by R. R. Irvine
Ellsworth released his grip. “I’ve found it best never to believe rumors, though at times they get the better of us, don’t they. I plead guilty myself. I gave credence to foolish rumors, I sent you and your father into the desert on a wild goose chase.” He shook his head. “Miracles. A messiah risen from the dead. I should have known better.”
“They probably said the same thing in Judea two thousand years ago,” Martin said.
Ellsworth grimaced. “We’d better have you seen to by the doctor. Where did you say that man Porter hit you, Brother Martin?”
“The shoulder, not the head.”
“Judging by your son’s condition, he wasn’t so lucky.”
“A glancing blow only,” Traveler assured him.
“It’s hard to say what can happen in the heat of battle,” Ellsworth said. “You may be more seriously hurt than you think. Both of you may have concussions.” He turned to one of the Tongans, snapped his fingers, and was immediately handed a palm-size two-way radio.
“This is Ellsworth,” the apostle said into the radio.
“Standing by,” came the reply.
“Everything is as reported. The woman and boy are safe.”
Down the road, the men in camouflage suits began loading into the helicopters. Simultaneously, the engines coughed to life and the rotors swung into action.
“What the hell are you doing?” Traveler demanded, his tone of voice triggering the Tongans, who instantly thrust themselves between him and Ellsworth.
Ellsworth smiled. “My daughter tells me there’s no proof against these people. They call themselves Moroni’s Children, a blasphemy in itself, and think they can get away with murder.”
“We don’t know who killed whom.”
“At the least, you suspect them of killing a man named Shipler,” Ellsworth replied. “Liz told me so. She said you were frustrated because you had nothing concrete.”
The helicopters took off, one after the other, hovering momentarily over the playing field before heading south.
“Is that what you’re after?” Martin said, pointing at the choppers. “Proof?”
“Think of it this way. Those cults are all guilty of something. They kill one another all the time, so innocence isn’t really the point.”
“What are their orders?” Traveler asked.
“Whose?”
“Your Danites.”
Ellsworth looked south. The helicopters were distant dots in the sky. “I don’t see anything, Mr. Traveler. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
He spoke into the radio again and within moments, a silver limousine appeared in front of the medical center. Ellsworth opened the door himself, then hesitated. “My Tongan associates will escort you inside for treatment. Otherwise, you might be mistaken for Gentiles.”
As soon as Traveler’s forehead had been stitched and Martin’s shoulder X-rayed, they were escorted to a top-floor suite. The doctor who opened the door was the same man who’d been talking to Ellsworth on the steps earlier. He nodded to the Tongans to stay where they were, then motioned Traveler and Martin inside.
“Thank you for coming,” Liz Smoot said weakly from the bed where she lay propped against a stack of pillows. A plastic bag filled with an intravenous solution hung from a rack beside her, its clear solution dripping regularly into her wrist. Yet she looked so shrunken Traveler had the impression that the IV was window dressing only, that it was actually sucking away her vitality.
She tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength, though she’d seemed well enough on the drive up from Fire Creek.
The doctor cranked up the head of her bed, which looked to be standard hospital issue. Everything else—sofas, chairs, the oriental rug, the paintings on the walls—had the opulence of an apostle’s anteroom.
“You can’t stay long,” the doctor said to Traveler and Martin. “You shouldn’t be here at all. Apostle Ellsworth was very clear about that.”
“We’ve been all through that, Doctor,” Liz said. “Otherwise, I press charges against the hospital for what you’ve done to me. Now, before you leave us alone, tell these gentlemen what you told my father.”
The doctor looked at the door longingly. “Your son is fine, if that’s what you mean. There’s no sign of Hodgkin’s disease.”
“You told my father it was a miracle,” she prompted. “Miracle was your word.”
“Cases of spontaneous remission are not unknown,” he said.
Liz wet her lips. “How often does that happen?”
“One in ten thousand, maybe less.”
