Gone to Glory Page 8

  Tanner pursed his lips so hard deep lines appeared in his face. He relaxed to say, “I’ve read the police reports. I don’t see what good either of us can do.”

  “Did you read them before or after I called you?”

  “So the police department is good enough to send us copies of everything that’s going on. What do you expect? This is our town. But if I read all the reports that came across my desk, I wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

  “You would if the likes of Zeke Eldredge was involved.”

  Tanner’s head twitched. He turned the motion into a search for eavesdroppers. “For Pete’s sake, Mo. Not so loud.”

  For him that was strong language. But then Zeke Eldredge was an advocate of polygamy, a practice that was still an embarrassment to Mormons a hundred years after it had been officially banned. Even so, there were still somewhere between thirty and forty thousand polygamists in the state. Both in and out of the church.

  Tanner checked again for spies. “If Pepper Dalton is convicted, Eldredge could end up inheriting a considerable amount of property. Do you know what that would mean, Mo? Do you? He’d have a permanent base for that crazy sect of his.”

  He tapped the side of his nose and nodded. “At this moment Eldredge is calling himself the Shepherd of the Flock of Zion. But we feel that’s only a cover. Probably the first step toward declaring himself a prophet. Why else would he dress the way he does and wear that long beard? He’s trying to mimic Brigham Young.”

  “Hold it right there. Are you trying to tell me that the church has a vested interest in helping Pepper Dalton?”

  “I won’t lie to you. It would be much better for everyone if Zeke Eldredge killed that woman. His conviction would give us the opening we’ve been waiting for. We could drive his followers out of the state once and for all.”

  His squint dissolved, leaving him wide-eyed with sincerity. “But you’ve got to understand me. As much as we might like that, we can’t afford to be involved, not officially. You know what the media’re like when there are polygamists involved.” Traveler caught something in Tanner’s eyes. What might have been a flash of arrogance.

  “You didn’t come here on your own, did you, Willis? This spy routine of yours is all part of an act.”

  “Hey, Mo.” Tanner spread his hands against the accusation. “You know me. We’ve been friends for years.”

  “That’s the trouble.”

  “I give you my word.”

  “I’d rather have money.”

  Tanner drew back slightly. “I seem to remember you saying you wouldn’t work for the church again, no matter what.”

  “Are you asking me to?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Dammit, Willis. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “I …” Tanner smiled wistfully. “How long have we known each other now? Thirty years?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “These days marriages don’t last that long.”

  Traveler chewed on a bite of prime rib and waited.

  “I envy you, Mo,” Tanner went on. “I guess I always have.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Your relationship with Martin was what I admired most as a kid. Seeing you two together always reminded me that my own father was always too busy to take me to ball games. His duties as a bishop didn’t leave him time for things like that.”

  Traveler shifted uneasily. There was no sign of arrogance in his friend’s eyes now, nothing easily readable. “That day at Derks Field was as much mine as yours, Mo. So is Pepper Dalton. I thank God that I can help him and the church at the same time.”

  Traveler didn’t like the implications of that. But there was nothing he could do about it, not if he wanted Tanner’s cooperation.

  “Let’s start with Deseret Coal and Gas,” he said. “what can you tell me about them?”

  “There’s alien money there. That’s the word I get anyway. Investors from California who intend to stripmine the town of Glory if they can get their hands on it.”

  “That would certainly put an end to your worries about the Flock of Zion.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s beautiful country, too. Part of our legacy. I … we’d hate to see it ruined.”

  When Tanner used we, Traveler worried. There was always the chance he could be speaking for Elton Woolley, president of the church, the living prophet of Mormonism. Through him came the word of God, by revelation, as it had with Joseph Smith in the beginning.

  “On the other hand,” Tanner continued, “I hear strip-mining is the only practical way to get at the coal held there.”

  “Let’s back up a bit. Are you telling me that the church has no investment in Deseret Coal and Gas?”

  “You hit me with this cold, Mo. I’m not an encyclopedia. I don’t walk around with all the answers on the tip of my tongue. All I know is that the company was formed in Park City in the late nineteenth century. At that time it was known as Deseret Mining. Silver was king then. When it ran out, Park City became a ghost town. It stayed that way until developers turned it into a ski resort. That’s when Deseret Mining sold its holdings there and moved its office out of the Wasatch Mountains and down here into town. I’m told they have the top floor of the Guthrie Building, under the name of Deseret Coal and Gas.”

  “‘That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “California money, Mo. What more can I say?”

  “There are a lot of Mormons in California.”

  ‘“This is the place. Brigham Young said so himself.”

  Traveler caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a beer. He drank half of it before speaking again. “How much money have they offered for Glory?”

  Instead of answering, Tanner squinted at his friend’s glass.

  “I need to know what’s at stake here,” Traveler said.

  Tanner wet his lips. “On the phone you asked about Pepper Dalton. You didn’t say anything about Deseret Coal and Gas.”

  “That’s why it’s starting to worry me that you know so much.”

  “Okay, so I may have picked up something from the computer. Five million comes to mind, though I couldn’t swear to it. Plus a percentage of future profits.”

