by R. R. Irvine
Traveler smiled. Suddenly it was clear how Brother Jake had financed a string of dental offices in so short a time.
“Is he harvesting your cousin, too?” Traveler said.
Dixon turned away to crush out his cigarette against the inner wall of the fireplace. “There’s nothing I can do if Cousin Penny wants to screw her brains out with the likes of him.”
“You have such a way with words,” Traveler said, clasping his hands together to keep from overacting his role.
“I’m only a cousin by marriage. So don’t get me wrong.” Dixon held out his hands as if to ward off a blow. “What Penny’s doing is her business. John Varney won’t find out about it from me. Not with his temper. Christ. He’d send the sons of Porter Rockwell to lynch me.”
“I’ve met Varney,” Martin put in. “He’s a quiet man, a scholar.”
“Whatever you say. But I say they’re all crazy, the whole damn family. That goes for my wife, too, living downstairs in her own apartment, for Christ’s sake. But she’s not as gullible as Penny. Not at all. The last time that girl was here, she and Brother Jacob were arm in arm. She actually believed some of the bullshit we were throwing around.”
A malicious smile twisted Dixon’s lips. “The angel’s trumpet will soon sound the word of God, I told her. Look to the temple. Look to Moroni. He’s getting ready to blow Brigham’s cover.”
“We’re not theologians,” Martin said.
Dixon looked from one to the other. Then he shrugged. “Why the hell shouldn’t I tell you? I got tired of working on salary for Brother Jake. Look around you.” He spread his arms. “A man wants more than a few apartment buildings in this life. I told him the same thing. „Your promises,’ I said, „your big plans for the future don’t pay the rent now.’ That’s why I went to Varney, to cash in big once so I could get out of this damned business.”
He picked up a handful of folders and hurled them into the fireplace, where they lay like kindling, awaiting only a match to destroy his dreams.
“But Varney said I was a fake,” Dixon continued. “Me and everything I touched. I offered to negotiate, to give him bargain-basement prices considering the merchandise. But he wouldn’t budge.”
The man’s head shook so hard it looked like a muscle spasm. “I still don’t understand how he could take that kind of risk.” He hesitated for a moment. “Unless he sent you here to take it away from me?”
“That’s right,” Traveler improvised. He grasped Dixon by both wrists. “Varney told me to beat it out of you if need be.”
Dixon cringed, but his eyes managed to remain defiant. “Look around for yourself. You can have whatever you find.”
Traveler squeezed until the man grimaced. “RuIand beat you to it,” Dixon blurted. “He got here before you, he and a couple of his acolytes. They cleaned me out.”
Traveler decided that a new approach was needed. “You’re an expert on Mormon history, aren’t you?”
He awaited Dixon’s nod before continuing. “The Danites of old aren’t ancient history, you know. They’re still here with us, protectors of our prophet’s heritage. Could be you’re even looking at one. Elton Woolley’s avenging angel.”
Dixon smiled as if to say you can’t pull that one on me. But his eyes gave him away. Fear surfaced, as bright and shiny as tears.
Traveler pretended to look around the apartment. “This looks okay to me,” he said finally. “The perfect location for a modern-day Mountain Meadow Massacre. Only this time, we won’t pretend Indians did it. We’ll make it look like Brother Jacob and his boys got to you.”
“Bullshit. Things like that don’t happen, not in this day and age.”
His protest lacked conviction, exactly what Traveler hoped for. He nodded at his father. They rose together and walked to the door without another word.
“Bastards,” Dixon spat after them. “I’m not afraid of you.” His tone said otherwise.
28
WITH THE rising of the moon the night sky revealed a thin layer of clouds, high up, caught in winds that sent them racing toward the mountains like prayers toward heaven. Watching them, Traveler felt heavy and earthbound.
He and his father were sitting in the Jeep waiting to see if Dixon panicked. At nine o’clock Martin switched on the radio to catch the news. Summer temperatures were being predicted for tomorrow. Volunteers were needed to sandbag against the expected runoff from the mountains. The Great Salt Lake was rising.
