A Killing in Zion (34 page)

“Please don't let 'em out,” he said. “Those two are all I've got.”

I managed a smile. “They're not all you've got. Good night, Roscoe.”

“Night, Art.”

I closed the door behind me, and halfway down the stairs tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn't expecting to get choked up at four thirty in the morning, but there I was, getting in my car, and wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand.

 

Twenty-nine

Something quite unexpected yet welcome happened during my drive home: it began raining. And not the light sprinkle that typically passes for a rainstorm in Utah, either. No, these droplets turned into a downpour, sheets of rain, with the occasional lightning flash burning neon webs into my retinas. Motoring up L Street, the deluge became so blinding that my windshield wipers hardly helped me at all, even switched on high. Climbing up the steep road, I noticed in my mirror that the once mighty canyon blazes to the south had dimmed to a faint orange, like dying embers in the wee hours. The heavy rain lifted my spirits. Maybe this meant there was an end in sight to all of those destructive wildfires raging across our state. It so pleased me, in fact, that after I steered into my driveway, I shut off my car, got out, and stood in the showers until they soaked me to the marrow. Stepping up to the covered porch, dripping water everywhere, I fumbled for my keys, unlocked the door, and entered my darkened house. I patted the wall blindly until I found the button and pushed it, and the light fixture above my head went on.

Exhausted and dripping water, my head still throbbing from the injury, I went into the kitchen, opened a little brown bottle of morphine tablets that Dr. May had given me, and popped one in my mouth without even bothering to get a glass of water. Then I took off my wet clothes, stepped into the shower, and stood under the water awhile, letting it warm my body and spray my face. I scrubbed myself with a bar of soap and took my time rinsing off the lather. Afterward, I stepped out onto the tile, dried off, and used my towel to wipe steam off the mirror. I looked terrible. I had no hair and sported that ghoulish, stitched-up scar on the top of my noggin. Leaving the bathroom, my need for sleep trumped my grumbling stomach, and I donned my temple garments and a pair of flannel pajamas. I'm certain I fell asleep before my head even touched the pillow, and I plunged deep into slumber.

I slept fitfully. In my dreams, I wandered through crooked corridors, went up winding staircases, walked past outrageously shaped doors. One flew open and an engorged, slimy purple tentacle lunged out of the darkness and wrapped around my ankle, pulling me down a set of rickety wooden stairs. My chin bounced on each one—
thud-thud-thud
—until when I hit the cold floor, I dug my fingernails into the ground to try to stop the tentacle from pulling me inside a giant mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.

I opened my eyes and sat up. The clock said quarter to seven in the morning. I ran my hands over my face. My heart pounded something fierce.
What was the significance of a giant tentacle pulling me into a basement?
Then I remembered encountering Nelpha as she came out of the basement right after she arrived here, and Clara witnessing the same thing while I was away in Dixie City.
Why was Nelpha so fixated on our basement?
I leaped to my feet, rushed into the hallway, and flung the basement door open and hurried down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, I reached up and pulled the light's chain. The glowing bulb swung from the ceiling on a cord, throwing shadows all over.

I scanned the room and almost missed a large, rectangular box-shaped object in the dust-filled darkness, tucked away to the side of the boiler, adjacent to a shelf of jarred foods. I went over to it, crouched low, and removed a green wool blanket from it to reveal a steamer trunk, closed with fasteners, reinforced by buckled straps. I gripped one of the brown leather handles on the side and used all of my might to drag it out a few feet. I dropped to my knees before it, popped up the fasteners, unbuckled the straps, and lifted the lid. The swinging light above me slowed and cast a dull yellow glow on more money than I'd ever seen in my life. I lifted a stack of twenty-dollar bills held together by a currency strap. I pressed my thumb into the edge and began flipping bills until I reached the end, guessing I held a hundred twenties in my hand. I looked down at the trunk full of money. I must have been staring at a million dollars.

