Baptism for the Dead

by R. R. Irvine

  With that, he and Charlie exited, leaving a trail of smoke behind them.

  The moment the office door closed behind them Tanner said, “What the hell were they smoking?”

  “Some concoction of Charlie’s. They can’t afford anything too dangerous.”

  Waving one hand in front of his face, Tanner went to the window and attempted to open it. “It’s stuck,” he said, his face changing color because he was holding his breath.

  When Traveler tried the window it opened easily enough.

  “I must have loosened it,” Tanner said, thrusting his head out into the cold air.

  “You could have phoned.”

  Tanner didn’t answer but merely exaggerated his breathing to show displeasure at having sinned by proxy. That went on for a full minute before the cold started him shaking. Only then did he pull his head back inside.

  “I cannot speak the prophet’s words in here. The air is tainted.”

  “Fine. Go out in the hall and shout them through the door.”

  “This is no joke, Moroni.”

  “I’m tired. I’ve driven from one end of the state to the other, I’ve been shot at, I’ve—”

  “Shot at?”

  Traveler briefly outlined his meeting with Jess Dunphy and what happened later at Blood Butte.

  Throughout the explanation Tanner pulled at his chin like an old man feeling for whiskers. “Our prophet is right, then. He said one of his Moronis—you—would lead the way by exposing those who would desecrate our heritage.”

  “Willis, it’s time you told me everything you know about the Church of Zion Reborn.”

  “Elton Woolley trusts you. He told me that himself. He said, „Willis, go to him, our messenger. Tell him that he must keep watching.’ Then he read from the Book. „And it came to pass that Moroni sent spies into the wilderness to watch their camp.’ And now you, Moroni, will be the prophet’s spy.”

  “Why don’t I just give you your money back and we’ll call it quits?”

  “Do this for us, Mo, and we’ll owe you.”

  “I wish you’d put that in writing.”

  25

  SNOW FROM Yukon Junior didn’t have the staying power of its predecessor. It was melting as soon as it struck asphalt, leaving the streets slick but passable.

  Traveler, aware of his fatigue, drove slowly. The snow swirling against the windshield had a hypnotic effect. He rolled down the window, using the cold air to keep himself awake. By the time he reached home he was shivering uncontrollably.

  His father hugged him at the door before backing off a step. “You look terrible.”

  “Not as bad as I feel.” Traveler headed for the bathroom. “I need a hot bath.”

  While the tub filled Traveler told his father about the last twenty-four hours. When it came to the shooting, Martin, who’d been perched on the toilet seat, lunged to his feet. “Goddammit! That settles it. Will Tanner can get someone else.”

  “The girl is in over her head,” Traveler said before submerging up to his neck in hot water. “She needs help.”

  “Maybe it’s time I told you about your mother and me, about what women can do to you.”

  “I’m not planning to marry her.”

  Traveler submerged all the way for a moment. When he surfaced Martin said, “All right. We won’t talk women right now. Besides which, I never walked away from a case once I’d taken it, so why should you?” The old man sat down with a groan, both hands clutching at the small of his back. “Growing old is not fun.”

  “When all this is over, I’ll want to hear that story about you and Mother.”

  “At my age memory starts to go. Who’s to say what I’ll remember tomorrow, let alone next week?”

  “Can you hold yourself together long enough to give me some help?”

  Martin leaned toward the tub to stare his son straight in the eye. “Do you really want me to?”

  “It’s vital.”

  The old man nodded, a spreading grin slowly rearranged his face. “My arthritis only acts up in bad weather. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Good. We’ll wait until the sun goes down and tackle Reuben Dixon. He’ll feel less secure in the dark.”

  Martin nodded. “That still gives you enough time to take a nap.”

  Traveler rose from the water. “I’ve got to have my teeth checked first.”

  Dr. Jake’s cardboard alter ego was standing outside in the snow when Traveler arrived at the credit dentist’s university branch. The receptionist, whose teeth were almost as bright as Penny’s, said, “Good afternoon. May I help you smile?”

