A Killing in Zion (36 page)

“I found Nelpha hiding in the closet on the second floor of the church,” I said. “How do you suppose the gun ended up in the hedges outside?”

“The killer got sloppy, I guess,” said Jared. “Tossed the gun out without thinking about it, then got out of there on the double.”

“That's possible,” I said. “How did the money end up in my basement?”

“When Nelpha ran away from your house last week, she found a way to get down to the hideaway where the boys are staying,” said Jared. “She wanted to see Boyd. She stayed there for a couple of nights. That was where the truck and the money were being kept. Boyd gave Nelpha a ride back to your house on Saturday.”

“But wouldn't Clara…”

“When they got there, nobody was home. Nelpha knew a way to get in, through a basement window with a loose latch. You'd best get it fixed, boss. Anyway, when Boyd found out that was your house, and you're a policeman, he got the bright idea of hiding the money in your basement. He and Nelpha carried it down there. Your wife and children got home from the store right as Boyd was driving away. That's when your wife found Nelpha. Boyd told all of this to Claudia and she went through the roof. Hollered at him something terrible. She drove him back to … well, back to the hiding place. She kept the Model T truck, so Boyd wouldn't repeat any foolish stunts like that one again. It's parked in her garage.”

A wave of relief swept over me, as if Jared had just opened the curtains on a panoramic window, and I now I got to see everything on the other side. But there was still a big pane of glass blocking my way, preventing me from entering that world.

“What do you think they're going to do to Claudia?” I asked.

“Same thing they did to Carl,” Jared said. “Same thing they're gonna do to the boys, if they ever catch them. And unless they're stopped, they'll go right on destroying more innocent people.”

Jared slipped his loaded guns into a holster belt he was wearing, and he reached for his olive green fedora and placed it on his head. He started to leave, but I stepped in his way.

“I'm afraid I can't let you go, Jared.”

He dipped his head, giving me a prime view of the top of his hat.

“Step aside, boss.”

“You're my subordinate until Monday morning,” I said. “I'm ordering you not to go.”

He glared at me. “I said move out of my way.”

“Have you even thought through what you're going to do?” I asked. “What good is a pair of .38s in a situation like this?”

“I've got a whole arsenal packed into Claudia's Nash outside,” he said. “And I'll use it, if need be. Now clear out of my way.”

“No.”

His body relaxed and he turned his back to me, as if prepared to give up.

I didn't expect him to hit me. He did, however. A second later, I was flat on my back, in a pained daze, only semiconscious, my face burning with searing white pain in the spot where his knuckles struck my skin, coupled with my head throbbing from my other fresh injury. He said something on his way out the door. In my current state, I could not be sure of his exact words, but the gist of it was, “I hated doing that.”

 

Thirty-one

Although I knew I wasn't supposed to set foot in Public Safety during my suspension, I opened the door marked
ANTI
-
POLYGAMY SQUAD
and entered the familiar office with Roscoe tailing me. I'd been briefing him ever since I picked him up from his apartment, but I only had time to tell him a portion of everything I knew. When we walked into the office Myron looked shocked to see us. He dropped his fountain pen, swiveled toward us in his chair, and watched me go to the filing cabinet, where I opened a drawer and pulled out the dossier on Rulon Black. Roscoe sat down at his desk and opened a pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco while I went to work, flipping open the file and turning pages.

“Aren't you two suspended?” Myron asked.

“I've got a message for the higher-ups,” said Roscoe, raising his middle finger.

“Charming, as always,” said Myron.

“My way of saying thanks for the memories,” said Roscoe, lowering his finger.

“Jared has gone off to Rulon Black's compound,” I said, flipping through the file on my desk, searching for hints about the compound's location. “The son of a gun coldcocked me, so I can't be sure of precisely when he left. I think it was around eight.”

I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nine fifteen.

Myron winced. “Why did he hit you?”

“I wouldn't get out of his way.”

“Sorry to hear,” said Myron. “But last I checked, you're not supposed to be here.”

