Baptism for the Dead

by R. R. Irvine

  In the end it took both Indians and cowboys to pull him off the battered bartender.

  Finally, Claire’s voice penetrated Traveler’s blazing anger. “It was only a game, Moroni. I had to know if you loved me enough to come save me.”

  He blinked. His eyes glazed over. His muscles went slack. His arms fell to his sides.

  After that, the Indians worked him over with impunity. Finally they got tired of beating on a man who wouldn’t fight back and threw him out. Claire followed a moment later, grabbing Traveler’s car keys and getting them out of there as fast as she could.

  They stayed the night at a motel in the small farming town of Helper. In the morning Traveler, without identifying himself, called the Bonanza to check on Ben. He was in the hospital, Bonnie reported, listed in fair condition. As an afterthought, Traveler said he was a reporter and asked for the address. A few minutes later he mailed the five hundred in ransom money he’d brought with him to the Bonanza.

  The next time Claire disappeared, she made the game harder, refusing to give him any location at all. He found her after a long search, but then moved out of her place and back home with his father. He’d intended to go apartment hunting immediately but somehow hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  ******

  “Well?” Duffy said. “How are the ribs?”

  Traveler swallowed his mouthful. “If Bill comes around looking for handouts, put it on my tab.”

  “Charlie, too?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “That’s fine with me, as long as you understand they have to order it to go. I can’t have them in here killin’ the smell of my ribs.”

  “Un-hunh,” Traveler said. “I don’t think anything could do that.” He spun off his stool and headed for the telephone at the back of the café.

  After wiping barbecue sauce from his hands, he dialed the number given to him by Willis Tanner.

  A woman answered, “Varney residence.”

  “This is Moroni Traveler. Mr. Varney is expecting me.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” came her cold reply.

  A moment later a deep, commanding voice said, “Where are you, Mr. Traveler?”

  “I’m going to be late.”

  “Is there a problem with the weather?”

  Only if you’re out in it, he was tempted to say. “I won’t be there for another hour at least.”

  “The forecast calls for this storm to get worse before it gets better,” Varney said. “We live up near the mountains. Maybe you won’t be able to get here at all.”

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” Traveler paused, waiting for further comment. But none came, only the dial tone.

  By the time Traveler returned to his stool, his spare-ribs had cooled, crusting with fat. The sight killed his appetite.

  He left a dollar tip and walked outside, where visibility was down to a few yards. Walking was probably a lot safer than driving, but his next stop, the library, was too far away for a man without boots.

  Childhood memory led him momentarily astray as he turned north on State Street, heading for the old Carnegie-funded library, a sculptured sandstone delight. But that had long since given way to a characterless repository on Second East and Fifth South.

  Beneath white fluorescent lights that washed all signs of humanity from every face, he found what he was looking for—biographical data on John Varney.

  The man was forty-two years old, married to Martha Ann Snow, and had one daughter, Penelope—unusual for an official of a church whose doctrine demanded large families. Varney was also considered to be one of Mormonism’s leading theological writers, the author of several books on genealogy, including one on baptism for the dead. Traveler checked that one out and carried it to an empty reading table, where he skimmed it quickly. The volume, though published at church expense, seemed to be aimed at nonbelievers. It explained the Mormon obsession with ancestor research, that those born before Joseph Smith revealed the true church could be raised to heaven only by baptism in absentia. All other gentiles would be damned to hell.

  Such baptisms for the dead, Traveler knew, far outnumbered those for the living.

  He returned the heavy volume to its proper shelf and then got help from a pasty-faced librarian who provided him with several microfilmed clippings dealing with the Church of Zion Reborn. A report in Time magazine mentioned the group only in passing, concentrating on the fact that southern Utah and northern Arizona were hotbeds of offshoot religious cults, most stemming from Mormonism. Many of them had been forced underground by law enforcement agencies and other, more reckless, sects. One informant, who refused to be named because he feared for his life, said the goal of these sects was to undermine the Mormon Church from within.

