The Spoken Word

by R. R. Irvine

  With a sigh, Martin swung his feet off the desk and went to the filing cabinet. From its bottom drawer he retrieved Traveler’s old radio, a green plastic Philco with a gold dial. He dusted it with the palm of his hand before plugging it in. As soon as the radio warmed up, static began hissing from its speaker.

  “It’s time for the weather report,” Martin said.

  He banged the radio with his fist. Static immediately gave way to an announcer. “Rain is expected to continue for another forty-eight hours at least. According to the National Weather Service, there will only be one day’s grace before the next storm front moves in from the Pacific. To date, record rainfall has caused extensive damage. The Jordan River is already a foot above flood stage, as is City Creek, which has made State Street impassable. Overflow from Butte Creek is threatening the Veterans Hospital. If the second storm front materializes, all records . . .” Static reasserted itself.

  Martin switched off the radio. “If I’m going to the cemetery to visit family, I’d better buy myself a new umbrella.”

  Traveler shook his head. “Wasatch Lawn will be nothing but mud by now.”

  “A man can’t shirk his duty. I’ll expect you to visit me when the time comes, no matter what the weather.”

  18

  SETH WOOLLEY was a vice president of Beehive Life, a church-owned insurance company with home offices on State Street, easy walking distance from the Chester Building in good weather. Today, Traveler had to detour a block to First South, where a temporary wooden bridge allowed him to cross the “Little Jordan,” now a foot and a half deep.

  The Beehive Building itself, four stories of red brick and sandstone, was built in 1887 and remodeled over the years to suit the needs of various tenants. It had acquired a coat of green paint in the sixties, aluminum siding in the seventies, and a neon beehive in the eighties. At the moment the structure was being remodeled again, losing the last of its nineteenth-century vestiges—stone sills, lintels, and pilaster copings—to become a smooth-faced modern cube.

  Traveler ducked under the scaffolding and into a lobby, where he shook himself on a beehive-emblazoned welcome mat. His raincoat, he realized, had come back from the dry cleaners without its repellency. He shrugged out of it and dripped across the marble floor to announce himself and his intentions to a receptionist.

  “I’ll have to call upstairs,” she said with a girlish sparkle that reminded him of cheerleaders at East High School.

  The moment she repeated his name into the telephone, her cheer fled, replaced by a wide-eyed stare. “Yes, sir,” she said, “I understand.” She pushed a button on her desk before handing the phone to Traveler.

  “Mr. Traveler, this is Seth Woolley,” a man said without preamble. “You had no business coming here.”

  “I don’t think your daughter would agree.”

  “I refuse to discuss family matters on the phone.”

  A door opened behind the reception desk and a uniformed security guard appeared.

  Traveler said, “I was assured that you’d make yourself available.”

  “Willis Tanner knows better than to send someone like you to my place of work.”

  “There’s a deadline involved,” Traveler reminded him.

  The guard came over to stand next to the desk.

  “I suppose we can talk in your car,” Woolley said.

  “I’m on foot.”

  “Willis Tanner has a lot to answer for.”

  “I can go over your head if I have to.” Traveler winked at the awestruck receptionist.

  “I have to eat lunch anyway,” Woolley conceded. “I suppose we could go somewhere.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Mayflower Cafe in fifteen minutes.” Traveler hung up without waiting for an answer.

  ******

  The Mayflower, on Main between First and Second South, had sandbagged a semicircle around its entrance as a precaution against spillover from the “Little Jordan.” The cafe had been a favorite of Traveler’s mother, who’d taken him there often as a child, not so much for the food as for the cafe’s tea-leaf reader. Kary thought the woman had real talent.

  Traveler was sipping tea made from a bag that left no leaves behind to read when Seth Woolley arrived. He was tall, the equal of Traveler, with sandy hair and an upper lip white enough to have recently lost its mustache. His camel’s hair overcoat looked as if it had cost more than Traveler’s entire wardrobe. So did his carefully tailored navy blue suit.

