I followed his advice. Not because I agreed with him, but because what choice did I have? I carried my box to the depot, boarded the train bound for Salt Lake City, and found a comfortable seat in the observation car, where I watched the red-and-orange desert streak past me. When I got home, I found a spot on the highest shelf in my closet for that box, and I pushed the door closed on it.
I recalled Buddy’s words. “Don’t let the polygamists become your white whale.”
And yet, my longstanding animosity toward the plural marriage racket ruled out any hope of following that advice. So it was with mixed feelings that I watched more and more local polygamists pack their belongings in the summer and fall of 1934, sell their property in town, and relocate to Dixie City. On the one hand, I wouldn’t miss them. On the other, I knew they’d be impossible to bust once they retreated to that insular little community way out in the middle of nowhere.
The fundamentalists found a new prophet, Alma Covington, to head their church. He sold his house on Third Avenue and he and his many wives took up residence in Rulon Black’s compound. I’m sure there was plenty of room in that grim behemoth of a dwelling for the whole lot of them, and his sizable printing press.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1934
We sat in the idling car, parked alongside the curb, on a hill in a suburb of Denver. As the weather reports promised, the snow was falling sideways, blanketing everything in white. I kept the radio tuned to station KOA, which broadcast Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra performing Christmas music. Up and down the block, colored Christmas lights flashed on and off in living room windows.
Roscoe sat on the passenger side of the front seat, gripping a teddy bear and a bright bouquet for dear life, as if afraid they’d be snatched out of his clutches. He was freshly shaven, and he wore a fancy suit that he’d purchased for this very occasion. On the car floor, a festive green-and-red bag with handles on it held a bunch of gift-wrapped presents. The weight of my stare must’ve gotten to him, because he turned his head toward me and gave me the angry eye.
“What?”
“You look handsome.”
He faced forward and took a deep breath. “I shoulda never let you talk me into this.”
“You won’t regret it.”
“How do you know?”
The snow was falling harder now, covering everything in sight. I switched on the windshield wipers, and they squeaked back and forth, clearing the powder out of our way.
“A girl needs her father,” I said.
“She’s probably gonna tell me to go to hell,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame her if she did. My old man ditched my mom and me when I was a little kid. I never knew the prick. Shit, I don’t even know what happened to him. If he ever came back, which I don’t expect he’d ever do, but if he did, I’d tell him to go fuck himself.”
“She needs you,” I said. “You’ll see.”
A big black Packard rolled past us through the slush and snow and swerved into the driveway of the house across the street. An older man in a hat and overcoat got out of the front, stepping off the running board into the snow, and closed the door behind him. A woman with white curly hair and a long coat emerged from the passenger side. She opened the back door and a teenage girl with a green hat and a red coat climbed out of the car. The trio went inside.
“That’s her,” I said. I looked at Roscoe.
“I know! Christ, Art, you don’t gotta tell me! I already know!” He licked his lips, and I noticed his hands trembling. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Sure you can.”
“What if she tells me she doesn’t want to see me? All this time I haven’t been in her life…”
I leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s never too late.”
He looked over at me and took another deep breath. “Yeah?”
I nodded.
He nodded, too. “All right. I’ll give it a shot.”
He opened the door and snow flurries blew inside the car. He maneuvered out onto the sidewalk, still holding the flowers and the teddy bear, and then he leaned inside the car and lifted the bag full of presents.
“Need some help?” I asked.
“Naw, I got it.” He stopped and looked in at me. “Thanks.”
He slammed the door and crossed the street, making his way carefully up the sidewalk and porch steps to the front door. I watched intently as he managed to balance everything in his arms and bang the knocker. He glanced back at me. I noticed the uncertainty stamped on his face before he turned around again. The door opened and the girl appeared. The two of them spent the next few minutes talking to each other. I wondered what they were saying. Why was it taking so long? What if Roscoe’s worst fears came true and she told him to go? I bit my fingernails with nervousness. She reached out, squeezed his forearm, and tugged him inside. Roscoe gave me one last look, smiling, and he ventured into the house. The door closed.
Even though the temperature had plunged below zero outside, I felt warm all over with happiness for my best friend. So much so, I whispered the words one more time, to nobody in particular.
About the Author
ANDREW HUNT is a professor of history in Waterloo, Ontario. His areas of study include post–1945 U.S. History, the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the American West. He has written reviews for The Globe and Mail and The National Post; two works of nonfiction, The Turning and David Dellinger; and is coauthor of The 1980s. His first novel in the Art Oveson series, City of Saints, was the winner of the Tony Hillerman Prize in 2011. He grew up in Salt Lake City and currently lives in Canada. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY ANDREW HUNT
FICTION
City of Saints
NONFICTION
The Turning: A History of Vietnam Veterans Against the War
David Dellinger: The Life and Times of a Nonviolent Revolutionary
The 1980s (coauthor)
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Also by Andrew Hunt
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
A KILLING IN ZION. Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Hunt. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York
, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph used with permission from the Utah State Historical Society
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Hunt, Andrew E., 1968–
A killing in Zion: a mystery / Andrew Hunt. — First edition.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-06462-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-7082-6 (e-book)
1. Police—Utah—Salt Lake City—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Mormons—Fiction. 4. Polygamy—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.H858K55 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015022088
e-ISBN 9781466870826
First Edition: September 2015