  “I’m from Nauvoo,” he said, ready to fake a toothache should Penny’s password fail.

  “Of course, sir. Take a seat. We’ll be closing in just a few minutes.”

  The waiting room was separate from the reception area. Its walls were pale green, so was the carpet. Chairs and sofas, done in a knubby material that mixed that same green with an earthy brown, lined three walls. A huge television screen, one of those projection models, took up the fourth wall. Programming came from a videotape deck and showed aquarium fish swimming lazily, accompanied by soft music.

  He counted heads. There were a dozen seated around the room, all women. Traveler sat beside a middle-aged lady with swollen chipmunk cheeks. She inspected him openly. Like most of the others in the room she was overweight, much of it in her matronly bosom.

  “We don’t get many men in this conclave,” she said, her tone heading toward condemnation. “Not during working hours anyway.”

  He smiled, trying to look sympathetic, and touched his cheeks where her own were so puffy.

  “Oh, I’m in no pain. I had my wisdom teeth out last week. It takes forever for the swelling to go down. I’m here for the prayer meeting.” As soon as the words were out she looked stricken. “Oh, dear. I’m not supposed to say things like that unless I’m certain about someone.”

  “I’m from Nauvoo,” he whispered in her ear.

  She sighed. “That’s all right, then.”

  “I also have a bad tooth,” he added, to keep the conversation going. That way, at least, he would be less conspicuous.

  She reached out shyly to pat his hand. “There’s no worse pain, is there?”

  Traveler obliged with a grimace.

  “Don’t worry. It’s almost time. Then Dr. Jake can comfort you.”

  She left her chair to consult with a woman who occupied the chair nearest the tape deck. The second woman, who appeared to be heading into middle age at the rate of ten pounds a year, stared at Traveler and then at the clock. Traveler’s new acquaintance whispered something and they both giggled. They were still at it when a bell sounded.

  A moment later the receptionist came in. “It’s all clear.”

  Faces lit up around the room.

  The woman next to the videotape machine pushed a button. The fish disappeared. She quickly loaded another cassette and pushed the playback button. Organ music filled the room.

  The first woman, her swollen cheeks quivering, hurried back to her chair at Traveler’s side. She took his hand and said, “My name is Melba.”

  The television screen flared to life, showing earth as seen from outer space. The picture remained static for a moment before the camera zoomed toward the planet. Suddenly clouds engulfed everything. The music softened. A voice said, “God is at our door. We must answer with prayer.”

  Those in the waiting room eased from their seats and onto their knees, their eyes never leaving the television screen. Traveler mimicked their every move.

  The clouds dissolved to reveal Jake Ruland. For a moment Traveler thought the man was wearing one of his white dental smocks. Then the camera moved back far enough to show a full-length robe. In one hand, Dr. Jake held a book. He opened it and read, “ „And the tempter came among us, bringing with him a contagion whose name was money. His guile was like the serpent. His words were honey.’ ”

  “Amen,” Melba said, squeezing Travel
er’s hand.

  Ruland continued. “ „A small tithe is enough, he said, this tempter, the devil incarnate. God is easily satisfied. The path to heaven is easy. Pay ten percent and be done with it. But God will not be bribed.’ ”

  Ruland began describing the joys of heaven. His tone was hypnotic and relaxing, the words unimportant. Traveler’s eyelids drooped. His head started to tilt forward. He caught himself, glanced around to see if anyone had caught him nodding off, and realized that the women looked anything but drowsy. For them the sound of Ruland’s voice was a stimulant. Their eyes shone as they watched him. Their expressions varied. The younger faces reflected lust, the older ones something softer, yet still possessive.

  Melba’s hand was sweating. Her grip tightened.

  He leaned against her and whispered, “That’s not The Book of Mormon.”

  “Has he sent you to test me?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Traveler answered.

  “Those are the words of God as given directly to Brother Ruland.”