“You see,” she said, nodding at Traveler and his father, “Jason Thurgood was the real thing. He cured my son.”
“The original diagnosis could have been wrong,” the doctor said.
Tears started down her cheeks. “It was made right here at this clinic. You know what I’m saying is the truth, that we’re witnesses to a miracle. Now leave us alone.”
“Your records show that you were admitted suffering from dehydration and extreme exhaustion,” the man said before fleeing the room.
“They took my baby,” she said once the door closed behind him. “I didn’t know what they were doing. They gave me a shot and after that I just didn’t have the strength to fight back. It was my father’s doing. He told me that I was imagining things, that I wasn’t really pregnant. That’s why I asked to see you.”
She held up her right arm, the one with the IV needle stuck into it. “God knows what’s in here, so I’d better have my say quickly. They’re all afraid, you know. They don’t dare admit that the messiah has come again, and that once again we’ve murdered him. We’re all of us murderers, my father included.”
“Jason Thurgood wasn’t what he seemed,” Traveler said softly. “We’ve checked on him and—”
She cut him off. “We all have old sins. Jason confessed his to us.”
“You heard his confession?”
“All of Moroni’s Children did. We called a meeting and Jason got down on his knees. He told us he’d come among us to do penance. ‘Called to do God’s work,’ Brother Snelgrove said, and we all agreed with him. We forgave Jason his sins as Christ would have forgiven ours.”
“What sins?” Martin asked.
“For betraying his patients.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“Snelgrove’s involved, I know that after what happened yesterday. At Earl’s house, when they didn’t think I could hear. I was in the bedroom as always, waiting for Orrin to . . . to perform his husbandly duties. But I had to go to the bathroom. While I was there, they moved into the kitchen and I could hear their voices through the heating vent. ‘Someone saved us a murder,’ Snelgrove said. ‘Otherwise, we would have had to kill him ourselves. You can’t get anywhere in this business without a martyr.’ ”
“Does Snelgrove know who killed him?” Traveler held his breath, dreading the answer.
Sobs overwhelmed her. Martin sat beside her, feeding her fresh tissues.
“I’m as guilty as they are,” she managed to say after a while. She clasped her belly through the thin hospital blanket. “God is punishing me already.”
“Do you know who killed Jason?” Martin said.
She shook her head. “I know about Norm Shipler, though. Orrin bragged to me about it. It was the one time he didn’t get someone else to do the dirty work for him.” She shuddered. “We were in bed when he started laughing about it. ‘I fucked the whole family, one way or another,’ he said, ‘just like I’m fucking you.’ ”
“Did you tell your father that?” Martin asked sharply.
“Yes, God help me.”
40
A HUNDRED and ten degrees in downtown Salt Lake, an August record according to the radio, had South Temple Street’s asphalt bubbling like black lava. In the Chester Building, the rising heat carried with it a stink of hot tar, as if roofers were at work overhead.
Traveler leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk, a
nd stared at the ceiling as if expecting to see hot pitch leaking through the seams. Across from him, Martin had assumed a similar position, only his eyes were closed and he was pretending to snore.
“We can’t prove a damn thing,” Traveler said. “Against anybody.”
Martin snored louder.
“The miracle’s to blame,” Traveler said, trying without success to convince himself that some kind of justice had been done. “When word got to Ellsworth that the boy was cured, Jason Thurgood was as good as dead. Ruth took a picture of him at work and that was it. He was recognized for what he was.”
The phone rang.
“Your turn,” Martin said. “I’m asleep.”
Traveler hit the speaker phone. “Moroni Traveler and Son.”
A woman said, “I have a collect call from Ottinger in Pioche, Nevada. Will you accept?”
Martin shook his head. Traveler said, “I’ll accept the charges.”
“This is Janet Ottinger, remember me?”
“Of course.”
“You were looking for my husband, soon to be my ex.”
Traveler eyed his father, who’d opened his eyes to a squint.