“Let them fire me,” I said. “I need to find out where Rulon's place is.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Myron.

“See if I can head off Jared,” I said. “Otherwise it's certain suicide for him.”

“Why not put in a call to the sheriff down there?” asked Myron.

“I telephoned Sheriff Colborne from Roscoe's apartment,” I said. “He says he's putting his deputies on alert, but he doesn't actually know where the compound is, or how to find it.”

“Notify the highway patrol,” said Myron. “They'll issue an all-points for Jared's car.”

“Good idea. He's driving a Nash Ajax belonging to Claudia Jeppson.” I looked at Roscoe. “Will you do the honors?”

“Sure. Got a year and color?”

“Twenty-six,” I said. “Green.”

He got on the phone and rattled the earpiece cradle up and down. While he asked the operator to dial the UHP, Myron slid his chair closer to me.

“Should we go talk to Claudia Jeppson?” asked Myron. “Maybe she knows…”

“The polygs have got her,” I said.

“Ask the mute girl, then,” said Myron. “Possibly she can write it out.”

“She's missing,” I said. “A lot has happened since last night that you don't know about. I'm still trying to figure it all out. My head is spinning.”

“Sounds like there isn't anything you can do,” said Myron. “I can tell you right now there's nothing in that file that's going to help you.”

Despite Myron's advice, I flipped my way through thin carbon sheets and news clippings that told me nothing about the location of Rulon Black's compound. I was wasting my time. I closed the file, slid it aside, and buried my face in my hands.

Roscoe lowered the telephone earpiece into the cradle. “That's done. They're going to broadcast a bulletin on Claudia's Nash. Hopefully they'll spot it.”

The telephone on my desk rang. I lowered my hands. I almost answered it. Then I remembered my suspension. I looked at Myron. He nodded and came over to my desk.

He lifted the receiver to his ear the and transmitter to his mouth. “Anti-Polygamy Squad, Detective Adler here.” He listened for several seconds. “Uh-huh.” He went silent again. “Uh-huh. Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

He placed the receiver in the cradle and set the telephone on the desk. Gazing at me from behind those thick glasses, he hesitated to tell me what he'd just heard.

“That was Wit,” he said. “Orville Babcock is dead.”

The announcement hit me hard. I instantly felt drained and defeated. I even broke out in a cold sweat. What more could happen? I thought about what Jared said about how the justice system couldn't stop the polygamists. Their reign of terror was all happening out of view of the police.

“The last time he was seen alive was in a telephone booth at an all-night diner up in Ogden early this morning,” said Myron. “The waitress told police he was making a frantic telephone call to somebody, but apparently the operator couldn't establish a connection in the storm. Eyewitnesses saw him leaving. A few hours later, his automobile crashed into a ravine. Looks like it was forced off the road.”

“Aw shit,” said Roscoe. “I didn't like the shyster, and I didn't want him selling you one of his lemons, Art, but he didn't have that coming.”

“No,” I said. “He certainly didn't.”

I suddenly remembered something Babcock had told me on the telephone, a fragment of what he said that I could actually hear through all the static. I snagged a city directory and began thumbing madly through it to the
F
s.

“What is it?” asked Myron, watching me with concern.

“That frantic call Babcock made was to me. He telephoned me in the middle of the night, before I went over to Roscoe's place,” I said. “It was a bad connection. I only heard a bit of what he said. He mentioned somebody named Floyd Fairfield. I'm pretty sure he mentioned the man in reference to the four boys who stole the money. Maybe this Fairfield guy is somebody who lives in town, who was trying to help the—”

“He probably meant Camp Floyd,” said Myron. “It's an abandoned army outpost, near a little village called Fairfield, about ninety minutes' drive southwest of here.”

“I wonder if that's where the four boys are hiding,” I said.

“How would Babcock know that?” asked Roscoe.

