by R. R. Irvine
“Take a seat,” Martin said. “Well talk to our ancestors.”
“Now, Moroni,” Jolene said. “Remember where you are.”
Traveler grinned. Few people got away with calling his father Moroni.
Jolene Clawson was sixty or so, a thin, busty woman with gray hair bleached white. She was, Martin had once said, what Kary might have looked like had she lived long enough.
“I was told that Elihu Moseby was here,” Traveler said.
“You don’t see him, do you?” Martin replied.
“The First Apostle has been very helpful,” Jolene said. “We have him to thank for Sister Christensen here. She’s a senior librarian.”
The woman forced a smile before retreating to her desk, which was out of earshot but still within easy striking distance.
Martin left his chair to kiss Jolene on the cheek. “My son and I have family business.”
“Fine by me, but you watch your language in here.” She kissed him back, an airy peck, before vacating her chair to join Mrs. Christensen.
Martin patted the empty chair. As soon as Traveler sat down his father turned back to the computer terminal and typed in a request.
A listing for Ned Payson, Traveler’s grandfather on his mother’s side of the family, came on the screen.
“Wouldn’t you know Kary’s kin would be a dentist,” Martin said. “No empathy in that bloodline.”
“You sent me to him as a child.”
“You know your mother. What choice did I have?”
Traveler clenched his teeth, remembering the ethyl chloride Ned used instead of novocaine. It won’t hurt, Ned lied every time.
Martin hit another key. Ned’s family tree grew.
“Let’s see your side of the family,” Traveler said.
With a keystroke, his father turned the screen blank. “We haven’t got time to waste. Now let me explain how this works. For decades the church has been sending out missionaries to collect damn near every record in the world. Marriage certificates, birth certificates, death certificates. They’ve walked cemeteries everywhere, recording tombstones, seeking the dead just as Joe Smith decreed. It’s all here, at our fingertips.”
“Try Moseby,” Traveler said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want any more surprises, like finding out Moseby’s daughter is also his driver.”
Nodding, Martin typed in MOSEBY, ELIHU.
The terminal beeped.
RESTRICTED FILE blinked on the screen. ACCESS DENIED.
“Shit!” Martin murmured.
Traveler glanced toward Mrs. Christensen’s desk. “Try again.”
More beeps.
“Damn,” Martin said.
Traveler checked the librarian again. This time two security men were blocking his view.
The biggest one, armed with a nightstick, said, “Sorry, gentlemen. You’ll have to leave.” The second man carried a two-way radio in one hand.
Martin ignored them to type in Moseby’s name again. This time the beep persisted.
“Use your heads,” Martin said, “We’re here at this time of night because the First Apostle opened the library for us.”
“Requesting backup,” the smaller man said into his radio.
Jolene and Mrs. Christensen stepped out from behind the guards.
“It’s true, I’m here at the apostle’s request, “ Mrs. Christensen said, “but he didn’t say anything about giving you people access to restricted files.” She stared at the computer screen. “Access denied means just that.”
Traveler heard the sound of running feet. A moment later two more security men arrived. These two were armed.
“Don’t get excited,” Traveler said. “There’s a letter I want to show you. My inside coat pocket.” Very slowly, he reached for the plastic bag that contained Elton Woolley’s carte blanche.
Once unwrapped, he handed the document to Mrs. Christensen, who grasped it by her fingertips as if fearing contamination. As soon as she looked at it, her face reddened, her hand trembled.
“The prophet has spoken,” she whispered, holding the letter at arm’s length so the security men could read it.
They watched with awe as Traveler rewrapped the letter and tucked it away.
“What we’re doing here is confidential,” he said. “Mrs. Christensen may stay because we need her help with the computer.”
The guards nodded and hurried away, looking relieved. Once they were gone, the librarian supplied the access code.
The moment Martin typed it into the computer, the screen filled with data. Elihu Moseby, like all good Saints, had been fruitful and multiplied. He had three sons, Elihu Jr., Malachi, and Orson, and four daughters, Emerald, Ruby, Beryl, and Crystal. His wife, Anna, née Rockwell, came from the well-known pioneer family that gave its name to a chain of clothing stores, Rockwell’s, with branches in Salt Lake, Provo, Ogden, and Cedar City.
“Look at the daughters,” Traveler told his father. “Every one a gemstone.”
“I’ll be damned.” Martin keyed in the name OPAL TAYLOR.
Nothing came up. He tried again with the same result. Mrs. Christensen took his place at the computer. After twenty minutes of repeated failures, she sat back and scowled at the computer screen. “I don’t understand it. Taylor is a prominent name. Who is she?”
“The head of a local women’s group,” Martin said.
“Then we should have a listing for her.”
“Are there any other restricted access codes?” Traveler asked.
“None that I’m aware of.”
“Maybe Opal Taylor has been erased,” Martin said.
Mrs. Christensen shook her head emphatically. “That’s a possibility, of course. But Taylor’s an English name. We have every record available from that country. If Opal Taylor’s not in our computer, it’s my opinion that no one by that name ever existed.”