  Woolley smiled and shook hands like a man there to sell Traveler a million-dollar life insurance policy. He looked nothing at all like his uncle, the prophet. Even so, Woolley’s arrival had the waitress hovering nervously, waiting for their order.

  Traveler asked for the fish and chips Kary had introduced him to as a child. Woolley pursed his lips momentarily before deciding on the chef’s salad.

  As soon as the waitress hurried off, Woolley said, “I hope you understand my reluctance on the phone, but I thought someplace public like this might be more private in the long run.”

  What he was saying, Traveler knew, was that he didn’t want a Gentile, not to mention a private investigator, inside his church-owned office.

  “Does Beehive insure only the faithful?” Traveler asked.

  “Not at all. If you’re interested I can have one of our agents contact you.”

  “I don’t think you’d consider me a good risk.”

  Woolley smiled thinly. “I have an important meeting this afternoon, so we’d best get our business over as soon as possible.”

  Traveler poured himself another cup of hot water, then took his time dunking the tea bag. “They had a tea-leaf reader here when I was a boy. My mother used to say that drinking tea when you were getting your fortune told was no sin.”

  Woolley shook his head. “The Word of Wisdom makes no such dispensation.”

  “What about decaffeinated tea?”

  Woolley waved impatiently. “Doctrine and Covenants says, ‘Hot drinks are not for the body or belly.’ ”

  Nodding, Traveler sipped the tea. “Do you have any idea where your daughter might be?”

  Woolley twitched. “How would I know?”

  “You could try guessing.”

  “I can tell you one thing. She’s putting us through hell, wherever she is.”

  Like having to deal with Gentiles, Traveler thought. “Maybe it would help if you told me about your daughter.”

  Woolley spread his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Anything that comes to mind,” Traveler said.

  Sighing, Woolley leaned back. He pretended to stretch his neck and shoulders, but he was actually looking for eavesdroppers. Because of the constant rain, the restaurant was nearly empty, with no one within three tables.

  “As you probably know, I’m a bishop and have been for some time.” The man spoke so pompously Traveler felt certain Woolley considered himself slighted, that family connections alone should have propelled him onto the Council of Seventy by now. “As both parent and spiritual advisor, I’ve counseled my daughter since she was old enough to talk. I thought I knew her as well as I know the good book. But her recent conduct took me totally by surprise.”

  He paused to take a sip of water. “We, her mother and I, can’t imagine what got into her head, throwing over a promising young man like Dwight Hafen. He’s a church scholar, you know. Some of us who know him well think he’s already taken that first step on the road to becoming an apostle.”

  Woolley’s tone said he longed to tread alongside.

  Traveler asked, “Is that important to you, having a son-in-law highly placed in the church?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with finding Lael.”

  “I’m trying to understand your daughter’s motives.”

  “Are you implying that I’m responsible in some way?”

  Traveler shrugged.

  “I was warned about you.” Woolley shook his head slowly, deliberately. “I don’t unders
tand why the prophet would trust someone like you.”

  “The fact that he does ought to tell you something.”

  Woolley’s eyes narrowed. For a moment Traveler thought he’d lost him. Then he took a deep breath and continued. “We brought up our daughter to behave properly. She did, too, while I was living in the same house with her. She would never have taken up with someone unsuitable in my presence, I’m sure of it.”

  “What do you know about the young man she became involved with?” Traveler asked.

  “Mostly what Ida tells me.” He lowered his eyes to avoid Traveler’s gaze. “I suppose she told you we’re divorced?”

  Traveler nodded.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why the prophet’s nephew would do such a thing.”

  Traveler waited for the answer but nothing came. Finally he asked, “What did your daughter think of the divorce?”

  Lunch arrived. As soon as the waitress disappeared, Woolley began probing his salad with the diligence of a health inspector.

