by R. R. Irvine
The cast of characters, headed by the chief of police, a captain, and two lieutenants, were glaring at him. Only one man, so elderly he was leaning heavily on a cane, smiled. The smile made him look vaguely familiar.
“That’s Ephraim Moyle,” Tanner murmured.
Moyle, in a lightweight gray suit, white shirt, and black silk tie, could have been mistaken for an undertaker. But Traveler knew better. He was one of the Twelve Apostles, right-hand man to Elton Woolley, president of the church. As such Moyle was rumored to be next in line, the future prophet, through whom God would speak as He had through Joseph Smith in the beginning.
Traveler slowed. His father was right. Never mix work and the Mormon Church. Men like Moyle and Elton Woolley had more power than the president of the United States. They weren’t bound by man’s law, but by God’s, and that they interpreted for themselves by revelation.
“Come on,” Tanner whispered. He took hold of Traveler’s elbow and applied forward pressure. “It was Moyle I spoke to on the phone.”
Moyle must have heard the comment, because he widened his smile and beckoned Traveler to join him.
“Be good,” Tanner mouthed like a stiff-lipped ventriloquist.
Though wobbling on his cane, Moyle reached out to shake hands. “Moroni Traveler. I’ve been waiting to meet you.” His eyes were bright, his voice firm and youthful. “Elton Woolley told me the name suits you. He‘s right. I left him within the hour.”
“Apostle Moyle lives in the Hotel Utah next door to our prophet,” Tanner explained.
“My wife is dead,” Moyle went on. “I have no family.”
The police chief and his staff backed off to a discreet distance.
Traveler forced a smile of his own. Most likely Woolley’s name was being used as a lever, or maybe a carrot. But tempting carrots tended to have big sticks attached to them. Besides which, it was much safer to remain as anonymous as possible in a theocracy like Utah.
Moyle turned his smile on Tanner. “Have you told Moroni everything?”
Tanner’s jaw fell open. “I didn’t have clearance to go that far.”
“But surely you’ve explained why we need his help so badly?”
Tanner went through a ticklike contortion that verged on genuflection.
Moyle sighed unhappily. “We need more than your help, Moroni. We need your faith.” One of his bright blue eyes winked. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not here to proselytize. Your belief in justice will suffice for the moment, not that we won’t win you over in the end.”
“Amen,” Tanner said.
Moyle raised his cane to point at the body. “Before we say anything else, I think you ought to take a look at the dead woman.”
Traveler cast a quick glance at the black plastic shroud. Peering beneath it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“I understand that a woman you know was on the videotape,” Moyle said. “So I realize you have a personal stake in this. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
The comment left the apostle short of breath. He reached out to Tanner, who immediately offered his arm for support. Together they walked slowly past the waiting police officers and toward a gray limousine with darkened windows.
Moyle must have said something to the officers on the way by, because the chief himself hurried over to remove the shroud.
Traveler caught his breath. Despite the savagery confronting him, he felt a surge of relief. It wasn’t Claire. At the same time he was ashamed of his reaction, and angry. The attack had been so viciously sexual, as if the killer had been trying to cut out an erogenous malignancy.
A sheet of paper protruded from her ruined vagina.
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and leaned down to read the words that were written in blood.
The angels’ share.
A fresh wave of nausea rocked him. The chief snatched him out of harm’s way.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” the man said through clenched teeth, his disapproval of outsiders obvious in both tone and expression.
Traveler started to explain his presence. But there was no point. He didn’t give a damn what the police thought. He couldn’t walk away from the case now, not when the possibility existed that Claire might be the next victim.
The taste in his mouth was as sour as his mood by the time he joined Ephraim Moyle in the backseat of the air-conditioned limousine. Tanner was sitting in the front, staring straight ahead but obviously listening, whether as a witness or an eavesdropper Traveler couldn’t say.
“Events like this serve a purpose,” the old man said. “They teach us that we must remain vigilant. We dare not stray from God’s light, because Lucifer is waiting for us in the darkness.”
Traveler leaned back and closed his eyes. But the dead girl was waiting for him. He blinked, focusing on the back of Tanner’s sweating neck.
“The angels’ share,” Moyle said. “Do you understand its significance?”
“No more than Maria Gomez did.”
Moyle dismissed the criticism with a shake of his head. “The same message has been left with each victim.”
A sigh rattled in the apostle’s throat. “It is a judgment upon us. If we cannot send out our missionaries to spread the word of God, we are lost.”
Tanner’s head bowed as if in prayer.
“It goes back to the very beginning of our church. In 1840 Joseph Smith himself sent Brigham Young on a mission to England. We were a poor lot in those days. The poor can’t pay a tithe when they have nothing. Brigham knew that. Tradition says that he came up with a solution. ‘I’ll pay my tithe in converts. That will be my angels’ share.’ Of course, we don’t have any of this in writing, you understand. But it has become part of our training ritual. ‘Go out and collect the angels’ share,’ we tell each and every one of our missionaries.”
“Heber Armstrong went to England,” Traveler pointed out.
“So did the others on our list.”
“Have they gone missing, too?”
