by R. R. Irvine
“Satan’s acolyte may stay,” Moyle said. “The rest must go.”
“He means your bodyguards, Willis. Send them away. Now.”
Traveler’s tone of voice jarred Tanner into action. “Wait with the old man,” he called loudly to his companions. Once they were on their way, he came forward to stand beside Traveler.
“God has answered my prayers,” Moyle said. “Witnesses are present. Into their hands I will deliver my angels’ share, that no more innocents will be sent into temptation. Your testimony will raise the Saints of the Last Day to glory.”
“There will be no publicity,” Tanner said. His voice sounded calm, a far cry from the look in his eye.
Moyle manipulated Claire’s head in a gesture that denied the statement.
“No one will ever know what happens here,” Tanner added.
“For God’s sake,” Traveler murmured. “Don’t provoke him.”
The man pointed the knife in Martin’s direction. “I want another witness. The senior Angel Moroni.”
Traveler half turned and beckoned to his father. Martin said something to the Tongans before moving toward the monument. The Tongans stayed put.
“Moroni Traveler and son know better than to testify against the church,” Tanner said.
“Is that right, my angel?”
“I came here because of Claire,” Traveler answered. “Give her to me and I’ll be your witness. My father, too.”
“I can only give you her blood.”
“You’ve paid enough tithe.” Traveler sneaked a look at the .45 he’d tossed aside. It was a yard away, an insane distance if he were to attempt to scoop it up and fire before Moyle could cut Claire’s throat.
“Kick the gun farther off or I’ll kill her now,” the man said as if reading Traveler’s mind.
Traveler skidded the .45 across the pavement toward his father. It fell far short of Martin, who was still twenty yards away.
“My angel needs a miracle, not an old man,” Moyle said, and pressed the tip of his knife against the skin beneath Claire’s chin. “I can pay my tithe long before the senior angel reaches your gun.”
Moyle turned his head as if to kiss Claire good-bye.
Out of the corner of his eye Traveler saw Martin draw his own .45. Traveler’s mouth was opening in protest even as the pistol came up. No aiming. Just one smooth motion and then the explosion. The impact of the slug hurled Moyle from the monument. For Traveler it would have been an impossible shot. Martin came forward, shaking his head in bewilderment, the butt of the gun held out toward his son. “That’s why I’m afraid to carry one of these damned things.”
41
CLAIRE’S TEARS were gone but she refused to let go of Traveler as they sat in the backseat of the church limousine and waited for the police to complete their examination of the body. A few feet away Martin was watching them through the windshield. Behind him stood Tanner, surrounded by his Tongans.
“You rescued me just as I always wanted,” she said softly. Her head was on his shoulder, her lips within inches of his ear. “You proved your love.”
He wanted her more than ever.
She kissed his cheek. “Come home with me, Moroni, so I can reward you properly.”
A part of him, he realized, still loved her. The part he didn’t trust.
Her hands released their hold on his clothing to roam his body. He captured them before they got too far.
“Make love to me, Moroni.” Her mouth found his. Her tongue scalded his senses.
He broke free of her and got out of the car. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
“You love me,” she said breathlessly. “I know you do.”
He closed the door and leaned against it. She lowered the window and offered her lips again. “The least you can do is kiss me good-bye.”
He didn’t dare.
“I’m sorry, Claire.”
“Is that all you have to say, you bastard?”
He started to turn away.
“Remember those two men who attacked you in the parking lot?”
Her question held him.
“Blackie and Lamar. They’re friends of mine. I watched it all from across the street.”
He swallowed the emotion that was about to spill out and joined his father.
“I’ve had it,” Martin said immediately. “I’m retiring.”
“You’re in shock, Dad. I know how you feel.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’ve killed, too.”
Martin breathed in and out quickly. “There are some things about me, son, that I’ve never told you.”
“The war?”
His father nodded.
“Let’s go home, Dad.”
“No, you don’t,” Willis Tanner said, stepping between them. “I’ve got to talk to you, Mo. Privately.” He waved the briefcase in his hand.
“Go ahead, son. Get it over with.”
With Traveler in tow, Tanner threaded his way across a parking lot full of police cars, enough to form a Pioneer Days parade of their own. He didn’t stop until he reached a park bench far enough away to be out of anyone’s earshot. There they sat side by side, with Tanner balancing the square-cornered case on his lap in order to open it. Inside was a telephone that looked complicated enough to be a computer.
“It has a built-in scrambler,” he explained. “That way our conversations can’t be monitored.”
“What’s the point, Willis?”
Ignoring the question, Tanner held the handset against his ear and began punching in numbers. “Someone wants to speak to you.”
“Who?” Traveler sounded as weary as he felt.
Tanner signaled for silence before pressing a palm against his unoccupied ear to block out background noise that was coming from police and Tongans alike.
“Sir, it’s Willis Tanner. Yes, sir. He‘s here with me now. We’re on scramble.”
He handed the phone to Traveler and mouthed, “It’s the prophet.”
“Mr. Traveler, this is Elton Woolley.”
Despite everything, death, Claire, Martin’s illness, even his own head cold, Traveler felt a sense of awe. As president of the church, its living prophet, Woolley spoke for God to millions of believers.
“I’m standing on the balcony of my penthouse,” the prophet said.
Traveler envisioned the top floor of the old Hotel Utah, directly across the street from the temple.
“Do you know what I see?”
Traveler waited. No answer was expected of him.
“I see Brigham Young’s city, his dream. Did you know that he told us to keep the center of each block open, because some day we’d need that space to park wagons. Had we listened to him then, our streets wouldn’t be clogged with automobiles today. But that’s the price we pay for growth. And grow we must. That’s why we send out missionaries. To spread God’s word and strengthen His church. You understand that, don’t you, Moroni?”
Though surprised by the use of his first name, Traveler managed to say, “I’m not sure.”
“You were born here in Zion,” Woolley continued. “And now that we are under attack we call upon you, our son, to use restraint. Forget what you have seen and heard.”
“My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“These days I find that I have trouble concentrating on two things at once. If I had Maria Gomez’s work permit on my mind, for instance, one that would allow her to stay in this country legally, everything else would go right out of my head.”
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, there’s one more thing. I keep track of all my Moronis, whether they call themselves Martin or not.”
Traveler caught his breath.
“You’ll find Dr. Murphy waiting for you at home. He has some good news.”
THE END
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