The Spoken Word

by R. R. Irvine

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Stacie Breen. Remember me?”

  “Jesus,” he breathed. She was Claire’s friend, the one he’d talked to on the telephone right after Claire had been killed. The one who told him Claire had given away her son, the son she’d named after him. Not for adoption, he remembered, but for money.

  Stacie backed away. Traveler followed her in, closing the door. Only then did he realize that a man was standing against the wall behind him.

  “That’s Jon,” she said. “My boyfriend. I brought him along because I didn’t want any trouble.”

  Jon was wearing a T-shirt to show off his weightlifter’s muscles. He smiled, folding his corded arms. But his eyes shimmied as if to say he hadn’t reckoned on Traveler’s size.

  The woman was the age Claire would have been, in her early thirties, but all resemblance ended there. Where Claire had been dark and thin, Stacie was blond and pudgy. Seeing her and the contrast the two must have made together, one attracting men, the other invisible to most, Traveler realized why Claire had taken her for a friend, the only female companion she’d ever mentioned.

  He moved into the center of the room, positioning himself so he could watch them both at the same time. The office was bare of everything but the lingering smell of dental antiseptic.

  “Why should there be any trouble?” he asked, though he felt certain Claire’s influence was about to make itself felt.

  “I told you once I didn’t know where Claire’s son was. Do you remember that?”

  “Your exact words were, ‘She gave him away so that you’d be sure to come looking for her.’ ”

  “For her and the boy,” Stacie amended.

  “You told me he was in southern Utah, but you didn’t know the exact location.”

  “I know where he is now.”

  Traveler clenched his teeth. Claire would have said the same thing, whether it was true or not.

  “When things got tough for Claire, she left the boy with me for a while,” Stacie said. “I should be reimbursed for that.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Sorry.”

  She looked at her boyfriend.

  Traveler shook his head. “I think Jon would agree with me, that you should be a good Samaritan and tell me free of charge.”

  Jon nervously licked his lips.

  Stacie glared at her boyfriend. “Some help you are. You might as well get out of here.”

  “I’ll wait in the hall in case you need me.” Jon sneered at Traveler before swaggering from the room.

  Stacie smiled suggestively. “Too bad you like thin women.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “How much would you be willing to pay?”

  “The boy isn’t my son.”

  “She named him after you. After her Angel Moroni, Claire said.”

  Traveler moved to the door. “I have work to do.”

  “Don’t you care about him?”

  “Anyone named Moroni needs all the help he can get.”

  He opened the door.

  “God damn you,” she said.

  “Before we talk again,” he said, “I’ll want proof that you really do know where he is.”

  6

  BY THE time Traveler left the Chester Building, the storm had progressed to cloudburst stage. Across the street city crews, supplemented by a small army of volunteers, were building a massive sandbag dike around the temple.

  Still hoping for a cab, Traveler trudged to the corner where Brigham Young’s rain- slick statue stood looking down Main Street. There was no sign of movement, no cars, no pedestrians.

  Traveler groaned. Water was running down his neck. His shoes squished at every step. He was about to retrace his steps toward West Temple and the car-rental agency when a police car turned the corner and headed his way. Behind it crept a silver stretch limousine.

  When the limousine parked in front of him, the police car came to a stop a few yards further on. Traveler bent down. Smoked glass kept him from seeing inside the limo.

  The driver-side door opened and a woman stepped out. A Russian-style fur hat, mink by the looks of it, covered her ears. The collar of her camel’s hair overcoat was turned up, obscuring her face. Without a word, she hurried around the car and opened the rear door for him.

  Traveler hesitated.

  From inside a man’s deep voice said, “What are you trying to do, young man, heat the sidewalk?”

  Traveler smiled at the girl, who stared through him like a soldier on parade. She wasn’t much more than twenty, with that fresh kind of beauty that requires no makeup. Her intense stare propelled him inside and face to face with a bull-like, silver-haired man who shook hands like a wrestler. Traveler recognized him immediately from newspaper photos and appearances on television.

  “I’m Elihu Moseby,” he confirmed. “As for you, young man, don’t bother introducing yourself. The prophet has told me all about you. I must say, though, you look too big to be named for our angel.”

  Moseby’s voice was so forceful it produced sympathetic vibrations inside Traveler’s chest. On TV and Tabernacle Radio, he was the church’s voice of authority. He was also its First Apostle, at sixty the youngest of the twelve apostles, and rumored to be the eventual successor to Elton Woolley.

  “They tell me you were once a professional football player,” Moseby said.

  “I was a linebacker for Los Angeles, but that was a long time ago.”

  Moseby removed his rimless glasses and polished the lenses carefully on a pressed white handkerchief. “I know how you feel about the past. A lifetime ago I was a general in the army. Would you believe that to look at me now?”

  Traveler said nothing; he wasn’t expected to. But that didn’t stop him from thinking that Moseby looked more like a warrior than an apostle.

  “In case you were wondering about security . . .” Moseby nodded toward the front seat, where the young woman was once again behind the wheel. A glass shield separated her from the backseat. “Chris can’t hear us as long as she keeps the engine running and the heater on. And she knows me, the warmer the better.” His voice sounded loud enough to pierce any barrier.