  Another national publication pinpointed the Church of Zion Reborn near the small Arizona community of Lydel Springs, where several unsolved killings had taken place over the last few years. The local sheriff was quoted as saying the circumstances surrounding the murders had been bizarre. He suspected some kind of blood ritual.

  5

  THE VARNEY estate spread over several acres of Federal Heights, an older section in the foothills northeast of town. The house itself, situated at the top of Arlington Drive, was two stories of bleached brick that looked as if life had drained away right along with the color.

  Federal Heights had taken its name from nearby government land on which Fort Douglas had been built. Some said the fortification had been placed in the foothills, commanding the high ground, as a reminder to nineteenth-century Mormons that they had to follow the nation’s rules like everyone else. Whatever the case, much of the area was still populated by wealthy gentiles, whose pioneering families, well aware of Brigham Young’s Mountain Meadow Massacre, thought it wise to stick close to more traditional law and order. It was a strange neighborhood to find a family that traced its roots back to Joseph Smith’s days in Nauvoo.

  As a precaution against drifting snow, Traveler maneuvered his Ford carefully until it was pointing downhill. Only then did he make the hike to the front door.

  Pausing, he looked up at the clouds. For a moment, there was only swirling snow to be seen. Then, almost without transition, the flakes dissipated, revealing bright sky. Perhaps he was standing in the eye of the storm, or maybe it was only a freak opening in the front, but suddenly the clouds parted even more, exposing the surrounding mountains. For decades those sharp granite pinnacles had served as Brigham Young’s fortress against his enemies in the east, better than any man-made citadel.

  The sky closed, swallowing both sky and mountains. Traveler hunched his shoulders and knocked on the door.

  The woman who greeted him had a face as bleak as the brick exterior. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were the watery blue of melting ice. Her silvery-blond hair was pulled back so tightly into a bun that it looked as if it had been lacquered in place.

  She was dressed entirely in gray, with a heavy pleated skirt that caught her at midcalf, a gray pullover sweater, and on top of that a cable-stitched cardigan that hid any sign of breasts.

  Her bloodless lips tightened to a grim white line before she said, “Mr. Traveler?”

  He nodded.

  She didn’t invite him in, but merely stepped to one side clearing the way for him. He moved past her into an entrance hall that reminded him of an old Gothic movie. It had a suit of armor holding a broadsword, a coat of arms on the wall, and a circular staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs. At any moment he expected to see Joan Fontaine sweeping down to receive him.

  Standing beneath a crystal chandelier, Traveler brushed enough snow from his hair and raincoat to create slush underfoot.

  “Sorry for the mess. It looked like spring just this morning.”

  She answered with a smile so brief it could have been a figment of his imagination. Then, with the slightest sigh, she reached for a light switch next to the door. Bright shivers of light radiated from a hundred crystals. Some of the sharp rays highlighted her face,
revealing red-rimmed eyes that suggested she’d been crying. He could also see that she was much younger than he’d thought at first. Forty, he estimated. Maybe a little less. About the right age to be Penny’s mother, only she had to be the aunt. There was a definite family resemblance, with a trace of the girl’s beauty, but carefully hidden as if it were some terrible burden.

  “Mrs. . . .?” he said.

  “Mrs. Varney is dead,” she answered. Her terminology made him wonder what she knew that he didn’t. “I’m the housekeeper.”

  She made no move, but stood staring at him as if he were some kind of alien species.

  “John Varney is expecting me,” he prompted.

  She nodded and crossed the entrance hall, pausing before a massive oak door. Her knock was timid, but the door jerked open immediately as if someone on the other side had been awaiting her prearranged signal.

  A hand was thrust across the threshold toward Traveler. He grasped it, surprised by the strength in the long, thin fingers. Then the rest of the man came into view, a lean figure with dark red hair and mustache to match. But on closer inspection, his leanness did not extend to his stomach, which protruded over a tightly cinched belt. He reminded Traveler of a snake that had swallowed its prey whole.