31
TRAVELER WAITED for morning before driving to the state capitol. The building stood at the top of State Street, overlooking the entire Salt Lake valley. For the first time in a week, the skies were blue and the headwaters of the Little Jordan were no more than a trickle.
The building, constructed of Utah granite like the temple, was a small-scale version of the national capitol, domed in the center with two wings, one for each branch of the legislature. In theory there was total separation of church and state in Utah. In practice Traveler had no trouble finding a civil servant who would honor Elton Woolley’s carte blanche.
An hour later, armed with a complete records check on Opal Taylor, Traveler returned to the Chester Building to consult his father. Martin was on the phone doing his best to reassure Willis Tanner.
“Moroni left first thing this morning, Willis.” Martin held up crossed fingers to alleviate the lie. “No, he didn’t say where he was going, but I’m sure he’s on the job.”
Martin waved to ask Traveler if he wanted his presence known. Traveler nodded that he did and sat down in the sunlight flooding his desk.
“You’re in luck,” Martin said into the phone. “He just came through the door.”
Traveler picked up his extension. “I need to meet with the First Apostle.”
“What’s happened?” Tanner asked.
“This morning if possible.”
Tanner caught his breath but ignored the rebuff. “He’s got a heavy schedule today, so I’m manning the command center. If there’s something you need, I’ll take care of it.”
“I want his driver there, too,” Traveler said. “Or should I say daughter.”
“You’ve come up with something, haven’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”
“Willis!”
“All right. I’ll talk to him and get back to you as soon as I can.”
The moment Tanner hung up, Traveler swung his chair around to face the temple. At the top of one spire, the Angel Moroni’s statue looked close enough to touch.
Martin rolled his chair over to join Traveler at
the window.
“They’re calling the change in weather a miracle,” Martin said.
Bright sunlight made the temple granite shine like white marble.
“They say another day of rain would have destroyed the land of Zion.”
Traveler grunted. “Who does?”
“Bill and Charlie, of course. I talked to them in jail this morning.”
“What about bail?”
“I’m afraid we’ll need a lawyer if we’re going to get anywhere.”
Traveler leaned forward until his head touched the glass. To the west, beyond the Great Salt Lake, a line of dark clouds blurred the horizon. “It looks like the new storm front got past the Sierras after all.”
“Bill says—”
The phone rang.
Traveler spun around to grab the receiver. “Willis, I—”
“It’s me, Moroni. Stacie Breen.”
In that moment before she identified herself, he’d thought it was Claire back from the dead.
“I called to give you one last chance.”
Claire used to say the same thing.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes.” Traveler motioned his father to pick up the extension on his desk.
“Moroni Traveler the Third needs a father,” she said.
For his fathers benefit Traveler asked, “How much do you want this time?”
“Claire told me that with you it was a matter of motivation. She said you wouldn’t come to her rescue unless you thought she was in trouble.”
“She cried wolf once too often,” Martin put in. “It got her killed.”
“Who else is on the line?” she demanded.
“Moroni Traveler the First,” Martin answered.
“That’s all right then.”
“Get to the point,” Traveler said.
“I could tell you the boy’s in danger, but then I’m not Claire. You don’t love me.”
Martin made a face and mouthed, “Women.”
“I’ve decided to hold an auction,” Stacie went on. “I’ll sell the boy to the highest bidder.”
“Are you talking about the boy in person or just his location?”
She snorted. “That’s for you to worry about.”
“You’re bluffing just like Claire,” Martin said. “You’ve only got two buyers, us.”
“People are standing in line to adopt children.”
“When and where is the auction?” Traveler asked.
“Now that I’m sure you’re interested, I’ll let you know.”
She hung up laughing at him, something Claire had done often enough.
As soon as Traveler replaced the receiver, the phone rang again. “Ten minutes,” Tanner said. “The Hotel Utah roof garden.”
32
THE HOTEL Utah, with its enameled white brick facade, glazed terra-cotta scrollwork, and ornate beehive cupola, was once the finest hotel in the West. Its roof garden restaurant had been a yearly birthday treat when Traveler was growing up.
Now it was a church office building, with enough security checkpoints to get Traveler searched twice before he reached the elevators. From there, he was escorted all the way to the roof, where he was turned over to Crystal Woolley.
The First Apostle was seated at a white metal table overlooking the temple across the street. In the center of the table, a golden beehive-shaped tray held a pitcher of lemonade and three crystal tumblers. Sunlight reflecting through the glass prisms covered the tabletop with rainbows.
Moseby rose, buttoning his blue blazer before shaking hands. “Congratulations. I understand from Willis that you’re making progress.”
“That’s his assumption.”
“Well now. You’d better sit down and explain that. Chris, pour Mr. Traveler a glass of lemonade.”
She carefully measured out three glasses, then took hers far enough away to be out of earshot.
Traveler sipped. The lemonade was too sweet for his taste. “I want to thank you for opening the genealogy library for my father last night.”
“Of course,” Moseby said. “They tell me you looked up my family history.” He shrugged. “Boring stuff, so that can’t be why you’re here.”
“Emerald, Beryl, Ruby, and Crystal.” Traveler smiled. “Gemstones as in Opal. Opal Taylor.”
