“What did that say?” Streeter asked of the words tattooed as a rocker on the biker’s belly.
“Makin’ bacon,” Bly chortled.
“Okay, I give up,” Streeter confessed. “I just don’t get this.”
A woman with long blonde hair that covered all of her seemingly naked body parts rode by on the back of the next tricycle. She was waving at her adoring fans in the crowd.
“Delusional,” Streeter muttered. “Absolutely delusional.”
“You forgot portable potties,” Bly said as the motorcycle with a canoe for a sidecar paddled by.
“What?”
“The odors,” Bly explained. “You forgot the distinguishably vomit-inducing smell of the public portable potties, especially when they’re overdue to be emptied.”
“Geez, Bly,” Streeter said, covering his mouth with his hand. “I’m picking your boots to puke on.”
“Let’s get you some beer,” he offered. “It’ll calm—”
Midsentence, Bly smacked Streeter on the arm and nodded to the other side of the street.
It was definitely Mully and his boys headed in the opposite direction.
“Can we cross here?” Streeter asked.
“Make it look like we’re looking at the bikes.”
The sun was setting, the moon already high and the sky every shade of orange and gray, as they made it past their first line of parked bikes. They waited until the biker and the heavy brunette on the Indian rode past before crossing the narrow lane with oncoming bikes to the center of the street where another row was parked. Pretending to be studying the artwork on one particular bike, Streeter sought Mully in the crowd and spotted him half a block away.
“He’s moving pretty fast,” Streeter noted.
“Come on,” Bly said, walking along the line of parked bikes on the yellow striping in the center of the street, unobstructed by the crowd on the sidewalk.
They were a few paces behind Mully and his gang when they crossed the last lane of traffic and fell into the crowd. Pushing their way through the few people between them and the Lucifer’s Lot, they settled into a comfortable pace only a head or two behind their target, waiting for the right opportunity to assess the wing patches on their vests.
The air was thick and warm, as though someone had just opened the oven door where a turkey was roasting. Streeter’s excitement grew as he and Bly narrowed the gap between them and the Lot. He said nothing to Bly over the next several minutes, knowing that he was as focused on timing as Streeter was. He willed Mully and his minions into the next beer tent, but they didn’t go.
The night crowd was even denser than the early evening crowd had been. Certainly more colors were being worn, even though it was discouraged by law enforcement; more of the gorgeous babes were out, and fewer of the heftier women; and more of those who simply didn’t fit in seemed to have come out of the woodwork. Cowboys, college coeds, office clerks—the looky-loos of the rally.
A teenage hippie with dreadlocks and multiple body piercings strolled by and said to his companion, “Hey, man. Look. The Lucifer’s Lot. Cool.” Only to say a few steps later, “Hey, man. Look. Serpents. Way cool. Never seen one of those before.”
Bly cursed the idiot punks, hoping that Mully and his gang had not heard the kid. If they had overheard the comment, they gave no indication. They paused outside the tattoo parlor, all six of the members gawking at the bikers getting fresh tattoos while seated in the eight chairs normally reserved for hair styling. One patron was leaning over a table getting his butt cheek tattooed, and Mully was pointing and laughing.
Streeter and Bly hung back just far enough not to be noticed by him, but close enough to stay in view.
“Come on, turn around,” Bly mumbled. “Turn around.”
He had whispered it quietly enough for just Streeter to hear, speaking his thoughts aloud and wishing the Lucifer’s Lot bikers would turn toward them, even for a moment, so they could scan their colors for the purple wings.
Incredibly, they did as Bly asked, only in the wrong direction. Their backs squarely to Streeter and Bly, they continued to make their way through the stream of people.
“Damn it,” Bly grumbled.
Next stop for Mully and crew was in front of a row of bikes where a heavy teenage girl was sitting on top of her biker boyfriend. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, her face pimply, braces still bracketing her teeth. He was at least forty-five, maybe fifty, Streeter guessed. The girl wore a loose, V-shaped halter, which was desperately trying to harness her pendulous breasts, too saggy for someone her age. Her cutoff shorts made Streeter recall the comment about a ten-pound sausage being shoved into a five-pound casing, and he marveled at how accurately he had envisioned that statement all these years.
