by Judy Clemens
Which led to another big question: Why had Kristi—and her mother, apparently—disappeared from Lenny’s life? And why had Kristi suddenly reappeared?
I hoped Lenny had a good explanation for all of this, because murder was something it would be hard to look beyond, even for someone who loved him as much as I did.
For the second time that week, I turned to the Internet. AskJeeves.com pointed me toward several articles about the Priests and the Serpents—some the same ones I had in hard copy—and a few more about Lenny. An award he’d gotten for a paint job, another scrape with the law, nothing that shed any light on our present situation.
Mal was just as elusive. An article about his business selling bikes, the clip from way back about Lansdale Bike Night, and not much else.
It was with Scott Simms I hit pay dirt.
There were the same articles mentioning Lenny, Mal, and Simms, several more for various law-breaking activities—assault, bar fights, DUIs. But the one that made me stare slack-jawed at my screen was only a few days old.
It seemed Scott Simms had died the weekend before in a motorcycle accident. The accident Abe had brought to my attention, where the guy was riding to work and was broad-sided at an intersection.
Scott Simms’ nickname was The Skull.
Chapter Thirty-three
“What are they doing here?”
Lucy stood in my office doorway, her face a mask of anger. I shook myself out of my shock over The Skull and glanced out the window to see Noah and Shelby standing uncertainly behind their open car doors. Do they get out, or don’t they? Did Lucy see them, or not? Was this ferocious-looking collie going to rip their faces off, or just bite them in the ass?
“Hey, she’s your sister-in-law,” I said. “And he’s your…whatever.”
“Don’t remind me.” She went to the window and peeked out above the air conditioner, groaning. “Why did I ever do it?”
I froze, wondering if I was actually hearing something important. She didn’t continue.
“You guys date?” I asked.
“For a bit. I thought it would be good for me. He was Brad’s best friend, an MYF sponsor at the church—I mean, he’s a good guy. It started out okay, but geez, he’s just too much. And my sister-in-law—the head case out there—about had my hide. Besides betraying her brother, I was taking the man she’d been after ever since Brad started hanging out with him in elementary school.”
What was she telling me? She’d had an affair with Brad’s best friend? While Brad was confined to his wheelchair?
“I broke it off a couple months ago when I realized I had to get out of Lancaster. You’d think we’d been dating a couple years instead of a couple months the way he freaked out.”
So no extramarital shenanigans. I was relieved.
“You think he’s behind the graffiti?” I asked.
“Noah? He doesn’t have the guts.”
“He had the guts to come here again today. In her presence. And he’s about the right size. Whoever was here that night was no Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
She wrinkled her nose and backed away from the window, bending over and touching her toes. When she straightened, she blew out a sigh. “I guess I’ll go send them away before one of the Granger brothers eats them.” She brightened. “Or maybe I can get Peter to talk to them about church and how teenagers should be taught. They’d love that. Noah gets very defensive of his oh-so-perfect MYFers.” She walked out, slamming the door behind her.
MYFers, I thought. High schoolers. Not old enough to go after custody of Tess, but just the right age for spraying obscenities on garage doors.
I watched as Lucy strode across the driveway. She stopped several feet from her visitors, her hands on her hips. I couldn’t hear what the three of them were saying, but I could certainly read their body language. Noah’s face fell further and further toward shame, while Shelby looked ready to explode.
In the end Lucy stalked into the house while Shelby and Noah got into their car. They drove away, not looking back. So much for our daily soap opera.
When I turned back toward my computer, the newspaper article about The Skull had not disappeared. I needed some huge answers from Lenny.
I picked up the phone and called Harry.
“You find somebody to hang with Lenny?” I asked.
“I tried. Couldn’t find anyone, so I went myself, caught up with him at the Barn. Thanks a whole helluva lot.”
“What?”
“Lenny about ripped me a new one. Told me he didn’t need a baby-sitter, and I’d better take off fast or he’d make me wish I did.”
I sat back. “That doesn’t sound like Lenny.”
“Tell me about it. I told him you were concerned about his safety, and that just made him madder. I had to respect the man’s wishes, as well as my own safety. Sorry.”
“Me, too. He still at the Barn?”
“Was there when I left him. Can’t say more than that.”
“Thanks, Harry. I’ll make it up to you.”
I should never have left Lenny’s well-being to someone else, no matter how tired I’d been. I grabbed my keys and went out to my truck.
The Biker Barn was dark and empty. I put my hands up to the door and peered into the show room, but couldn’t see anything but silhouettes of the iron horses and their accessories. Lenny’s bike was absent, and if Harry hadn’t told me, I would have never known that Lenny had even been there.
I tried the hospital and was informed visiting hours had not begun. The guy at the front desk assured me there was no way a huge, red-bearded biker could’ve made it past his radar.
I drove to Lenny’s house. Same luck. No lights. No open doors. A quick walk-through, using the key from the garage to let myself in, produced nothing of use. It didn’t even look like Lenny had returned since I’d snooped the night before.
I put the key back and sat in my truck, staring at the row of homes stretching the length of the street. I hoped desperately that Lenny had gotten himself somewhere out of harm’s way. We knew without a doubt these people meant business.
