Gone to Glory Page 5

  Barney released his hold on Traveler’s arm to gesture expansively. “What about me? I could use a little education.”

  Charlie grunted.

  “He’s on the verge,” Bill translated.

  The name Nephi Bates appeared on the screen, along with the notation that he was a member in good standing. Additional data were available upon coded request.

  “That means more work,” Bill explained as the Indian began hitting keys again. “But that proves it as far as I’m concerned. The man’s a spy.”

  Barney nodded without taking his eyes from the computer screen.

  “Jesus,” Traveler muttered, and headed for the elevator. Halfway there, he paused to add, “The FBI is going to get you, one way or another.”

  He knew, like the rest of them did, that J. Edgar Hoover’s Catholic-dominated FBI had been infiltrated by Mormons in recent years. In fact, there were those who suspected premeditation on the part of the church, since ex-agents now ran the LDS security system.

  “On second thought,” he said, returning to the cigar counter, “they might not have the newest phone-tracing equipment. Not yet anyway.”

  Abruptly Barney stopped chewing on his cigar and stepped back far enough from the counter to have a clear view of the front entrance. His tough-guy expression dissolved into one of apprehension. “I never thought about that.” He tugged at the sleeve of Bill’s robe. “Maybe we’d better back off for a while. I mean, there’s no hurry, is there, now that we know how to get in?”

  Before Bill had time to respond, Traveler said, “Run another name for me, will you, Charlie? Rick Dalton. Nicknamed Pepper.”

  The Indian glanced at his prophet, seeking approval. Bill gave it with a twitchy nod.

  Charlie keyed in the request. The name came up, along with the notations to see Jessie Gilchrist and the Deseret Coal and Gas Company.

  “Now Gilchrist.”

  On screen, Gilchrist was listed as vice president and general manager of the Salt Lake Saints baseball team.

  Traveler was about to run Golly Simpson when a siren sounded outside in the street. An instant later the revolving door hissed into action.

  “Shit,” Barney said. “Close her down.”

  In one motion Charlie switched off the power and pulled the serape over his head and onto the computer. Traveler’s father came dripping across the slippery marble floor to say, “I had a hell of a time getting here. Half the streets are flooded. There are accidents all over town. The police are going crazy out there.” He had a wet paper bag under his arm.

  “Damn,” the Indian said, uncovering the equipment.

  Bill pointed a finger at Martin. “were you followed?”

  “By whom?”

  “Danites, of course.”

  Martin looked at his son, widened his eyes, and sighed.

  In the early days of Mormonism Joseph Smith and Brigham Young had created their own secret police force known as the Danites. Their job was to keep the faithful in line and outsiders—or Gentiles, as Mormons called everyone besides themselves—in their place. Some said the Danites still existed, though Traveler thought it more likely that their functions had been usurped by the church’s high-tech, FBI-inspired security system.

  The computer beeped as Charlie switched it back on.

  “They’ve broken into the church’s computer system,” Traveler said for his father’s benefit. “They’re trying to check up on Nephi Bates.”

  “Why not just hire another elevator operator?” Martin said.

  “They’d just replace him,” Barney answered.

  Martin winked at his son. “Hire a relative, for God’s sake.”

  Bill signaled for silence. “Nephi is a fringe benefit only. What we’re seeking here is truth. Proof that the church is conspiring against me and my Church of the True Prophet.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Barney said. “If I’d known that, I’d never have put up the money for a computer.”

  Bill held up a hand. “Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s.”

  “Matthew, twenty-two, twenty-one,” the Indian said, struggling back into his serape. His voice, Traveler noticed, sounded vaguely like Bill’s.

  “What Charlie means is that worldly uses of the computer are yours, Barney.” Bill cocked his head as if listening to inner voices. “Holy uses are something else again.”

  Another siren sounded in the distance.

  “That’s it,” Barney said, slipping behind the counter to pull the plug. “It’s my phone line you’re using.” He looked to Traveler for moral support.

  Martin held out his paper bag. “I’ve got a fresh jug in here.”

  Bill and Charlie beat Martin and Traveler to the elevator, which was old-fashioned enough to have astart-stop handle instead of buttons. The Indian lowered a retractable operator’s seat from a recess in the wall and settled onto it.

  “Floor, please?” Bill said.

  Martin pointed up.

  “Three it is,” Bill said. The elevator bucked once before rising. Barney waved at them through the open grillwork and then picked up the computer. He was heading toward the men’s room when the second floor intervened and they lost sight of him.

  7

  The office of Moroni Traveler & Son was on the third and top floor of the Chester Building, a corner room with windows looking out onto the temple to the north and the Wasatch Mountains to the east. Among other things it contained two wooden desks placed back-to-back, filing cabinets, a couple of small tables and four client’s chairs, though there had never been occasion to use that many at once.

  Martin deposited the wine bottle on his son’s desk, then took up his usual position, hands clasped behind his back as he stood at the northern window staring out at the temple across the street. From the tilt of Martin’s head, Traveler knew his father was studying the Angel Moroni, whose golden statue graced the temple’s tallest spire. Beyond the angel, blue sky showed in the wake of thunderheads moving west toward the lake. The rain had stopped.