  She took her eyes from the screen to smile at Traveler. As she did so, her eyes glittered. She licked her lips and took a deep breath, expanding her bosom. She was doing her best to look provocative.

  “He told me to have faith. He told me to shed my worldly possessions in tithe. Then, and only then, would I find a celestial partner. I didn’t expect anyone so young, so . . .” She looked him up and down. Her fingers writhed in his.

  On screen Ruland said, “He is a false prophet. His ways are corrupt. His soul forfeit. Turn away from the false one, I beg you. His words are sharp as sin. He is deaf to all but the evil one, whose lies possess him fully.”

  Traveler looked away from the screen and into Melba’s face. She no longer had eyes for anything but him. “Will I share you with many wives?” she said.

  “No.”

  “God has answered my prayers.”

  “He must be destroyed,” Ruland said.

  For the first time Traveler squeezed back, feeling ashamed of himself for leading her on. “I must have missed something. Who is Ruland talking about?”

  “You don’t have to test me anymore. I will do anything you want.”

  “Answer my question, then.”

  “He’s talking about the evil one, about Brigham Young.”

  26

  BROTHER LEHI was waiting next to the car.

  “Did you follow me here?” Traveler asked, annoyed at himself for failing to pick up the tail.

  “Little people get away with murder, don’t they?”

  They were standing in a parking lot adjacent to the dental office. Every space was filled. There was little room to maneuver. Floodlights kept the dusk at bay.

  “How tall are you?” Lehi asked abruptly, stepping forward aggressively as if he intended to measure himself against Traveler’s chest. He stopped just short and held out a hand. “I don’t even come to your goddamned shoulder.”

  “I’m six three.”

  “Bullshit. I looked you up in the record books. Six four, they listed you at. Six four and two hundred and forty pounds.”

  “I’ve lost weight since then.”

  “I can still take you.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Traveler tried to ease back a pace or two to get himself a little room. One step brought him up against a station wagon.

  “Where are you going?” Lehi mocked. “I won’t hurt you.” He poked himself in the chest with his thumb. “It’s just me. Lilliputian Lehi. Tiny Tim. Micro man. Who could be afraid of someone like me?”

  Fear had nothing to do with it, Traveler decided. But caution did. Caution in the face of madness.

  Lehi stepped sideways to pivot on the balls of his feet, a dancer’s pirouette. Light from the flood lamps anchored to the eaves of the dental building bathed his features. His eyes were like reflectors, bouncing the light back at Traveler.

  “You’re the one named for an angel,” Lehi said. “But I’m the one delivering the message. Brother Ruland’s littlest angel.”

  “Make it fast. I’m expected home for dinner.”

  “A man your age, still living at home.” Lehi’s head shook accusingly. “You ought to know better than to stick your nose into other people’s religion.”

  “Is that Jake Ruland speaking?”

  “It sure as hell ain’t Joe Smith.”

  “Good night.”

  Lehi answered with another pirouette. Only this time he was building momentum for attack. His foot caught Traveler in the solar plexus, knocked the air from his lungs. He collapsed on the asphalt, his mouth working uselessly. He couldn’t catch his breath. But he knew the stun was momentary. A fullback’s helmet had done the same thing to him many times. The sooner he calmed himself, the sooner his lungs would start working again.

  “You forgot something, didn’t you, asshole?” Lehi shouted. “David and Goliath. Next time I’ll finish you.”

  Traveler managed to sit up. He was still gasping, still vulnerable.

  Lehi knelt beside him. “Better yet, maybe I’ll go after your father. They tell me the old bastard was hot stuff in his time. Shit. If I wanted to, I could take him out with one hand behind my back.” Lehi chuckled. “Maybe I’ll do just that. A one-handed kill. Think about it, asshole.”

  Traveler made a weak grab for him. Lehi laughed and danced away.

  A moment later a car door slammed, an engine revved, and Lehi was gone. The little man who wasn’t there.

