The Massacre Mechanism (The Downwinders Book 5) by Michael Richan Page B

“Carma?”
    Winn waited
while David listened.
    “OK, got
it.” David put his phone away. “Drop location moved. Head into St. George.”
    Winn started
up his Jeep. “Where in St. George?”
    “Behind the
Seven Wives Inn,” David replied. “Next to the Brigham Young home.”
    Winn made
his way back to the entrance of the picnic area and left Quail Lake for the
highway to St. George.
    “This
monument we’re going to tonight,” Winn said.
    “The
Mountain Meadows Massacre?” David said.
    “Sounds
ominous. I wonder why Lyman’s got us going there?”
    “Beats me.
You trust Lyman, right?”
    Winn paused
for a moment. “I think I do. He’s the only hope for getting Deem back, I know
that.”
    “Then I guess
we need to follow Carma’s instructions,” David replied. “From what Lyman
described, she’s in a pretty terrible place.”
    “Yeah,” Winn
said, feeling a pang of guilt once again. She stepped in the way, he
thought. He was tired of thinking it. It was easier to just feel guilty.
    “What’s the
deal with the Mountain Meadows Massacre, anyway?” Winn asked, wanting to change
the subject away from Deem.
    “You know,
the whole Indian thing.”
    “No, I don’t
know,” Winn replied. “I’ve heard the name before, but I don’t really know why
there’s a memorial there, or what actually happened.”
    “There was
an immigrant wagon train passing through Utah on its way to California,” David
said. “A party of families from Arkansas named Baker and Fancher. Mormons
dressed up as Indians and slaughtered them all. Except for a few kids.”
    “What?” Winn
asked, shocked. “Really?”
    “Yup.
Something like a hundred people killed. Men, women, and children.”
    “When was
this?”
    “A hundred
and fifty years ago,” David replied. “1850, 1860, something like that.”
    Winn shook
his head. “Why?”
    “Well,
there’s never a good reason for mass murder, right?” David replied. “The story
I remember from history class was that the Mormons around Cedar City were
really paranoid at the time. There was talk about a war with the United States,
and anybody passing through the area was viewed with suspicion. They saddled
the whole thing on John D. Lee, who claimed the go-ahead to kill the immigrants
came from Brigham Young.”
    “No shit!”
Winn said.
    “I can’t
believe you’ve never heard this story,” David said. “Didn’t you grow up around
here?”
    “I grew up near
Tucson,” Winn replied. “Never heard anything about it.”
    “Well, the
church always liked to play it down,” David replied. “I mean, if what John D.
Lee said was true, the stake president from Cedar City was in on the whole
thing. Didn’t look good for the church. They executed Lee for it, but many
people considered him a scapegoat.”
    “So there’s
a monument out there?”
    “There was a
ratty one for years,” David continued. “About a decade ago they fixed it up,
made it more respectable.”
    “Why does
Carma want us to go out there now?” Winn asked, almost to himself. “What does
Lyman have planned?”
    He took the
exit for St. George and they made their way down the main boulevard until they
reached Ancestor Square, where Winn made a turn and they found themselves at
the winter home of Brigham Young. Winn pulled his Jeep to the curb and left the
motor running.
    “Creeps me
out, hearing your story,” Winn said as he looked at the mansion. Signs out
front with the familiar church logo invited visitors inside for a tour.
    “There’s the
inn,” David said, pointing to a collection of buildings kitty-corner from the
Brigham Young home. “If you pull over there, we can keep an eye on the back.”
    Winn
repositioned the Jeep where the rear of the inn was within eyesight, and rolled
down the windows before turning it off. It was beginning to get dark, but the
air from outside was still nice and hot.
    They waited
another twenty minutes, watching as people came and went from the inn. No