As they sped away from the city, Nigel watched in a mixture of wonder and bewilderment as they passed strip mall after strip mall, wide characterless boulevards littered with sign after sign selling fast food and God. It was miles before they hit any kind of open road, through monotonous wilderness, few distinguishing features in any direction, a stark reminder of the brutal, vast place Utah had once been until the Mormons had conquered and tamed it.
They were on their way to Llewellyn, capital of Cache County, the nearest town to Temperance. Nigel wondered who Llewellyn might have been -- a Mormon Welshman, he presumed, who left the rolling valleys for a life on God's chosen plain. Temperance itself was no more than a tiny hamlet, with a population of around a hundred inhabitants. Llewellyn lay seventy-five miles southwest, and boasted a library, a hotel and a few other signs of life, so they figured they might have more luck there.
Donna was at the wheel, intermittently shaking her head at having discovered back in Salt Lake City that Nigel didn't possess a driving licence when she'd deferred to his masculinity and asked if he wanted to drive. 'You wouldn't last five minutes in the States,' she said, eyes still wide with disbelief. 'Public transport is for the poor and we just don't do walking.'
He smiled, let his head rest on the window, gazing out at the scenery, its size and homogeneity giving it a hypnotic beauty. Religiously, culturally and geographically, he felt like he'd stepped into a different world. His body longed for sleep and rest but his mind was awake, hungry to know more and to soak up as much as he could. Not least from Donna.
He turned to her. 'Forgive me for asking, and feel free to say it's none of my business, but how come you're still a member of the Church when you doubt its approach, the way it covers up its history, and the fact you're . . .'
'A divorcee and a single mom?'
'Well, yes,' he added, a little taken aback by her directness but grateful for her sparing him having to use a polite, strained euphemism. 'It is, after all, based on family and the sanctity of family, isn't it?'
'Amongst other things, yeah.' She shrugged. 'It's my Church. I grew up with it. I have a few problems with some of the doctrines and covenants, but then show me any Christian who agrees with everything that's said in the Bible. And there's a heck of a lot of Christians who have a problem with some of their Church's attitudes. The fact is, I got married to the wrong man and it didn't work. The way I look at it, if I'm going to be sealed to a man for eternity, which is a mighty long time, then the least I can do is make sure he's not an asshole. I ain't gonna burn in hell for that. I'll just be a damn sight more careful the next time. But the basic tenets of my Church I fully believe in.
We have our jerks and our fools, just like any other Church -- hell, just like any other religion -- but I'm not gonna let that get in the way of me following my faith. And I still have it. Long as I do, I'll be a Latter-day Saint. Soon as it goes, I'll be downing bourbon and sleeping with any man that looks cute in jeans, like the rest of you godless heathens. Ain't that right, Heather?'
There was silence. She checked the rearview mirror.
Heather was in a deep sleep.
'Maybe not then,' she added. 'Though perhaps Heather ain't the Lee Cooper jeans kind of girl.' She gave Nigel a look from the side of her eye he could only describe as sly.
'Maybe she likes her buttoned-up English guys in, I dunno, tweed or something?'
Nigel said nothing, even resisted the temptation to check his herringbone jacket.
Donna laughed softly yet wickedly. She leaned in towards him. 'I've seen the way you look at her,' she whispered. 'Is it an unrequited thing you got going on there, Nigel? Or do I sense a bit of history?'
Nigel cleared his throat. 'I'd rather not discuss it, actually,' he said.
She nodded. 'OK, I see. I'm guessing there's a clue right there in what you said, but I know Englishmen don't like to talk about these things. She's sure pretty, though.'
'Yes,' Nigel said. Yes, she is.'
Again the softer, wicked laugh. 'You told her how you feel?'
Nigel glanced in the wing mirror; he could still see Heather sleeping. 'It's complicated,' he muttered.
'As far as I see it, it ain't that complicated. You tell her how you feel and you all know where you stand.'
'Maybe I did once and maybe I didn't like what happened next. You know the phrase "once bitten, twice shy"? Well, there's something to be said for that.'
Donna gave him a kind look. 'Sometimes it's worth hanging in there, honey. I don't know much, but people appreciate someone who loves them without question.
My ex-husband only loved himself. Me, I'm looking for someone who loves me happy or sad, fat or thin, with make-up or without, the whole nine yards. Generally someone who thinks the sun rises and falls at the back of my ass. Do that with Heather and she might come to her senses. I mean, I look at you and I think she's mad. If you knew your doctrine and covenants and got yourself a temple recommend, I'd be looking to get sealed with you for all eternity.' She squeezed his thigh to emphasize her point.
Maybe the Mormon Church wasn't so bad, he thought.
They entered the city limits for Llewellyn as the afternoon light left. In the rapidly descending twilight it was hard to see much of the town, though Nigel suspected he might not be missing a great deal in terms of scenery. He was wrong: as they drove into town, Donna pointed out the dark shadow of the LDS Temple on a hill overlooking the town, backlit by a dramatic blood-red sky. They rode downtown, past the historic district and along the main drag, past shops and the occasional office block until they reached the library. As the car stopped, Heather woke from her slumber with a start.