And besides Lenny’s safety, he owed me an explanation. Owed Bart. Where in the hell was he, and where could I get information if he’d disappeared?
The answer struck me suddenly, and I wondered why it had taken me so long to consider it. Mal Whitney. I put the truck into gear and drove toward Route 663 and Mal’s place.
The warehouse was closed up tight when I arrived, but a light shined through a little window cut into the siding. I pounded on the door. When there was no answer, I pounded again.
“Mal!” I called. “It’s Lenny’s friend, Stella!”
I heard footsteps, then about five locks being undone. Soon the door was opening a fraction, a heavy chain keeping me outside. Mal peeked out and his eyes widened.
“You?”
“Yes, remember? Can I come in?”
The door closed and the chain scraped in its casing. Mal opened the door, peered nervously behind me as if expecting to see someone else, then roughly pulled me in. He slammed the door shut and threw all of the locks before turning to me. The light hit his face and I sucked in my breath.
“Geez, Mal, you look like hell.”
Basically the same thing Lucy had said to me, except Mal’s condition was much, much worse.
His face was a shade of gray I didn’t know people turned while they were alive, and his eyes, besides looking like someone had used them for punching practice, were bloodshot and watery above his swollen nose. His hand trembled as he pulled the familiar bottle of Jack Daniels against his chest, and his mouth worked like he was going to say something.
Instead, he veered around me, toward the back of the warehouse, where light illuminated one small corner of space. He was limping, and I saw now that the hand holding the bottle was also supporting his right side. I recognized the posture, having been doing a lot of it myself over the past several weeks. What the hel
l?
I took my eyes off him long enough to squint into the darkness, the bikes offering many forms of shape and shadow. I couldn’t tell if anyone else was there or not, but when I looked back at Mal he was sinking gingerly into a sagging, overstuffed chair. He wouldn’t be sitting if the people who did this to him were still around.
“What do you want?” he asked, not looking at me.
“What happened to you?”
He struggled out of his chair and paced around the lighted space, stopping when he reached the darkness to turn and stumble back the other way.
“Mal,” I said.
He lurched to a stop, his fingers picking at the one-percenter tattoo I had seen the other day. His eyes shone, glassy and terrified.
“Three can keep a secret,” he mumbled. His words barely reached my ears.
“Sweetheart,” I said.
This time he looked at me, and his eyes cleared.
“Sweetheart, please tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”
He put up his hands, sloshing whisky onto the floor. “Oh God, what a mess.” A sob escaped his throat, and his mouth trembled.
I put my hand on his shoulder. His shirt felt stiff and sticky and I wondered if he’d changed since whoever pummeled him had left. I leaned back so I wasn’t casting a shadow and tried to see what I was touching. In the dim light I couldn’t tell if there was blood or what on his black shirt, but I did see the tattoo of a skull with a clerical collar on his arm—just like Lenny’s. The mark of the Priests.
I talked as quietly as I could and still have Mal hear me. “Mal, please, please talk to me. Before someone else gets hurt.”
A shaky sigh leaked from his mouth, and he straightened his shoulders.
“Twenty years ago,” he said. “Twenty long years.”
“When the Serpents’ clubhouse exploded? When their leaders died?”
His eyes moved to my face. “So you know?”
“About the explosion. That you were hauled in for questioning. That’s it. Is that what this is all about?”
He felt behind him for his chair, and slowly lowered himself to the cushion. He stared at the far wall for so long I thought he’d zoned out on me.
“Mal—”
“We were ordered to blow up the clubhouse. But there weren’t supposed to be people in it.” His eyes, rimmed a harsh red, filled with tears. “There weren’t any bikes in the parking lot, so we went in the back. We knew right away somebody was there. We took off like we’d already lit the match.
“Lenny and I were done. We said no way were we igniting the place with people in it. We thought The Skull felt the same. We all left.” His lips trembled, and he bit them together. “But The Skull went back. Blew up the place with the guys in it. He didn’t care. Didn’t care about the people.”
My stomach, at risk of rebellion since I’d first seen the article at Lenny’s, suddenly relaxed. Lenny hadn’t killed those people. He’d seen them, and decided against the violence.
“We knew he’d done it,” Mal said, “and we confronted him the next day, as soon as we heard. He just laughed. Said we were chickenshit thumbsuckers, that we obviously weren’t cut out for the outlaw life if we couldn’t do our jobs. And then he threatened us.”
Mal erupted from his seat and resumed his panicked pacing.
“Threatened you?” I asked. “With what? That he’d kill you, too?”
Mal stopped. “No. Our families. My wife. Vonda and Kristi. Said if we breathed a word to anyone, he—or any number of the guys in our club—would make us sorrier than we’d ever been.”
I dropped my head into my hands, now thoroughly confused. “But The Skull’s dead. Why is someone coming after you now?”
Mal spun around, his face anguished. “Not just someone. Lenny’s daughter.”