  Traveler said, “An hour ago I was briefed by a man so security-conscious he was afraid to use his own office.”

  Moseby snorted. “I’m beginning to believe what they told me about you. That you’re not easily intimidated.”

  Traveler answered with a shrug.

  Moseby went through his glasses-cleaning ritual again, squinting at Traveler the whole time. Finally he said, “I want everything clear between us. Elton Woolley is more than my prophet. He’s my friend. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. He’s depending on you, Mr. Traveler, and so am I.”

  “I’m not a Saint,” Traveler said, “though I’m sure you already know that. You must also know that I didn’t volunteer for this.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I like to assess a man’s commitment for myself. After all, you’re Willis Tanner’s man, not mine.”

  “I’m my own man.”

  “They told me that about you, too.”

  “Then you know I’ll do my best.”

  “I want miracles if need be. And I’ll pay for them. You can count on that.”

  “Miracles are your business, not mine.”

  For an instant, Moseby looked offended. Then suddenly he smiled. “I think you’ll do, Mr. Traveler. In any case, I’ll pray for your success.”

  He gripped Traveler’s forearm. “You may call on me day or night. Succeed in this and my friendship is yours. You’ll be in a position to name your own price. But if your actions harm the prophet in any way . . .”

  He didn’t have to say more. In a theocracy like Utah, Traveler knew he couldn’t survive with an enemy as powerful as the First Apostle.

  Moseby pushed a button near his left hand. The driver got out and came around to open Traveler’s door.

  “Do you have any questions?” Mos
eby said.

  “I was on my way to rent a car.”

  “When I was your age, I enjoyed walking. Close the door behind you. You’re letting the heat out.”

  “I was hoping you could drop me off.”

  “Hopes are wonderful things. They keep a man on his toes. Besides, I’m needed elsewhere.”

  Traveler stepped out into the deluge.

  “Remember this,” Moseby called after him. “There are two forces at work on earth today, God’s and Satan’s. Since the Mormon Church is doing God’s work, those who oppose us are in league with the devil.”

  7

  TRAVELER ARRIVED home driving a rental Ford pickup with oversize tires. Getting down out of it was awkward even for a man his height.

  Martin met him on the front porch. “Take your clothes off out here. Otherwise you’ll curl the carpet.”

  When Traveler glanced toward the neighbors, Martin gestured impatiently. “In this downpour the neighbors can’t see a thing. Now get moving before you catch cold.”

  Rather than argue, Traveler stripped down to his underwear and socks, while carefully protecting the plastic bag that held the missing girl’s photograph. “If you’re satisfied, I’d like to take a hot shower.”

  “I heard that damned truck coming for a block,” Martin said. “What happened to your car?”

  “I left it in the snow on South Temple. By now it’s washed away.”

  “I told you to get something more reliable.”

  “You told me to get new tires,” Traveler said. “Besides, I’m thinking about buying a better car.”

  “I suppose that means Willis Tanner is footing the bills?”

  “Let’s get out of the wind,” Traveler said. “I’m turning to ice.”

  He edged around his father and shuffled inside where he collapsed into one of the twin recliners that faced the fireplace.

  “I’ll fix you a hot toddy, then you can shower and we can both go back to bed,” Martin said.

  “I’m working.”

  “I knew it.” Martin knelt in front of the fireplace and set a match to the waiting newspaper and kindling. Once the flames took hold, he groaned to his feet, massaging the small of his back thoroughly before settling into the vacant recliner. “Are you going to tell me about it or am I going to have to call Willis Tanner?”

  Speaking slowly through his fatigue, Traveler recounted his interview with Tanner and Elihu Moseby. By the time he finished, his father knew as much about the kidnapping as anyone did. As an afterthought, Traveler mentioned his new employees, Mad Bill, Charlie, and Newel Ellsworth.

  Martin sighed. “What’s rule one?”

  They answered in unison. “Never get involved in church business.”

  “Before you say anything else,” Traveler said, “you’d better take a look at the girl’s picture.”

  Ignoring the offering, Martin rose from the recliner and stepped to the window that overlooked the driveway. “If you’re going to drive that kind of truck, you’ll need a gun rack in the window and empty beer cans rattling around in the back. That way you’ll fit in with lunatic fringe groups like the Army of Nauvoo and the Sisters Cumorah.”

  “What do you know about them?”

  “What do I have to know?” Martin leaned his forehead against the windowpane. “This is Utah. If it’s not polygamists or new messiahs, it’s some other damned thing. They all fill the desert with their unmarked graves.”

  “These are women we’re talking about,” Traveler said.

  “The crime is kidnapping.”

  “Just take a look at the girl,” Traveler said.

  Martin sighed, steaming the glass.

  “I’m committed, Dad.”

  Martin returned to his son’s side and reluctantly accepted the photograph. When he handed it back he made a face. “She reminds me of your mother.”

  Traveler glanced at the parade of family photos on the mantel. His father was right. Lael Woolley resembled Kary as much as she did Claire.

