by Andrew Hunt
“Aren’t you two suspended?” Myron asked.
“I’ve got a message for the higher-ups,” said Roscoe, raising his middle finger.
“Charming, as always,” said Myron.
“My way of saying thanks for the memories,” said Roscoe, lowering his finger.
“Jared has gone off to Rulon Black’s compound,” I said, flipping through the file on my desk, searching for hints about the compound’s location. “The son of a gun coldcocked me, so I can’t be sure of precisely when he left. I think it was around eight.”
I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nine fifteen.
Myron winced. “Why did he hit you?”
“I wouldn’t get out of his way.”
“Sorry to hear,” said Myron. “But last I checked, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“Let them fire me,” I said. “I need to find out where Rulon’s place is.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Myron.
“See if I can head off Jared,” I said. “Otherwise it’s certain suicide for him.”
“Why not put in a call to the sheriff down there?” asked Myron.
“I telephoned Sheriff Colborne from Roscoe’s apartment,” I said. “He says he’s putting his deputies on alert, but he doesn’t actually know where the compound is, or how to find it.”
“Notify the highway patrol,” said Myron. “They’ll issue an all-points for Jared’s car.”
“Good idea. He’s driving a Nash Ajax belonging to Claudia Jeppson.” I looked at Roscoe. “Will you do the honors?”
“Sure. Got a year and color?”
“Twenty-six,” I said. “Green.”
He got on the phone and rattled the earpiece cradle up and down. While he asked the operator to dial the UHP, Myron slid his chair closer to me.
“Should we go talk to Claudia Jeppson?” asked Myron. “Maybe she knows…”
“The polygs have got her,” I said.
“Ask the mute girl, then,” said Myron. “Possibly she can write it out.”
“She’s missing,” I said. “A lot has happened since last night that you don’t know about. I’m still trying to figure it all out. My head is spinning.”
“Sounds like there isn’t anything you can do,” said Myron. “I can tell you right now there’s nothing in that file that’s going to help you.”
Despite Myron’s advice, I flipped my way through thin carbon sheets and news clippings that told me nothing about the location of Rulon Black’s compound. I was wasting my time. I closed the file, slid it aside, and buried my face in my hands.
Roscoe lowered the telephone earpiece into the cradle. “That’s done. They’re going to broadcast a bulletin on Claudia’s Nash. Hopefully they’ll spot it.”
The telephone on my desk rang. I lowered my hands. I almost answered it. Then I remembered my suspension. I looked at Myron. He nodded and came over to my desk.
He lifted the receiver to his ear the and transmitter to his mouth. “Anti-Polygamy Squad, Detective Adler here.” He listened for several seconds. “Uh-huh.” He went silent again. “Uh-huh. Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
He placed the receiver in the cradle and set the telephone on the desk. Gazing at me from behind those thick glasses, he hesitated to tell me what he’d just heard.
“That was Wit,” he said. “Orville Babcock is dead.”
The announcement hit me hard. I instantly felt drained and defeated. I even broke out in a cold sweat. What more could happen? I thought about what Jared said about how the justice system couldn’t stop the polygamists. Their reign of terror was all happening out of view of the police.
“The last time he was seen alive was in a telephone booth at an all-night diner up in Ogden early this morning,” said Myron. “The waitress told police he was making a frantic telephone call to somebody, but apparently the operator couldn’t establish a connection in the storm. Eyewitnesses saw him leaving. A few hours later, his automobile crashed into a ravine. Looks like it was forced off the road.”
“Aw shit,” said Roscoe. “I didn’t like the shyster, and I didn’t want him selling you one of his lemons, Art, but he didn’t have that coming.”
“No,” I said. “He certainly didn’t.”
I suddenly remembered something Babcock had told me on the telephone, a fragment of what he said that I could actually hear through all the static. I snagged a city directory and began thumbing madly through it to the Fs.
“What is it?” asked Myron, watching me with concern.