The girl was sitting backward on the Harley, rocking back and forth on the old biker’s crotch. A crowd was gathering, and Mully’s bikers were cheering the teenager on. Mully was watching someone across the street. Streeter couldn’t tell what caught his eye. The old biker leaned back on his bike and flashed a toothy grin at the crowd that encircled him, pleased to have his five minutes of fame. The young girl accommodated his fantasy, and her own, by leaning back on the handlebars and laboriously lifting her wide hips to strategically mount his raggedy face. He obliged her, encouraged by the whoops and hollers of the crowd, not the least of which was coming from Mully’s gang, until the poor girl’s arms and legs weakened from her own weight. She stared up the crowd and flashed a tinny, amateurishly seductive smile at the crowd as if taking bows at a curtain call.
If Streeter ever doubted the theory about young girls who were eager to jump on the back of a stranger’s bike, he would only have to recall this mortifying incident to remind himself of his job to make sure the bad guys were behind bars. Then girls like this would be safe from their own naïve decisions.
Streeter and Bly angled to see the front of the Lucifer’s Lot vests just as they turned away and slipped into the crowd once again.
“Damn it,” Bly mumbled again, this time loud enough to startle the woman next to them. “Just when we get close enough.”
He didn’t finish his thought. They both watched as the red and silver bandanas of two members bobbed in the crowd ahead of them and turned into a beer tent.
“We’ve got them now,” Streeter said.
He didn’t see it coming. An arm reached around him, slamming him against the storefront. A few of the crowd scattered, but most went on streaming by as if nothing had happened. The stars dancing across his eyes had not yet cleared, but there was no mistaking the knife’s edge against his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut to scatter the stars and opened them long enough to see the B.F.F.O. tattooed across the bald man’s forehead. A member from Outraged, the motorcycle club that loves to torture, Streeter thought. Great.
“Fucking Serpent,” he spat at Streeter. “You and your friend have a choice to make tonight. Talk or die.”
EMBOLDENED BY MY TIME with Tommy, not to mention the double shot of vodka, which set my teeth on edge, I slowed as I neared the entrance to the Lazy S Campground. I checked to make sure no bikes were in sight. I figured my luck would certainly run out on a third high-speed chase through the Hills. Lucky for me, the lights still glowed in the lone building, but all else was in darkness. There was no activity around the tents and vans parked to the right where Mully and his merry men had come from earlier today when I drove by—the first high-speed chase. I turned into the campground, my tires crunching on the gravel as I circled the building.
Two cars were parked in the rear: one a green Volvo and the other a red sports car. I’ve never been much into cars, so I had no clue what make and model the red one was, but I assumed since there were two cars, my chances were pretty good that one belonged to Mr. Schilling and I was glad to know he was still here. And if I was really lucky, maybe the other belonged to a teenager, a girl, and I’d catch them in a compromising situation, which would allow me to launch into a good old-fashioned
western confrontation about Char. Maybe one of the cars belonged to Char, which would be the ultimate in showdowns. And, just maybe, all of this would go nowhere, the whole teen girl fetish thing nothing but rumors aimed to fuel someone’s petty envy, taint a local hero.
I pulled Jens’s pickup into a parking spot near the office entrance and saw Mr. Schilling standing outside the door, bare arms folded across his chest. His expression was one of concern.
Before I was fully out of the cab, Mr. Schilling called out to me. “No vacancies in this campground. Try KOA’s up the road past Nemo and on into Lead/Deadwood. Sturgis campgrounds will be full,” he said, squinting at me in the darkness, his eyes not adjusting fast enough after stepping out of the bright lights inside.
“Mr. Schilling. It’s me, Liv Bergen. Do you remember me?”
“Come on inside where I can have a better look,” he said, waving toward the door.
