.
The lobby was empty. The only person on duty was Nephi Bates, the elevator man, who grinned openly at Traveler’s battered appearance. Once Bates had closed the door, he ignored the operating mechanism and began thumbing through his Book of Mormon, which bristled with page markers.
“Ah,” he said, finding his place. “ ‘The justice of God is the punishment of the sinner . . .’ ”
Traveler reached across to start the elevator himself.
“ „. . . for ye do try to suppose that it is injustice that the sinner should be consigned to a state of misery.’ ”
By the time Traveler reached his office, his injured thigh had cramped so badly he was moving with a stiff-legged shuffle. His father, who was sitting at the desk writing, looked up and shook his head as if to say I told you so. “Do I dare ask who or what happened to you?”
“The church fell on me.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Both, I think.”
“Then you’re lucky to be alive.” Martin waved the note paper in his hand, being careful to miss the bottle of amber liquid on the desk in front of him. “I was just about to leave you the bad news, chapter and verse on survival in Mormon Country.”
Traveler stretched out on the floor and began doing limbering exercises. “I’ll take it lying down, if you don’t mind.”
“Not funny.” Martin crushed the note paper into a ball and threw it at his son. Then he raised the bottle and drank.
“What the hell is that?” Traveler asked.
“Something Doc Murphy prescribed.”
“It looks like scotch.”
“It’s a better painkiller than that, believe me. You look like you need a shot yourself.”
Martin screwed on the cap and came around the desk to hand it to his son. The bottle had a warning label that said this drug may cause drowsiness, that its effect may be intensified with alcohol, and that care should be used when operating a car or dangerous machinery. The dosage was two tablespoons every two hours, not to exceed twelve tablespoons in any twenty-four-hour period.
“How much have you had so far?” Traveler asked.
“That’s my business. Besides, I’ve got another bottle if I need it. Now quit stalling and tell me what happened.”
Traveler groaned and handed back the bottle. “Two guys came after me in the parking lot.”
“Only two. From the way you limped in here I figured a ward of deacons must have jumped you. Did you recognize them?”
“They didn’t look LDS, if that’s what you mean.”
Martin sighed with relief. “Maybe they weren’t church at all.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Look, son, I made the calls you wanted. At first I couldn’t get anything concrete. Just hints and innuendo that I was on dangerous ground. Finally a friend at Immigration and Naturalization came right out and told me, and you, to lay off Maria Gomez. She’s federal jurisdiction. No private eyes allowed.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. She’s a witness in a murder case. That’s strictly local.”
“Local or federal doesn’t cut it in this state. I know that. You know that. The only thing that counts here is church jurisdiction.”
Traveler grunted and kept on stretching his leg.
“Listen to me,” his father continued. “Messing around with Willis Tanner is one thing. He‘s a friend, as much as can be with a gentile like you.”
Traveler stopped exercising and sat up. Was it a slip of the tongue, or had Martin purposely left himself out of the cast of gentiles present?
Martin coughed and took another swallow from the bottle, which was already half empty. “But Miles Beecham is another matter altogether. He just got off the phone with me. If you weren’t my son, you’d be in jail right now.”
“Those were his boys who came after me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything.”
Martin sighed. “Miles wouldn’t do something like that unless it was for your own good.”
“Do you trust him?”
Martin thought that over for a moment. “On this, I do. So far you haven’t done anything to hurt the church. But if dogma ever gets in the way, Miles won’t have any choice. You can’t blame a man for being true to his beliefs.”
“Murder has nothing to do with God.”
Martin looked shocked. “You can’t actually believe the church is involved.”
Traveler lay back and went through thirty seconds of deep-breathing exercises before answering. “Not officially. But something’s going on. Whether Willis is involved or your buddy Miles, I don’t know. One thing’s for sure. Somebody with power is playing games.”
“If that’s the case, I have a solution. We’ll spend a day or two in Kamas. With luck the dust will have settled by the time we get back. We can also get out of this goddamned heat.”
Traveler stood up and tested his leg. The cramp was gone, the pain wasn’t. He limped back and forth across the narrow office. When he came to a stop in front of the open window, he leaned against the sill and peered out at the temple. A siren sounded in the distance, giving the impression that the golden statue of Moroni had raised his trumpet to call the faithful to prayer.
Traveler said a silent prayer of his own.
Martin laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I hope you can understand what I’m going through.”
“I’ll come with you to Kamas, Dad.”
“I’m not so sick I can’t drive myself.”
“I’ve got to stop in Provo anyway.”
“It’s out of the way.”
“On a day like this it will be a nice drive.”
Martin grabbed him from behind and hugged. The embrace, which would have embarrassed them face to face, went on until the phone rang.
“Moroni Traveler and Son,” Martin answered. His voice, taut with emotion, was barely audible.
Traveler turned around in time to see his father mouth silently, “It’s Claire.”
Traveler clenched the receiver so hard he half expected her voice to sound strangled. Instead, she was buoyant. “I’m saved at last. The Angel Moroni has answered my call.”
“I was on my way out,” he said, his voice cold despite the heat she evoked inside.
“You know the rules,” she said.
He waited.
“You’re supposed to ask where I am.”
“But I know the answer already.”
“I’m lost,” she said.
“I can’t find you, Claire. I never could.”
“You’re a detective. It’s your job to find people.”
He‘d gone after her before. The last time he’d nearly killed someone.
He heard laughter in the background. If she was following her usual pattern, she was calling from a bar. When the sound increased he knew she was holding the receiver away from her ear. As if on cue someone sang, “Angel Mary heist your leg, take that Mormon down a peg, while I roll your sister Meg upon the parlor floor.”
Claire came back on the line t
o say “That’s a clue, Moroni.”
She used to croon the same verse to him when they were making love.
“Come find me,” she said, switching to her little girl’s voice.
“Your apartment is on Second Avenue between A and B Streets.”
“You’ve been keeping track of me.” She sounded delighted. “But I’m not home now, so that means I’m still lost.”
“I have work to do,” he said.
“Have you forgotten the first time you found me? The reward I gave you.”
A half breath, half moan came down the line, the kind of sound she made at the approach of orgasm. When he failed to respond, her gasp grew louder. Was she performing for him, he wondered, or those in the bar?
He had given up his apartment and moved in with Claire a week after meeting her. She was unlike the other women he’d been attracted to, thin, hardly any breasts to speak of, with a fragile quality that made him feel protective.
“Put your hands around me,” she’d say as they undressed, directing his hands so that his fingers completely encircled her waist. “You could squeeze me to death if you wanted to.”
“I love you.”
“But you could, couldn’t you?”
Within weeks she’d gained enough weight so that his hands no longer reached. She did so without ever seeming to eat.
“It’s you I feed upon,” she had told him.
Over the phone her gasping climax sounded in his ear, too real for the best of actresses.
“Good-bye, Claire.”
“I know you, Moroni. You’ll have to find me to say good-bye.”
17
TRAVELER DROVE down State Street, the old Highway 89, instead of using the freeway. Haze from the smelters to the west had taken enough bite out of the three o’clock sun to make the ride comfortable. But the air, coming in through the Jeep’s open windows, smelled as if it had been breathed too many times before.
When Traveler turned east on Thirty-third South, Martin’s snort of disapproval turned into a cough. He took a swig of medicine and gargled noisily before swallowing.
“Goddamn. That’s got a kick. But I’m still sober enough to know you’re going the wrong way.”
