“Correct again,” Bly said, his eyes scanning the small town. “And compounding the problem of busting these guys up is that loyalty to the club we talked about earlier. Allegiance is one of the highest regarded philosophies among any of these clubs.”
Streeter stared out his window as they passed the Nemo General Store. He rubbed his short, white hair and said, “Hasn’t changed all that much. It’s just gotten a lot more sophisticated. We had a lot of volunteers throughout the country back then to work the rally in the hope of apprehending a Top Ten fugitive. That meant I could focus on the dead bodies left behind each year. Or the reservation work,” Streeter said, clearing his throat when something rose in it.
The sooner Streeter could get this present business done here, the sooner he could escape the flood of memories of his last case on the reservation and return to his sanctuary in Colorado.
Bly reached above his visor and handed Streeter a photo. “This is why I do it. The most recent photo we have of Michelle Freeburg. It was taken a few weeks ago by her boyfriend at a Fourth of July celebration near Mount Rushmore.”
“It’s a good one,” Streeter remarked. “Nice smile that actually reaches her eyes. Very relaxed and genuine.”
“She didn’t know the photo was being taken.”
Michelle’s smile in the photo was easy and wide, her dark eyes soft with laughter. Her face glowed with beauty and femininity, unlike all the other photos he’d seen in the files. She had tied her thick dark brown hair in a knot at the back of her head, loose strands curling delicately around her face. She was a vision. Streeter’s intuition had been confirmed. Michelle Freeburg worked to downplay her loveliness, and it took great effort.
“Tell me about the boyfriend,” Streeter asked in his low, gravelly voice, hoping not to seem too anxious to learn everything he could about Liv Bergen’s brother.
“That’s the difficult part.” Bly spoke slowly, shifting uncomfortably. “No one has questioned the boyfriend yet. Don’t think Shank wanted to touch that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because Jens Bergen’s father is pretty well known around here. He’s a U.S. congressman.”
“Garth Bergen is a congressman?”
“You know him? Great guy. That’s why everyone’s a bit hesitant to bring his kid in for questioning. But the son was most likely one of the last people to see Michelle alive.”
“How about we interview him today? He must be terribly anxious.”
“Sure,” Bly said, slowing as they passed the Broken Peaks property on the left. “Shank will want to go.”
Streeter ignored the warning. “Tell me about Garth Bergen. Why is he so popular?”
“Congressman Bergen is friendly, outgoing. Honest.”
“Not a phony bone in his body,” had been Streeter’s own assessment of Garth after he’d explained to the man what had happened to his daughter while they waited together in Poudre Hospital for the doctor’s report. That had been a little more than a month ago.
Streeter had liked Garth Bergen immediately. Not to mention his wife, Jeanne, who stood vigil—and guard—constantly by Liv’s bedside. Streeter admired her commitment to her daughter and eventually gave up his attempted visits, thinking she would consider him inappropriately attentive if he persisted.
Aiming for nonchalant but willing to accept simply curious, Streeter asked, “What do you know about Garth Bergen’s other children?”
A cloud of dust enveloped the car immediately after Bly turned onto the dirt road entrance to the Lazy S Campground.
Bly parked in front of the office but left the engine running while he continued to debrief the interview he and Streeter had just left. “Well, that was helpful. Either Clint White is an innocent, to-the-point, sharp, and honest man or he’s the coldest and cleverest murderer I’ve run across.”
“His distress seemed genuine,” Streeter agreed. “He showed concern primarily for the woman herself, the terrible fate she endured, and for Tommy Jasper having to find her body. But I didn’t like that he was reluctant to admit he was down by the big rock earlier that day and probably would never have told us that if Tommy hadn’t mentioned it. White acted nervous.”
“Still on the list,” Bly said.
Streeter nodded.
“And when we said we were going to meet with Eddie Schilling next, I sensed Clint wasn’t a fan of the man,” Bly continued.
“Agreed. Helps to know Eddie eats lunch up at the Nemo Guest Ranch frequently. If we need to talk with him again after this first meeting, that’s the first place we’ll look.”