  27

  TRAVELER PARKED directly across the street from The Villa. Judging from the light spilling from windows on the top floor, Reuben Dixon was at home.

  “He already thinks of me as the bad guy,” Traveler told his father. “So you play good guy.”

  “With your size, who can blame him?”

  “Just remember what I told you, Dad. Size isn’t everything. If you spot this guy, Lehi, don’t play games. He’s dangerous.”

  “To think a son of mine got himself sucker-punched.” Martin pretended to look to the heavens for guidance.

  Traveler glanced up, too. Without falling snow, the night sky seemed particularly black, like the entrance to a cave.

  They crossed the street, instinctively skirting a pool of brightness beneath a street lamp, and entered The Villa’s foyer. This time the front door was locked.

  Traveler pointed to the intercom. “Good guys should do the talking.”

  “Who am I supposed to be, the Fuller Brush man?” Martin asked softly.

  “There haven’t been any of those for years.”

  Martin punched the button next to Dixon’s name.

  Nothing happened.

  He held the button down for several seconds. Finally static crackled and a distorted voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “John Varney sent me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Martin Traveler.”

  “Not Moroni?”

  “I’m his father.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Tell him we’re here to talk money,” Traveler whispered.

  Martin repeated the message.

  “Shit,” Dixon said. But a moment later the door buzzed open.

  They rode the elevator up to the top floor. Reuben Dixon was waiting for them in the hallway, in position to retreat into his apartment if necessary. His eyes had the glitter of a drunk.

  “I thought so. Father and son. I hear you’re both assholes.”

  He went back into his apartment but left the door open for them to follow. By the time they did he was seated on the living-room floor, his back to a shallow, brick-faced fireplace, surrounded by mounds of manila folders.

  “You wouldn’t hit a sitting man, would you?” he asked, peering up at Traveler. Despite the question, Dixon looked perfectly relaxed, as if he didn’t give a damn if they hit him or not.

  Using the edge of his shoe, Traveler cleared an area of folders. That done, he carefully lowered himself into the carpet until he was sitting cross-legged in front of Dix
on. Martin pulled up a chair.

  “John Varney is too late,” Dixon said, “no matter what he wants to pay. It’s out of my hands now.”

  “What is?” Traveler said.

  “Murder.” Dixon reached behind him into the fireplace to retrieve an ashtray. It held a dozen homemade cigarettes ready for smoking. “We have Brigham Young to thank for this,” he said, gesturing with the ashtray.

  “You must be his new prophet, then,” Martin said sarcastically. “Rewriting the Word of Wisdom.”

  “Join me?” Dixon held out the ashtray.

  They both waved away the offer.

  “It’s like this,” he said, lighting up and inhaling deeply. When time came to exhale, he half turned and blew fumes into the fireplace, no doubt to keep the neighbors from smelling the smoke. “Brigham had a dream. He’d turn southern Utah into the land of Dixie, look away, look away. But cotton couldn’t make it in that god-awful place. But this shit does.” He waved a cigarette. “If Brigham were alive today, it would be legal tender.”

  Martin looked indignant. “Are you saying the church grows marijuana?”

  “Not the church.”

  “But a church?” Traveler put in.

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  Now was the time, Traveler thought. Marijuana was a much better persuader than fists. “Why did the Church of Zion Reborn pull up stakes and leave, then?”

  “I told him it was a mistake at the time. Never give up a money-making business.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Martin’s voice was whispersoft, the sound of a good guy.

  “Who’s asking?” Dixon said, his mood shifting abruptly. “You or John Varney?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  Dixon went back to his hand-rolled cigarette. His eyes had turned black, all pupil.

  Traveler grabbed him by the neck, being careful not to do any damage.

  “Easy,” Martin said, coming out of his chair to pry his son’s fingers loose. With his back to Dixon, Martin winked like the accomplice he was.

  Dixon looked unconcerned, as though nothing unusual had taken place. “Brother Jacob, of course. He gave up growing pot to harvest souls.”