Once the announcer moved on to the usual bloodletting in the Middle East, Martin switched off the radio and said, “You see what happens when God’s involved. People can’t help killing each other. Jews, Arabs, Mormons, whatever.”
Traveler grunted, knowing his father well enough to figure more was on the way. Martin didn’t disappoint him. “Look at that moon up there.”
Traveler did as he was told.
“You see any stars?”
“A few here and there.”
“And planets?”
“It’s hard to tell the difference.”
“Not to a Mormon who believes faith will raise him to Godhood in charge of his own world.”
“That reminds me,” Traveler interrupted. “I ought to call Will Tanner.”
“No, you don’t. First you tell me just what Reuben Dixon is trying to sell to the church.”
“Whatever it is, he must have forged it. Otherwise, Varney would have bought it.”
“Don’t be too sure that Dixon’s the forger he’s made out to be. That man has uncovered some important documents in the past, some favorable to the church, some not. The latter usually disappear into the archives, underground, awaiting the millennium.”
“Are you trying to tell me he’s selling the real thing?”
“If I knew what we were talking about I’d have a better idea.”
“My guess is that we’re talking Brigham Young here. Something inflammatory in writing.”
Martin sighed. “What you said inside is true. I’ve heard talk for years of latter-day Danites sworn to protect the church.”
Traveler, nodding, said, “I’ll find a phone and be right back. If Dixon comes out while I’m gone, follow him until he lights somewhere, then call my service.”
The 7-Eleven was the only place open nearby. Traveler used the phone in the parking lot to call Tanner at home.
“I need help, Willis.”
“Officially, I don’t know you. I told you that before.”
“It’s a question of manpower,” Traveler said, knowing that the church, organized the way it was into stakes and wards, could raise an army if necessary. It had done just that back in 1857 when the federal government sent in troops under the command of General Albert Johnston to root out the evils of polygamy. In response, Brigham Young raised the Nauvoo Legion, which promptly stopped the feds in their tracks. But Brigham was too smart to continue the war. He gave in, on the surface at least, while continuing to do just as he pleased.
“Salt Lake’s credit dentist,” Traveler proceeded, “is a religious front. He calls each of his offices a conclave, which means that you have more than a black bishop on your hands.”
“I see.”
“Why is it you don’t sound surprised?”
“What do you intend to do with more manpower?”
“Have each of those conclaves placed under surveillance.”
“Anything else?”
“I’d like to know every move Jake Ruland makes. Reuben Dixon, too, for that matter.”
“A man in my position,” Tanner said calmly, “a man doing his job, would already have thought of that.”
29
WHEN TRAVELER returned to the car his father pretended to be asleep. But the moment the door opened he said, “I spotted our friend pacing back and forth in front of one of his windows. He looked like he was talking on the phone, one of those cordless models.”
Traveler slid in behind the wheel before peering up through the wiper-smudged windshield. Drapes muted the light seeping from the windo
ws on the top floor.
“You must have X-ray eyes,” he told his father.
Martin’s yawn was more contrived than his snoring. “He pulled the blinds on me just before you came back.”
“We might as well go home. If we haven’t flushed him out by now, we never will.”
“I should have played the bad guy.”
Traveler was still trying to think of a comeback when a tow truck pulled up across the street, parking parallel to the cars at the curb. A rack of amber lights on top of the cab came on and began rotating slowly. When the driver stepped out, the fluctuating light distorted his face, making him look sinister one moment and benign the next.
He checked the license plate on a Mercedes, then went to work, slipping a long metal shim through a side window to jimmy open the door. The whole procedure took only a few seconds.
He popped the hood, relocked the door, and quickly set up his tool kit next to the front tire on the driver’s side. After that his upper body disappeared into the engine compartment.
“Working this late,” Martin said, “I hope he’s got a union.”
“Maybe Dixon stayed put because his car’s not working?”