I followed him inside, noting the painted concrete block structure and wondering if the blocks had come from our manufacturing plant. The building was solid, but sparse, a rectangular shape of not more than eight or nine hundred square feet. The front room reminded me of a prison cafeteria: two tables, eight folding chairs around each; several vending machines along two of the bare walls; a sink and a counter in one corner, upon which sat a coffee pot that looked like it perked high-test java 24-7; and a flat screen television chattering away in one corner. A woman emerged from the doorway that led to the back rooms.
Not a teen.
“Samantha, we have a visitor,” Mr. Schilling explained, brushing a thin black curl from his forehead.
“At this hour?” she turned her wrist. I had lost all sense of time and glanced around the room to spot a clock, which didn’t exist. She didn’t hesitate to scold me. “It’s almost ten.”
“Sorry for the late hour. I’m hoping you can help me,” I said turning to Mr. Schilling. “I’m looking for someone and heard that you might know where I could find her.”
After a quick glance Samantha’s way, Mr. Schilling’s eyes narrowed. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Liv Bergen.”
“Garth Bergen’s daughter? The mining Bergens? Well, imagine that Samantha. Liv is our neighbor.” Samantha’s scowl was obvious, and Mr. Schilling’s mocking tone wasn’t helping my nerves.
“I was in your PE class at Dakota Junior High School a while back.” I saw a flicker of a different type of recognition in his eyes. “A long while back, actually. Like sixteen years ago or so.”
The woman named Samantha pulled out a chair from beneath the table, the legs scraping across the cheap linoleum. She was the cheerleader type; thin, but fit, spent a good deal of time on her appearance, the type of woman I could learn from, if I wanted more dates. Her eyes were large but too big for her face—an image of Betty Boop flashed across my mind—and her mouth was tight and small, as if she’d been sucking on a lemon. She wore a hefty amount of makeup. Her blonde hair tumbled against her shoulders in chunky pieces, a messy, devil-may-care style that took much maintenance and upkeep. I had to hand it to her, though; she seemed to be holding her own in her battle with aging, as so few do.
“I remember you,” said Mr. Schilling. “The basketball player.”
I nodded, noticing Samantha roll her eyes at the mention of my athleticism.
“Quite good, if I recall. You went on to play college ball? Division I?”
I nodded again. “For a couple of years.”
At least I had softened Mr. Schilling.
Samantha, on the other hand, hunkered down in her chair and pretended to watch the television. I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I absolutely had to; I was worried both about finding Char tonight and about avoiding Mully. My mind danced across the list of names and addresses of all the volleyball players, which was stuffed in my back pocket. I could have visited all the addresses, but it might take me an entire day or two, whereas Mr. Schilling could easily narrow my search.
I pulled out my list and unfolded the sheet, earning attention from Samantha. “I need to find Charlene Freeburg tonight.”
Mr. Schilling’s eyes widened slightly and again darted toward the woman he called Samantha, who I assumed was his official girlfriend or wife.
“I have reason to believe she’s staying with a friend, another volleyball player.”
“What’s her name again?” Mr. Schilling said, wetting his lips and altering his expression to one of confusion.
“Charlene Freeburg. She goes by Char.”
Samantha stood and sidled up next to Mr. Schilling, who stood staring at me like a bastard calf at a gate.
“Can’t say … I don’t know that I …” he stammered.
Her eyes settling on me, Samantha elbowed him and said, “I bet she’s related to Michelle Freeburg, the girl whose body was found yesterday morning up the creek. Am I right?”
I nodded. “Her little sister. She might not know about Michelle. I’m trying to find her.”
Mr. Schilling flicked his tongue across his lips. He looked nervous. Really nervous. Maybe about Char, but definitely at the mention of Michelle’s name. He had shifted his weight at least four or five times since I started in on this line of questioning, which to me didn’t seem to warrant the nervousness or the act if he really didn’t know Char or Michelle.
I pulled the rug out from beneath him so I could move on. “She’s trying out for your junior varsity squad later this month; she’s been practicing all summer long with the others. Oh, right, something they’d be doing without your knowledge.” I winked cartoonishly at him to let him know I knew he was simply trying to cover his ass about rules that banned coaching teams outside the season. “Thin, dark curly hair.”