  Traveler picked up the wine jug and unscrewed its cap. “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” Bill said, taking the jug from Traveler.

  “Amen,” Charlie mouthed before dipping into a filing cabinet and coming out with a stack of plastic cups, which he quickly separated into a line of four on Traveler’s desk.

  Bill poured carefully, filling each cup to within a half inch of its brim. The moment he finished Charlie dug beneath his serape and pulled a Bull Durham pouch from his shirt pocket. He extracted a pinch of something and sprinkled it over two of the cups.

  “Peyote for religious purposes is legal for Indians,” Bill explained.

  Charlie held his pouch over one of the other cups and looked expectantly at Traveler.

  “Nothing for me. I can’t go out into the land of Zion with liquor on my breath.”

  Bill grinned. ‘“Strong drinks are not for the belly, but for the washing of your bodies.’ That’s Doctrine and Covenants, Mo. The word of God, in Joe Smith’s ear and out his mouth. But I say people must wash inside and out.” He drained his cup, as did his disciple.

  Martin turned from the sunlit window to say, “Why don’t you take the bottle with you, men? I’m sure Barney would like a drink.”

  “You will always have a place of honor in the Church

  of the True Prophet.” Bill held the half-gallon bottle up to the light coming from the window. “Isn’t that true, Charlie?”

  The Indian, whose eyes had begun to glaze, jerked his head. It could have been a nod or a twitch.

  “Come, Charles, these men have work to do. So do we.”

  Bill took the Indian by the arm and led him from the office. Halfway down the hall they began singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  Ma
rtin went back to gazing out the window.

  “I want to thank you for sending Hap Kilgore my way,” Traveler said to his father’s back.

  “I’m too old to get mixed up in murder.”

  “He’s your friend, Dad.”

  Martin denied it with a single shake of his head. “I remember the day you got his autograph at Derks Field.”

  “‘You were a Bees fan, too.”

  ‘“Kilgore was more your mother’s friend than mine.”

  The last sentence had been delivered in a tone so neutral there had to be hidden meaning. The set of his father’s shoulders confirmed as much.

  “You’re forgetting that I’m retired,” he said.

  “Sure. Those missing persons cases of yours are merely a hobby.”

  Martin swung around. Sunlight haloed his head, making his face impossible to read. “Friend or no friend, Kilgore was one hell of a talker. He could tell jokes all night, one after the other. Most of them dirty, too. He had a trick of spitting tobacco just before the punch line, if location permitted. Women seemed to love him.”

  Martin snorted at his memory. “Those were the days when your mother and I used to hang out at the Zang. That’s where we met him, you know.”

  Nodding, Traveler thought of Hap Kilgore as he’d seen him less than an hour ago. The vision didn’t fit with Martin’s recollection.

  “He was quite a clown in the locker room, too,” his father went on. “I guess it was his way of building rapport with his players. It worked—they played their guts out for him.”

  “Exactly how did you meet him?” Traveler asked, hoping to elicit more about his mother’s relationship with Kilgore.

  “Speaking of women,” Martin said, as if reading his son’s mind, “Claire called.”

  Traveler took a breath before asking, “What did she want?”

  “Nothing special. The usual threats.”

  8

  The change of clothes Traveler kept in the office closet was intended for business meetings, not rain emergencies. The gray slacks felt tight and restrictive, as did the charcoal sport coat with its herringbone pattern. The white broadcloth shirt with button-down collar choked him when he tightened the tie with its regimental stripes.

  “Are you going after Claire?” Martin asked from behind his desk.

  “I have a client, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Hap Kilgore is your hero, not mine.” Martin left the shelter of his desk. “I’m going to rescue that bottle of wine.”

  “Knowing Bill and Charlie, it’s already too late.”

  “Then I’ll find my own, because it’s time to get drunk.”

  “And your missing persons?”

  “Sooner or later everybody gets lost.”

  “Before you do, too, I want to know if we have any markers owed us by the police department.”

  “Nothing to cover murder,” Martin said as he left the office.

  Traveler stared at the door for a while, half expecting his father to return with still another last word. Only when he heard the elevator door open and close did he pick up the phone and dial the police.

  Sergeant Aldon Rasmussen, a part-time dealer in sports memorabilia who’d sold bits and pieces of Traveler’s past, was out of the office. So Traveler ended up talking to Anson Horne, a lieutenant attached to the Chief’s office for press and church liaison. The nature of Horne’s job and his personality matched perfectly. Gentiles were the enemy. Gentiles and private detectives. Traveler belonged to both categories.

  “Just the man I wanted to talk to,” Horne said without a trace of his usual sarcasm.

  “Yes,” Traveler said warily.

  “I have a bet with somebody here in the office about you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I say professional linebackers like hurting people. Like the gazooney you crippled for life. I say you loved it. But my friend says all that business about pro football players and their wild-eyed play is just so much TV hype. What do you say, Moroni?”

  That you’re a son of a bitch, Traveler thought. Out loud he said, “I’ll trade you an answer for information.”