“He's Carl Jeppson's cousin,” said Myron, with a pensive squint. “You know, it's got me wondering. Since Babcock already split with the fundamentalists, maybe he was helping Jeppson do the same. That's not so far-fetched, if you think about it. Jeppson might've been confiding in him before they were both killed. Babcock probably knew too much, and that's why they went after him.”

Roscoe reared his head in amazement. “I'm still trying to figure out how in the hell you know they're related?”

“It's in Jeppson's file,” said Myron. “Babcock used to be one of the apostles in the Fundamentalist Church of Saints before he got driven out. I found a picture of Babcock and Jeppson taken in happier days, in an old issue of
Truth
. The caption identified them as quote—proud cousins Carl Jeppson and Orville Babcock—unquote
.
”

“How do you remember this shit?” asked Roscoe.

Myron tapped his temple. “Eidetic memory.”

“Hell, there are times when I can't remember to buy toilet paper,” said Roscoe. “I once had to rub the pages of a
Saturday Evening Post
together—”

“I don't want to hear that,” interrupted Myron.

“I guess this means I'm going to Camp Floyd,” I said.

“What on earth for?” Myron asked.

“On the off chance one of the boys will know where Rulon Black's compound is,” I said.

“What good will that do?” pressed Myron. “You don't know what Jared's got planned.”

“I've got a pretty good idea, with all of that firepower he's hauling,” I said. “It's not going to end well for him, either. Not unless I try to stop him.”

“I hate to have to agree with Adler on this one,” said Roscoe. “Even if you find Jared, he's chosen his fate. I don't see how we're going to stop him.”

I smiled warmly at my old friend. “I'm not asking you to come with me,” I said. “This is
my
squad. At the end of the day, I've got to be able to say I did everything possible to protect the men under my command.”

“That's it?” asked Roscoe.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “I'm coming, then.”

“It's up to you,” I said.

“I'm sure as hell not gonna let you go alone, Art,” said Roscoe.

“Count me out,” said Myron. “When I applied for this job, nobody told me I'd have to be in the gunfight at the OK Corral.”

“You'd be doing me a favor by staying here and watching over this place,” I told Myron. “Until I get back.”

Myron nodded. I checked the clock again: 9:34. I looked at Roscoe.

“Well?”

“My chariot awaits out back, sir,” he said.

*   *   *

To get to Camp Floyd, I took U.S. Route 89, a highway built about eight years ago that connected Salt Lake Valley to its southern neighbor, Utah Valley. It was late morning, with pristine blue skies. For the first time in weeks, I could hardly see the dark plumes of smoke coming out of the mountain canyons. The rainstorm had worked its magic. It was one of the few good developments I could point to from the last twenty-four hours.

Much of our drive took us past either farms or uninhabited land, and sometimes we'd pass through a little town—Murray, Draper, Lehi—on our way. We exited 89 in the north end of the valley and headed west, along the shimmering tip of Utah Lake, a freshwater cousin of the Great Salt Lake. During the drive, I caught Roscoe up on everything I knew, and by the time we exited 89, I'd essentially gotten him up to speed on the situation, as I knew it. He kept quiet for most of the trip. With Fairfield coming up in a few miles, I couldn't resist asking him about something that had been vexing me.

“You told me she's your daughter,” I said. “You had to know I'd ask about the girl in the picture.”

I expected him to shake his head or roll his eyes or sigh—something to show his displeasure. He just looked over at me with sleepy eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, what's her name?”

“Rose. Rose Chisholm.”

“Not Rose Lund?”

“No.”

“How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“Where does she live?”

“Denver.”

“Why Denver? Why not here?”

“After Rose was born, I left my wife, Catherine. She raised Rose on her own.”

I kept driving in silence. What could I say? Eventually, Roscoe continued.

“I was young. I was a goddamned fool. The only things I was any good at in those days was getting drunk, getting laid, and beating up strikers. I ran out on my little family in the middle of the night, too cowardly to do it when the sun was up.”

He took out his silvery flask, unscrewed the lid, and took two swallows. He capped it and put it away. I could see the torment in the lines on his face.