When Bly turned off the car’s engine, the pinging under the hood underscored the isolation of the campground. “Here we go,” he said.
“I’m not sure we want to risk this. Having you spotted by Mully and his boys, blowing years of your undercover work.”
Bly grinned, turning the rearview mirror toward himself so he could see the button-down shirt he was wearing and the fedora hiding his long locks. “I’d look just like a regular preppie if it wasn’t for this nasty beard. Correction: just like Jason Mraz.” Bly tucked a loose strand of hair up under the hat and smoothed out his beard.
Streeter growled, “Even so, let’s make it quick just to be sure.”
Before the agents were out of the car, a man approached them with hand extended, smile wide. He was wearing an aqua muscle shirt, tight gym shorts, and white low-cut crew socks under his white-and-black Nikes. Though his skin was smooth and tan and taut, Streeter guessed that Schilling was in his late forties after studying his eyes, his neck, and his hands. Schilling’s tousled dark curls spilled boyishly over his faintly wrinkled forehead. His eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Hi,” he said, a cheerful welcome. “I’m Eddie Schilling, owner of the Lazy S Campground. Sorry to disappoint you two, but the campground is full. You’ll have to find a different place to pitch a tent tonight, boys.”
Bly gripped Schilling’s hand, feigning a smile and squeezing tight, judging from the look of discomfort on Schilling’s face. “I’m Agent Stewart Blysdorf and this is my partner, Agent Streeter Pierce.”
The expression on Schilling’s face collapsed.
Streeter, too, shook the Lazy S owner’s strong, welcoming hand, squeezing a bit harder than was necessary. “Hello.”
“Hi, Streeter,” Schilling said, showing a pearly white, albeit forced, grin. “You don’t mind if I call you Streeter, do you?”
“Not at all,” Streeter answered, not really meaning it. “Whatever makes you comfortable, Mr. Schilling.”
“Eddie, please,” Schilling corrected Streeter. Turning to Bly, he said, “And you? Can I call you Stewart?”
“No,” Bly said, plain and simple.
Schilling’s composure wavered; his eyes darted nervously toward the highway. “Follow me into the office, guys, and we can have a pop and cool off.”
As they followed him into a small office building, Streeter turned to see Broken Peaks and the crowd of professionals who had gathered near the fabric-covered buildings that had been erected for the criminalists working the crime scene. “You can see the iron ore quarry from here?”
“Sure can. Tourists eat that up. Think they’re in the Wild West or something,” Schilling said with a wink.
Streeter sat down at a small metal table that seated four. Clint was a good judge of character, Streeter thought, taking an instant dislike to Schilling.
Bly stood by the door, keeping watch.
The business counter and cash drawer were to the right in the small front room. A bathroom was to the left, and in the back of the house was a small room, presumably Schilling’s private living quarters.
“Clever old goat,” Eddie added.
“Pardon?” Streeter asked, not sure that he had heard him correctly.
“Old man Bergen. Owns that quarry. Starts by staking a few mining claims, then slowly buys up all the private ground around him, growing his empire.”
Streeter felt the muscle
in his jaw tighten when he countered, “You mean Congressman Bergen? The man who built his company from the ground up, from a lot of hard work and even more sweat equity? The hardworking man who now supports dozens of communities and hundreds of employees? The man who has invested a couple of decades of his life to public service as a way of repaying his state? You mean that old goat?”
Bly’s eyes widened as he mumbled, “Impressive.”
Schilling’s boyish grin waned as he flicked a loose curl of hair from his forehead. “Easy, Streeter. I’m on your side. The Bergen family works hard. Didn’t mean anything by that.”
Streeter reminded himself to relax. Something about Eddie Schilling made him uneasy despite his easy charm. He moved on. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions—”
“Seems to me you know all you need to know about the Bergens,” Schilling said with a chuckle, an attempt to clear the air.
Streeter cut in, “About the dead woman found nearby.”
“Sheriff Leonard has asked all the questions I could answer,” Eddie said, taking a chair beside the agent and facing the door. “Before we get started, let me buy you boys a pop. I’ve got Coke, Pepsi, 7UP, Mountain Dew, Dr. Pepper.”