  “Thank God you’ve come. I’m John Varney.”

  He shook hands again as if the mention of his name required an additional commitment.

  “You’re cold,” Varney said, rubbing his own fingers in sympathy. “Would you like a drink?”

  Surprise must have shown in Traveler’s face, because Varney smiled and said, “Will Tanner told me you were a nonbeliever. But I see you have some knowledge of us.” He closed his eyes briefly. When he spoke again he did so like an actor reciting lines. “ „Hot drinks are not for the body or belly.’ ” He paused, eyeing Traveler expectantly. “Do you recognize the words?”

  “Joseph Smith.”

  “Excellent. There’s hope for you yet.”

  Traveler shrugged. The quote was part of the church’s doctrine and covenants outlawing alcohol, tobacco, and even coffee and tea. More commonly these strictures were known as the Word of Wisdom.

  Behind him the housekeeper sniffed derisively.

  “Two cups of hot milk,” Varney told her, his tone a dismissal.

  She left without a word of acknowledgment.

  “Pearl has a secret recipe. She adds a little vanilla and sugar to her concoction.”

  Traveler refrained from pointing out that vanilla contained alcohol. A sin was a sin only when you knew about it.

  Now that they were alone Varney looked somewhat embarrassed. Most people did when they called in a private detective.

  To give the man time to recover, Traveler turned away to study the room. Walnut bookshelves covered all four walls from baseboard to ceiling, except for a French door opening out onto a stand of aspen. Every inch of shelving was crammed with impressive-looking volumes.

  Traveler selected one of the more elaborately bound books, done in red Moroccan leather with gold embossing. It was one of Varney’s own, Genes and Genealogy. There was not so much as a speck of dust on it.

  The volume felt virginal so he replaced it quickly and turned to face Varney, who was now seated behind an antique partners’ desk. Traveler took the facing chair, his legs jammed into a footwall designed in an era when people were smaller. His hands rested on the dark green leather desktop.

  “Well,” Varney began, his expression suddenly anxious, “did Will Tanner brief you about this business in Bountiful?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “I know my daughter, Mr. Traveler. She can’t be involved in anything like murder.” He closed his eyes. “I quote from our good book. „I must needs destroy the secret works of darkness, and of murders, and of abominations.’ ”

  “It’s your wife I’m looking for, Mr. Varney, as I’m sure Willis Tanner told you.”

  Varney’s eyes opened and looked away. “Penny has become obsessed on that subject.”

  “I wouldn’t call a daughter’s love for her mother an obsession.”

  “They weren’t actually married, you know,” Varney said hastily. “Martha and that man who was killed.”

  Traveler said nothing.

  “Not in God’s eyes, anyway.” Varney held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of resignation. “I suppose even cult people conduct some sort of pagan ritual. Such marriages can’t be legal, not in civil law and certainly not in canon law.”

  He caught his breath. “If people are to read my books and believe, I must set them an example. I must be beyond reproach. So should my family.”

  “I seem to remember original sin going from father to son, not wife to husband.”

  “The saints believe that men will be punished for their own sins, not Adam’s. But that’s God’s punishment. Here on earth we have to worry about appearances.”

  Traveler leaned forward across the desktop and locked eyes with Varney. It annoyed him that Mormons called one another saints, as if they had to constantly reassure one another of their piety. “Tell me about your wife,” he said.

  “We’re hiring you to keep an eye on my daughter. Didn’t Willis tell you?”

  “I’m a free agent, Mr. Varney.”

  The man leapt to his feet and began examining the books directly behind him. After a moment, he selected a volume, briefly caressed its binding, then began thumbing through it. Occasionally he nodded as if encountering a favorite passage. Finally, his fingers began tapping insistently on one particular page. He nodded to himself and turned to face Traveler.