  “I did my duty by Lael,” he said without looking up from his plate. ‘“As I said before, I personally saw to it that she learned her lessons well. Too well, Ida used to say. Maybe she was right. By the time Lael was ten, she preferred reading the good book to going outside and playing with her friends. ‘It’s not natural,’ Ida would say. She needs fresh air and sunshine at her age, not books.’ ”

  The man raised his fork to emphasize his coming words. “After Lael’s first day in Sunday school, she insisted that she should have been a boy. She wanted to join the priesthood, you see, and go on a mission. If zeal and faith is a fault, then I’m responsible.”

  He pointed his fork at Traveler. “I know what you’re thinking, a man like you. That there’s something wrong, sexually, with a girl who wants to be a boy.”

  His stare demanded a response. “I’m not here to make judgments,” Traveler said.

  Woolley chewed a mouthful of lettuce before continuing. “She felt left out, that’s all. ‘Daddy,’ she said to me, ‘it’s not fair that I can’t spread the word of God, that only boys can be priests and marry people into our church.’ ”

  He closed his eyes. “I remember my uncle saying once, ‘You could learn something from that girl of yours.’ ” Woolley sighed and opened his eyes. “The prophet was right. Lael is special. You’d know that if you met her.”

  “Your wife said the same thing.”

  Woolley winced. “What did she say about me?”

  “It’s Lael I’m after, not you.”

  “Are you reporting directly to the prophet?”

  Traveler pretended to concentrate on his fish and chips. Obviously, Seth Woolley didn’t know how sick his uncle was. Or that Willis Tanner and the First Apostle were running things during the prophet’s illness.

  “Let’s get back to the young man,” Traveler said. “Your wife gave me the name Reuben.”

  Woolley stabbed his fork into his salad and pushed the plate away. “Lael mentioned him only once, I’m sure of it.”

  “What about a last name?”

  “I think it was Kirtland. I remember it because it reminded me of Kirtland, Ohio, where Joseph Smith was once tarred and feathered by Gentiles. Maybe that name should have warned me that something was wrong.”

  “Did she tell you anything about this man, Kirtland?”

  “She said she was intrigued by him. Her word, ‘intrigued.’ He was a challenge, she told me. There was also some rubbish about him being an angel because of his roots.”

  “Do you have any idea what she meant by that?”

  “You’re the one with the angel’s name.”

  “I’m named after my father,” Traveler said.

  Woolley started to smile, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s right. It slipped my mind until just now. She said he came from paradise.”

  Traveler sat up. The old-timer in Magna had mentioned paradise, too. “Could she have meant the town of Paradise?”

  “She never said one way or the other.” Woolley checked for eavesdroppers again. “I hope you’re taking precautions. If word of any of this gets out, I could be stuck as a bishop for the rest of my life.”

  Woolley smiled as if he didn’t believe his own words, not for a minute.

  Traveler smiled back. “What do you think my chances are of getting to paradise?”

  “Nonexistent unless you’re raised.”

  Woolley signaled for the check. When it came he pushed it across the table and said, “I don’t know what this business is going to do to my uncle. Lael was always his favorite. When she was only five, she’d memorize passages from The Book of Mormon, so she could recite them for the prophet. Do you know what he used to say? ‘Sometimes I think that girl’s faith puts mine to shame.’ ”

  “Yet she joined the Army of Nauvoo.”

  “I’ve heard that, but I don’t believe it. It’s another rumor put out by my uncle’s enemies.”

  “I didn’t think the prophet had any,” Traveler said.

  “I’m talking about the ones who say the devil has risen.”

  “If he has enemies,” Traveler said, “I need their names.”

  The breath caught in Woolley’s throat. “Sometimes I think I might be one of them myself. I divorced against his wishes, after all. I hurt him deeply.”

  “I understand that you were remarried in the temple.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Lael. She took one look at Crystal, that’s my second wife, and stopped eating and speaking for two days. When she finally opened her mouth, she told me that polygamy was preferable to divorce.”

  19

  FROM THE office, Traveler checked road conditions with the Auto Club. The way to Paradise, they told him, was open, though some of the old WPA bridges were being closely watched. Driving was not advised unless absolutely necessary.

