Blood Oath, Blood River (The Downwinders Book 1)

by Michael Richan

  “Then what?” Winn said.

  “Like I said, rumors,” Claude said. “Some think they were behind the Mountain Meadows Massacre. Some think they secretly fight against the fundamentalist polygamists. I once heard that they keep alive the folk magic traditions of Joseph Smith. Who knows? It might all be bullpucky. They might be up to something else altogether.”

  “If they have my father’s journals,” Deem said, “then they must have other people’s journals, too. They must keep them somewhere.”

  “That they do,” Claude said. “And your next question is, ‘where’? Right?”

  “Well?” Deem asked.

  “No idea,” Claude said. “That’s another of their most tightly guarded secrets.”

  “If they’re a council,” Deem said, “then they must meet. Sometime.”

  “Yes,” Claude said. “They do, occasionally.”

  “We could follow one of them,” Deem said. “Dayton. See where he goes.”

  “If you could pull it off,” Claude said, “that would give you the ‘where,’ but you’d have to monitor him continually to know the ‘when.’ That’s going to get tiring.”

  “It’s a start, at least,” Deem said. “If we can find their meeting place, that might be where the journals are kept.”

  “You’ll need to be smart about this,” Claude said. “They’re high-up in the church, which means they’re shrewd. And they’re gifted, which means they can employ some intimidating defenses against people like you. You need to be careful.”

  “I’m not afraid of them,” Deem said. “Besides, what’s the worst they could do, if they found me out?”

  “Well,” Claude said, “Danites used to cut their victim’s throats from ear to ear.”

  “Brother Dayton wouldn’t do that,” Deem said. “I’ve known him since I was a little kid.”

  “What you don’t know,” Claude said, “is what oaths he’s taken to protect their council. He’ll treat those oaths seriously. You need to tread lightly.”

  “Any ideas on the ‘when’?” Deem asked.

  “It’ll be something routine,” Claude said, “so they don’t have to communicate with each other about it between meetings. But what that routine is, I have no idea.”

  Deem thought about this. She remembered seeing something recently that fit in with what Claude was saying, but she couldn’t remember what. Then, it came to her: she’d seen an old day planner when she was going through boxes two days ago.

  “My father’s schedule book,” Deem said. “I saw it. It might have something.”

  “Maybe,” Claude said. “It won’t be obvious.”

  “I’ll hunt through it,” Deem said. “Anything else you can tell me about the secret council?”

  “Just that I think you need to be a lot more cautious than I currently sense you to be,” Claude said. “I get the feeling you think you can barrel into this and be successful. One of the council’s goals will most certainly be to protect itself, and you’re threatening that.”

  “If my father’s journals are there,” Deem said, “I’m going to get them. You can be sure of that.”

  “I admire your determination,” Claude said. “But listen to me. I’ve been at this for a long time. I’ve seen some horrific things from people who claim to be upright Christians. The people who kick against the pricks are targeted. I’ve seen them get their throats slit, left as a warning for others – or they disappear, buried somewhere out in the desert never to be found. And if you’re too high profile to just kill outright, they get to you in other ways. Destroy your job, your reputation, your family. Things that are important to you. I know you said Brother Dayton would never do anything like this, but I’m telling you he would. They’re ruthless and effective, and you’ll never be able to prove they did it. And if you try, you’ll be considered crazy. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

  “Yes,” Deem said. “I do.”

  “I want to show you something,” Claude said. “Wait here.”

  Claude rose from his chair and walked into another room. He returned with a manila folder, which he handed to Deem. She opened it, then quickly closed it.

  “Look at it,” Claude said.

  “I saw it,” Deem said, handing the folder back.

  “No, you didn’t,” Claude said. “There’s some details I want you to notice.”

  “It’s disgusting,” Deem said. “If you’re trying to gross me out to scare me, consider me grossed out.”

  “Deem,” Claude said softly, “it’s a picture of my father.”

  Deem dropped her head, embarrassed. “I’m, sorry,” she said. She reopened the folder.

  It contained a single 8x10 black and white photo. It was a picture of a barbed wire fence in a pasture. A man had been tied to the fence with wire at his feet, waist, and neck, his hands bound behind his body. His throat had been cut, and the blood had run down his chest, making the shirt he wore dark. The body had been left for some time before the picture was taken, and birds had removed the eyes.

  “Found April 6, 1957, about a mile outside of Silver Reef,” Claude said. “Back then, Silver Reef truly was a ghost town. No new houses, like now. Just old, abandoned buildings from the mining days. So they didn’t discover the body for a while after he’d been murdered.”

  “I’m sorry,” Deem said again. “How old were you?”

  “Twelve,” Claude said. “Do you want to know why this happened to him?”

  “Why?” Deem asked.

  “Because he told me he was on a secret council,” Claude said, “and I told my friend Gale Stucki. My father had sworn me to secrecy, but I just couldn’t keep it to myself. Gale told others, word got around, and this is what they did to him, as payback for violating his oath.”

  “So he really was on a secret council, like my father?” Deem asked.

