by R. R. Irvine
“My wife used to fast,” Martin said. “Mormon dieting, she called it. I didn’t think the younger generation went in for that kind of thing.”
“My daughter believes as I do,” Ida Woolley said sharply. “Fasting intensifies our prayers. It’s a woman’s way of proving to God that her pleas are worthy of being answered.”
She glared at Traveler. “Don’t waste your time looking at me like that. I could never remarry. If I did, I’d have to give up the prophet’s name.”
“Tell us more about your daughter,” Martin said, repressing a smile. “How did she take the divorce, for instance?”
Ida Woolley bent over the album again, spilling tears onto the photograph. “We both went to our bishop to talk things out. I agreed with him, that the divorce was my fault. A good wife wouldn’t have driven her husband into the arms of another woman. Even so, I think Lael blamed her father. I don’t think they’ve seen each other in months. You’re free to talk to him, of course.”
With a sob, she rose from the sofa and hurried to the bay window. Staring out at the rain, she said, “Do you ever wonder about hell?”
“That’s the province of someone like the prophet,” Martin said.
“In all the years I’ve known Elton Woolley, I’ve never known him to have doubts,” she said. “But they say the devil has risen. Do you believe that?”
“Who told you that?” Traveler asked.
Her bony shoulders rose and fell in a quick, continuous motion. “It’s common knowledge.”
“Try to remember where you heard it?”
Her sigh misted the window in front of her. “At the Relief Society’s quilting group, I think.”
“Anywhere else?”
She shook her head. “You haven’t answered my question. Do you believe in hell?”
“Before or after death?” Martin answered.
“Is it hot and dry, do you think, or cold and wet?” Shivering, she hugged herself so tightly that her hands crawled halfway around her narrow back. “I’ve always hated the rain.”
She turned to face them, still holding on to herself. “I’m certain that the devil, being who he is, prepares rain or hell-fire, depending on the sinner.”
15
“WHAT DO you think?” Martin asked as soon as they were seated in his Jeep.
Traveler shrugged, causing water to run down his neck. His wet feet added to the soggy floor mats, which already smelled like wet dog fur.
Martin took off his rain hat and shook his head. “That woman reminds me of your mother.”
“Just about everybody does these days.”
“Your mother was raised, you know. Relatives from Cedar City down south did it. They had to ask my permission, since it was my right as her husband. What the hell. It made them happy, so I told them to go ahead.”
Sitting back, Traveler closed his eyes. He’d heard it all before.
“It doesn’t matter what your sin,” his father went on, “they raise you just the same. The baptism for the dead, they say, cleanses away your sins and makes your soul squeaky clean.”
Martin nudged him with an elbow. Traveler sighed and complied with the expected ritual by asking, “Are you telling me to have you raised when the time comes?”
As always, Martin shook off the question. “As her husband, what if I’d said no? Think of it. She’d still be doing time in purgatory.”
“Hot and dry or wet and cold?” Traveler asked, opening his eyes to watch his father’s reaction.
Martin rubbed his chin, fussing with a spot his razor had missed. “I see what you mean.” He glanced toward the house. Traveler followed his gaze. Mrs. Woolley was watching them from the bay window. “Your mother loved going to the movies when that was the only place in town with air conditioning. Sweating, she said, wasn’t ladylike. Smelling of sweat was a cardinal sin.”
“Hot, then,” Traveler said.
Martin shook his head. “She wasn’t much for winters either. I remember she was always after me to make more money so we could go to the coast for sunshine in January.”
“A little of each,” Traveler said, “cold and hot.”
“What about Claire?”
“She went through enough hell while she was here.”
Martin nodded. “Fair is fair. She deserves to be raised with the best of them.”
Traveler stared at the rain beating against the windshield until his eyes lost focus. Whenever he thought of Claire, her son was at her side. The son who bore the name Moroni Traveler the Third, though he shared no more genetic linkage to Traveler than Traveler did to Martin.
“I can see them now,” Martin said, “Claire and Kary raised from the dead to raise hell in heaven.” He snorted.
“Claire’s girlfriend says she stashed the kid somewhere before she died. She wants money to tell me where.”
“Claire was like Kary. They didn’t have girlfriends, only men.”
“We’ll have to find him in any case,” Traveler said.
Martin’s shrug belied his concern. They were already using much of their spare time to look for the boy, agreed that another ambiguous generation might as well be added to the firm of Moroni Traveler and Son.
Martin sighed, popped the Jeep into four-wheel drive, and backed out of the driveway. He didn’t speak again until he was headed downhill toward Traveler’s truck. “What would you say to your mother if you could talk to her right now?”
“That’s easy. I’d ask her the things you’re never willing to talk about.”
“That’s what I figured. Maybe we should talk before you turn into an old man like me and start wishing you could phone the dead.”
“How about right now?” Traveler said, lining the questions up in his mind. Who was his real father? Was he still alive? If so, where was he?
Martin said, “The trouble is, there are some things you don’t ask, even of the dead.”
“Like what?” Traveler said, playing Martin’s game.
“Everybody inherits genes, but not everybody gets brought up by someone who loves them.”
