by R. R. Irvine
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re new and more radical, and have gone so far as to leave fliers at the temple gates. They’ve declared war on men. They—” Tanner glanced at the mural of Joseph Smith receiving enlightenment from the Angel Moroni “—they say hostilities began when Joe Smith’s testosterone got the better of him and he opted for polygamy. Understand, this isn’t me speaking, but it’s part of my job to keep informed, to protect the prophet in any way necessary. In any case, the Sisters Cumorah claim that the church hasn’t been safe for women since Smith’s revelation. Its blasphemy, of course, but I wanted you to know the kind of people you’re up against.”
Traveler studied the photograph again. “I can’t see any of Elton Woolley’s kin, niece or grandniece, joining such a group.”
“As far as church policy is concerned, there’s no difference between the two organizations. They both do the work of the devil, though no one’s been excommunicated as yet.”
“Are you saying that Lael Woolley has joined the devil?”
Tanner sighed. “I’m just telling you the situation, that’s all.”
“Why is it I’m not reassured?”
“You would be if you had faith.”
“If I’m going to work on this, I’ll need a contract,” Traveler said. “Signed by the prophet.”
“I’ve arranged to have you paid at your regular rate, though technically speaking this is a favor you’re returning. The work should be done for nothing.”
“My father will need a contract, too, because I’m going to need him on this.”
Tanner nodded. “The prophet told me it might be best to use both Moronis.”
“Put it in writing, Willis.”
“I’ll do better than that.”
With great care, Tanner unzipped a document compartment inside his briefcase. He withdrew a business-size envelope, which he gave to Traveler. The flap wasn’t sealed.
The letter inside was typewritten on church letterhead.
To whom it may concern:
The bearer of this letter, Mr. Moroni Traveler, is on official business for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Any assistance given to him will be considered an act of faith and be suitably rewarded.
Alma 9:28. “Therefore, prepare ye the way of the Lord, for the time is at hand that all men shall reap a reward of their works, according to that which they have been—if they have been righteous they shall reap the salvation of their souls, according to the power and deliverance of Jesus Christ.”
Should monetary compensation be necessary, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints hereby promises to back Mr. Traveler to the full extent of its resources.
Elton Woolley
“It’s better than a contract,” Tanner said. “It’s practically a carte blanche.”
“You win, Willis. I’m impressed.”
“We’ve set up a twenty-four-hour command center with a special phone number. Someone in authority will always be available to you.”
Traveler took a deep breath.
“Well?” Tanner said. “What do you say?”
“I can’t go to work until you show me how to get out of this underground maze.”
4
TRAVELER EMERGED into a balmy dawn. The temperature had jumped a good thirty degrees. A downpour of warm rain was quickly turning last night’s snow into a watery slush.
As soon as the temple gates closed behind him, Traveler lowered his head and waded across the overflowing street toward his office. When he glanced up at the top floor of the Chester Building, he saw a light in the window of Moroni Traveler and Son. Perhaps Martin’s curiosity had gotten the better of him; perhaps he’d come in early to hear the results of Willis Tanner’s call for help.
Traveler shook his head. More likely one or the other of them had forgotten to turn out the light last night. In which case, the building’s owner and namesake, Barney Chester, would remind them of their transgression soon enough.
Traveler bypassed the bronze revolving door, an art deco survivor like the rest of the building, and fitted his key into an adjoining plate-glass portal. What dim light was visible in the lobby came from the cigar stand’s perpetual flame.
A kind of wet-dog smell, pungent but not exactly unpleasant, announced the residency of Mad Bill and his Navajo disciple, Charlie Redwine. The pair, along with their recent convert, Newel Ellsworth, had permission to shelter in the Chester Building during bad weather. To keep most of the tenants happy, they had to clear away their bedding and vacate the premises during business hours.
Traveler, blinking water from his eyes, headed for the stairs since it was too early for the elevator to be running. He was tiptoeing past the cigar stand when Charlie rose up from behind the display counter.
“Sorry,” Traveler whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“A shaman never sleeps, not when the dark spirits are restless.”
Since the Indian was fully dressed, Traveler almost believed him.
“What the hell’s going on?” Bill asked without showing himself.
Charlie Redwine tucked his peyote bag necklace inside his checkered shirt, then folded his arms over his chest. It was one of his movie Indian poses, a declaration that he intended to remain mute. He’d speak again only when his arms relaxed.
“Business hours don’t start till eight,” Bill complained.
“I thought the Church of the True Prophet never closed,” Traveler said.
Yawning, Bill revealed himself. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt decorated with a blue CTP logo. His homespun prophet’s robe hung tentlike over his sandwich board, which was leaning against the magazine rack.
Charlie loosened his arms long enough to rattle the coffee can that Bill called their “poor box.”
Traveler dropped a ten among the salted coins.
“Manna from heaven,” Bill said. “Your sandwich prophet thanks you.”
The lobby lights came on. Traveler turned to see Newel Ellsworth standing in front of the restroom door with his hand on the wall switch.
“I heard voices,” he said.
The lights revealed two sleeping bags laid out side by side near the end of the cigar counter.