  “You must want something badly.”

  “And you?”

  “I want your soul, Moroni. Failing that, your ass. Now what do you want?”

  Traveler hesitated, wondering if he should even bother with a Gentile-baiter like Horne. But what harm could it do?

  “I want to see Pepper Dalton,” Traveler said.

  “No deal. I really wanted you to owe me one, too.”

  With that the cop hung up.

  Traveler made another call directly to the watch commander at the jail. As expected, he was informed, politely, that Dalton’s lawyer of record was Samuel Howe. Permission to see the prisoner was strictly up to him.

  Traveler decided to make one last try, a call to Howe’s office. Surprise. His secretary said she’d be glad to squeeze him in for an appointment. One hour from now, right after Mr. Howe’s late lunch.

  9

  The elevator was halfway to the lobby when Traveler heard voices chanting from below. “To Zion pull the handcart, while singing every day. The glorious songs of Zion that haste the time away.”

  His great-grandmother had pulled a handcart across the Mormon trail, from Council Bluffs, Iowa, over the Rocky Mountains and all the way to Utah. The daguerreotypes of her showed a small, frail woman weighing not much more than a hundred pounds.

  “We climb the hills and far away, then down where sleeping valleys lay, while still the miles onward roll. Till Zion rises on our sight, we pull our handcarts with our might.”

  The singing stopped when the elevator reached ground level. Through the grillwork Traveler saw Martin and Barney standing behind the cigar counter, arm-in-arm. Their faces were flushed with wine. Bill and Charlie were nowhere to be seen.

  Traveler stepped out into the lobby and looked around. Interpreting Traveler’s glance, Barney said, “Our brothers have gone out into the land of Zion seeking donations for their church.” It was his way of referring to Bill and Charlie’s technique of panhandling.

  Traveler said, “I think you two had better get some food inside you.”

  “I can’t leave my post,” Barney said, lighting a fresh cigar. He blew smoke rings at the fresco of Brigham Young overhead. They dissipated long before reaching the thirty-foot ceiling.

  Martin disappeared behind the counter long enough to retrieve the empty wine jug. “Go not into the land of Zion with liquor on your breath.”

  “Sen-Sen erases all sin,” Barney answered.

  “What about guilt?” Martin picked up.

  Traveler stepped around the counter and took his father by the arm.

  “And a child shall lead them,” Barney said.

  “Toward the promised land,” Martin added.

  Shaking his head, Traveler hustled his father across the lobby and out through the bronze revolving door. New thunderheads, fresh from their spawning ground in the Wasatch Mountains, filled the sky.

  Rain drove the two men into the Grabeteria just around the comer on Main Street. As usual they ate roast beef sandwiches standing up, their cafeteria-style trays resting on the chest-high counter in front of the plate­glass window that faced out onto Main. From that vantage point, Martin insisted he could identify Mormons going in and out of the ZCMI across the street. If they squirmed, he contended, they were in search of new Garments, the holy underwear the faithful were required to wear at all times.

  Up the street to their left, Brigham Young’s statue stood in the middle of the intersection where South Temple Street met Main. He gleamed in the rain.

  Traveler closed his eyes to concentrate on chewing. When he opened them a shaft of sunlight had escaped the clouds to probe the face of the ZCMI. The ray moved like a searchlight trying to pick out t
argets.

  “I brought your mother here to eat once,” Martin said, suddenly sounding none the worse for wine. “But only once. She thought they were fools to run this place on the honor system.”

  The shaft of sunlight headed up the street toward the prophet.

  “She cheated on the tab but didn’t tell me until we were halfway home. I came back later and paid. When she found out about it, she said I was the fool.”

  Traveler glanced at the antique trolley bell, complete with rope pull, that was mounted on the wall behind the cash register. They rang it whenever a customer was caught cheating.

  When he looked out the window again, Brigham Young was caught in sunlight.

  “There are times when Claire reminds me of your mother,” Martin went on.

  Traveler’s swallow grew sharp edges that hurt his throat.

  “Hearing her voice on the phone today brought it all back. The kind of games women play.”

  Tone of voice gave his father away. There’d been more to Claire’s message than had been reported.

  Traveler took a sip of water. It, too, went down hard. “All right, Dad. Let’s have it.”

  “1 didn’t want to speak in front of Bill and Charlie back in the office.”

  “And when they left?”

  Martin raised his shoulders and kept them there, up near his ears as if to ward off a chill. “You have Hap Kilgore to worry about.”

  “You don’t need to protect me.”

  Martin’s shoulders drooped back to where they’d been. He turned his head slowly in Traveler’s direction. “That’s what parents are for.”

  Without warning, Traveler hugged his father.

  “For Christ’s sake, Moroni, you’re going to make me spill my food.” Martin pulled out of his son’s grasp and looked around as if embarrassed.

  “Quit stalling,” Traveler said.

  Martin sighed. “Claire said she has a new kind of game to play with you.”

  “What kind?”

  “That she didn’t say.”

  Traveler stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth and began chewing methodically. Claire’s first games had been in bed.