Traveler smiled. Most likely, his father knew just what he was thinking, that maybe the status quo was best after all, that nothing should ever be said that might weaken the bond between them.
Martin drove straight through the mud slide, then pulled in behind Traveler’s truck, set the brakes, switched off the engine, and turned to face his son. “Go ahead. Ask me whatever you want.”
“It’s hell having a father who can read minds.”
Winking, Martin jabbed Traveler playfully on the shoulder.
“We’d better go to work,” Traveler said.
“That’s more like it.”
“If I can get that damned truck started, follow me to the office. We can check in with Willis from there. He ought to know something about the Sisters Cumorah by now.”
16
STATE STREET was running a foot of water and had been nicknamed the “Little Jordan” by the time Traveler reached the Chester Building. By tomorrow, Main Street was expected to become a tributary. By the end of the week, experts were predicting that Salt Lake would be nothing more than a maze of canals.
But for the moment, the sandbags on South Temple were holding. The Mormon Temple was safe and the sidewalk in front of the Chester Building was clear.
Traveler parked in the red zone, camouflaged by sandbags. His father pulled in right behind him.
Together, they pushed through the revolving door and into the lobby. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the spicy aroma of hot mulled wine.
Charlie Redwine stepped out from behind one of the imposing Doric columns, brought his heels together, and snapped to attention. Slowly, one arm raised to chest level. His fist was filled with panatelas. His eyes stared straight ahead.
Martin took one look at him and shook his head. “You’re out of luck. Real cigar store Indians have feathered headdresses.”
Charlie grunted.
Mad Bill appeared beside him to tran
slate. “He says it takes fire and smoke to drive away the rain gods. He says you must light up to save us from the flood.”
Charlie, nodding, thrust the panatelas under Martin’s nose. He took one, so did Traveler.
Bill struck a match. “ ‘And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon the house; and it fell, and great was the fall of it.’ ”
Martin puffed to get his cigar going. “In case you haven’t noticed, the temple across the street is on high ground.”
Traveler lit up without inhaling.
Bill said, “The devil has risen to see to things personally.”
“ ‘Behold,’ ” Martin said, “ ‘their sins shall be upon the heads of their fathers; Satan shall be their father, and misery shall be their doom; and the whole heavens shall weep over them.’ ”
Bill bowed his head momentarily. When he looked up, he winked. “To mark the occasion, Barney has wine on the hot plate. Be careful, though. Charlie’s spiked it.”
At the mention of his accomplishment, the Navajo touched the peyote bag that hung from a leather thong around his neck before leading the way to the cigar stand. Chester was behind the counter wearing a white apron and stirring the wine. As soon as he spotted them, he filled two paper cups and set them on the glass-topped display case where he kept his perpetual stock: Chiclets chewing gum, Sen-Sen, and pouches of Bull Durham tobacco.
Traveler shook his head. “Not while we’re working.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Chester put aside his ladle and leaned back, almost to the point of losing balance, to peer at the ceiling mural. “After my first cup, I saw Brigham Young get on his horse up there and lead his people to the promised land.”
Bill and Charlie braced their backs against the counter before craning their necks to join in Chester’s vision.
Bill said, “Charlie says they’re on the move because his people are just over the horizon. It’s about to be the Little Big Horn all over again. Brigham Young will be wiped out and this valley will belong to its native Americans once again. God’s will be done.”
Charlie nodded to confirm his prophet’s insight.
Gingerly, Martin picked up one of the cups and sniffed its steaming contents. “It’s a wonder Nephi Bates hasn’t called the police.”
Traveler glanced at the elevator, where Bates was sitting on his stool reading The Book of Mormon.
“If he turned us in,” Chester said, “who would he have to spy on?”
Traveler shook his head. “I’ll take the stairs. I need the exercise.”
“Before you go,” Bill said, “we’ve got news. Yesterday, we borrowed some clothes from Barney so we could dress up Newel Ellsworth. Once we got him shaved and wearing a suit, he looked just like one of the Saints. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”
The Indian, rigid and unmoving, continued to stare up at the frescoed ceiling.
“Absolutely,” Chester answered for him.
Bill took a long swallow of wine before continuing. “We sent him to church as a spy.”
“They shoot spies,” Martin said.
Bill dismissed the comment with a wave of his empty cup. “Newel says there was a great deal of talk about”—Bill pulled his robe up far enough to dig into the pocket of his jeans, extracting one of Ellsworth’s three-by-five cards—“ ‘darkness descending upon the church.’ Newel’s exact words.”
Bill gulped a breath. “Even the bishop called on his Saints to be vigilant.” The sandwich prophet consulted the card again. “ ‘Evil,’ ” he told them, “ ‘is forever waiting its chance to strike.’ ”
Charlie shook himself.
“That’s right,” Bill said. “Charlie reminds me there was something else. When Newel came back from the liquor store a while ago, he said there was something he had to tell you in person.”
“What is it?”
“He said he didn’t want to write it down in case someone searched him and found the card.”
“Hold it,” Martin said. “When did Ellsworth leave for his trek into the wilderness?”
“An hour ago. Two maybe.”
