A Killing in Zion (24 page)

“No, only the ones judged impure by the apostles. It's all secret-like. One day a boy is gone, just like that.” She snapped her fingers for effect. “That's what happened to my brother. Truth is, all of the boys in town live in fear of being sent away, out into the desert.”

“Don't the families of these boys miss them?” I asked.

“Oh goodness, yes,” she said. “Whenever a boy disappears, you can hear his mother wailing. It's a terrible noise. Some mothers get real scared and upset and they search all over town for their missing sons. The apostles tell the townspeople to accept it. They say banishments are a part of life and the will of God. That doesn't make them any easier, especially when it's your son who gets pushed out.”

“These boys wouldn't survive a week out in this desert,” I said.

“The way I hear it, most make their way up to Salt Lake City. A goodly number of the boys stay with Claudia.”

“Who's Claudia?” Roscoe asked.

“She used to be a child bride, till she ran away. I heard she got herself a big house up in Salt Lake City. She takes in the banished boys and child brides who run away.”

“I noticed your wedding ring,” I said. “Were you a child bride?”

“I got married at age twelve. My last name isn't Johnston anymore. It's Steed. Talena Steed. I'm the wife of Ferron Steed.”

“Damn. I don't know what's worse: being married to that goon, or getting married when you're only twelve,” said Roscoe. “Both are about equally tragic in my book.”

Talena didn't quite know how to respond to Roscoe's comment, but she did her best. “The apostles say the girls are at their purest when they're young. They say a young girl makes old men feel young again. That's how the apostles look at it.”

Roscoe noticed my teeth grinding, and maybe the glint of rage in my eyes, even in the darkness. He said, “We've heard some other boys went missing, too.”

“Yes. There were three others who disappeared around the same time as Boyd. There was the Christensen boy. Garth Christensen. Frankie—um, Franklin—Boggs. Chester Hammond. Ches, they called him. They were all around the same age—thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. All of 'em went missing in late May and they haven't been seen or heard from again.”

“You mean they didn't make it up to Salt Lake City?” asked Roscoe.

“No.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Couple of the sister wives are still in touch with Claudia,” said Talena. “She tells 'em what's what.”

“Why those four?” asked Roscoe. “Any idea?”

Talena shook her head. “I don't know. Don't make no sense, exceptin' for Boyd. Rulon found out about Boyd and Nelpha. After that, Boyd up and vanished.”

“What exactly was it that Rulon found out?” I asked.

“Nelpha and Boyd were close. Real close. Even after Nelpha married Rulon.”

“So Nelpha was a child bride, too?” I asked.

“Yup. She's probably thirteen now. Maybe fourteen. I'm not sure.”

I could no longer conceal my sighs of disgust. No point in trying, I figured.

Talena went on: “Nelpha and Rulon were wedded, but that didn't stop Nelpha from sneaking away with Boyd. I recollect seeing the lovebirds out by the creek one day, holding hands. They took risks, spending all this time together. I've heard Rulon is a jealous man. I heard whispers going around that Rulon found out about Boyd and Nelpha. Some say Rulon thought Satan got into my brother, but I can tell you right now that wasn't so. My brother is as good a boy as you'll ever find.”

“Do you have any idea why Nelpha made the trip up to Salt Lake City?” I asked.

Talena said, “I don't know Nelpha all that well, but she's first cousins with Eliza. Eliza's my best friend. Eliza says Nelpha took off one night and went all the way up to Salt Lake City to find Uncle Grand to tell him what happened to Boyd. Boyd being Uncle Grand's son and all.”

“Can we talk to this Eliza?” asked Roscoe.

“I don't think it's a good idea,” said Talena. “She's in the same boat I am. Child bride. I got a feeling her husband won't take too kindly to you fellas questioning her.”

“We'll leave her be,” I said. “This Nelpha. What did she look like?”