“If you want to wait, it’s all right with me,” Martin said and began to snore again. After a moment he added, “Maybe you can keep me awake by regaling me with details of your conversation with Willis Tanner.”
“With him it’s always what he doesn’t say that’s important.”
“All right. Tell me what he didn’t say.”
Traveler thought that over for a moment. “I have the feeling Willis has been ahead of me all the way. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew about Martha Varney’s death before I did.”
“That means John Varney could have known, too.”
Traveler closed his eyes to recall his conversation with the man. “I don’t know. Would a father keep something like that from his daughter?”
“Who can figure Mormons? Or real people either for that matter.”
The lights on the top floor went out.
Traveler stretched his neck muscles, then his legs. But the Jeep wasn’t designed for a man his size. Both thigh muscles cramped. He vaulted out of the car to ease the strain.
His sudden appearance startled the mechanic, who stared wildly before slamming down the Mercedes’ hood and lunging to his truck.
“It’s okay,” Traveler called after the panic-stricken man. But the truck’s engine was already turning over. He accelerated away before Traveler, limping badly, could reach him.
What the hell was going on? Traveler wondered, absently massaging the backs of his thighs. The driver’s face, albeit highlighted in amber, had shown more fear than a gimpy detective should account for.
Still hobbling, Traveler made it back to the Jeep just as Reuben Dixon came out of the building. Traveler ducked. If he opened the door, the overhead light would give him away. But his stealth was for nothing.
“Fuck you, Traveler,” Dixon called as soon as he had the Mercedes’s door open. “You’re not fooling anybody.”
Traveler scrambled into the Jeep, hoping the damned thing could keep up with a Mercedes. One thing in his favor was the roads, still treacherous in spots and best suited for four-wheel-drive vehicles.
He started the engine and switched on the headlights. Their glow enabled him to see Dixon’s crude, one-fingered gesture of defiance, before he got into the Mercedes.
The light blinded Traveler; the explosion deafened him. Shrapnel shattered the Jeep’s windshield. Martin cried out. Or maybe it was Traveler. All in a split second.
The Jeep rocked from the shock wave.
Traveler grabbed hold of his father, feeling for broken bones, blood, anything. Martin, gasping for breath, patted him back.
Somehow they’d come through without a scratch, Traveler saw, because everything was suddenly as bright as day. The Mercedes’s gas tank had ruptured. Burning fuel began racing down the gutter toward the storm drain.
“Go inside,” he told his father. “Mrs. Dixon is in apartment three. Call the fire department and police.”
Without waiting for an answer Traveler jumped from the Jeep and ran to the Mercedes. Luck was with him. There was no fire around the driver’s seat. No door either. Just Reuben Dixon’s mutilated body.
Splinters of glass and steel had been driven into his chest and belly. One hand was gone. Blood was squirting everywhere. Stemming the flow was impossible.
“Help me!” Traveler shouted. “Tell me who did it?”
Dixon’s mangled lips parted. Blood immediately bubbled out of his mouth. But no sound.
“You’re dying.”
Dixon’s tongue slid forward. For a horrifying instant Traveler thought the man was spitting it all the way out of his mouth. Then came the first words. “Tell Penny . . . I’ve fixed it.”
“What?”
“The angel. He’s ready . . .”
“Quick, man.”
Dixon’s final words were like a sigh. “. . . to sound the word of God.”
30
THE BURNING Mercedes attracted the moths of night, a motorcyclist from the 7-Eleven down the street, a customized Chevy riding high on oversize tires, gawkers from the neighboring apartments, disheveled by sleep but as bright-eyed as vampires.
The sound of approaching sirens, running up and down the scale like mechanical coyotes, sent Traveler inside. His father opened the door to apartment three. Behind him stood Mrs. Dixon, her face tight with grief.
“I have to go to Reuben,” she said, making a lunge toward the door.
Traveler blocked her way with his shoulder. Two days ago she’d possessed that fragile beauty some women achieve in middle age. Now she looked as old as Traveler felt.