“We never did find him,” Traveler said, figuring no one ever would now, without sifting through the ashes of Coffee Pot Springs.
“Well, I did. The bastard showed up last night, expecting me to take him back after a month-long drunk somewhere. ‘No way,’ I told him, but Jack wouldn’t leave. He’s passed out right in the middle of my living room rug, which I just had cleaned. So if you want him, come and get him. Take him away. Lock him up. Otherwise, I’m having the bastard arrested myself.”
Martin came out of his chair to get closer to the speaker. “Did he say where he’d been?”
“He made up some cockamamie story. His job made him do it, he said. Getting drunk was the only way he could forget for a while what he’d done at that clinic of his. ‘Bull to that,’ I told him. ‘You’ve been playing scientist for years and it never bothered you before. My guess is you’ve been off with some woman. Well, two can play that game, because as of next week the divorce will be final.’ ”
Martin muffled the speaker. “If Ottinger’s alive, who the hell was Jason Thurgood?”
“Jack,” she yelled, “someone wants to talk to you on the phone.”
Traveler heard a groan in the background.
“It’s long distance, for Christ’s sake,” she said. “A couple of detectives in Salt Lake, so get your butt over here without throwing up again.”
“This is Jack Ottinger,” a man said tentatively.
“My name’s Moroni Traveler.”
“We work for the Mormon Church,” Martin added for leverage. “We were hired to find one of your patients, Petey Biscari.”
“Tell me he’s alive,” Ottinger said.
Traveler said, “We found his body buried on the Indian reservation. The Indians say he didn’t die from exposure. They say his hair fell out and he had vomiting and diarrhea.”
“Christ.”
“We represent his father,” Martin said.
“You said you represented the church.”
“Both.”
Ottinger groaned again. “I can’t comment on my patients.”
“We can make your life hell,” Traveler said.
“You bastards are FBI, aren’t you? This is some kind of setup to test my loyalty.”
“For Christ’s sake, Jack,” his wife said in the background. “You’re getting paranoid again.”
“What made the boy run away?” Martin asked.
When Ottinger didn’t answer, Traveler said, “All right then, what made you run away?”
“I took a sabbatical.”
Raising an eyebrow at Martin, Traveler said, “Just like Jason Thurgood?”
“Not at all. Thurgood . . . I knew it. This is some kind of counterintelligence security check, isn’t it? Well, I know enough not to talk on the phone.”
“Are you saying Thurgood worked for the clinic?”
“Without a lawyer, I’m saying nothing at all,” Ottinger replied and hung up.
A minute later Mrs. Ottinger called again, this time on her own money. “Thank you, Mr. Traveler. I didn’t have to bother throwing him out. Whatever you said to him sent him charging out of here like wolves were after him.”
“The name Thurgood came up,” Traveler said. “Does that mean anything to you.”
“It sounds familiar.”
“Dr. Jason Thurgood,” he clarified.
“Mostly Jack talked about his patients. From the look on his face when he took off, I figured Thurgood was another one he must have lost. Are you coming after him?”
“We’ll leave him to you.”
“Sometimes I think lesbians have the right idea,” she said and slammed down the receiver.
Martin shook his head. “If Thurgood worked for the government, we’ll never know who he was.”
“Do you think he cured Liz Smoot’s boy?”
“You heard the doctor at BYU. With Hodgkin’s disease, the odds for a spontaneous cure are ten thousand to one. That says to me the odds are in Thurgood’s favor.”
“I liked him,” Traveler said.
Martin nodded. “He was haunted by demons, that’s for sure. They drove him all the way to Fire Creek.”
“From the clinic?”
“With Ottinger alive, it doesn’t matter really. He’s to blame for Petey. You know it and so do I. The only trouble is, old Petain didn’t know it when he shot Thurgood.”
Traveler’s jaw dropped.
“For God’s sake,” Martin said. “I’m not senile yet and I’m not blind. Petain’s footprints were all over the place, along with paw-prints from that dog of his.”