Then came the dull thud of the front door closing, followed by floorboards creaking above my head. I wasn't expecting Clara or anybody else who would let themselves in. I moved fast, closing the trunk, situating it back where I found it, covering it with the blanket. I reached up and turned the dangling light off, and I held the hot glass in my hand for a second to stop it from swinging. Though it was now pitch-black, I knew the layout of the basement, and I quickly sprang into a storage closet, where we kept boxes of winter clothes and various knickknacks. I reached for the knob and pulled the door most of the way shut behind me. This gave me an ideal view of the main basement room, should whoever was upstairs come down here. I took a deep breath and held it for a moment as two sets of footsteps came down the stairs, and a few seconds later, a flashlight beam danced around the room like a glowing sword. I watched intently through the narrow opening.

The light went on. Claudia Jeppson lowered her arm from the chain and looked around the basement. The dim bulb illuminated her dark polka-dot dress, and even from here I could see her trembling. A figure approached her from behind and gave her a hard shove, sending her stumbling forward with a fearful little squeal. She straightened and turned to face Ferron Steed, whose wide-brimmed hat still dripped water from the rainstorm outside. She said something to him, but I could not hear her from where I was standing, so I inched forward and moved my ear closer to the doorframe.

“Where is it?” asked Steed.

“It was dark when we brought it here! I need a second.…”

He hauled off and slapped her. The crack from it jarred me. She fell to her hands and knees. She returned to her feet, stroking her cheek where he hit her.

“Quit stalling,” he said. “Find it! Now!”

Claudia looked around for a few frantic seconds, eventually spotting the trunk. I couldn't help but wonder how on earth she had brought that hefty thing into my basement without any of us noticing. She knelt in front of it, moved the blanket, and reached for the fastener. Her hand froze before touching it, and I realized I'd forgotten to fasten the trunk closed after I opened it. She looked over her shoulder, and I felt a strange sensation that she knew I was hiding nearby. Steed walked up to her and, still holding a gun, smacked the back of her head with his free palm.

“Stop hitting me!” she screamed, on the verge of tears.

He reached down and grabbed a clump of her hair and pulled her to her feet. She writhed in pain, and when standing, Steed pushed her out of the way and squatted near the open trunk, gun aimed at Claudia. He used his free hand to pick up a wad of bills, and nodded with approval when he inspected it in the dim yellow light. When she stepped out of my line of vision, I poked the door slightly, careful not to let the hinges squeak. She came into view again, standing by the boiler, wiping tears from her eyes.

More footsteps trod heavily down the stairs, and I craned my neck to get a look at who was coming. The brawny physiques of the Kunz brothers moved into the light, taking their places near Steed with revolvers drawn and aimed at Claudia. Steed tossed his stack of bills back into the trunk, closed the top, and snapped the fasteners shut. He shot up to his feet and turned to the Kunz brothers with a scowl on his homely face.

“Did you find her?” he asked.

“No,” said Devlin with a headshake.

“We searched every room,” said Dorland. “Place is empty.”

“Where is Nelpha?” Steed asked Claudia.

She said something quietly. I think it was, “I don't know.”

Whatever she said, it prompted Steed to slap her in the face again, and she yelped in pain. I coiled up in rage, wishing I could go out there and challenge Steed to a good old-fashioned fistfight. I had no illusions about my prospects of going up against that heavily armed trio. I stayed hidden in that stuffy little closet, however, trying my hardest to keep my anger in check. Somewhere in the back of my head was my father telling me to choose my battles wisely, and to know which hill is worth dying on.

“It'll displease the prophet if we go back without the girl,” said Devlin. “He knows she was at the church that night. He thinks she saw everything.”

“That scum Oveson has got her in hiding,” said Dorland. “I tell you, I ain't gonna sleep easy at night until I take his head clean off.”

“You'll get your chance,” said Steed. “But we've got to focus on what's in front of us now. The prophet wants the girl and the money. Sooner or later, we'll have to find her.”

“I say we hand her over to the prophet, too,” said Dorland, gesturing to Claudia. “She was at the church when the killing happened. At least that's what her father blurted out, sometime after I sliced him up, but before we pushed him out of the airplane.”

He chuckled, until Claudia smacked him in his nose. He bent over and howled in agony.