“Diet Coke,” Streeter said when Eddie pointed at him.
Bly ignored Schilling.
“Is he always this friendly?” Schilling asked, jerking his thumb toward Bly.
“No,” Streeter said simply, confusing Schilling.
Motioning to Streeter, Schilling said, “You don’t look like you need to watch your weight.” Putting in the quarters, he punched the Diet Coke button twice and handed the agent a can. Schilling sat in his chair, leaning forward against the table on his strong, hairy arms, eager to start the interview.
“I know about the dead body that was found just up the creek a ways,” Schilling blurted, not waiting to be asked. “Rumors spread fast in small towns. Paper didn’t say much today, but the rumors flying around said she had a chunk missing from the back of her skull. Heard she was found naked except for her shoes and socks.”
Streeter was surprised by the detail and accuracy of Schilling’s account of rumors. Sheriff Leonard’s department didn’t seem so small-town that they wouldn’t understand the importance of holding back details of the crime scene as a way of helping solve the crime. But maybe Streeter misjudged Leonard. Or maybe Schilling had heard rumors from the Lucifer’s Lot.
“Did you know the woman?” Streeter asked.
“Personally?” he asked. “Not really. I mean at first I didn’t recognize the name. But then as the story came out in today’s newspaper, I think I recognized her name from where I teach. I’m a physical education teacher for one of the public high schools in Rapid City.”
Streeter’s eyebrows arched. “Really? Which one?”
“Central High School,” Schilling said, popping the tab on his own can of Diet Pepsi and taking a sip. “Dang, that tastes so good when it’s this hot out.”
“So you work the campground in the summer months only?” Streeter asked.
“Uh-huh. Memorial Day to Labor Day. The rest of the time the campground is closed. Sometimes I open during weekends just before and after tourist season, but only during the busy summers. We judge it by the weather and the gas prices. When the temperatures are high and the gas prices are low, we open early and close late. Just a summertime hobby, really, to kill time until my regular day job kicks in.” Back came his smile—easy, wide, and boyishly innocent.
“As a PE teacher,” Streeter repeated.
“Right.”
“So you say you knew Michelle Freeburg?” Streeter pressed, trying to stay on task. Schilling was not nearly as busy with tourists as he let on and much more hungry for conversation. Probably out of boredom.
“Well, I can’t say that I knew her, but her name sounds familiar,” he said, scratching his head and screwing up his face as if thinking too hard might cause some permanent damage. “I might have had her in my PE class in junior high school. Seems to be about the right age for that. Hired on to the high school ten years ago. I’ve been teaching for nearly twenty. Can you believe that?”
“No,” Streeter said flatly. His instincts warned him that this guy was a phony. He was more than the dumb jock persona he was so desperately trying to portray.
For the first time since they’d arrived, Bly chimed in. “You’re being modest. Aren’t you the volleyball coach, and haven’t you won coach of the year for the umpteenth time? In the South Dakota Sports Hall of Fame? Bunch of records for the most wins or something?” Never taking his eyes off the highway beyond, Bly turned his head to the side and spat tobacco juice through the open door.
“That’s me,” Schilling said. Streeter noticed how his chest had puffed up like a bantam rooster’s. “I like to coach. I love being around kids. Especially when they work so hard and have such great attitudes.”
“Eddie Schilling, All-American receiver for Auburn,” Bly added, wiping his lip with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, can you believe that? Small world that me and Shank end up out here in the Black Hills, him playing for the Crimson Tide and all. Rib him about it all the time.”
Streeter tried to keep the surprise off his face. Shank gave the impression that he’d never met Schilling before, only knew him by reputation. Yet here was Eddie Schilling making them out to be old pals. Streeter saw the blood suddenly drain from Schilling’s face; he had made a mistake. To keep him talking, Streeter lied, “Shank told us all about that, didn’t he, Agent Blysdorf?”
Without missing a beat, Bly added, “Said you were a pain in his ass and that if you didn’t play for the Bear, you weren’t worth a piece of shit. Something like, ‘Who bleeds orange and blue anyway?’”