  “Nothing else?”

  One corner of Tanner’s mouth turned up, the same sly expression he used to get as a teenager, the kind that invariably led to trouble. Like the time he’d insisted on experimenting with the contents of Martin’s liquor cabinet, leaving Traveler behind to explain the empty bottles.

  His crooked smile intensified. “I did come up with something else. It seems that Zeke Eldredge was a geologist before he founded the Flock of Zion. A geologist would know how much a place like Glory is worth.”

  “Just as you do, I’m sure.”

  “Now, Mo.”

  Traveler closed his eyes and concentrated on chewing a mouthful of prime rib, now cold. Finally he swallowed and said, “For the sake of argument, let’s imagine that we succeed in having Zeke Eldredge charged with murder.”

  Tanner’s head bobbed rhythmically like one of those toy birds attached to the rim of a glass.

  “Once we do that, Willis, you’re in trouble again. The national media will pounce on the story.”

  Tanner’s head jerked to a stop. One side of his face crumpled under the onslaught of his nervous squint. “You’re right, of course. We want to eat our cake and have it, too. That’s where you come in. You can act as a buffer. In any case, we can probably get by with the status quo, since we’ve already got Sam Howe to defend Pepper.”

  Traveler slapped his hands together in triumph. For once he’d maneuvered his friend into a clear-cut admission of church involvement.

  One-handed, Tanner began massaging the squint side of his face. “Okay, Mo. You got me. But Sam Howe happened before I got involved. Someone highe
r up the line hired him.”

  Since Tanner was in charge of public relations, with unrestricted access to the prophet, higher up meant very high indeed. Perhaps even as lofty as one of the apostles. After digesting that thought, Traveler pushed away the prime rib and worked on his beer. He didn’t speak until he’d finished it. “When the shit hits the fan, Willis, am I going to be able to count on you or not?”

  Tanner clenched his teeth so hard veins bulged in his neck. His lips, parted in a grimace, barely moved when he spoke. “It might be best if I took a leave of absence from my job.”

  Traveler stared. When none of Tanner’s usual guile showed itself, Traveler touched his friend on the shoulder. “You stay where you are. Something important might come across your desk. If it does, get in touch with me.”

  Tanner opened his mouth to say something. All that came out was the tip of his tongue.

  “In the meantime, I need some strings pulled to get me into the jail to see Pepper.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I don’t know about you, Willis, but I need another beer.”

  Tanner smiled, without prejudice. “Do you remember what we drank at that ball game?”

  “Soda pop, I think.”

  “Coke, Mo. A deadly sin.”

  Traveler closed his eyes. He recalled hot dogs, peanuts, ice cream bars, and soda pop. Generic soda pop.

  “‘You’ve got a better memory than I do,” he said.

  “Breaking the Word of Wisdom the first time isn’t easily forgotten.”

  Other transgressions hadn’t been long in coming, Traveler remembered. After their foray into the liquor cabinet, the two of them had been caught sneaking cigarettes.

  “Come on,” Tanner said. “I’ve breathed in enough sin for one night. Let’s get out of here.”

  Once beyond the glow of Joe Vincent’s, the night sky asserted itself, showing off its stars. To the west, lightning was striking Antelope Island in the middle of the Great Salt Lake.

  Traveler and Tanner headed that way, toward Main Street, walking side by side, close together but without touching. A cool mountain breeze was at their backs. Traveler hunched his shoulders, thankful that he’d taken the time to go home and change clothes before meeting his friend.

  Tanner drew a deep, noisy breath, then let it go with a sigh. “Do you smell that? You can taste the Wasatch tonight.”

  Traveler filled his lungs. “I’ve always thought Salt Lake had a smell all its own.”

  Tanner pounded Traveler on the back. “You’re learning, Mo, what Brigham Young knew the first time he set eyes on this place. That this is the promised land. The land of Zion. It belongs to us and to our children. That has to come before anything else.”

  At that moment Tanner sounded exactly like his father, Willis Sr., who’d cornered Traveler at every opportunity to proselytize from The Book of Mormon.

  “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Tanner continued. “Never put me in a position where I have to choose between the church and a friend.”

  “Are you reneging on your offer of help already?”

  “I just want everything put into perspective, Moroni. I don’t want any misunderstanding between us.”

  15

  The night-lights were on at the temple grounds when Traveler picked up his car from the lot down the block. The temple’s six gray granite spires stood out like spears thrusting against the night. Atop the tallest one, the golden statue of Moroni glistened, his trumpet poised to call the dead.

  Traveler listened. The sound of thunder, muted against the wind, came to him from the west. When he looked in that direction, lightning from the storm had grown so distant it was no more than a flicker on the horizon.

  He drove east on South Temple. Estates had lined that street all the way up to the foothills when he was a boy. Now many of them were converted law offices and mortuaries.

  At Virginia Street he turned left, then left again on First Avenue. The Traveler family home, a single-story adobe with green shutters and a picket fence, was one of the oldest in town. It had been built within a decade of Brigham Young’s arrival in 1847. Its thick walls, meant to withstand Indian attacks, kept the place cool on the hottest days. At the moment a man was standing under the porch light, cranking the old-fashioned doorbell.

