Blood Atonement

8

The main floor was crowded with people -- men and women of various shapes and sizes, backgrounds and ages -- but Nigel immediately recognized the kind. Amateur family historians. There was something about their quiet, unfussy air, the atmosphere of eager expectation as they chatted among themselves, hushed yet excited. Many of them had crossed states, travelled many thousands of miles to be here, either waiting to be collected by a guide or tour organizer or having made their own, independent pilgrimage to the Church of Latter-day Saints' vast central library in downtown Salt Lake City. All of them were seeking insights into their pasts and origins. He envied them in a way. The American experience was an essentially immigrant one. Many would find stories of ancestors who had crossed oceans and risked life and limb in search of a new life, fleeing persecution or hardship, starting afresh in the new world, stories that were less common in the UK.

He stood to one side, watching, detached in more ways than one. He had never travelled further than mainland Europe, so the ravages of jetlag were new to him. He was running on adrenaline, the sense of being close to discovering something of import his only spur after a night of sleep had evaded him entirely. They had left Heathrow the night before, arriving in Chicago at midnight. The only seats were in economy, and at O'Hare airport they had a six-hour wait until catching a dawn flight over the Rocky Mountains to the Mormon capital, swooping in over snow-capped peaks that glistened in the eye-popping winter sun.

His dehydrated skin was stretched taut like a drum and his head felt as if it was half-filled with water. He felt dislocated, as if an actor had taken over his part and he was watching from afar. Little more than sixteen hours before he'd been sitting on a tube rattling across rush-hour London. Now here he was six time zones west, breakfast time in America, in a city about which he knew nothing, other than its importance as the centre of the Mormon Church.

Heather emerged from the crisp, cold air where she'd been making a call back to the UK. Her hair was still wet from the shower she'd grabbed at the unspectacular business hotel where they'd dropped their bags.

'I need more of that fresh air,' she said. 'It's a balm to the lungs compared to London. It's like breathing for the first time.' She checked her watch. 'The fax has been sent.

What time are we meeting your girlfriend?'

Nigel had suggested Donna Faugenot meet them. She was well connected and knew the source material better than he did. She might come in handy. He ignored the teasing.

'Ten. In the snack area.' He pulled a map from his pocket. 'It's on this floor. Somewhere.'

Five floors, almost 2,000 visitors daily, more than 600 million names on its database, and 2.5 million rolls of microfilm -- Nigel had to admit the LDS library dwarfed the National Archives in Kew. It was Tuesday -- it took both of them a while to remember that through the fog of travel -- and so the library was open until nine in the evening, but even that early in the morning it was crammed full. They headed through the throng to the snack area, a small airless cubby hole that made the old canteen at the Family Records Centre look like the dining room of the Dorchester.

There was only one person there, sipping bottled water, reading a newspaper. A blonde woman in jeans, trainers and a black zip-up jacket, heavily made up, boldly attractive.

'Donna?'

Nigel asked tentatively.

The woman looked up, then flashed a broad smile of perfect white teeth. She stood up. She was tall, maybe the same height as him. 'Nigel!' she exclaimed. 'Nigel Barnes!'

He smiled and was about to hold out his hand when she embraced him, planting a kiss on his right cheek. 'It's good to meet you.' She looked him up and down. 'I love the jacket. Very professorial,' she added, nodding.

'Thanks,' Nigel said. 'Pleasure to meet you, too.'

'It's great to put a face to the voice.' She flashed her full beam grin. You're as cute as your accent. How was the flight?'

'Er, long.' He turned to Heather, who was standing a few feet behind him, the curious smile back on her lips.

'This is Detective Inspector Heather Jenkins.'

They shook hands, agreeing it was good to meet each other.

'Thanks for helping,' Nigel added. You really didn't need to . . .'

What the hell,' she said, waving away his protest. She leaned forward conspiratorially. Always glad to be a guide through the evil empire,' she whispered.

Nigel smiled. The Mormon Church's tentacles extended into every nook and cranny of genealogy - libraries, websites, publications. No other group was anywhere near as powerful. But no other group made the pursuit of family history a cornerstone of their religion.

'Keep that one quiet, honey. The walls have ears,' she said and winked. 'Anyway, what's your plan?'

We're going to check if they've got the request and see if they'll hand the material over. Shall we meet you back here later?' Heather said.

Donna shrugged. 'Sounds good. If I'm not here, I'll be on this floor. Just holler -- quietly, of course.'

They turned to go.

'Fascinating woman,' Heather said, as they made their way to the special collections desk. Wonder how early she has to get up in the morning to put that lot on her face?'

They reached the second floor, much less crowded than the one they'd left. The special collections desk was in the far corner of the room. It was manned by a nervous, balding man in his mid-forties, wearing a pair of thick dark glasses. 'Edward,' his name badge said. Heather performed the introductions. A fax has been sent ahead of us about our request for information?' she added.