Martin pointed at the kettle full of mulled wine. “Had he been drinking?”
“Not as much as the rest of us,” Chester answered. “He couldn’t see Brigham’s wagon train moving no matter how hard he tried.”
17
THE TELEPHONE was ringing when Traveler and his father reached the office.
“Dear God,” Willis Tanner said without preamble, “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. Your father, too, for that matter.”
“We’ve been working,” Traveler told him.
“I’m sending over a messenger right now with two phone pagers. I want you and Martin to wear them at all times.”
Traveler nodded at the extension on his father’s desk. Martin picked it up and said, “I’m on the line.”
“I can’t have you two out of contact at a time like this,” Tanner went on. “The First Apostle’s been going crazy.”
“He’s sending us beepers,” Traveler explained for his father’s benefit.
Martin rolled his eyes. “I’ve always wanted a mobile telephone.”
“I’ll have a man at your office in fifteen minutes to show you how everything works,” Tanner said.
Martin slumped forward until his chin was resting on his desk. Somehow, he managed to keep the phone against his ear. “We need more from you than technology.”
“The Sisters Cumorah,” Traveler added. “Plus background checks on everyone connected with the Army of Nauvoo.”
Tanner sighed into his phone hard enough to create static. “The Sisters are giving us fits. Moseby himself has been kicking butts to get our research people moving. But so far, nothing beyond what you already know, Opal Taylor’s license plate number and that bad address in Magna.”
“Then why the need for beepers?” Traveler said.
“The First Apostle wants constant updates. Every time you make a move, he intends to be with you. In spirit, of course, not personally.”
“Anything else?” Martin said.
“I’m doing my share,” Tanner said. “I haven’t left my post in two days.”
Martin snorted. “You were the same way as a boy. You never gave straight answers, even when you got Moroni into trouble.”
“I’ve personally been on the phone to half a dozen bishops in the last hour alone,” Tanner said. “So far the women I’ve checked in the Army of Nauvoo—Sarah Decker, Jemma Hoyt, and Amanda Ware—are in good standing, complete with temple recommends.”
“Whatever happened to excommunication?” Martin asked.
“Everything said on this line is being taped,” Tanner said.
“What I’m asking about,” Martin continued, “is church policy. Have you people suddenly decided to allow women to speak their minds on equal rights? You sure as hell didn’t on the ERA.”
“Temple recommends can be revoked at any time,” Tanner replied.
“That’s no answer.”
“My messenger is leaving now. Wear your phone beepers and keep in touch.” Tanner hung up.
Martin opened the office door so they could hear the messenger coming. “What do you think, Mo?”
“That we’ve violated damn near every rule for survival that you taught me.”
Nodding, Martin sank into the client’s chair in front of his son’s desk. “I had a dream last night.”
Traveler looked for signs of humor but found none. “I hope Lael Woolley was in it.”
“Talking on the phone just now reminded me of it. In my dream, I was trying to call my father, but I couldn’t make the connection. No matter how many times I dialed the phone, I kept getting the wrong number. After a while, the dial fell off altogether.”
“Keep your mind on what we’re doing.”
“It seemed very real to me,” Martin said.
“For Christ’s sake, switch to touch-tone.”
“You can’t edit d
reams.”
“Dad, I can’t do this alone.”
“If my father were here, he’d be able to help us.”
Traveler groaned.
“I remember my father telling me stories about his early life,” Martin went on. “He told me to remember them so I could pass them on to my own children.”
“Fine,” Traveler said.
“The trouble was, I was a child. I didn’t know enough to pay close attention. That’s why I’d like to call him now and ask him to repeat some of those things he said.”
Martin paused to take a deep breath. “Do you remember the things I told you, Moroni?”
“I’m sure I’ve forgotten some of them.”
“We’ll have to work on that. Otherwise, one day you’ll be having the same kind of telephone dreams I’m stuck with.”
“Talk any time you want,” Traveler said. “I’ll listen.”
“I think I’ll visit the cemetery today and talk things over with a few people.”
Traveler started to say something, then clenched his teeth. He’d do a little talking of his own when he had the time, with Dr. Murphy, their family physician. Maybe the doctor could explain Martin’s sudden obsession with the dead.
Martin moved behind his desk, put his wet feet up, and closed his eyes. “Even now I see my father as a young man, though he was older than I am when he died. I wonder how you’ll see me when I’m gone.”
Traveler closed his eyes only to see Lael Woolley staring at him. He opened wide and said, “I think I’d better talk to the Woolley girl’s father before we do anything else.”
Martin nodded.
“While I’m doing that,” Traveler added, “see if you can come up with an address for Amanda Ware, Caleb Ware’s daughter.”
Martin whistled. “We’re in the big time now, after the daughter of another high official.”
“Amanda is supposed to be Lael’s mission leader for the Army of Nauvoo. Apparently the army thinks they’re both proselytizing somewhere upstate. They’re supposed to be staying with an aunt, though I have no name or address.”
“It’s a good thing I know my way around the genealogy library,” Martin said without opening his eyes.
“It would be a help if you can come up with the names of more of her friends, too.”