“That frantic call Babcock made was to me. He telephoned me in the middle of the night, before I went over to Roscoe’s place,” I said. “It was a bad connection. I only heard a bit of what he said. He mentioned somebody named Floyd Fairfield. I’m pretty sure he mentioned the man in reference to the four boys who stole the money. Maybe this Fairfield guy is somebody who lives in town, who was trying to help the—”
“He probably meant Camp Floyd,” said Myron. “It’s an abandoned army outpost, near a little village called Fairfield, about ninety minutes’ drive southwest of here.”
“I wonder if that’s where the four boys are hiding,” I said.
“How would Babcock know that?” asked Roscoe.
“He’s Carl Jeppson’s cousin,” said Myron, with a pensive squint. “You know, it’s got me wondering. Since Babcock already split with the fundamentalists, maybe he was helping Jeppson do the same. That’s not so far-fetched, if you think about it. Jeppson might’ve been confiding in him before they were both killed. Babcock probably knew too much, and that’s why they went after him.”
Roscoe reared his head in amazement. “I’m still trying to figure out how in the hell you know they’re related?”
“It’s in Jeppson’s file,” said Myron. “Babcock used to be one of the apostles in the Fundamentalist Church of Saints before he got driven out. I found a picture of Babcock and Jeppson taken in happier days, in an old issue of Truth. The caption identified them as quote—proud cousins Carl Jeppson and Orville Babcock—unquote.”
“How do you remember this shit?” asked Roscoe.
Myron tapped his temple. “Eidetic memory.”
“Hell, there are times when I can’t remember to buy toilet paper,” said Roscoe. “I once had to rub the pages of a Saturday Evening Post together—”
“I don’t want to hear that,” interrupted Myron.
“I guess this means I’m going to Camp Floyd,” I said.
“What on earth for?” Myron asked.
“On the off chance one of the boys will know where Rulon Black’s compound is,” I said.
“What good will that do?” pressed Myron. “You don’t know what Jared’s got planned.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, with all of that firepower he’s hauling,” I said. “It’s not going to end well for him, either. Not unless I try to stop him.”
“I hate to have to agree with Adler on this one,” said Roscoe. “Even if you find Jared, he’s chosen his fate. I don’t see how we’re going to stop him.”
I smiled warmly at my old friend. “I’m not asking you to come with me,” I said. “This is my squad. At the end of the day, I’ve got to be able to say I did everything possible to protect the men under my command.”
“That’s it?” asked Roscoe.
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “I’m coming, then.”
“It’s up to you,” I said.
“I’m sure as hell not gonna let you go alone, Art,” said Roscoe.
“Count me out,” said Myron. “When I applied for this job, nobody told me I’d have to be in the gunfight at the OK Corral.”
“You’d be doing me a favor by staying here and watching over this place,” I told Myron. “Until I get back.”
Myron nodded. I checked the clock again: 9:34. I looked at Roscoe.
“Well?”
“My chariot awaits out back, sir,” he said.
* * *
To get to Ca
mp Floyd, I took U.S. Route 89, a highway built about eight years ago that connected Salt Lake Valley to its southern neighbor, Utah Valley. It was late morning, with pristine blue skies. For the first time in weeks, I could hardly see the dark plumes of smoke coming out of the mountain canyons. The rainstorm had worked its magic. It was one of the few good developments I could point to from the last twenty-four hours.
Much of our drive took us past either farms or uninhabited land, and sometimes we’d pass through a little town—Murray, Draper, Lehi—on our way. We exited 89 in the north end of the valley and headed west, along the shimmering tip of Utah Lake, a freshwater cousin of the Great Salt Lake. During the drive, I caught Roscoe up on everything I knew, and by the time we exited 89, I’d essentially gotten him up to speed on the situation, as I knew it. He kept quiet for most of the trip. With Fairfield coming up in a few miles, I couldn’t resist asking him about something that had been vexing me.