The man look nonplussed. 'Hold with me just a second,'

he said, and disappeared behind a door. A minute or so later he returned, brandishing a piece of paper. 'I have the request here.'

'Excellent,' Heather said.

He furrowed his brow. 'There's just one problem.

Actually, make that two problems. You can't access the information as it stands.'

Nigel sensed Heather bristle.

'As what stands?'

'To enter the special collections to access this information, you need a valid LDS temple recommend.'

'How do we get one of those?'

Are either of you a member of the LDS Church?'

'No,' Heather said, trying to suppress a snort of laughter.

'Then, broadly speaking, you won't be able to get a temple recommend and enter the special collections.'

'Can't you just bring it out here?' Nigel could see Heather's patience, frayed by missing a night's sleep, was about to break.

Edward shook his head slowly. 'No. You need to enter the special collections.'

Heather leaned forward against the desk. 'Can I just clear something up? The material we want to see could be of great help in an ongoing murder investigation. We have flown all the way from the United Kingdom because we were told the material would be handed to us on special request. We have made that request. Now you're telling us, after we've flown all this way, that the material we need, that could help us find a killer, is actually unavailable because we're not members of the LDS Church?'

'I see your predicament, ma'am, and I sympathize. It is not my decision but --'

'Let me guess,' Heather snapped. You're just following orders?'

Well, yes . . .'

'Look, I appreciate all that. Can I speak to someone in a position of authority? I've flown all the way from England and I'm not going anywhere until I get to see that material.'

Edward nodded. "I'll go and see if anyone's available.

Hold right there.' He disappeared behind his door.

Heather turned round, seething. 'Can you fucking believe this?' she said, shaking her head. Nigel didn't know what to say. Already his mind was listing other ways they might be able to get hold of those newspapers. He came up blank.

'Blousey Brown downstairs, can she help?'

Who?'

Who do you think? Avon calling. Your friend, Donna.'

'I don't know,' he said. 'I very much doubt it.'

'Go and metaphorically holler for her, see if she's a member. See if she knows anyone who is and has one of these recommend things.'

Nigel trudged back downstairs to the main floor, and immediately ran into Donna speaking to someone next to a vast bank of microfilm readers. She saw him approaching, patted her fellow conversationalist on the shoulder and switched her smile to full dazzle. She radiated health.

Next to her, crumpled after a day of travel, still wearing the same clothes he had left London in, Nigel felt grotty and unkempt.

'Couldn't keep away, huh?'

'No, we actually need your help right now. They won't give us access without something called a temple recommend.'

'Special

collections? It's in there, is it? I didn't know that. I thought they'd bring it to the front desk for collection.'

The smile disappeared. You sure?'

'The guy up there has told my colleague she needs a temple recommend to see the material.'

She let out a low whistle and creased her brow. 'That's strange. It shouldn't be in there.'

Why not?'

'Special collections is for Mormon eyes only. Church members use it to look up their dead ancestors who were LDS and check out ceremonies carried out in temple, baptism for the dead, sealing ceremonies, that kind of stuff. Not newspaper reports. I smell a lot of a rat.'

'Do you know anyone who has a temple recommend?'

'Sure. I do.'

Nigel almost performed a double take. For a few seconds, words failed him.

Donna sensed his incredulity. 'I take it you didn't have me down as a Mormon?'

No, he thought. You've done nothing but flirt with me since I arrived. You wear make-up. You're attractive. I thought all these things were antithetical to Mormonism.

'I hadn't presumed . . .' he stuttered.

She put her hand up. 'It's OK. We have an image problem. But be assured, not all Mormon women are dull kewpie-doll housewives. I think some Mormon men would like us to be, but there's still room for individualism.'

She put her hands on her hips. 'Not much, though.

Especially if you're a working single parent, and a divorcee.

But enough of that crap. Take me to where your friend is.'

They made their way to the second floor where Heather was deep in conversation with a different gentleman, this one in a suit, exuding more authority than the last. His face bore the simpering look of someone trying to be sympathetic while remaining obstinate. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Nigel and Donna approaching, and a mote of panic crept across his bland features. Nigel could hear Heather's diatribe.

'You're obstructing a police investigation. One that may well lead to the death of more people. Does the Mormon Church really want blood on its hands?' she said.

'Hell, no,' Donna said. 'We have quite enough of that already'

Heather furrowed her brow; gave Donna a quizzical look. The 'we' and its revelation that she was a Mormon obviously came as a big surprise, as it had to Nigel.

Donna ignored her, concentrated on the man in the suit. 'Todd.'

'Donna.' The look of panic spread.

