seemed longer than the actual time under the tires would account for. If I was honest with myself, it probably had to do with where I was headed than how long I’d been driving.
Now that Lane’s disappearance turned into a suspicious death, I had to re-interview those that knew him or last saw him. The easiest one to track down was his best friend Trey Hall. He’d got his mission call and gone off to Provo for training. The other boys were all in the wind so far. So, I’d come on down into Provo to have a little chat with Trey.
The main building of the Missionary Training Center—MTC for short—with its butterscotch brick walls and box architecture, squatted behind the ring of flag poles flying the colors of close to fifteen nations. Forty-thousand square feet devoted to preparing young men to go forth and convert the citizens of those nations. Across the street sat the LDS Temple…probably the ugliest one I’d ever seen. Looked like a white tractor wheel turned on its side with a stick shoved through the middle. And the sight of it hit me kinda hard and deep. I’d never, ever, be allowed to go back in one. Instead of dwelling on what I couldn’t change, I snugged down into my jacket and headed off across the lot to the lobby, dodging the drifts of snow so as not to get my boots wet.
It’d been a long time since I’d set foot on the grounds of the MTC; going on fourteen years or so. Off in the distance, I could hear the jabber of a dozen different languages as the missionaries practiced the tongues they’d speak for the next two years. I paused a moment just before the big gray sign informing me where I was. Somewhere, in among my mom’s things, was a picture of me at nineteen, scared and looking all awkward in my dark suit and blue tie standing in front of that same sign. Every boy who’s ever done a mission likely had one just like it taken. The preface to two months or so of language immersion, lessons in proselytizing and prayer. Those who don’t got to learn a language only stay about two weeks.
Once I got inside, the place was pretty much exactly how I remembered it; white brick walls and pale wood. A few Elders worked at their celestial service; polishing the floors and cleaning windows. I counted them as lucky, my job generally had been to scrub the dormitory john. When you ain’t learning, you’re working, praying or doing laundry. I guess it’s supposed to get you mentally prepared for your next two years spending every waking moment stumping your district. They, like the few other Elders I’d seen on my walk in, kept a wary eye on me. The MTC didn’t get a bucket load of visitors and I can nigh guarantee that most ain’t wearing a sheriff’s uniform and packing heat.
It took all of a moment before a rake thin Elder, with a bad case of acne and a name tag boasting Taylor, came up to me. “Sheriff Peterson?”
“The sheriff’s my boss, Elder.” I grinned to let him know I was just joshing him. “Deputy Peterson.”
He managed a thin laugh in return. “The Mission President is waiting for you.” Missionaries were grouped up into districts, each one governed by a president called from the faithful. Men in the church were called to the MTC to act as the Elders’ spiritual advisors, counselors and, considering the bulk of their charges were nineteen-year-old boys, occasionally as drill sergeants for the time the missionaries were housed at the MTC. Others would take over that same duty when the missionaries went out into the world. Elders rarely went unsupervised except on their rounds.
The Elder ushered me through the halls to the President’s office. A man, maybe my age but darker and heavier, looked up from his reading when Elder Taylor knocked on the open door. “Ah, Deputy Peterson, why don’t you come in?” Shuffling a stack of papers, they looked like the weekly confessionals of his charges from what I recollected. He gave instructions to the young man at my elbow.
Now that Lane’s disappearance turned into a suspicious death, I had to re-interview those that knew him or last saw him. The easiest one to track down was his best friend Trey Hall. He’d got his mission call and gone off to Provo for training. The other boys were all in the wind so far. So, I’d come on down into Provo to have a little chat with Trey.
The main building of the Missionary Training Center—MTC for short—with its butterscotch brick walls and box architecture, squatted behind the ring of flag poles flying the colors of close to fifteen nations. Forty-thousand square feet devoted to preparing young men to go forth and convert the citizens of those nations. Across the street sat the LDS Temple…probably the ugliest one I’d ever seen. Looked like a white tractor wheel turned on its side with a stick shoved through the middle. And the sight of it hit me kinda hard and deep. I’d never, ever, be allowed to go back in one. Instead of dwelling on what I couldn’t change, I snugged down into my jacket and headed off across the lot to the lobby, dodging the drifts of snow so as not to get my boots wet.
It’d been a long time since I’d set foot on the grounds of the MTC; going on fourteen years or so. Off in the distance, I could hear the jabber of a dozen different languages as the missionaries practiced the tongues they’d speak for the next two years. I paused a moment just before the big gray sign informing me where I was. Somewhere, in among my mom’s things, was a picture of me at nineteen, scared and looking all awkward in my dark suit and blue tie standing in front of that same sign. Every boy who’s ever done a mission likely had one just like it taken. The preface to two months or so of language immersion, lessons in proselytizing and prayer. Those who don’t got to learn a language only stay about two weeks.
Once I got inside, the place was pretty much exactly how I remembered it; white brick walls and pale wood. A few Elders worked at their celestial service; polishing the floors and cleaning windows. I counted them as lucky, my job generally had been to scrub the dormitory john. When you ain’t learning, you’re working, praying or doing laundry. I guess it’s supposed to get you mentally prepared for your next two years spending every waking moment stumping your district. They, like the few other Elders I’d seen on my walk in, kept a wary eye on me. The MTC didn’t get a bucket load of visitors and I can nigh guarantee that most ain’t wearing a sheriff’s uniform and packing heat.
It took all of a moment before a rake thin Elder, with a bad case of acne and a name tag boasting Taylor, came up to me. “Sheriff Peterson?”
“The sheriff’s my boss, Elder.” I grinned to let him know I was just joshing him. “Deputy Peterson.”
He managed a thin laugh in return. “The Mission President is waiting for you.” Missionaries were grouped up into districts, each one governed by a president called from the faithful. Men in the church were called to the MTC to act as the Elders’ spiritual advisors, counselors and, considering the bulk of their charges were nineteen-year-old boys, occasionally as drill sergeants for the time the missionaries were housed at the MTC. Others would take over that same duty when the missionaries went out into the world. Elders rarely went unsupervised except on their rounds.
The Elder ushered me through the halls to the President’s office. A man, maybe my age but darker and heavier, looked up from his reading when Elder Taylor knocked on the open door. “Ah, Deputy Peterson, why don’t you come in?” Shuffling a stack of papers, they looked like the weekly confessionals of his charges from what I recollected. He gave instructions to the young man at my elbow.
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