When Ellsworth saw Traveler glance at the bedding, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I sleep close to the toilets, because of my weak bladder.”
Bill craned his head to check the regulator clock. “Moroni didn’t come here at five in the morning to discuss our sleeping arrangements.”
Charlie snorted. His arms unfolded. “I sensed his coming.”
“That’s because the poor box was empty,” Bill said.
Ellsworth stared at the coffee can and wet his lips.
Bill said, “You must pray, Newel. You must steel yourself until the liquor stores open.”
The man sighed so hard his chest collapsed. Until conversion, he’d led a nomadic existence as a West Temple wino. Now he was the number-three man in the Church of the True Prophet, behind Bill and his apostle, Charlie.
Like Charlie, Ellsworth must have slept in his clothes. Now that Traveler thought about it, he’d never seen Ellsworth without his hunter’s jacket, a khaki-colored garment several sizes too big for him. Its maze of cartridge pouches and pockets bulged with what the man said were his worldly possessions. Beneath the jacket he wore a vest with yet more pockets. In these he kept pencils, pens, and three-by-five cards on which he constantly made notes.
A wine-ruined face made his age impossible to pinpoint, though Traveler figured it somewhere around fifty. Too young for the World War II exploits he often bragged about.
“So tell us, Moroni,” Bill said. “Why are you here this early?”
“I can’t discuss it.”
Bill shook his head. “I saw you, Moroni. I was watching from your office a while ago.”
“You left the lights on.”
“Charlie and I were standing there contemplating the glory of God’s universe when yo
u entered the temple gate across the street.”
“What were you smoking?”
“Peyote is part of our religion, you know that.”
Traveler glanced at the puddle gathering around his feet. “I’m going upstairs to change my clothes.”
“You’re not getting away that easily.” Bill grabbed his robe and swept it from the sandwich board, revealing the day’s gospel: SATAN HAS RISEN.
Traveler groaned inwardly. Were fresh rumors spreading already? Had Tanner’s security precautions failed? He nodded at the sign. “What’s your point with this one?”
“My point!” Bill thumped himself on the chest. “You’re the one who should be explaining, a Gentile treading on holy ground.”
“Just tell me the truth. It’s important.”
“There have been people coming and going across the street all night, but only one Gentile that I recognized.” Bill pulled the robe over his head and cinched it at the waist. “Had there been no guards, I would have seen fit to stand at your side, Moroni, in the flesh instead of spirit only.”
Traveler nudged the sandwich board with his toe. “This could get you into trouble. You and Charlie both.”
“I won’t be censored by the church.” Bill nodded at Ellsworth, who dug into his vest for a pencil and a blank card. “I’ve named Newel as my chronicler. He’s going to turn my life into a book. A saga like David and Goliath, with me taking on the church.”
Traveler sighed. Only yesterday, Ellsworth had claimed to be an undercover reporter investigating the plight of Salt Lake’s homeless.
Traveler stepped behind the counter, where Barney kept a hot plate and coffee pot. As always, the pot had been filled the night before. All Traveler had to do was switch on the power.
“Tell me about the poster,” he said, warning his hands near the electric coils. “Tell me about Satan.”
Bill hesitated, glancing at Ellsworth.
“I understand,” Ellsworth said. “I’m not yet a member of the inner council.” He pocketed his pencil and paper and ambled into the men’s room.
Bill took a deep breath. “This is different. I admit it. I’ve done just about everything with my boards, soliciting funds, advertising myself, you name it. But not this time. This time, it’s truly God’s work.”
Charlie’s hand slipped inside his shirt as if to scratch himself. But Traveler knew that the Navajo was working his peyote bag.
“The word is out, Moroni. All you have to do is listen. All you have to do is read the writing on the walls. It’s more than graffiti. It’s . . .” Bill gestured helplessly.
“I’ve seen Charlie spraying on your messages in the past.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mo. It’s not kids this time. It’s street people who’ve taken up the cause.”
“Whose cause are we talking about?”
“Yours. Everybody’s. Mine, too. Mormons and Gentiles alike, with Charlie and I proselytizing among them all. We spread the word as we have been for years.” Bill shook his head. “Only now are people listening.”
From the men’s room came the sound of a toilet being flushed, then another.
“The spirits are making Newel restless,” Charlie said.
Bill looked up. Traveler followed his gaze to the massive marble columns that flanked the cigar stand. The columns ended in Doric capitals abutting on a ceiling on which a WPA mural depicted the 1847 pioneer trek into Salt Lake.
Bill said, “The old stories are coming back, Moroni. Tales I haven’t heard since I was a boy. Ones my grandfather used to tell me, between times when he was reading the scriptures out for the whole family to hear. About the coming battle between good and evil.”
Traveler squinted at the painting of Brigham Young and his wagon train. The painting, unlike the mural in the temple basement, was more dramatic than spiritual. Barney Chester claimed it was the work of Thomas Hart Benton.
“My people have heard the stories too,” Charlie said, “from their shamans.”
Bill’s gaze came back to earth. “I don’t like it.”
“You’ve been predicting catastrophe for years with your sandwich boards,” Traveler said, hoping that Bill’s demons had nothing to do with Willis Tanner’s. “If they’re coming true, you should be happy.”