“Really,” Schilling said, tilting his head and studying Bly in the doorway, the fear visibly subsiding and relief washing over his rugged face. “He said that? Well, linemen are always so full of shit their eyes are brown, right?”
Schilling laughed. Streeter smiled. Bly shot a glance toward Streeter, then back out the door toward Nemo Road.
“He told us you two were tight and that you could help us out,” Streeter lied again.
“Hey, no problem. Anything for a friend. Makes it easier. And now you understand my problem. And why Shank’s so willing to help me, owing me a favor and all. I asked him to help me get rid of these guys. They’re bad news. I don’t want these guys renting my place anymore, but I can’t very well tell them, can I?” Schilling swiped a hand across his brow. “Doesn’t mean the interview’s over, does it? Now that you know.”
He mouthed the words, in the slightest of whispers, and pointed at his chest. “I’m the mole. The one who told Leonard about Mully’s missing pin and new purple wings.”
Streeter realized he was afraid of being overheard. Paranoid.
Then Schilling spoke loudly again. “I mean it gets kinda lonely out here all day. The first part of the summer it’s nice being away from the students and their parents, the cameras and journalists. But round about now, I’m starting to get antsy to get back to the grind. I hate to sound cocky or something, but I kinda like all the press, the hoopla, the accolades. I just need a break once in a while.”
“School must be starting soon,” Streeter stated, eager to get back to the interview.
“In a few weeks. My wife comes up during the last weeks of the season and starts preparing the place for the winter shutdown. She’s a kindergarten teacher. Kids love her. We don’t have kids, so she gives all her motherly love to them kids at school. And then we both run this place up here in the summer. When I’m not here, she covers for me. She’s a jewel.”
As if his words were an incantation, a thin woman emerged from the back room.
“Well, here she is now,” Schilling announced with a stupid grin, standing up to kiss her pursed lips. Streeter easily read the wary expression on her face, a facade of practiced pleasantries and greetings. “This is my wife, Samantha.”
Dur
ing introductions, Streeter was surprised at how firm Samantha’s grip was, given her otherwise petite stature and prudish demeanor. She carried herself like an heir to an ancient fortune and looked like an aged cheerleader, forever in the mode of playing too hard to get and too good for most. Her hair was bleached blond and styled with puffy bangs and cut to one length just below chin level. Her eyes were large and dominated her still striking face. Given her standoffishness, Streeter was even more surprised to learn that Samantha Schilling was a kindergarten teacher.
Streeter guessed the sour lines around her weary eyes and mouth were born of enduring Eddie’s perpetually grating “dumb jock” routine. She must have tired long ago of having married a man who would forever remain a boy. She would be what his late wife would have described as a hardened woman, a kinder choice of words than those he would have chosen.
Streeter noted how stiff and uncomfortable Samantha appeared to be when her husband introduced her to Bly.
“Have you been here this entire time?” Streeter asked, nodding toward the living quarters and trying not to sound as irritated by her as he felt.
“I’ve been napping,” she said, defensively.
“Hope we didn’t wake you,” Streeter added, returning to his uncomfortable perch on the folding chair. He turned to face Schilling. “You were saying you start the school year soon?”
Streeter could see peripherally that Samantha made no move to join them.
“Samantha starts right after Labor Day. Not much prep needed for snot-nosed five-year-olds.” His wife’s grimace deepened at Eddie’s chuckle. “I’ll go back the last week of August to get ready. Like to get a jump on things even though school doesn’t start until after Labor Day.”
“And you coach the girls’ volleyball team?”
“Uh-huh,” Eddie replied, straightening his shoulders a bit more than he needed to. “State champions four years in a row.”
“Did Michelle Freeburg play volleyball for you at Central High School?” Streeter pressed.
“Now that would be kind of hard to do,” Eddie said with a slight chuckle that bordered on mockery. He turned to his wife and winked playfully. She feigned enjoyment of his humor by offering a cool smile. “There wasn’t a volleyball program at Central until two years after Michelle graduated.”
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 13