“Now that you mention it, I like the name. I should have given it to my daughter, Ruby, who’s always complaining that Ruby sounds ethnic.”
Moseby removed his glasses and polished them on an immaculately ironed white handkerchief before continuing. “But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? You’re thinking that maybe I have some connection with this Taylor woman. I assure you, however, that I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“Neither do the church computers.”
“So I’ve heard from our librarians. Of course, there may be bugs in our genealogy system. I’m no expert on software and the like. But the fact that she’s not listed with us doesn’t mean she won’t show up somewhere else.”
“Exactly my thinking.” Traveler took another sip of his lemonade. “That’s why I ran her name through a records check at the state capitol.”
Moseby topped off Traveler’s glass. “How did you manage that?”
“I had help from the prophet.”
Judging from Moseby’s blank look, the First Apostle hadn’t been told about the carte blanche.
“The state computers came up with only one Opal Taylor. She died in 1934.”
Traveler glanced at Moseby’s daughter, who was standing at the parapet staring across Main Street at the temple.
“When I checked out that license plate number you ran for me,” Traveler said “I didn’t come up with Opal Taylor. The name I got was Reuben Kirkland.”
“Someone’s going to pay for giving me bad information. Moseby pounded the table so hard the crystal pitcher fell over, shattering. His daughter whirled around, but he motioned her to stay where she was.
Traveler said, “In case you’ve forgotten, I was talking to you on the phone when you had Willis Tanner type that license plate number into your computer. The bad information came from you.”
“Chris!” Moseby shouted. “Get me Willis Tanner on the phone. Now.”
“Don’t bother,” Traveler said. “I don’t want to put him in the middle.”
“Suit yourself.” Moseby rose from the table. “Chris, you’d better find a broom and clean up this mess.”
Traveler stayed seated. “If we can believe that genealogy computer of yours, you married into a very prominent family, the Rockwells. I bought my first suit from Rockwell Clothiers, a blue double-breasted for my high school prom.”
Grudgingly, the First Apostle eased back into his chair. His daughter stood behind him. Her sharply pointed shoes made Traveler wonder if she’d been one of the women who’d waylaid him.
Traveler smiled. “If I remember my history, the Rockwells started out as tailors. That’s spelled differently, of course, t-a-i-l-o-r instead of T-a-y-l-o-r. But I think you can see what I’m getting at.”
“A coincidence of names isn’t proof of anything.”
“What do you think a man like Elton Woolley would say about it?”
“He’s not talking to anyone at the moment. Maybe he never will again. Besides, what’s the word of a Gentile like yourself against the church’s First Apostle? If I were you, Mr. Traveler, I’d look to The Book of Mormon. ‘He that fighteth against Zion, both Jew and Gentile, both bond and free, both male and female, shall perish; for they who are not for me are against me, saith our God.’ ”
33
TRAVELER HEADED for the Chester Building to consult his Book of Mormon. Two men followed him from the Hotel Utah. They both wore raincoats despite the sunshine. Traveler had more faith; he’d left his coat in the car.
The moment he entered the office, his father turned away from the window and said, “You’re being followed.”
“I know. Two men in raincoats.”
“I ma
ke it three.”
Traveler looked for himself. Number three had been walking by the hotel when Traveler came out. There’d been no sign of his raincoat at the time.
Martin pointed toward the west, where the clouds on the horizon had grown into thunderheads. “The look on your face tells me we’re in for more than rain.”
“Sit down,” Traveler said, “and listen to this.”
For the next few minutes, he replayed his interview with the First Apostle. When he finished, Martin went back to staring out the window.
“Those must be Moseby’s men out there.”
Traveler nodded. “He’s been playing games with us from the beginning.”
“What the hell do we do about it?”
“According to the Ware girl, Lael Woolley used to preach to her boyfriend, Reuben Kirkland. Something about taking him to New Jerusalem one day to show him where the city of Zion would be built.”
Traveler began rummaging in his desk. “Where’s our Book of Mormon?”
Martin patted his coat before bringing out their pocket-size edition. “Before you got here, I was refreshing my memory on baptisms for the dead.”
He slipped behind his desk and began thumbing through the book’s index. “Here’s what we want. Doctrine and Covenants. ‘Hearken, O ye elders of my church, saith the Lord your God, who have assembled yourselves together, according to my commandments, in this land, which is the land of Missouri, which is the land I have appointed and consecrated for the gathering of the saints. Wherefore, this is the land of promise, and the place for the city of Zion.’ That’s Joe Smith speaking, back in 1831. The church has been buying up Jackson County, Missouri, where he said the Garden of Eden was located, ever since.”
“I’m a dummy,” Traveler said. “I was on my way to the town of New Eden when Moseby had me called back. Supposedly, the Sisters Cumorah and the nonexistent Opal Taylor were threatening to make the kidnapping public.”
“If you’re saying Moseby’s behind it, it doesn’t make sense. He has nothing to gain by kidnapping the girl or from a false revelation either, for that matter.”
Traveler said, “What about Newel Ellsworth? Why kill him?”
Martin shook his head. “New Eden’s a long way to drive if it starts to rain. It would be easier to call Willis and have him check it out.”
