by R. R. Irvine
“It will be hot enough when you arrive in hell,” Traveler said.
“That’s not funny.”
“Jake Ruland’s not laughing either.”
“I didn’t come here to argue.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me inside?”
“It smells like cigar smoke in there.”
“Come on,” Traveler said, leading the way.
The elevator operator, Nephi Bates, gave Tanner a knowing look before taking them to the top. Traveler’s office was hot and stuffy, the result of air rising from the floors below. Yet Tanner didn’t remove his coat. It was his way of saying that he wasn’t planning to stay long.
“We’ve got a problem,” Traveler said as soon as he closed the door. “Reuben Dixon was sharper than any of us thought. He had something worth killing for, so he took out his own nasty kind of insurance.”
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” Tanner said.
“Don’t take it personally,” Martin put in. “I don’t know what’s going on either.”
“He had a document,” Traveler continued, “supposedly in Brigham Young’s handwriting—”
“Wait a minute,” Tanner broke in. “Have you seen this so-called document yourself?”
“I’m just reporting what I heard.”
Tanner sat heavily on the edge of the desk. His sigh sounded suspiciously like one of relief. “Keep going.”
“It’s supposed to prove that Brigham Young was behind the killing of Joseph Smith.”
Tanner smiled, looking definitely relieved. “That’s old news. I’ve heard that story a hundred times.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet, Willis. Dixon hid the damned thing in the temple.”
“What?” Tanner launched himself from the desktop.
“I don’t know if it’s a forgery or not. But finding it in the temple would be one way of giving it provenance.”
“Shit!”
“There’s more. I may not be the only one who knows where it is.”
Tanner leaned forward. “All right, Mo. How much do you want?”
Traveler grabbed the front of Tanner’s overcoat and slammed him against the desk. “You son of a bitch. You have the gall to say that to me. He shook Tanner until his head flopped back and forth. “A man’s dead because of you.”
Without warning Traveler released him and stepped back. “Go ahead, take a poke at me, Willis. Give me an excuse to defend myself.”
Tanner blinked repeatedly. His lips trembled. But there was no sign of fear, only anguish. “Don’t you think I know what I’ve done?” He looked down at his hands as if expecting to see blood.
“Then why didn’t you call the police?”
“I do God’s work.”
Traveler glared.
“Please, Mo. I’ve got to know where that document is. I’m begging you.”
“All right. Take me with you. I’d like to be there when you find it.”
“In the temple?”
Traveler nodded.
“You’re a gentile, for God’s sake. I can’t let you on sacred ground. I . . .” He paused, his squint more distorted than ever. “Mo, you’re my friend but . . .”
Tanner’s beeper went off before Traveler had time to finish his thought.
“That has to be Elton Woolley,” he said, snatching up the phone and dialing quickly. Almost immediately he said, “It’s me, sir. Will Tanner.”
Martin made a face, somewhere between awe and anger.
“My God,” Tanner said. “I’ll be right there.”
When he hung up and turned to face Traveler again, tears were in his eyes. “It’s too late. Someone’s beaten us to it. They broke into the temple. Two guards have been killed.” He cast a look over his shoulder. The spires of the temple were framed in the office window behind him. “I have to go.”
“The document’s up there on top,” Traveler said, stepping to the glass and pointing. “In Moroni’s trumpet.”
Tanner gripped Traveler’s hand before rushing out.
37
SIDE BY side, Traveler and his father stood at the window, staring at the temple. A shaft of sunlight slipped through an opening in the clouds and moved like a searchlight across the spires until it reached the Angel Moroni.
Traveler blinked. He rubbed his eyes. But the shadow at the base of Moroni’s tower didn’t go away. It moved in fact.
He retrieved the telescopic sight from among the pieces of his disassembled M1 rifle and took aim on the angel’s tower.
“By God,” he murmured, handing the scope to his father. “Look at that.”
“Who is it?”
“Jake Ruland’s disciple. His name’s Lehi.”