Mr. Schilling cleared his throat. “Oh, Char. Yes. I don’t spend a lot of time with the underclassmen, even if they are trying out for my junior varsity team. And I knew nothing about the summer practice squad, of course.”
“Of course,” I repeated.
“That would be against school sanctions. But I can’t stop the girls from volunteering to get together and play on occasion.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said, crossing my arms in disbelief. “I’m not here to bust your balls about rule violations. I’m here to find Char. Which of the girls on my list would she be hanging out with?” I practically shoved the crumpled paper under his nose.
Samantha folded her arms and leaned away from Mr. Schilling, eyeing him.
“What?” he said. “How should I know? I barely know the girl.”
Samantha tapped her foot, annoyed as I was at his act. “Tell her, Eddie. Or you can tell Shank.”
Bob Shankley’s name coming up again. Interesting. “Are you Mrs. Schilling?” I asked, appreciating her help in cutting to the chase.
She nodded. “Twenty-four years.”
“Wow,” was all I managed. They didn’t look like a happily married couple, but who was I to judge?
“Maybe she’s at the rally,” he grunted.
“Sturgis? She’s underage.”
“Don’t have to be twenty-one to walk the streets of Sodom,” he said with a shrug.
I gawked at him. Then I shot a glance at Mrs. Schilling, who appeared to be more confused than I was.
He furrowed his eyebrows. “You know, Sodom and Gomorrah? Sturgis and Deadwood? Sex and gambling?”
I had to get this back on track. Besides, I happened to like the quaint little towns of Sturgis, home for a VA hospital, and of Deadwood, one of the last historic Wild West towns settled during the Gold Rush and home of Black Hills gold. And the people who lived in those towns were nothing like those referred to in biblical references.
I resisted the argument and asked, “So you think Char is messing around in Sturgis or Deadwood during the rally? That’s why she’s missing?”
Mrs. Schilling crossed her legs, folded her arms, and glared at her husband. I was starting to like her. The silence was thick enough to smother any smoky fires of distraction
that he was trying to set.
“Eddie, where’s the girl?” Mrs. Schilling spat.
“Try Valerie Sanchez. Or Mandy Blunk.” Mr. Schilling was flustered, consulting the list but appearing, rather, to grab at any names that seemed to pop into his mind. In the silence that followed he quickly scanned the list again. “Hope Smith. That would be my best guess.”
I snatched the list from him and refolded it, placing it once more into my back pocket. “You’ve been so very helpful.”
“What’s it to you, anyway?” he called after me as I turned to go.
“Michelle was to be my sister-in-law and she was brutally murdered. I won’t rest until I find out who did this to her,” I said, a bit melodramatically, but honestly nonetheless. I left him standing there, his mouth gaping like that of a landed trout, his face blanched, his wife glaring at him. I suspected a marital tiff was about to erupt, and I wasn’t about to be caught in the middle of such a mess.
Besides, I had tempted fate long enough and it was time for me to get the hell out of there before Mully and company returned.
I sat with the windows of the truck open, listening to the hum of the streetlights in the stillness of the dark neighborhood. A cricket’s song lifted in the night, breaking my train of thought, and my hands reached for the cell phone I had borrowed from Tommy. I punched in Jens’s cell for the fourth time and left another desperate message not to go home tonight, to stay with Ida. His greeting had been specifically for me, and although it was the fourth time I’d heard it, I listened carefully for any change in the message saying Ida had returned home from her latest trip and asking me to join them for dinner at the Firehouse. Any change at all would mean he’d heard my pleas. But it was the same old message. I stretched my gray matter to remember Ida’s cell number and left her a message as well, hoping one of the two would intercept my warning before finding themselves face-to-face with an even angrier Mully or some other Lucifer’s Lot biker. I was ready to call the agents and tell them what I had seen the previous day in Sturgis and prayed the girl who died was not Charlene Freeburg.
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 25