“Only their faith is gone.” Moyle drew a quick breath. “We have watched them for several days now, long enough to narrow the field. Only Heber Armstrong remains unaccounted for.”
“If you know all this, why do you need me?”
The apostle lowered his head until his chin was resting on his chest. “Because Claire Bennion is on the tape, Willis and I believe that the killer may have singled you out. Perhaps he has something against you personally.”
“If Armstrong is in town, he probably knows I’m looking for him by now.”
“The name he goes by makes no difference. It’s us, the LDS Saints, that Satan is after. He wants company in hell.” The word hell triggered Traveler’s memory. I am a missionary of the damned, Armstrong had written to his fiancée. Even so, Traveler thought it unlikely that a missing missionary had evolved into Jack the Ripper.
“What kind of motive could he have?” he asked.
“Satan is like a vampire who feeds on souls.”
“Maybe your missionary met another woman. It happens, you know. Maybe he thought it was easier to disappear than to come home and explain.”
“This could be political.” Moyle pulled at the loose skin beneath his chin.
“If he lost faith . . .”
“If Satan took it from him, you mean,” the apostle interrupted.
“. . . he might not enjoy the idea of making such a revelation to his parents and girlfriend.”
Moyle dismissed the suggestion with a flick of his hand. “If this is political, one of those fundamentalist sects is most likely behind it. You know the kind. The ones who keep plaguing us with new revelations on polygamy.”
Traveler looked toward the body, which was again uncovered and being examined by someone from the coroner’s office. “That wasn’t the work of conspirators.”
“We depend on the tithe for survival,” Moyle went on. “We cannot afford to have this killer, or killers, sow seeds of distrust.”
&nbs
p; “My worry is Claire, not theology.”
“Based on Willis’s recommendation, I have spoken to the prophet about you, Moroni. He and I agree that you will work for us.”
“I have a client.”
“You have a responsibility.”
“You have an army at your disposal.”
“They haven’t found him yet,” Moyle said.
“And the police?”
“The chief is coordinating for us. But we don’t want the specifics spreading to the rank and file.”
“I’m one man, for God’s sake. What chance would I have?”
“Maybe none at all. But you have motivation, Moroni. Sometimes that’s better than faith. Now, if you’ll hand me the contract, Willis, Mr. Traveler and I will seal our bargain.”
A clipboard appeared instantly. The form attached to it was blank except for a line at the bottom.
“It’s merely a precaution,” Moyle said. “We have to be certain that you’ll keep our secrets.”
“I intend to cooperate,” Traveler said, thinking of Claire. “But I’m not about to sign something like that”
“All right, Willis, you can honk the horn.”
As soon as Tanner complied, police surrounded the limousine.
“You won’t be able to find Miss Bennion if you’re in jail.”
Traveler clenched his fists to keep from grabbing the old man and shaking him. “You bastard.”
Moyle pushed the button that lowered the window next to Traveler. “Take a look at that poor girl out there. Imagine something like that happening to your Claire.”
“Willis knows better than to threaten me.”
“Of course. He‘s told me all about you. But you see, there’s something else you don’t know. We think Claire’s been kidnapped.”
Traveler’s hands were shaking so badly he could hardly sign his name.
29
CLAIRE HAD moved since she and Traveler lived together. Her new apartment was on Second Avenue, between A and B streets, in a neighborhood on its way to becoming fashionable again after decades of neglect. He‘d been aware of her location for some time but had never intended to make use of the knowledge.
Her building had a notice out front that said it was the future home of Temple-view Townhouse Condominiums, though as far as he could see there was no view at all.
The downstairs door was propped open for ventilation but the smell infesting the lobby—the stale residue of half a century—was immune to fresh air. Breathing through his mouth, Traveler climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of 2C. A three-by-five card had been tacked next to a doorbell wearing so many coats of paint its button had disappeared. Press-on letters spelled out Claire’s Place.
He knocked again. When he got no answer, he lowered his shoulder and gradually applied pressure until the dead bolt ripped through the door’s rotting frame.
He was inside, the door closed quietly behind him, before he realized he wasn’t seeing himself in a mirror. It was a life-size blow-up, taken when he was still playing professional football for Los Angeles. The silver uniform was stained with grass and blood, the helmet scuffed from years of impact as a linebacker.
The photograph took up what wall space there was in a tiny entrance hall. When Traveler stepped into the living room he found himself facing a larger wall that was covered with poster-sized action shots. Judging by the graininess of the pictures, enlargements must have been made from photos that appeared in sports magazines.
A newspaper headline had been taped across one of the posters: L.A. LINEBACKER CRIPPLES RUNNING BACK.
He ignored an urge to rip it from the wall and searched the apartment. Nothing seemed to be disturbed or missing. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have been alarmed. Claire often disappeared, sometimes without taking so much as a change of clothes with her. Usually she ended up telephoning Traveler for help, begging him to follow the clues and come find her. There was a purse full of them at the house right now. But they were useless if Ephraim Moyle was to be believed, not to mention Willis Tanner, who’d come running after Traveler when he walked away from the apostle’s limousine a few minutes earlier. “Listen to me, Mo. I couldn’t help it. I had you watched. That’s how we know about the kidnapping. We saw it happen when she left your place. We had no reason to worry about her safety then, so I didn’t send one of my Tongans to watch you, only a young deacon. There was nothing he could do when someone forced her into a car last night.”