  “The one true book,” he said, stepping forward to wave the volume in Traveler’s face. “The Book of Mormon.”

  Abruptly he straightened his shoulders, gulped a quick breath, and read, “ „And it shall come to pass, they that are left in Zion and remain in Jerusalem shall be called holy, every one that is written among the living in Jerusalem, when the Lord shall have washed away the filth of the daughters of Zion . . .’ ”

  For an instant he held the book out toward Traveler before dramatically snapping it shut. “My wife is unclean.”

  “And your daughter?”

  Varney tilted his head to one side as if listening to the question echo inside his mind. Then he sat down again, placing the book on the desk in front of him, his left hand resting on top of it like a witness about to swear to the truth of his testimony.

  “Perhaps it’s my fault,” he said, twitching as if suddenly chilled. “This all seems like a nightmare that keeps repeating itself. First Martha left me, and now Penny.” He sighed. “I tried to raise my daughter the best I knew how, but it wasn’t enough. I’ve never been good with children.”

  “You could have remarried.”

  He rubbed his face with both hands. “Martha and I were not married in the temple. If we had been, we would be bound together for eternity.”

  Traveler thought of being bound to Claire in the Mormon way. He shook his head. One lifetime was more than enough with most women.

  Varney misinterpreted the gesture. “I assure you, Mr. Traveler, I am not a man to shed a wife as a matter of convenience. I do not believe in divorce, though I realize that times have forced the church to become more liberal. I’ve never filed the necessary legal documents to free myself of Martha. Whether or not she has done so, I don’t know. Certainly I’ve never been served with any kind of divorce papers.”

  “I don’t deal in consciences, Mr. Varney. Just tell me something about your wife that might help me find her.”

  For a moment Varney looked as if he were about to object. Then, nodding, he said, “Martha lacked faith. I knew that when I married her but I thought I could show her the way. When that didn’t work I gave up to concentrate on Penny. My daughter had to believe. Anything else was unthinkable. But now?” He spread his arms as though seeking someone to hold. “Penny got away from me somehow. Her sin is mine. Mine and Martha’s.”

  “I got the idea from your housekeeper tha
t your wife is dead.”

  “That’s my sister, Pearl, speaking. I don’t have a housekeeper. She thinks I ought to have one, though. She says it befits a man in my position. I brought Pearl here to live with us when I realized how much Penny needed a woman around. But an aunt’s not the same as a mother, I’m afraid.”

  “Your daughter thinks something might have happened to her mother.”

  “I don’t know. There was a time when Penny’s faith was so strong that she became terrified her mother might die without being baptized into the church. I tried telling her that Martha wouldn’t want any such thing. But Penny wouldn’t listen. She said she couldn’t face eternity without her mother. Even as young as Penny was at the time, it was blasphemy for her to say such a thing. She begged me to perform a baptism for the dead. But we had no proof that Martha had passed over. As for the living, they have to find their own way to the true church.”

  Varney slammed his open hand down on The Book of Mormon. Veins stood out on his thin neck. His skin seemed to flatten against his face, and for a moment Traveler had the impression that he could see the man’s skull showing through. The illusion faded as soon as Varney spoke again. “Was it my faith or Penny’s that failed?”

  “I don’t give absolution either,” Traveler said, wondering what the hell he was doing there. A woman had been missing from this house for five years. On top of that a murder had been committed, probably in the name of God, something better left to the police, or perhaps an exorcist. Certainly not a private detective.

  Varney looked startled. “I don’t mean to sound sorry for myself. Penny is my problem. At least she will be if you can convince her to come back to me.”

  “I find people. Your daughter is not exactly lost.”

  “As for Martha,” Varney went on as though deaf, “I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead. And frankly, I’m not certain that I care anymore, except for Penny’s sake. You have to understand Martha. Her desertion was carefully planned to hurt me and my career. Why else would she have taken up with polygamists in the desert?”