'Have I been asleep all the time?' she mumbled apologetically.
'Sparko,'
Donna said.
The library formed part of the county office building, a grand old department store comprising several buildings connected and remodelled over several decades. The library occupied the ground floors and seemed cramped in such a tight space, though there were few people using it at that hour. Donna wasted no time approaching the desk and asking for copies of the Logan Leader. They were pointed towards the library's collection of microfilmed newspapers.
The Logan Leader was there but its origins were the same as that in Salt Lake City -- the missing editions were still absent. Nigel went back to the desk and to the demure young woman manning it.
'Do you have the originals?' he asked.
She shook her head sadly. 'We donated most of our materials to the Church,' she said. 'That includes the newspapers.'
He cursed. 'Do you have anything at all about the history of the area?'
She showed a few local histories, but they mostly told the story of the pioneers and their heroic struggles against nature, disease and apostates. He went back to the desk.
'Do you have anything, anything at all, about a place called Temperance?'
She looked shocked. 'Temperance? Why, no, I don't think so. Is it a genealogical inquiry because we have family search . . .'
'No,' Nigel said. 'Not really' He decided to be honest.
'I'm trying to find details of an incident that took place in Temperance in 1890, maybe a disaster of some kind, where quite a lot of people died . . .'
His question tailed away as he saw the blank look on the woman's face. It was clear she did not know what he was talking about.
'Sorry, sir,' she said. 'Have you checked the newspaper reports for the area? We have them all on microfilm.'
Not all, he thought, but he couldn't be bothered explaining about the missing copies. 'Thanks,' he said and went in search of Donna. She was ploughing through another section of local histories and memoirs with an equal lack of success.
'This is pointless,' Nigel said wearily.
Donna's resigned look suggested agreement.
You people want to know about Temperance?'
The voice came from behind them. They both turned.
A woman in her forties with jam-jar spectacles and a friendly face was smiling at them.
'We sure do,' Donna said. 'Why, can you help?'
She looked over her shoulder. 'Might get myself in some trouble over this, but I know someone who can.
What do you two think of frequenting bars?'
Nigel looked at her as if she was mad. What did she mean?
Donna laughed. 'These guys are English. I don't think they'll mind. Which bar?'
'Oh, we only have one in Llewellyn. Called Hooky's, just off Main. You're looking for a guy named Pettibone.
Josiah Pettibone.'
'Thanks,' Donna said.
'Just one other thing,' the woman added. 'I didn't send you.'
Half an hour later they had found Hooky's, a subterranean dive tucked away apologetically down a side street to nowhere. The last building on the left, just before the pavement ran out. Nigel could sense Donna's reluctance and he hesitated at the top of the stairs. 'Looks like a nice joint,' he said sardonically.
Heather brushed past. 'A bar's a bar,' she said brusquely.
'I should know, I've done my time in the pubs of the north.'
She headed down the stairs and through the door.
Donna and Nigel followed.
Inside, while by no means salubrious, the bar was at least clean and bright. A radio or jukebox played some muffled country music, while the only patrons were a couple of men drinking alone, who raised their heads as one to see the new customers. So this is where the local apostates celebrated the freedom to trash their liver, thought Nigel. The barman watched them approach.
Heather took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer; Nigel did likewise, while Donna went for a Diet Coke. Heather paid and remembered to tip, a custom Nigel couldn't fathom.
They drank in silence for a few seconds.
'Josiah Pettibone been in?' Heather asked.
The barman narrowed his eyes. 'Not yet. But he will be presently.' He paused. 'You from Australia?'
'England,' she replied.
'Long way to come to find a man like Josiah.'
'I'm hoping he can help us.'
The barman flashed a toothy smile. 'I'd hate to know what your problem is if Josiah is your answer.'
Heather smiled and shrugged. The barman disappeared to the other side of the bar. Heather turned to Donna.
'Donna, you get back to Salt Lake City, no need for us to detain you. We'll wait for this guy, book a hotel, and then hire a car to drive back in the morning. I'll drive.'
'It's OK,' she said. 'I'll stick around.'
'You sure? What about your kids?'
'They're with my sister and her husband.'
'She's OK to have them?'
Yeah. Hell, she's got nine of her own. What difference's another two gonna make? We better find a hotel, though.'
'Well, if you're sure.'
Donna asked the barman about a place to stay and then went outside to make a phone call. Heather turned to Nigel, who took the liberty of ordering another beer. 'I spoke to Foster while you and Donna were in the library.
They've turned up nothing new. A bit like us,' she added.
'I hear you're looking for me.'
The interloper was a tall man in jeans and a battered suede cowboy jacket, with a drooping moustache and straggling long hair, all of which suggested he was a casualty of the 1960s, except it seemed more likely that was the decade in which he'd been born.