“Did she know you were watching her?”
“I have no idea,” Tanner had said.
Thinking about it now, Traveler wondered if a fake kidnapping was another of Claire’s games. Actually, it didn’t matter. He‘d have to assume the worst. Which was exactly what Claire would have thought, too.
He searched the apartment more thoroughly, hoping to come up with one of her written clues. When that didn’t happen, he decided to check the nearest bar, which also happened to be her favorite, The Beehive.
Utah is known as the beehive state. In Salt Lake City alone, there are beehive appliance stores, candy companies, brick yards, pizza parlors, bail bondsmen, just about anything imaginable, all because early Mormons saw bees as a special manifestation of nature. They were industrious and cooperative, producing honey from the desert wilderness, just as the faithful intended to do one day.
The Beehive Bar & Grill was on South Temple Street, only a few blocks up from Brigham Young’s personal residence, the Beehive House, where he had lived with his favorite wife of the moment. The rest of his wives had stayed two doors away in the Lion House.
When Traveler entered the bar, the female bartender glared at him and pointed a clawlike, red-nailed finger. “I recognize you. You’re not welcome here.”
The place was long and narrow, like a railroad flat. The only light came from a spotlight buried in the ceiling above the cash register and two glowing neons that advertised Coors and Hamms.
A solitary drinker sitting in front of the cash register swiveled his head and squinted at Traveler.
“His name’s Moroni,” the bartender said. She was hennaed and heading into an overweight middle age.
“No angels allowed,” her counter customer replied.
“He‘s the one Claire talks about.”
“The one she calls all the time?”
“That’s right. The one who lets her down.”
“Yeah. The goddamned football hero.”
“I need your help,” Traveler said to the woman.
“I’ll give you the same kind of help you’ve dished out to Claire. None. Now get out of here.”
“I think she’s in trouble.”
“She’s been that way for a long time, thanks to you.”
An explanation would have made things worse. “I think she’s missing for real this time.”
“Then you should be out looking for her.”
“What’s the problem, Frieda?” someone called from a shadowy back booth.
Traveler blinked. His eyes still hadn’t adjusted fully to the Beehive’s dim interior.
“I want this guy out of here,” Frieda said.
One shape emerged from the booth, then another and another. When they entered the Hamms’ blue glow, Traveler knew he was in trouble. They were big, not as big as he was, but big enough and shiny-eyed drunk enough to think three-to-one odds were all they needed. To win, he’d have to hurt one of them badly with the first punch, break a bone so the other two would get jelly-leg and back off. He felt a small satisfying glow of rage growing within him. It needed only the slightest excuse to blossom into mindless violence.
He left the bar without another word.
“Coward,” someone shouted after him.
Since his locked car stood at the curb outside, he had no choice but to turn and stand his ground when the door pushed open behind him. A face peeked out, went wide-eyed at the sight of him in daylight, and abruptly disappeared back inside.
“Coward,” the voice repeated, but
in a tone of obvious relief.
******
Driving away, the word kept echoing inside his head. Claire had called him a coward once, too, the culmination of a Sunday afternoon drive that ended at the Lagoon Resort north of town. The trip out Interstate 15 had taken only a few minutes. Along the way he kept looking for his youth, for old Highway 89, which he’d traveled so often with his father in their ‘41 Packard, making a game out of reading the billboards out loud as they went. Swim in water fit to drink, the Lagoon posters had said.
“I want to start with the roller-coaster,” Claire announced the moment they were through the gate. “I need to feel like a girl again.”
But she caught sight of the Fun House first and began dancing around Traveler like an anxious child. “Please, Daddy. Please,” she cried in her best little-girl voice.
Embarrassed, he hustled her inside where she bypassed the mirrors to lose herself in the maze.
“Find me, find me,” she kept calling.
But no matter how fast he moved, she eluded him. He didn’t catch up with her for nearly an hour. By then she was at the refreshment stand, eating a hot dog and hanging on the arm of a greasy-haired young man with anchor tattoos on his biceps. He was as thin as Claire, with glittery eyes that said he’d been drinking. Eyes contemptuous of Traveler’s size.
“Is this the fucking angel you were telling me about?”
“The Angel Moroni,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Here to save our souls.”
“I’m going home,” Traveler said so softly that it didn’t sound like his voice. “Are you coming?”
“You big bastards are all alike. A bunch of fucking pansies.”
Traveler turned his back and started to walk away, unwilling to repeat the kind of violence that Claire had maneuvered him into once before. He sensed, or maybe heard, the swinging catsup bottle. He ducked. The bottle raked his ear, setting the side of his head on fire with pain.
“If you want me,” Claire said, “you have to fight for me.”
Traveler swung around in time to catch the second, bone-jarring blow on his forearm. The man grunted in surprise. The catsup bottle went flying, splattering glass and goo over the asphalt.