  Traveler pulled into the driveway and parked behind his father’s station wagon. As soon as he got out of the car he noticed that the man was wearing a gray suit and tie, the uniform of civil servants and missionaries. Only missionaries proselytized in pairs.

  At Traveler’s approach, the man held a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the overhead light. Judging by his anxious squint, he couldn’t penetrate the darkness.

  Traveler halted just beyond the edge of light. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here on official business,” the man said, his voice loud enough to be heard next door.

  Traveler said nothing. As the silence grew the man began to squirm, a motion emphasizing the fit of his suit. Its sleeves reached his knuckles. Its trousers bagged at the knees while scraping the ground behind his heels at the same time.

  “What kind of business?” Traveler said.

  “Process server.”

  Traveler stepped into the light. At the sight of him, the man’s eyes widened. His head jerked from side to side as he sought lines of retreat. His hands came up as if to ward off a blow. “I’m just doing my job, mister.”

  Traveler let him off the hook. “Relax. I’ve served them myself.”

  “Shit. One look at you and I thought I was a goner. What do you weigh, two-fifty?”

  “I did once.”

  The man banged himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Christ, what a dummy I am. Moroni Traveler. I should have remembered. You used to play linebacker for LA, didn’t you?”

  “I was young then.”

  “This is for you, then.” Gingerly, he reached into his pocket to retrieve a subpoena.

  Traveler read the name typed on it and shook his head. “This says Moroni Traveler, Sr. I’m junior. Senior is five-six and weighs one-forty.” When he tried to return the subpoena, the man backed off.

  Traveler took out his wallet and displayed his driver’s license.

  “That doesn’t mean shit to me. The name I got was Moroni Traveler. That’s you. There can’t be more than one of you named for an angel, not at this address.”

  With that, the man feinted one way and ran the other. Traveler let him get away.

  Martin opened the door so quickly he must have been waiting on the other side. “You shouldn’t have accepted it.” He grabbed hold of Traveler’s arm and tugged him inside. “And don’t go spreading lies about me either. I’m short enough as it is. So don’t tell people I’m five-six when I’m five-seven.”

  Traveler stared at his father, who’d gone up on tiptoe as if to prove his point. “There’s no sense fighting it, Dad. They’re going to serve you sooner or later.”

  “Not me. I’m prepared to hide out for as long as need be.”

  “People have tried that on us before.”

  “That’s right. I know all the tricks. I know something else, too. A friend of mine down at the courthouse tipped me off about this. He said this was one subpoena we didn’t want.”

  “We? I didn’t see my name on it.”

  “What the hell. The damage is done.” Martin snatched the subpoena and tossed it onto the mantel, knocking over several family photographs, including his and Kary’s wedding picture. When he saw what he’d done, he smiled at his son. “Too bad women aren’t what they appear to be.”

  “I know better than to ask what that means.”

  “I’ve taught you something, then.”

  Traveler sagged into one of two tilt-back recliners that flanked the fireplace. Companionably Ma
rtin took the other one, kicking back until he was staring up at the low pioneer ceiling. Around its border was a scrollwork molding too elaborate for the size of the room.

  “Your dear departed mother would have hated to see us like this,” Martin said.

  Traveler sighed quietly. It was always your mother, never my wife.

  “I can hear her now. ‘What have you two men done to my living room?’ Men she always pronounced like some sort of subhuman species.”

  A groan came from the springs in Martin’s recliner as he twisted around to view the antique pool table he’d recently installed in the living room. Its addition left little space for anything else.

  “‘Look at this place,’ she’d say. ‘It’s no better than one of those West Temple bars you like so much. Where women aren’t welcome.’ To that, I say fine. Let’s you and I play a game of pool right now, eh, Mo?”

  “We already have a game in progress, if I’m not mistaken. And so far, I’m losing.”

  Martin snorted. “What would you say to her, Moroni? If she came back to us here and now.”

  Traveler knew better than to reply. Rambling on about Kary was his father’s way of working himself up to something.

  “Do you remember the chairs your mother had in here?” Martin slapped the leather arm of his recliner. “A pair of fussy Victorian pews with carved backs and needlepoint seats. She hired a decorator to pick them out. If sitting on them was any proof, they must have been designed as instruments of torture. Not that she ever allowed us to sit on them, of course.”

  The chairs in question, carefully covered by plastic sheets, had been moved to his father’s bedroom. Every so often he threatened to hold a garage sale and auction them off to the highest bidder.

  “She said they were heirlooms,” Traveler said.

  Martin kicked off one shoe, then the other. “I used to drive her crazy doing this. Making myself comfortable.”

  With an exaggerated gesture he cupped a hand to one ear. “I can hear her nagging right now. ‘Don’t start shedding your clothes, Martin. Stay decent in case company drops by.’”

  Traveler smiled. His mother had said the same thing to him often enough, using the prospect of “company” like someone else would the bogeyman.