Heather spoke. Yes, we are, sir,' she said politely. 'Can I get you a drink?'
'That depends on what you want me for. I can hear you're not from around here.'
We're not.' Heather got her badge out. 'London Metropolitan Police. I can assure you that you're not in any kind of trouble, but we're hoping you might be able to help us with someone who is.'
'Now you got me intrigued.' He gestured to the barman. 'The usual please, Jim.' The barman grabbed a beer and filled a small glass with Scotch. He placed them on the counter. Pettibone picked up and downed the Scotch and took a sip of beer, then gasped his pleasure.
'Never had a drink on the English police before. Tastes good. How can I possibly help you? I ain't never travelled further than Ohio.'
'We're after some information about Temperance.'
'Pretty ironic, huh, given you're in a bar.' He took another hit of his beer. His eyes wore the sad, haunted look of a heavy drinker.
Heather smiled. 'Are you from there?'
He shook his head, swallowed his beer. 'No.'
'Oh,' Heather said and frowned at Nigel.
Donna returned; Heather introduced her.
'You're not English.'
'No, I'm not,' she said.
You Church?'
She nodded. 'Is that a problem? I can leave.'
A look of anger flashed across his lived-in face. He continued to stare at her. 'No,' he said finally, and the anger evaporated. 'I like the look of you, which is more than I can say for most of your bastard Latter-day Saint cohorts.'
Why, thank you,' she said, bowing sarcastically.
Pettibone took another swig of his beer.
'Sorry,' Heather said. 'We were led to believe you could help us with some information about Temperance and its past.'
What do you want to know? I'm not from there, never been there, but I sure as shit know all about its past.'
'Something happened there,' Nigel said. 'In 1890, people died. The newspaper reports are missing and we can't find an account of what happened in any other source. Do you know?'
Pettibone wore a look of private amusement. 'Do I know?' he said slowly and rhetorically. He finished the bottle and looked at it.
Another round please,' Heather said to the barman.
Another round what?'
'Another round of drinks, please,' she clarified. 'Same again.'
Pettibone killed the shot of Scotch and winced slightly.
Colour had returned to his cheeks. Nigel guessed there was a direct relation between his pallor and his alcoholic intake. He breathed deeply. What the fuck is going on here? Two English cops, a Mormon researcher, someone in trouble. I'd like to know a bit more, please.'
Nigel caught Heather's eye. She nodded. He reached for his satchel and picked out a copy of the picture they had found in the tin beside the body of Sarah Rowley. He put it down on the bar in front of Pettibone. He squinted and focused, then recoiled in horror.
Where the fuck did you find that?' he said, eyes wide.
'Do you know what it is?'
'Do I know what it is?' He leaned forward. 'That old man there' - his finger stabbed towards a bewhiskered gentleman in his late sixties holding a spade and wearing an expression of mourning - 'is my great-great-greatgrandfather.'
He looked again, shook his head. 'I've never seen this before.'
'If you've never seen that photograph before, how do you know it's your great-great-greatgrandfather?' Heather asked.
'I seen other pictures. He was a pretty distinctive looking fellow.' He leaned forward, rested his head on his hands and stared intently, then let out a low whistle. Well, I'll be . . . He must have died a few days after this was taken, because I was always told he went within a week of the fire. His heart just gave out.'
'Do you know what it is?' Heather repeated.
Pettibone sniffed. 'There was a fire,' he said. A pretty big fire. The ranch belonged to a man named Orson P.
Walker. His daughter was sworn to be married to my ancestor, Hesker. Greedy old bastard already had seven wives but, you know, he figured he could do with one more. Thing was, she didn't much like the idea of it - and who could blame her? He was sixty-seven. She had eyes for a younger boy. So, things came to a head. One night, this boy he comes for her and they try to elope. Shots are fired. The barn goes up, the building next to it, the one next to that. Women and children are sleeping. Orson had plural wives and a heap of kids. Many of them burned in their beds. There wasn't time. That's their bodies you see lined up there; my ancestor was one of those set to bury them.' He looked back at the picture and shook his head.
'It was true. I kind of figured it might be a myth. But obviously not.'
'How many died?' Heather asked.
'Around twenty or so. They sent out a search party to find the girl and the boy. But they never found them.
Lucky for them. They'd have tore them limb from limb.'
It all tallied with what Nigel had found on the census.
'That picture was found in the grave of Sarah Rowley, nee Walker,' Nigel told him.
Pettibone stared at him as if it was some kind of practical joke. 'You been digging up the grave of Sarah Walker?'
he said with disbelief.
'They fled to England. Changed their names and set up a whole new life,' Nigel said.
'But now someone's coming back to get their descendants.
We think they're seeking revenge for what happened in 1890. For the fire,' Heather added.
'So they finally found them,' Pettibone said. 'And they're finally getting what they wanted after all this time.' He sipped his beer.
What's that?' Nigel asked.
'Blood atonement.'