  Stepping to the mantel, Martin began fondling frames. “The Traveler family is something, isn’t it? We started with pioneers tough enough to cross a continent on foot and end up with women like Kary and Claire.” He shook his head. “I should have had grandchildren by now.”

  “You were the one who told me not to marry her,” Traveler said.

  “Somebody should have given me advice like that about your mother.”

  Traveler studied Lael’s photograph. “So far, no one else is involved, not even the police or church security. According to Willis anyway.”

  “That scares the hell out of me.”

  “I told Willis the same thing.”

  “How long have you known that boy?”

  Though the question sounded rhetorical, Traveler answered it. “Since grade school.”

  Martin flinched. “My father was alive then. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. Look here.” He edged over to the lawyer’s bookcase that flanked the fireplace. “Just yesterday I got out the old scrapbook and dusted it.”

  The Victorian book, covered in faded red velvet with an inset porcelain oval decorated with roses, was a family heirloom. Traveler’s mother had kept it under glass for years.

  Martin wiped his fingers before he began turning the pages. “Look at this one, my father and grandfather standing side by side. They were short, too.” He patted himself on the head. “Like I am.”

  Traveler slumped in the recliner, always conscious that he was a foot taller than his father.

  “Lately, I have this overwhelming urge to get in touch with them,” Martin continued. “Take a look and tell me what you think?”

  Traveler scraped his stocking feet across the carpet to scratch his chilblains. When he reached the bookcase, his mother, Kary, was looking at him from the scrapbook. Seeing her condemning stare, he thrust his hands into his pockets.

  Memory played back her words. Don’t touch the scrap-book. Little boys leave fingerprints. Enough of them and we won’t have any pictures left at all.

  Martin said, “I can’t remember if my grandfather was raised or not.”

  Startled, Traveler shuffled his feet. In Utah, raised referred to baptisms for the dead, the Mormon temple ritual by which Gentile ancestors were transmitted from hell to heaven.

  “I should ask my father about it,” Martin went on. “He’d know where Grandad was hanging out.”

  Traveler remembered Martin saying he’d refuse the offer if anyone tried raising him.

  “It still haunts me,” Martin said, “even after all this time. The fact that I can’t talk to my father anymore.”

  For years Traveler had felt the same about his genetic father, whom he’d never known. But whenever he’d raised the subject, Martin’s response was always the same. It’s upbringing that counts, not genes.

  Martin closed the scrapbook with a loud snap. “When I was growing up, I never gave much thought to my father. He was there and always would be.”

  He turned away, but not before Traveler saw the wetness in his eyes.

  “Even when I was grown up and away from home,” Martin added, “I always knew I could come back here if things got too bad. That he would take me in. That’s one of the reasons I kept your room for you all those years you were playing football, Mo. Even when you were living with Claire.”

  Martin put down the scrapbook and went back to the mantel. After a moment, he began fussing with the photo arrangement, which he kept in chronological order from left to right.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Traveler said.

  Martin nodded at one of the photographs. “Even now, years after my father’s death, I find myself reaching for the phone to call him.”

  He paused to draw a deep breath. It seeped away in a sigh. “I tried the old phone number yesterday, 3-7775. Nothing happened though, no rings, nothing.”

  “You’d better sit down,” Traveler said. He eased his father into a recliner and tilted its backrest.

  �
�I tried Grandfather, too,” Martin went on. “His place on Thirteenth East. You remember it, don’t you? 3-2084.” He shook his head. “No luck there either.”

  Christ, Traveler thought, collapsing into the other recliner so hard it shuddered. His father was going around the bend.

  “Your mother would have hated these chairs,” Martin said. “Come to think of it, I agree with her. Naugahyde ought to be outlawed.”

  Kary had been dead more than a year when Martin bought the pair of them.

  Martin snorted. “Maybe I ought to try calling her. Tell her that we’ve redecorated.”

  Did Alzheimer’s come on overnight? Traveler wondered. His mind answered with a telephone number of its own, 3-9712. It was Johnny’s, a boyhood pal who’d lived around the corner on U Street.

  “These days it takes seven numbers,” Martin said. “But that doesn’t make it right, not being able to talk to the people you love.”

  “Dad, I’m going to need your help finding the girl.”

  “I can’t even find my own relatives.”

  Traveler thought that over. He’d have to call Willis and let him know the situation. The job was impossible enough even with Martin’s help.

  Feeling depressed, Traveler left his father by the fire and went to change his clothes. While he was in his room, the one he’d grown up in, he packed a change of clothes into a waterproof flight bag. As a precaution, he added a .45 automatic, one of his father’s war souvenirs, plus two full clips of ammunition.

  By the time he returned to the living room, Martin was standing by the door, holding a hot toddy. “Here, drink this. You need sleep. We both do.”

  Traveler shook his head. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got a deadline.”

  Martin took a sip. “You should have packed a bag for me too. If this thing goes wrong, we’ll both have to leave town in a hurry.”

  “Are you feeling okay?’ Traveler asked.

  “Just tell me what your plan of attack is.”

  Traveler sighed with relief. His father sounded like his old self. “I’ll start with the ex- boyfriend, Dwight Hafen, then move on to the Army of Nauvoo.”