  “I believe so,” Claude said. “And I believe his gift was inherited by my brother, Duane, who is now dead. The moment my father’s death was discovered, the church stepped in and helped my mother keep things going. At the time I was so grateful for that. Later I learned how things really worked, and I realized that many of those same people who were offering help were the ones who had killed him. I guess that’s why I do what I do. All of this,” he said, waving his arms around him.

  “Did you ever find his killers?” Deem asked. “Bring them to justice?”

  “No,” Claude said. “Which is why I’m telling you this. I would love to see these secret councils brought down. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But I’ve shown you this,” he nodded to the folder Deem was holding, now closed, “because you need to know what you’re dealing with. I’ve been fighting the good fight for fifty years now, but I’ve never located anything that would implicate anyone in my father’s death, and that’s because they’re careful and ruthless. You’ll have to be more careful and ruthless if you want to interact with them and stay alive.”

  “Have you talked about the councils on your radio program?” Deem asked.

  “Never,” Claude said. “I talk about all kinds of other things, but I’ve never brought up the councils. Hits too close to home.”

  “I understand why you have the dog,” Deem said. “You must have lived in fear for your life, doing what you’re doing.”

  “I used to,” Claude said. “I got alarm systems, cameras, you name it. Kimo, of course. And a ton of guns. But once they succeeded in marginalizing me, making me look crazy, I think they decided I was better off alive. They use me as an example. ‘If you think the way Crazy Claude thinks, you’re crazy too.’ Works well for them. I can say most anything I want to say, and they just write it off.”

  “Well, we believe you,” Winn said. “My mom used to listen to you. She had tapes.”

  “Oh yes, tapes!” Claude said. “People used to record my show and give tapes to their friends. I think more people have heard me on tape than have ever heard me on shortwave.”

  “I have a friend,” Winn said, “w
ho could help you get your program on the internet, if you’re having trouble with that. You’d have a podcast going in no time.”

  “Really?” Claude asked. “Well, that’s nice of you to offer. Would he do it for free? I don’t have any money for that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe,” Winn said. “I’ll talk to him. I think once he finds out what your show is about, he’ll want to do it.”

  “Send him here,” Claude said, “and make sure he mentions you, so I don’t shoot him on the doorstep.” He smiled.

  “Thanks for your time,” Deem said, handing the folder back to Claude. “And for being so open.”

  “Do you promise me you’ll be careful?” he asked Deem, taking the folder.

  “I do,” she said. “Your point has hit home.”

  “Good,” Claude said. “I don’t want to have a picture like this of you in my files.”

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  Winn stopped at a 7-11 on Bluff Street in St. George so Deem could get another Big Gulp, then he drove her back to Mesquite, dropping her off at her house. Deem said she’d be at Winn’s place by seven a.m. the next morning for their drive to Indian Springs to meet Awan.

  Deem walked inside the house and sat down on the large white couch in the living room, sipping her Big Gulp. Claude had shared a lot with her, and she felt the need to sort it all out. I’ve got to find that day planner, she thought, looking around the room absently. I know I saw it.

  She saw a piece of duct tape that was still sticking to the fireplace bricks from the makeshift cover she removed earlier that morning. She rose from the couch and removed the tape. She looked up, and saw the family picture that had hung over the fireplace for the past several years. Her father and mother were in the back of the picture, with her brothers in front of them, and Deem sitting alone in front of the brothers. She was fifteen in the picture, and had braces. This was the last family portrait before Dad died, she thought. He looks so tall and handsome. And he always had a wise face, like he knew how to solve any problem. That’s why so many people trusted him. That’s why he became Stake President.

  She looked closely at her father in the picture, his torso rising behind his sons, his right arm wrapped around Deem’s mother.

  And you had secrets, too, didn’t you, Dad? Secrets you couldn’t tell me. You trained me. None of my brothers inherited your gift, just me. Did you want to tell me about the council, but couldn’t because I was a girl? Was I not old enough to know? Did you know about Claude’s father? Does the council keep a history?

  She studied the lines in his face, his hair, his eyes. He’d always seemed so open to her, ready to share anything she asked. Why keep this from me? she wondered. You always answered every question I had. You never held back. Why this? Why did you hide this side of you from me? Did you take an oath? Did you have a hand in killing people to keep your council secret? Her father’s face stared back at her, silent. Silent as the grave.

  She turned from the photo, wiping a tear from her cheek, fearing the answers that were dawning to her questions. I’m going to find that goddamn day planner.

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  Deem spread out the materials she’d found, covering her bed. She locked the door to her room so her mother wouldn’t barge in unannounced and discover what she was doing. She sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by papers and books.

  She found three day planners along with a variety of other documents that intrigued her. Before, when she’d been hunting through boxes for her father’s journals, she’d just been looking for bound books, the kind that looked like the blank journals you could buy at the store and start writing in. This time she’d been more meticulous, going through her father’s papers and pulling out anything of interest. Most of what she’d collected didn’t relate to what she was really looking for, but she wanted to go through it anyway, because it caught her eye. Most of it just helped her understand her father better. And some of it did no more than help her remember him, and that was a sufficient reason to pull it.