“That was business, Mo. This . . .” Bill’s shoulders rose and fell. “Something is wrong in the promised land. Something beyond faith. It’s as if Satan is really among us, walking the land in search of those he can drag down to hell. We must be on guard constantly. If he whispers promises in our ears, we must be deaf.”
Traveler felt somewhat shaken because there was usually a grain of truth in Mad Bill’s meanderings. He reached out and grasped his friend’s arm. “I need to know details.”
“Like what, Moroni?” Bill leaned forward and stared into Traveler’s eyes. After several seconds of silence, he nodded. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You believe.”
“Tell me what to believe in.”
Bill busied himself pouring coffee for the three of them. He added canned milk and sugar to his cup and sipped slowly, not speaking until finally Traveler nudged him. “Twice I’ve been told this story. It’s about a Mormon prophet who broke the church’s covenant with God. A prophet who usurped God’s will. Who used God’s revelation for his own purposes and thereby became Satan’s creature.”
“Which prophet?” Traveler asked.
“As I said, it’s a recurring story. Like the old wives’ tales about Brigham Young murdering Joe Smith to take control of the church. They both go back to my childhood. I can’t remember how many Mormon prophets ago that was.”
Traveler turned to the Indian. “What about you, Charlie? Have you or your spirits heard anything specific?”
“The Lamanite time of power is at hand.”
In Mormon scripture, Indians were known as Lamanites, the lost tribe of Israel. As such, Navajos like Charlie were prime targets for LDS missionaries.
Traveler strode across the lobby to the front window. Outside, it was raining harder than ever. The snow had disappeared completely, leaving a street-wide river in its wake. When he turned to retrace his steps, Bill and Charlie were right behind him.
“I want to hire you for the next few days,” he told them. “All three of you.”
The pair exchanged wary looks before Charlie trotted back to the men’s room and rapped on the door. Ellsworth appeared so quickly he must have been waiting on the other side.
“We’ve got a job,” Charlie said loud enough to echo.
“How much does it pay?”
Traveler smiled. Willis Tanner was in no position to balk at expenses. Besides, hiring the trio would give Traveler a way of keeping them in eating money during the storm without having to resort to charity.
“I’m paying five dollars an hour,” Traveler said as soon as they’d gathered around. “Apiece.”
Ellsworth took out a pencil and held it poised over one of his three-by-five cards.
“I want you out on the streets, listening for me,” Traveler said. “I want to know every rumor you hear. I don’t care if it’s about God, Satan, or secret wives. If it has anything to do with the church, report it to me.”
5
MORONI TRAVELER and Son was a single corner room on the top floor of the Chester Building. One window faced east toward the Wasatch Mountains, the other looked out on the temple. At the moment, falling rain was the only thing visible.
Traveler tossed his wet clothes onto his desk, which faced his father’s. Both desks were old-fashioned teacher’s models of polished oak with sunken typewriter wells. Martin had bought them as surplus when the school district switched to Formica.
Traveler dried himself and changed into the spare set of clothes he kept at the office. When he phoned for a cab, the dispatcher advised him that walking was not only better exercise but quicker, since the company’s garage was under water.
For a moment, he considered calling his father. But the last thing he wan
ted was to get Martin out in this kind of weather.
Annoyed with himself for not borrowing Martin’s rugged Jeep Cherokee in first place, Traveler checked the Yellow Pages. The nearest car rental was a mile down West Temple Street. He called and got a recording telling him to wait his turn. When it came, he reserved the only four-wheel-drive vehicle available, a full-size pickup truck.
By the time he left his office the elevator was running. As always Nephi Bates was at the helm, armed with his Book of Mormon and a cassette player loaded with the Tabernacle Choir. His pinched face grew a smile at the sight of Traveler.
“I’m surprised to find you working on the Sabbath,” Traveler said.
“The faithful await you,” Bates responded.
Traveler hesitated in front of the grillwork cage.
“On the second floor,” Bates clarified. “I let them use the vacant office. Old Doctor Rigdon’s place.”
“Who are they?”
“They didn’t give names.”
“What’s this about the faithful?” Traveler said.
Bates ducked his head, but not before Traveler caught a glimpse of avarice in his eyes. Whoever was waiting on the second floor had probably paid for the privilege.
“One of them is a woman,” Bates said. “She said she had to see you, that it was important.”
“All right.” Traveler stepped into the elevator.
Bates closed the accordion door. “ ‘Behold Satan hath come among the children of men,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and tempteth them to worship him; and men have become carnal, sensual, and devilish, and are shut out from the presence of God.’ ”
“Satan seems everywhere this morning,” Traveler said.
Bates nodded. “It’s nothing personal.” He pushed the start lever. The elevator shuddered before getting under way.
The Mormon Tabernacle Choir, amplified by Bates’s cassette player, pursued Traveler down the second floor’s marble hallway. He could still hear it when he reached the frosted glass door. Black lettering read OREN G. RIGDON, DENTIST, though the man had retired nearly a year ago.
Traveler knocked. From inside came the sound of high heels clicking across the floor. The door opened. The woman standing there said, “Moroni Traveler?”