'These people are our guests here. They've come a long way. They're working on important business, like the lady told you. Cut them a break, huh?'

He shrugged. 'Donna, I don't make the rules. They need a temple recommend.'

'I have one,' she said. 'I'm working for these guys. Ain't that right?'

'It sure is,' Heather said, nodding.

'So move along and get this information ready for these good people to take a look at.'

'OK,' he said and trudged away.

'Thanks for that,' Heather said, and Nigel could tell she truly meant it.

'Not a problem. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter. I wouldn't want any petty religious bureaucracy getting in the way of anyone finding her. Plus, I'm intrigued. Just what the hell has all this to do with the Mormon Church?'

Heather leaned against a table. 'When you said back then that the Mormon Church had enough blood on its hands, what did you mean?'

Donna smiled. 'My Church was established in frontier land America. It was a bloody, lawless place and the founders did what they could to survive and prosper. Not all of it good. Not that the current Church leaders would care to admit it. I'm different. I'm a genealogist like Nigel here. I embrace the past and all its imperfections rather than seeking to airbrush it. My guess is that the newspaper reports you're seeking don't paint the Church in a particularly flattering light, so someone is making it as difficult as possible for anyone to find them.'

Todd returned, not without trepidation. He had a moustache that even appeared to droop apologetically.

He clapped his hands together softly and took a deep breath. 'There's a problem.'

'Why doesn't that surprise me?' drawled Donna.

'What is it?' Heather asked, attempting to cloak her impatience, unsuccessfully.

'The material you require isn't held at the library'

There was a pause as they digested this information.

Heather spoke. 'Where is it then?'

'It exists only as an original copy'

'It's never been microfilmed?' Donna asked.

Todd shook his head.

'So it's not even at the granite mountain vault?'

Again Todd shook his head.

'But we were told the LDS Church had the material,'

Heather said, nonplussed. 'That's why we're here.'

'I believe the Church does have copies,' Todd said.

'Where are they then?'

'I'm afraid that information is classified.'

Nigel could contain his anger no longer. 'A newspaper is a matter of public record,' he spat out. 'You can't confiscate it, change history, not unless you're a bloody Stalinist.'

Todd looked at him impassively, soaking it up like a human sponge.

It merely served to further enrage Nigel. 'This is censorship, pure and unadorned. I thought this was supposed to be the Land of the Free? Or does that not apply to the Mormon Church?'

Todd looked at Nigel, waiting for him to finish. There was an awkward silence. He drew himself up taller. 'I'm sorry, but any complaints you have must be taken up with the Church authorities.'

He turned on his heels and scurried away to his office hideout.

They sat in silence at a cafe two blocks from the library.

All of a sudden Nigel was feeling the effects of missing a night's sleep, as if he was wearing a hat of lead. He hoped the coffee would help. He could see Heather was seething.

A girl was missing, and they had flown halfway across the world to obtain a lead that might help find her, yet they had been thwarted by the clandestine practices of the Church of Latter-day Saints. Donna appeared to sense their resentment.

'My Church has got a lousy sense of what constitutes good PR,' she drawled, ruby-red lips blowing gently on her decaff latte, creating a rippling effect across its foamy top. 'It's an endless source of frustration to those of us who believe in openness and honesty. But the hierarchy has a somewhat paranoiac view of our Church's past.'

'Why?' Nigel asked. He couldn't see what could be served by squirrelling away documents that were part of the public record.

'We're a modern religion. The Mormon Church was founded at the start of the era of civil registration, which means there's a host of documents that people can look at, some of which can be used to question Church orthodox history. Then you have newspapers that print inconvenient things. I don't recall Jesus or Mohammed having to deal with the press. Things you didn't know about can turn up and cause people to dispute the accepted view of events. And, rather than saying, "Shit, do your worst -- we believe it, we think this is a religion worth following and so do ten million new folks every year across the globe,"

the culture is to hush things up, get your mitts on anything remotely critical of the Church, or which presents an unkind view, and hide it away from prying eyes. It's self defeating, because most of these documents and records appear in one form or another. Nigel and I know you can't sit on the past. It has a way of leaking out, like blood through sand.'

'Amen to that,' Nigel said. 'The past cannot be denied.'

"In which case,' Heather said, perking up, 'there must be somewhere where these newspaper reports still exist.'

'I'm sure they do,' Donna said. 'But y'all don't have the time. Unless.'

'Unless what?'

'I think there's only one possible thing we can do, given the urgency of your mission.'

'What?' Heather asked.

'We take a road trip.'

The noise that woke her was the smack of a stone on her window.

The rest of the night unravelled like a dream and then a nightmare . . .