  She opened the first day planner, for 2009. She scanned through it, looking for repeating patterns. There was nothing that stood out. Most of the appointments in the planner were for evening and weekend meetings, and most were typical Stake President tasks, like setting apart missionaries and high council meetings.

  She moved to the 2010 and 2011 planners, flipping through the pages. She stopped when she reached July of 2011, when the appointments in the pages began to thin out abruptly, and their nature changed from church meetings to doctor and hospital appointments. By October the planner was virtually empty. There was nothing after Halloween. Her father had died on November 29th.

  She turned the page and stared at December, two pages completely blank. She looked at Christmas, sitting on the page with no hint of how awful it had been. The worst Christmas of my life, she thought. She ran her finger over the day in the planner, wanting to rip it out. She noticed a small dot under the date, as though her father had lightly touched a ball point pen in that spot. It was a Sunday, the last Sunday in December.

  She turned a page back. The last Sunday in November had a similar dot under the number. It was tiny, just a speck. If you weren’t looking for it, you might think it was an error in the printing.

  She turned back to October. The last Sunday had a dot under it. She lifted the planner and held the page up to the light. Was it made by a pen? She turned back another page, to September. There was an indent on the back side of October. It was made by a pen, she thought.

  She flipped back to January. Last Sunday of the month, a dot under the number.

  She picked up the 2010 planner and opened it to July. Same marking. She flipped through the rest of the months. For each final Sunday of each month, the same mark appeared.

  She tried the 2009 planner. The marks were consistent.

  This doesn’t prove the secret council met on the last Sunday of each month, she thought, but he did mark these dates. And there’s nothing on the schedule for those evenings, like there are on other Sundays. And he marked all of 2011, probably at the first of the year when he got the day planner, since he knew in advance those would be the meeting dates, even though it wound up that he couldn’t attend the final ones that year. This must be it.

  She checked her phone, pulled up a calendar for the current month. The last Sunday of this month would be the day after tomorrow, the day they were to return from Broken Hills with Awan.

  She checked the 2011 planner in January. Her father’s appointments on the last Sunday of that month ran until six p.m. She checked other days, and found the same thing – no appointments after six.

  We’ll be back from Broken Hills long before six, she thought. And we’ll track Dayton and find out where he goes.

  Chapter Eight

  Deem drove to Winn’s at six a.m. the next morning and left her truck at his trailer in Moapa. Winn drove them both in his Jeep to Indian Springs.

  “We’ve got to make a quick stop in North Vegas to meet Erin,” Deem told Winn as they started off. “Her mom had some alocutis and she’s driving it up from Kingman to meet us this morning.”

  “Oh, I’d love to see Erin again,” Winn said, smiling.

  “Leave her alone,” Deem said.

  “It’s not me,” Winn said. “She’s got a thing for me.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” Deem said. “She’s naïve and doesn’t know what bad news you are.”

  “’Bad news’ is not how most people describe an interaction with me,” Winn said. “They usually come away happy and satisfied.”

  “Ugh. Don’t flirt with her, I mean it.”

  “We’ll see. It’ll have to be a quick stop if we’re going to make Indian Springs on time.”

  “She knows it’ll be quick. I told her we’re on a timetable.”

  “How did looking for your father’s day planners go?”

  Deem related what she’d found to Winn. “I can’t be one hundred percent sure the mark he made on those dates means
a secret council meeting, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “So we’ll need to be back in Mesquite by four or five, at the latest?” Winn asked.

  “Yes,” Deem answered. “If we miss this opportunity, we’ll have to wait a month to track him again.”

  “If you’re right about the dates.”

  “If we watch him and he doesn’t leave the house then I’ll know to start over.”

  “We should be able to make that fine, provided we get the work done today. We’ll want to leave Fallon early tomorrow to be safe.”

  “Have you ever collected ghost matter before?” Deem asked.

  “No, but I watched my mother do it,” Winn replied. “It’s an unpleasant process, as I recall.”

  “I’ve never done it. This’ll be educational for me.”

  They met Erin at a truck stop by the Speedway in North Vegas. Seeing Erin’s car in the parking lot, Deem hopped out of Winn’s Jeep and ran to give Erin a hug, then produced a small box wrapped in shiny green paper.

  “Oh, my favorite color,” Erin said. She was about Deem’s height and slightly heavier, with black hair and a tattoo on the side of her neck.

  “Happy birthday!” Deem said. “Another time I’ll tell you what I went through to get it.”

  “Here’s this,” Erin said, exchanging the alocutis for the wrapped box.

  “Thanks,” Deem said. “I’m on my way to Indian Springs to give it to a guy there. Well, don’t wait, unwrap it before I have to leave!”

  Winn walked up to the two as Erin was unwrapping the box. Erin saw him coming and smiled. “Oh, hi, Winn!” she said.

  “Hello, beautiful,” Winn said, giving her a kiss on her cheek. “I understand it’s your birthday.”

  “Yes,” Erin said, a little embarrassed. “Deem has given me this!” She held up the box for Winn to see, then finished unwrapping it and looked inside.

  “It’s a powder,” Erin said, a little underwhelmed. She looked up at Deem.

  “Iridium,” Deem said.

  Erin mouth dropped. She formed her mouth into a large oval.