Talena spent the next couple of minutes describing—to a T—the girl who had stayed at my house. It gave me the chills, hearing her detailed outline of the girl's appearance, and she confirmed that Nelpha was mute.
They have to be the same person
, I thought.
There is no way she could be describing someone else.
I politely excused myself. I hurried inside the house and up to the room where we were staying. I found the picture of the girl and brought it downstairs with me. I closed the screen door gently, crept down the porch steps, and handed the photograph to the girl. She shined her flashlight on it and began to weep. I gently tugged the photo free of her grip.

“She's alive, isn't she?” asked Talena, wiping tears. “Please say it's so.”

“Yes, she's alive,” I said. “She was staying with my family. But she ran away. I need to find her. She's a witness in a murder investigation, and she needs to be protected.”

“What about my brother?” she asked. “Can you find him?”

“We'll try,” said Roscoe. “We can't make any promises.”

She lifted the bag's strap over her shoulder. “I got to be going. I'll cut out the back. They're watchin' this place.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Dorland and Devlin,” she said. “They drive a brown car. That's why I jumped the fence in the backyard, so's they wouldn't see me.” She paused and the light of the moon illuminated her gentle smile. “You know, Mama always said that if I prayed hard enough, God would send angels down to help us.”

She bolted in the direction of the backyard. Her footsteps picked up to a run. Somewhere out there, a rickety wooden fence squealed under her weight. The night took her away as quickly as it had delivered her.

Where we stood, we could not be seen from the street in front of Larsen's house. I walked to a set of neatly trimmed chest-high hedges nearby. The sedan came into view, parked by the curb across the street. I was hunched down far enough and it was sufficiently dark that the two figures in the front seat could not see me. I wondered:
How long have they been there? Why are they watching us?

“That must be their car,” I said. “I wonder if they saw Talena…”

I checked over my shoulder but saw no sign of Roscoe.
Where did he …
I took off toward the backyard, jogging across the grass, dodging trees, stumbling a couple of times in the darkness. I hiked out to the arroyo behind the Larsen place and put up a thorough search with only the moonlight to guide my way. No sign of Roscoe. I returned to the boardinghouse and spent the next few hours lying awake, tossing and turning, worried sick about my friend.

 

Twenty

The morning sun blazed in the sky, baking everything around us. I parked the car up the road from the cemetery, under the shade of an Arizona Ash. We were at the top of a hill overlooking the grounds, distant enough to remain unnoticed by all of the mourners streaming in through the gates, yet sufficiently close to command a good view through the black iron railings surrounding the sea of dry grass and tombstones. A thick layer of perspiration covered both of us, and I was starting to imagine the sun brushing up against the earth at any moment.

My eyes burned from lack of sleep. It had been a long night. Talena Steed dropping by out of the blue coupled with Roscoe wandering off into the night and not telling me where he was going fueled my insomnia. When he finally crept back into the room, around quarter past seven, I was splashing water on my face over the basin. I asked him where he'd been. He muttered something containing the word “pussy,” and I had no intention of asking him to repeat it.

His decision to light out in the middle of the night created a quiet tension between us. I picked up my canteen off the floor of the car, unscrewed the top, and gulped water out of it. Even though the warm water tasted metallic, I didn't care. It still came as a relief in that heat. I tilted the canteen toward Roscoe.

“No, thank you,” he said, patting the flask-shaped bulge in his unbuttoned jacket. “Got my own.”

I capped the canteen and placed it on the floor beside my feet. Then I raised my binoculars, which brought me closer to the action. A maroon hearse led the way through the main entrance, followed by a line of chugging automobiles, dusty and slow moving. Men, women, and children, most attired in black, filed into the cemetery on a sidewalk through an opening that passed under an arched doorway built of stone, surrounded by iron bars on either side. I heard the passenger-side car door open and close, and I lowered my binoculars see Roscoe walking toward the cemetery. Slightly panicky, I flung my door open, nearly falling out onto the pavement in my rush to get out.

“Where are you going?” I asked, closing the door, hurrying to catch up.

“To pay my last respects,” said Roscoe, tugging his fedora low to shadow his face.

“Are you crazy?” I asked. “They'll see you.”

“I don't care. They know we're in town. I'm sick of this hiding-out horseshit.”