“That doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot.”
Traveler took back the scope and studied the spire again. Judging by Lehi’s rate of progress, he still had a minute or so to go before he reached the angel. At the moment he was attempting to lasso it.
“He probably doesn’t know there’s a way up into Moroni from the inside,” Traveler said.
“How do you know?”
“There’s no other explanation if the document’s really there. Reuben Dixon was no mountain climber. If Lehi gets hold of it now, he’s got a hostage. The church will have to let him walk away free and clear.”
“That’s not your problem.”
But it is, Traveler thought, as his memory replayed Lehi’s threat. I could kill your father with one hand if I wanted to.
Traveler began assembling the rifle.
“God help us,” Martin said, then began a running commentary of Lehi’s progress. “He’s just about there, maybe an arm’s length from Moroni’s feet.”
The barrel slipped into its well-worn wooden stock.
“He’s attaching something to the angel. It looks like a safety harness.”
The trigger housing snapped into place.
“No. It’s a rig to hold something else.”
The scope locked into position.
“He’s got an acetylene torch.”
Traveler fed in the ammunition clip.
He hardly felt the recoil at all.
38
THE DAY Lehi slipped from the front page of the Deseret News the weather changed drastically, like it sometimes does in April, winter into summer without transition. A shirt-sleeve crowd walked the sidewalks in front of the temple. Every few minutes a tour bus pulled up, adding to the throng. Invariably, all new arrivals craned their heads toward Moroni’s tower before moving through the gates and onto the temple grounds.
In the midst of it all, Mad Bill strolled along in one of his light summer robes, parting rubberneckers as he went. He wore a new sandwich board: MORONI LIVES.
Traveler waved from his open window. But Bill, intent on his mission, didn’t look up.
Traveler took a deep breath. The smell of sycamore leaves, their fragrance set free by the recent crush of snow, promised rebirth.
His father was seated at the desk, making out a bill to send to Penny Varney.
When Traveler saw the total he said, “We’ll take it out of the advance Willis gave me.”
“Oh, no. That’s church money. It goes back.”
“You can give it back to Willis yourself. He’s due here any minute.”
“I’m leaving, then,” Martin answered, pushing back from the desk and stepping to the door. But when he opened it Penny was already standing there, with Willis Tanner right behind her.
Penny rushed inside to hug Traveler. “We’re on our way to the temple,” she said excitedly. “But we had to stop by and thank you first.” She glanced over her shoulder at Tanner. Her possessive smile was that of an admiring disciple.
“Actually,” Willis said, “the prophet sent us. He wants to apologize for not being able to thank you in person.”
“Your people kept my name out of it. That’s thanks enough.”
“There is something you can do,” Martin said.
“Name it,�
� Tanner said.
“What did you find in Moroni’s trumpet?”
Smiling broadly, Tanner looked from father to son. “You didn’t really expect us to find anything, did you?”
Penny broke the silence that followed. “I have something for you, Mr. Traveler.” She dug into her purse and brought out an envelope.
Traveler shook his head. “If that’s money, you’re going to need it for lawyers.”
“Oh, no. There isn’t going to be any trial. Isn’t that right, Will?”
Tanner took hold of her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “From now on John Varney is in the hands of psychiatrists.”
“God help him, then,” Martin said, taking charge of the envelope. To Tanner he added, “You have a refund coming.”
Tanner shook his head. “There’s more to come. A bonus. It was the least the prophet could do to show his gratitude.”
“We won’t spend it,” Martin said.
“That’s up to you. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re due at the temple.”
Penny grabbed Traveler and embraced him again. “Will has arranged everything. We’re baptizing my mother.”
Traveler was still trying to think of something to say when they left. Behind him the phone rang. His father answered, “Moroni Traveler and Son.”
Traveler shook his head. He didn’t feel like talking.
“Yes, he’s here,” Martin said, handing him the phone.
Traveler grimaced.
“It’s me,” Claire said. “I’m still lost.”
THE END