“You bitch!” he shrieked, flinging his head back, pointing his revolver at her, cocking the hammer. “Imma put a bullet in you right now!”

I backed up a step, knocking over a broom behind me. All faces turned in that direction.

“Did you hear that?” Steed whispered.

“It came from over there.”

I crouched low, backed up, and ducked behind a big box of coats and snow boots. My feet were sticking out beyond the box's edge, so I pulled them in, and not a moment too soon. The light in the closet went on. I wasn't about to peek over the top to see who it was, and as long as I remained in the fetal position, I stood a chance of not being spotted.

“I don't see anything,” said a voice belonging to Devlin Kunz. His shadow moved along the wall and I feared he was coming toward me, but the light went out and the door slammed closed. I was too frightened to move. A minute later, the familiar sound of footsteps on the main floor rumbled above me, and I took that as my cue. Gradually, I eased the closet door open until it became apparent that I was the only one in the basement. The steamer trunk was gone. I rushed up the stairs, slipped into the hallway, and cut over to the front door. Peering through a window in the door, I watched a black Model T truck pulling out of my driveway. Gears grinded when it was on the road, and it sped southward, followed by the Hudson belonging to the Kunz brothers, which had been parked by the curb. The roar of motors faded, and the only sound left was the patter of rain falling outside.

When I went back inside my house, the telephone was ringing. I hesitated to answer it. How much more could I take?

I raised the candlestick telephone and lifted the receiver to my ear.

I heard sobbing and shaky breathing on the other end. “Art?”

“Clara?” I asked. “What is it?”

“It's Nelpha,” she said. “She's gone. Again.”

 

Thirty

I stopped at a door with the brass numbers 308 nailed into the wood. I fished my little address book out of my pocket, flipped to the
W
s, and confirmed the address in my handwriting.
J. Weeks—Maryland Apts, 839 So. Temple.
I put the booklet away, gave a knock, waited, and heard footsteps on the other side. The knob turned, the door opened a few inches—secured by a chain—and Jared blinked at me through the space. He closed the door, the chain rattled, and he opened it, stepping back and signaling me with his hand to enter. We exchanged quiet hellos and I removed my hat as I entered his sparsely furnished apartment. It was bright and airy, with wooden floors and a balcony looking out over South Temple, one of Salt Lake City's main east-west thoroughfares.

He closed the door, and we left the front entrance hall for the living room. A table against the wall had been turned into a gun-cleaning station, with a cloth draped over it and covered with bottles of solvent and oil, an old toothbrush, pipe cleaners, and a cleaning rag. Two revolvers and a box of cartridges sat in the center of the table, right below a wall clock that said 7:20. The wind blew that beautiful clean smell of rain into the apartment.

“Have a seat,” he said, tipping his head at a little green sofa.

I sat down. He plunged into a nearby chair and studied me for a while.

“It's all happened so fast,” he said. “Carl is dead. They've taken Claudia.”

“And Nelpha is gone,” I added.

He went wide-eyed. “But I thought…”

“She was staying with my wife and kids at my sister-in-law's house,” I said. “This morning she was gone. Clara doesn't know where she went. Clara's reached her breaking point. She can't take it anymore. Frankly, neither can I.” I waited a beat for Jared to take that in before questioning him. “How did you know Claudia was gone?”

“Steed and the Kunz brothers took her at gunpoint,” he said. “I was just over at Claudia's house. Several of the kids saw it happen in the early-morning hours. They're pretty shaken up about it, and they're even more frightened to call the police out of fear they'll be taken away and put in foster homes or sent back to Dixie City. I'm guessing Claudia is on her way down to Rulon's compound as we speak. That's where I'm headed. If you'll excuse me, there are few things I have to do before I go.”

“That's a bad idea,” I said. “You're going to be outgunned.”

Jared got up and walked over to the table. He opened a box of cartridges. He snapped open the revolver's chamber and began loading bullets into his .38, one after another, and then closed it. He did the same thing with the other gun. He was being so methodical, despite the rage I saw in his eyes a moment ago when we were talking.