Roscoe was walking at such a fast pace that I had to jog a little to keep up with him. “Come back to the car,” I said. “That's an order!”

He stopped and faced me. “With these people, you gotta make noise. Rattle the cages. Let them know you mean business, that you're not giving up until you find out who put their prophet in the cemetery. You coming? Or you wanna go back to the car and fiddle around with your spyglasses some more?”

He resumed his walk, and so did I.

I said, “Something tells me I'm going to regret this.”

“Only one way to find out.”

We continued down the dirt road until we reached the cemetery gates at the bottom of the hill. We entered under that arched stone opening. My stomach was in a state of free fall, but it calmed down after we found a shaded spot near a big oak tree, a comfortable distance from the ceremony. We were eventually spotted, and I spied a few pointing fingers and leaning whispers. It was there that we stood and listened to endless speeches about what a great human being LeGrand Johnston was, along with solemn hymns sung by the entire crowd during the in-between breaks. I recognized all of the apostles who we'd arrested days ago. They sat side by side on a line of folding wooden chairs under a white tent on steel poles at the front of the crowd. I did not see Rulon Black among them, but he might have been somewhere else in the crowd. Only two of them refrained from giving us the evil eye: Alma Covington, who had the makings of a coy grin the entire time, and Carl Jeppson, who kept fidgeting and avoiding glances in our direction. Eldon Black could not take his eyes off us throughout the entire ceremony.

*   *   *

Back at Larsen's boardinghouse after the funeral, we had visitors waiting on the porch.

Two bodyguards in suits and hats, one swarthy and clean-shaven, the other with thick eyebrows and a long brown beard plunging to the middle of his chest, flanked Eldon Black, who wore a three-piece outfit the color of his last name and a somber black tie to match. When he walked toward me, his bony knees poked out the fabric of his pants and his arms swayed like those of a loose scarecrow flailing on a windy day. His enormous jaw formed a smile of recognition and his eyes glowed with the intensity of a man convinced he sat at the right side of Heavenly Father.

“We meet again, Detective Oveson,” he said. “How good of you to come to the funeral.”

We shook hands.

“Mr. Black,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

He eyed Roscoe. “You must be Detective Lund.”

“No, I'm Dick Powell, traveling incognito,” said Roscoe. “Want me to serenade you with ‘Shadow Waltz'?”

The lean man's wince conveyed disgust.

“My father is indisposed right now,” he said. “He has appointed me his messenger, and he has a business proposition for you.”

“And what might that be?” I asked.

“I would prefer to talk at our family compound,” said Eldon. “In private.”

“Where is your compound?”

“A short airplane ride from here.”

I swallowed hard and suddenly developed a severe case of cottonmouth. “Airplane?”

“It's a Waco cabin biplane,” said the bearded bodyguard. “It's safe. I've flown her a hundred times.”

“She has four seats,” said the swarthy one. “The big guy will have to stay.”

“Fuck you,” said Roscoe. “You stay.”

The swarthy tough advanced toward Roscoe, but Eldon raised a toll-bridge arm to stop him and offered a diplomatic smile. “We'd prefer Mr. Lund stay here.”

“He's my partner,” I said. “Where I go, he goes.”

The placid expression on Eldon's face did not change. “Very well. Duke will stay. In exchange, I ask that you two consent to be blindfolded.”

“Blindfolded?” asked Roscoe in disbelief.

“It's a deal,” I said.

Roscoe leaned in close. “You crazy? You gonna let this asshole blindfold you?”

I gripped his elbow and pulled him under a cottonwood tree, out of earshot of Eldon. “It's a small price to pay.”

“You'll have to remind me of that while we're falling to earth after these crazy fuckers have shoved us out of the plane,” Roscoe hissed.

“I don't like it any more than you,” I said. “Don't even get me started on how much I hate flying. But Eldon Black isn't going to try knocking off a couple of Salt Lake police detectives. It's too risky, and he knows it.”

“All right. I'll do this for you. I wouldn't do it for anyone else, though.”

I was hoping to encounter more resistance from Roscoe, because once he stopped, I knew what came next, and I dreaded it.