“But why?” I pictured the tattoo on Vonda’s arm, and the arm of Kristi’s boyfriend. Vonda was obviously a Serpent who came over to the Priests after the explosion. But Kristi was Lenny’s daughter, at least half Priest. “Why is Kristi trying to kill her own father?”
His mouth twisted. “Because after all this time…she thinks Lenny did it. She thinks he killed those people, and then four years later he abandoned her.”
Chapter Thirty-four
The surgeon must have told the nurses on Bart’s floor about me, or else they figured Bart’s visitors would look like him. I didn’t have any trouble getting in to see him, although they told me to make it quick.
Bart opened his eyes when the chair screeched as I pulled it closer.
“Well, well,” he mumbled. “If it isn’t…the princess.”
“In the flesh. So how much like crap are you feeling?”
“Like a small pile. How do I look?”
I couldn’t see much since his face was swathed in bandages and his body was covered with a sheet.
“Like the Mummy,” I said. “At least they didn’t cut your braid off.”
“Shaved the…goatee, though. And…they won’t let me…smoke.”
“Well, damn them.”
He laughed, then winced.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll try not to be funny. You see Lenny today?” I tried to make my voice casual.
“He stopped by this morning. Snuck up the back way.”
I let out a breath of relief. At least he’d been alive a few hours ago.
“He tell you anything?” I asked. “Give you any idea what’s going on?”
“Just that…it was supposed to be him. Lot of good that does me…now.” He closed his eyes and his head fell to the side. I thought he was asleep, so I started to get up. His eyes snapped open. I sat back down.
“I can’t believe…I actually got…stabbed,” he said.
“Do you remember anything? See anybody?”
He shook his head slightly. “Got me from…behind. You know who it was?”
“Got a good guess.” I hesitated. “Did you know Lenny has a daughter?”
Bart’s eyes got wide. “Sure didn’t.”
“It seems she’s back. And majorly pissed off.”
“Jesus.”
When Bart says this, he means it. He slowly crossed himself.
“So she’s…out to get him? Why?”
“A couple of reasons. It’s a mess. But I think she’s behind the attack at Lenny’s and the break-in at the Barn. And, of course….” I gestured at his face and chest.
He didn’t say anything.
“Remember that customer you had—skinny guy, shaved head, nasty serpent tattoo around his arm?”
“Sure. Just…a few days ago.”
“Lenny’s daughter’s boyfriend.”
“Jesus,” he said again. His eyes shut once more, but I waited this time. He soon opened them. “I wonder….”
“What?”
“You know how Lenny started getting all…cranky last weekend?”
“Yeah.” No forgetting that.
“Well, I finally…got fed up and…asked him what his problem was. He mumbled…something about skulls and then…clammed up. I have no idea…what he meant. Do you?”
“You know a guy who went by the name The Skull?” I asked. “Scott Simms?”
“He was talking about…a guy?”
“A guy who got himself killed Friday morning. Got T-boned by a truck on his way to work.” Bart stared at me. “Twenty years ago The Skull killed some rival gang members. Lenny knew, and The Skull made it clear that if Lenny told anyone, The Skull would kill his family—Vonda and Kristi. I bet you anything that when The Skull got killed on Saturday Lenny saw that as his pardon. He called me and asked if I’d introduce him to Detective Willard. I’m sure he was ready to tell what he knew. But now it’s his family that’s after him, and I just don’t get it.”
“Damn,” Bart said. His skin was even paler than it had been when I’d arrived, and I regretted bothering him with Lenny’s problems.
“And here I am,” B
art said. “Useless as a baby.”
“You just rest. These jerks have messed you up enough.”
His face was stony. “So what’s going…on now?”
“I’m going to talk to the cops. If Lenny’s not going to do anything to stop this from happening to someone else, then I’ll have to do it myself.”
“Lenny’s gonna be mad.”
“Then he should’ve talked to me—or the detective—when he had the chance.”
Bart’s eyes closed and this time he really did start to drift off.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said.
He nodded without opening his eyes. He looked like hell. But at least he was alive.
Chapter Thirty-five
A light rain had started when I walked to my truck. I climbed inside and sat for a moment, listening to the tapping on the cab. I glanced at the sky, hoping it would hold only regular gray rain clouds. It did. My arm itched, and I scratched at it while I thought. Lenny had said he wanted to talk to Willard last weekend. Had it been the break-in at the Barn that had changed his mind? I drove into town, mulling this over.
Willard was pulling into the municipal parking lot as I arrived. I got out and waited while he locked his car.
“Got a minute?” I asked.
“Sure. I need to talk with you anyway.” He opened an umbrella and held it toward me. I scooted under it and together we walked toward the police building.
Inside, Willard gestured toward the locked inner door, and the receptionist buzzed us in. He set his umbrella on the floor of the squad room and led me into his office, where he hung his suit coat on the back of his closet door.
“Sorry I didn’t come around yesterday, like I promised.” He sat in his chair and pointed toward another one. “That storm caused several car accidents I had to take care of. I hear you got clobbered, too. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged, not sure how to answer without my voice betraying my fatigue.
He changed the subject. “Is this visit about your employee again? Or your friends Mr. Spruce and Mr. Watts?”