“I thought I erased them.”
“Except for the ones you missed.” Martin snorted. “Those, I rubbed out myself.”
“I should have known better.”
“You were keeping quiet for my benefit, I know that. What a man doesn’t know, his conscience can’t chew on. But now that the damage is done, we have to figure out what we’re going to do about Petain.”
“We have no actual proof against anyone,” Traveler said.
“He’s a good man, you know. If we tell him the truth, that he killed the wrong man, my guess is he’ll give himself up to the police.”
“Is that what you want?” Traveler said.
“Ellsworth hired us to find a messiah and rescue his daughter and grandson. As far as I’m concerned, we were successful all around. If one day, old Petain learns the truth, what happens then is up to him, not us. Do you agree?”
Traveler turned to the window, leaned his forehead against the hot glass, and stared at the temple across the street. Rising heat waves made it look like a mirage. “We should have known better than to go into cult country. It’s downwind from hell.”
41
BARNEY CHESTER had installed a litter box and wicker basket behind the cigar stand in the Chester Building’s lobby, though Brigham had yet to visit anything but Bill’s lap.
“The ancient Egyptians had a cat god,” Bill said, “so why can’t I have a cat for an apostle?”
“Charlie will come back,” Chester said.
“You weren’t there, at the reservation, when he said goodbye.” Bill shook his head. “No, my Church of the True Prophet is finished. No offence, Brigham”—he stroked the cat’s ears—“but you can’t have a church without human followers.”
“You have us,” Traveler said, speaking for himself and Martin.
Bill stared at them as if assessing the offer. “I’d need to baptize you.”
Chester groaned.
“After that,” Bill continued, warming to the idea, “we can take turns raising lost souls the way Charlie and I had planned.
“What do you say, Barney, can we fill the font?”
The baptismal in question, an inflatable plastic wading pool, was serving as a protective ground sheet for Brigham’ s litter
box.
“Tell us about Charlie,” Chester said, in an obvious attempt to divert Bill. “Mo and Martin haven’t heard the details yet.”
Bill lowered his head, concentrating on Brigham’s ears for a while. When he finally looked up, his eyes were filled with tears. “We were at the reservation raising souls, filling paradise with new followers, when suddenly, Charlie raises his hands to heaven and says, ‘I must do more than this. I must help my people. The time has come for my great pilgrimage.’ ”
Bill’s rising voice caused Brigham to arch her back. “ ‘I will accompany you,’ I told him. But no. Charlie said it was a journey he must make alone. I kept pace with him for miles, hoping he’d change his mind, until finally he told me he was walking all the way across the state. Two hundred miles, he said, all the way to the Navajo reservation. There, he told me, I would be the heathen. So I gave Charlie half our money, enough for him to take the bus.”
“And did he?” Chester asked.
“I don’t know. Mine came first. I’ve been praying for him ever since, alone in that desert.”
“Charlie’s a survivor,” Traveler said.
“We’d better baptize him first anyway.” Bill began tugging at the flattened plastic pool. “We’ll take turns blowing it up.”
Chester looked to Traveler and Martin for help. They were saved by the arrival of the Chester Building’s elevator operator, Nephi Bates, who was waving the afternoon edition of the Deseret News.
“God’s will be done.” Bates slapped the paper down on the countertop hard enough to send Brigham skittering across the lobby’s marble floor.
A front-page story, bylined Ruth Holcomb, told of a raid into southern Utah.
Sheriff’s helicopters swooped down on the desert town of Fire Creek late yesterday seeking the killers of a young boy whose body was discovered in an unmarked grave during a lengthy undercover investigation.
“The boy was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Don Miller, a spokesman for the Washington County Sheriff’s Department. “He got caught in the middle between warring factions of an extremist religious cult calling itself Moroni’s Children.”
The victim, Petain Biscari, Jr., 16, had apparently wandered into the area accidentally, his father said when reached by phone.