  When he got off the phone, his father was standing at the window, staring at the lighted temple across the street.

  “You know what I hate about the rain?” Martin said. “It makes everything so damned gloomy.”

  Traveler checked his watch. Despite the growing darkness bought on by thunderheads, his usual six o’clock dinnertime was still two hours away.

  Martin backed away from the window and sat behind his desk. “Driving in weather like this is dangerous.”

  “It’s not going to stop anytime soon.”

  “And they call this the promised land.”

  Traveler knew his father didn’t actually expect the trip to be delayed, considering the stakes.

  “I intend to hold Willis Tanner personally responsible,” Martin said.

  Traveler nodded. “I’ll probably sleep over in Paradise.”

  “Go first class and make Willis pay through the nose.” Martin pushed an old Western Airlines flight bag in Traveler’s direction. “I’ve repacked for you, socks, underwear, and Willis’s phone beeper. The forty-five’s still in there, loaded and ready to go.”

  “Chances are I won’t need it.”

  “I taught you better than that. Martin Traveler’s patented rules for survival, borrowed from the Boy Scouts.”

  “Do you want a safe arrival call when I get there?”

  “Don’t think I have nothing better to do than to wait around here and worry about you.”

  “Will you be at home or at Jolene’s?”

  His father answered with an exaggerated shrug before standing up to display the phone beeper clipped to his pants pocket. “To make you happy, Mo, I’ll even wear it to bed.”

  Both pagers went off at the same time.

  “It has to be Willis,” Martin said. “He was calling every half hour while you were gone. So far, all he’s contributing is panic instead of information.”

  Traveler zipped open his flight bag, reset the pager, and attached it to his belt. “You talk to him. If it’s important you can beep me in the truck. Otherwise, tell Willis not to contact me unless it’s an emergency. One more thing. Have him run the name R
euben Kirtland through the computers.”

  “Is that the boyfriend?”

  “I hope so.”

  Martin tapped the side of his head. “I’ll run it through my own computer.”

  ******

  Traveler drove north on Interstate 15, skirting the eastern shore of the Great Salt Lake for the first forty-five miles. Rising waters forced half a dozen inland detours, tripling the usual hour’s driving time to Brigham City, where he planned to stop briefly for dinner. But the Weasku Inn, the destination of many a Sunday drive when he was a boy, was gone. In its place stood a McDonald’s.

  The sight of it killed Traveler’s appetite and sent him north on U.S. 89 to Wellsville. From there, he swung east on State Highway 101 and entered Cache Valley, a fifty-mile-long basin bordered by high ranges of the Wasatch Mountains. He didn’t need daylight to see the ranches and dairy farms that lined the thirty miles of highway all the way to Hyrum, the largest city in the area, with a population of just over four thousand.

  From Hyrum, he doubled back on State 165, heading south. By now, it was nearly ten o’clock. His was the only vehicle on the narrow, two-lane road. The wind had picked up with enough force to rock the truck occasionally. He didn’t see another light until his high beams picked out a reflecting sign: WELCOME TO PARADISE, POP. 542.

  A couple of hundred yards later, he parked in front of the red brick Paradise Tithing Office on Main Street, where the faithful had been paying their 10 percent since the 1870s. Only one place in town appeared to be open, the Cache & Carry Cafe next door. Illuminated by a pair of naked light bulbs, its narrow, rock-faced facade looked more like a jail than a place of business.

  Traveler made a dash for the door. The half-dozen steps left him soaking wet. He dripped across the threshold and into a room not much bigger than a railroad car. It had a six-stool counter and three small tables standing on battleship gray linoleum. A small wire rack next to the door held loaves of bread and an assortment of junk food, potato chips, Twinkies, and candy.

  There was only one customer, a heavyset man wearing faded jeans, a red wool shirt, and a wet baseball cap. Traveler’s entrance brought the man around on his counter stool. Behind him, a middle-aged waitress with bright red hair and smeared lipstick looked annoyed. “We were just closing.”