It being the night before the wedding, she was granted the privilege of sleeping in a bed on her own rather than with her sisters. Not that she did anything other than stare at the ceiling. She would have preferred the tangle of limbs and snuffling breath of others to the sound of her own sobs. Yet she had dozed off momentarily when the small crack woke her.

She knew instantly it was him. Her heartbeat, pounding from fear, now began to beat with excitement.

She went to the window. A. gibbous moon sweated in the sky.

She cursed the night for being so clear. There was no sign of him on the ground. As always, he must be hidden behind the barn. She climbed into a dress, grabbed a bag she had packed in anticipation of his coming, with a family portrait of herself, her mother and siblings and a few items she thought she may need, and laced her boots. She opened the window and cast an eye around the room, trying not to think of the times she had shared here with the girls, before slipping out and shimmying down the front of the house as she always did.

He was there behind the barn, his jaw set and determined, eyes burning into her.

'Thank the Lord you came,' he said.

'Didyou ever think I wouldn't?'

He shrugged. 'I did not know. I wasn't sure you could ever face leaving your people behind.'

'There was never any doubt,' she replied. He grabbed her and wrapped her up tightly. They held each other close for an age.

'Where are we going?' she whispered when they came apart.

'Somewhere far away from here. I have a horse tethered by the wood. We will ride as far as we can. To the east, to the coast. Then we will leave this benighted place because I swear your father and your brothers will come and they will try to find us.'

'Leave? For where?'

'England. There is money to be made there for those willing to work hard. Come on.' He grabbed his bagfrom the floor, shouldered it, and then took her hand.

England? she thought. It was half a world away. All the people she had ever met from there were those that left after hearing the Gospel. They barely had a good word to say about the place, though she suspected they ran it down in such a way to justify their decision to leave. Still, if it be his will. . .

'Stop right there.' The voice came from behind them. A voice she knew. Alfred, her eldest stepbrother. Mean, dumb and aggressive.

He was the last person she wished to find them.

Horton turned slowly to face him, tightening his grip on her hand.

She could see the cold flash of hatred in those eyes. She tried to smile at Alfred, even though her heart was sinking and breaking. His face carried the same vicious sneer it always did, though the dull eyes twinkled with triumph. He looked at her. In his hands was a rifle, pointing straight at them.

"I knew you'd try and make a run for it. Father said you would.

Sorry, Sarah, but you have no chance. I've been patrolling this wing of the house. Orson junior is patrolling yonder and out front is guarded by Robert.' He looked at Horton. 'You picked the wrong family to mess with, little boy.'

Horton's grip on her hand tightened so hard Sarah felt she might scream. What would he do? She did not want him harmed.

'Alfred, I will come back into the house. You can take me to Father. Do what you wish. But I begyou, let Horton go. This was my idea, he --'

'Be quiet, Sarah,' Horton barked sternly.

Alfred narrowed his eyes, then a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. 'Want to be the hero, do we, little man?' He looked back at Sarah. 'Sorry, but it's not for me to decide what happens to this piece of dirt. It will be decided by Father and the elders. If it was up to me, I'd have him strung up on the nearest tree for his insolence, the filthy godless pi--'

Horton had slowly released his grip on her hand. His went into a pocket and pulled out a pistol. A shot echoed through the night.

Alfred dropped his gun, bovine face frozen in surprise. No words came, just a gurgle in his throat. The bullet had gone straight through his heart. He fell down dead at their feet.

'Run!.' Horton urged, and she followed, head spinning. She turned back, half-expecting it all to be a joke, for Alfred to jump up and administer a beating like the bully he always was. But no. His body lay slumped against the side of the barn. 'Just run,' Horton exhorted her again, the pistol still in his hand. But as she turned, her toe stubbed a rock and she fell face down.

She felt his arms wrap round her to pick her up, just as there was a loud crack and something whistled over their heads. Someone was shooting.

She heard Horton mumble something. From the house she could hear voices being raised. On her feet again, she looked back and saw Orson junior and Robert. Another loud crack. Closer this time. Now Horton cursed louder. My own family is trying to kill me, she thought.

He led her by the hand, building up speed, veering away from the centre of the field, where they were an easy target, towards the hedgerow to one side. He turned round and fired a shot over his shoulder, without looking, almost a reminder that he had firepower, too. It met with another whistling reply, one that furrowed the soil ahead.

Thank goodness they were such wayward shots.

The sky seemed to glow brighter, her senses sharpened by the fear and the excitement. She was barely a hundred yards from her bedroom but it felt like she had crossed deserts and mountains. There could never be any going back. With him she dived headfirst into the hedgerow, brambles tugging at their clothing like tiny grasping fists.

They emerged the other side. The horse was there. He leapt up and hauled her behind him, dug in his heels and called for the animal to respond. It did and soon they were away into the night.

She did not look back once.