“Maybe he’s not dead,” she said, clawing at his arm. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
He looked to his father for guidance. Martin only shook his head.
“The police are just arriving,” Traveler told her. “Leave it to them.”
She struck at him, but her fists were ineffectual against his heavy clothing. Her fists opened, became claws aimed at his face.
Martin caught her from behind. She struggled wildly for a moment, then went limp. Martin didn’t let go until she started crying.
“Please let me see him,” she managed to say after a moment. “I have to talk to him. We had a fight this afternoon. I told him I hated him. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want those to be the last words he heard.”
“Words aren’t important,” Martin said softly. “He knows you loved him.”
“Did I?” She looked at Martin in surprise. “Yes. I guess I did.”
“It might help to tell somebody,” Traveler said, trying to pry tactfully.
“. . . About your fight,” Martin said, picking up quickly on his son’s intentions.
She looked stunned, staring at first one man and then the other.
“The police will be here soon,” Traveler said. “After that, nothing you say can be confidential.” He winced at the implication of his words. He was deliberately misleading her, offering her the sanctity of the confessional without any guarantee of privacy.
Sounds from outside intruded: another siren, a distant dog howling accompaniment, the screech of metal against concrete.
Mrs. Dixon backed away from the men until she found herself against the sofa. She collapsed into it, sagging against the cushions. Her head tilted back until she was staring at the ceiling.
Traveler was about to speak again when she suddenly struggled to her feet and exchanged the sofa for her rocking chair. Once seated again, she looked down at her lap. “The last day or so my husband acted crazy. One minute we were talking here in my apartment, the next he dragged me up to the roof. „I want you to take one last look,’ he said and pointed me toward the temple. It was snowing. You could just see the Angel Moroni. „I’m bringing him down,’ Reuben shouted. „Who?’ I said. „God?’ „Him, too,’ he answered. „He and that angel of His.�
� ”
She paused, gasping for breath, her head angled toward the wall to avoid their eyes. “I struggled but he wouldn’t let go of me. „Oh, no, you don’t,’ he said. „You have to hear this. I want you to know who’s responsible. I came up with the idea, not that dentist. He thinks he’s going to use it. But I’m the brains.’ ”
Mrs. Dixon’s head snapped around to face Traveler. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “I still love him. That’s my sin.”
“What do you know about Jake Ruland?” Traveler asked.
“That man procured women for my husband, I’m sure of it. He’s evil. I feel it every time he’s near me. He turned my husband against the church. It wasn’t Reuben talking when he said he’d bring down God. It was that man Ruland.”
“What did your husband mean?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He wouldn’t listen to me either when I begged him to reaffirm his faith.” Sobs wracked her body until she was bending at the waist in an effort to catch her breath.
Lieutenant Anson Horne arrived on the scene before she had time to recover. He took one look at Traveler and his father and had them escorted outside.
Floodlights illuminated the front of the apartment building, giving it the look of an overexposed snapshot. Investigators and gawkers had trampled the entire area into a quagmire.
Their escort, two uniformed officers, marched them all the way to the Jeep.
“Is there anything keeping us from going home?” Traveler asked as he opened the door.
“The lieutenant has your car keys,” one of the cops said.
“Perfect,” Martin said and began scraping the soles of his galoshes against what passed for a running board.
The sight of his father at work started Traveler thinking. More adrenaline kicked in, stimulating his memory. He recalled his first trip to the Varney house, in particular the kitchen. There, atop newspapers spread over the tile floor, stood Pearl Varney’s galoshes. They were muddy, too. Only not with plain old Salt Lake sludge, but the blood-colored soil of southern Utah.
31
TRAVELER AND his father were questioned twice by Lieutenant Horne and once by an assistant from the District Attorney’s office before being sent home. Neither interrogator seemed satisfied with Traveler’s explanation as to how he and Martin happened to be in the right place to witness a murder.