“You told me she’s your daughter,” I said. “You had to know I’d ask about the girl in the picture.”
I expected him to shake his head or roll his eyes or sigh—something to show his displeasure. He just looked over at me with sleepy eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters, what’s her name?”
“Rose. Rose Chisholm.”
“Not Rose Lund?”
“No.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“Where does she live?”
“Denver.”
“Why Denver? Why not here?”
“After Rose was born, I left my wife, Catherine. She raised Rose on her own.”
I kept driving in silence. What could I say? Eventually, Roscoe continued.
“I was young. I was a goddamned fool. The only things I was any good at in those days was getting drunk, getting laid, and beating up strikers. I ran out on my little family in the middle of the night, too cowardly to do it when the sun was up.”
He took out his silvery flask, unscrewed the lid, and took two swallows. He capped it and put it away. I could see the torment in the lines on his face.
“I fooled myself into thinking that what I’d done wasn’t all that bad. I mean, after all, I kept sending them money each month. I told myself they’re better off without me. And then about, oh, four years ago, I heard Catherine died in a tuberculosis ward in Denver. Her parents took in Rose, let her live with them.”
“So Chisholm is their last name?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you regret it?” I asked.
He looked at me grimly. “Every single day of my life.”
“It’s not too late, you know,” I said. “A girl never stops needing her father.”
“I send her grandparents money each month,” he said. “I ain’t got the gumption to visit her. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“Where did you get the picture of her in your apartment?” I asked.
“Last year, when I put some money in the mail, I included a letter, asking for a picture,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to get one. But lo and behold, a few weeks later, it came in the mail. I cherish it. If that apartment building ever caught on fire and burned to the ground, it’s the only thing I’d risk my life to save.” He paused. “Well, that and my cats.”
We passed through Fairfield, a cluster of houses and barns and trees and not much else. That meant we were coming up on Camp Floyd soon.
“It’s never too late,” I said.
Thirty-two
Roscoe and I arrived at Camp Floyd in the late morning, sometime around half past eleven. It consisted of a cemetery and a few pre–Civil War buildings now barely standing, a crumbling mess of nailed-together lumber and broken glass. Most of the structures had deteriorated into skeletons, thanks to a lack of upkeep and scavengers who’d stripped the place of anything of worth. When I was a little kid, teenagers from my hometown of American Fork would come back from late-night outings to this place with tales of disembodied whispers, glowing apparitions, and faraway screams. I never placed much stock in those tales. Then again, I had no plans to come out to this place to see what it held in store after sunset.
Back in the late 1850s and early 1860s, Camp Floyd had been a bustling U.S. Army post with thousands of residents, mostly military personnel. They served under the command of Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, an ambitious officer sent out here in 1858 by then-president James Buchanan. In those days, war threatened to explode across the territory, pitting armed Mormon insurgents against federal troops occupying Utah. Ultimately, the conflict that everybody feared would happen never transpired, and the soldiers were eventually shipped back east, in response to the outbreak of hostilities between the North and South. Nowadays, the cemetery and few remaining buildings are the surviving remnants of that tense standoff. The cemetery they left behind served as a final resting place for scores of soldiers, most victims of diseases or natural causes. Rows of white headstones made a somber sight out here, in the middle of nowhere.
I parked in the shade of box elder trees and shut off the engine of the unmarked Ford Deluxe police sedan. It shocked Roscoe to see me unholstering my revolver. I handed him the gun, but he wouldn’t take it at first.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Hold on to it, will you?” I asked. His perplexed expression told me he wanted an explanation. “They’re kids. They’re scared. If I go in there armed, I’ll frighten them.”
“If you go unarmed, there’s a chance one of those trigger-happy brats will fill you up with lead,” said Roscoe, still refusing to take the gun out of my hands.
“There might not even be anyone in here,” I said. “In which case, this is all for naught. I’ll find out soon enough.”
Roscoe scowled as he took my gun. I got out of the Ford, closed the door, and crossed a grassy field to get to the brooding commissary building. The abandoned installation had taken on a forlorn quality over the years, and I could not escape the thought of how awful it would be to be a teenager living on these desolate grounds. That is, if they lived here. I knew I was taking a risk by coming out here. I understood that this might be the end of the line in my search, and if so Jared’s fate would be out of my hands.
I reached the commissary, the most intact of all the remains, and hence the most likely to provide a shelter from the elements. It seemed to me to be the ideal starting point. A two-story wooden structure with doors and windows and long railings on both levels, the commissary also boasted a pair of chimneys jutting out of a sloped roof. Towering trees on all sides shaded the building. Whitewashed walls had turned grimy with age, and when I lowered my foot onto one of the steps, it groaned and I thought the ancient wood might snap under my weight. On the porch, I looked in both directions, but saw no signs of life.
“My name is Detective Arthur Oveson, Salt Lake City Police Department,” I called out loudly. “I’ve come unarmed. You’re not in any trouble. I’ve come here to ask for your help. In return, I’ll help you. Think of it as a bargain. I know none of you boys have had an easy go of it. You shouldn’t have to live this way, hiding out in this isolated place. There’s a better life waiting for you. I can take you there, if you can somehow find the guts to trust me.” I raised my hands, to show I had no intention of harming anyone. “I’m entering the commissary building right now. The only thing I ask is that you come out here and talk to me. I promise I mean you no harm.”
I opened the commissary door and stepped inside a darkened room. The windows on the first floor had all been boarded. A sign on the wall said DINING HALL, and it was a spacious, empty area with a counter running the length of one wall and a rectangular service window behind it opening up to a kitchen. I walked to the counter and was impressed by the shiny wooden surface. Not a speck of dust in sight. The room did not smell as musty as I expected. No, it had a lived-in feel about it. Someone had been here not long ago.
I found a doorway that
opened up to a set of stairs. The passage was narrow and dark, and the stairs were rickety. I arrived at a door at the top of the stairs and nudged it open. The upstairs turned out to be much brighter than the first floor. A long corridor was lined with open doors and a tall window at either end. Signs on the doors announced who the occupants of each room had once been: CAPTAIN’S OFFICE, TELEGRAPH ROOM, QUARTERMASTER’S OFFICE, and COMMISSARY STAFF QUARTERS. I pushed open the door of the staff quarters and entered a room with four beds, each covered with bedclothes that appeared to be clean, although some were less tidy than others.
In the corner of the room, I happened upon what I guessed to be a little shrine of some sort. There were a few books—A Little Boy Lost by Dorothy Lathrop and Peter and Wendy by J. M. Barrie, two books that focused on lost boys—and several framed pictures on a small table, each showing little children standing side by side, smiling for the camera. Two of the photographs featured adults in them, but most showcased kids, the oldest of which couldn’t have been more than eleven. I picked up one of the framed images, this one showing three children—a freckly-faced boy and two girls, with smiles all around.
“Freeze!”
I put the picture back and stood still. My eyes wandered to the open window, with drapes blowing, which offered a prime view of the Ford parked under the trees in the distance.
“My name is…”
“I know what your name is! You don’t need to tell it again! I heard you already!”
The voice belonged to a boy in the middle of puberty: deep, yet squeaky around the edges. Low enough to sing baritone, high enough to scream like a girl.
“Reach your hands up,” he said. “Turn around.”
I turned and faced a lad with a canvas flour bag over his head that had a pair of holes cut out for the eyes. The words LEHI ROLLER MILLS were stenciled on the bag. That meant it came from a big mill not far from here.
Of greater concern to me was the long revolver in his hand, aimed at me.
“What’s to stop me from shooting you?” he asked.
“I’m a policeman,” I said. “If you shoot me, there’ll be lots of other policemen crawling all over this place by nightfall.”
