A couple of the boys had been quarreling about who was going to pay for the next beer, one of them arguing loud enough for everyone near the beer tent to hear his secret that he was not old enough to buy the next round. Streeter guesstimated them to be no older than sixteen, and judging by their style, maybe even younger than that. A small scuffle began to erupt between a boy who looked to be nearly adult and a scrawny boy with yellow-tipped hair who was obviously barely in his teens.
Streeter saw Chomp snap his fingers and motion to two men wearing black leather jackets and rockers indicating they were only prospects for the Inferno Force. The two quickly grabbed their beers and meandered toward the scuffle, one standing on either side of the den of boys. Convincingly, they pretended to focus entirely on the band roadies packing up the equipment in preparation for the next show.
There was no question in Streeter’s mind as to what would come next. Something bad. And he trained his thoughts on Bly’s numero uno rule: no matter what Streeter saw, he should never blow his cover. Bly insisted that countless undercover cops and federal agents were attending these functions and interspersed throughout Sturgis, and he, Streeter, should let them do their job and resist playing cop. It was difficult as he watched the prospects positioning themselves to flank these lame-brained boys.
Streeter pegged the prospect on the right flank to be in his late twenties, his long reddish-blond wavy hair pulled back in several staged rubber bands from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. His black baseball cap, worn backward on his head, sported the familiar Inferno Force red, orange, yellow, and white wing of an angel above the bill. The second prospect on the left flank appeared to be in his early thirties and sported a black tube domer with the words “Inferno Force” embroidered in small letters across the front and the back. He appeared to be the stronger of the two, but the prospect on the right had such a wiry tension about him that Streeter imagined him doing more damage somehow. Not the least bit angelic.
Just as Streeter was about to ask Bly if they should step away, he was rooted to the ground as one of the boys pushed another into Prospect Left, the older domer. Beneath his long, droopy black mustache he sprouted a frown as he stared down at the sloshing beer in his hand.
The boys had stopped their horseplay long enough to hear Prospect Left say, “You spilled my beer.”
One of the boys’ eyes went wide with fright, anticipating the prospects’ next moves, the others unaware of their fate. Within minutes all four boys were lying cold on the ground, knocked unconscious by the two prospects as Chomp and three other members looked on. The prospects picked through the boys’ pockets and stripped them clean of all their cash. Not only would these boys wake up with a headache like a freight train blazing a new trail through their tender brains, they would also wake up totally broke.
As the crowd ebbed around the small heap of boys, pointing and cackling at how one of them looked dead, Streeter heard Chomp once again snap his fingers, never leaving his post at the entrance of the beer tent. The two prospects obediently followed the signal, headed straight for him, and laid the cash picked from the boys’ wallets and pockets in Chomp’s palm. Chomp nodded once and the prospects disappeared behind the tent.
Streeter saw the wink of a cigarette glowing in Chomp’s other hand as he stuffed the bills in the front pocket of his jeans. He lifted the cigarette to his lips and sucked, just as a couple of what Streeter presumed to be plainclothes cops huddled over the unconscious boys. He heard one of them say, “They’re fine. Just going to have one heck of a headache in the morning. Let’s get them out of here and let them sleep it off in the county jail. Safest place for these babies, anyway.”
Things hadn’t changed all that much after all.
A roar rose from the crowd, and Streeter looked up just in time to see seven women, nearly naked, marching across the stage and starting their various dance routines. The “dances” consisted mainly of stripping to the music and thus teasing the audience of mostly middle-aged men. As all eyes were riveted on the stage, Streeter studied the crowd instead. At that moment, Mully emerged from the crowd with three other men from an area on the right that attracted both attendees and campers, the beer tent acting as the draw for temporary as well as permanent guests.
Elbowing Bly, who was watching a particularly flexible young woman wearing nothing but a G-string do a cartwheel, Streeter said, “It’s Mully.”
Mully barely noticed either agent as he passed them with his entourage, not even acknowledging their presence as Serpents. They had been wrong in expecting him to gravitate to the beer tent and lucky to have spotted him anyway as he headed toward the parking area.
“They’re leaving,” Bly said. “Let’s go.”
Streeter and Bly followed behind the four Lucifer’s Lot members, lagging far enough behind so that they couldn’t be spotted if any of them turned to look. The crowd was expanding, filling in between the bikes parked beyond the stage area. Bly and Streeter stood by their bikes, hanging back just long enough to see Mully and crew head over to the far parking lot. They mounted their bikes and slowly drove through the lot, waiting for the Lucifer’s Lot to find their bikes. Streeter stopped to let a small crowd of what looked like teenage girls cross their path, using the obstruction as an excuse to allow Mully to mount his bike. As the girls passed, Streeter resisted the urge to tell them to go home, that they were in danger and they were far too young and artless to get mixed up in all this.
Bly said, “There.”
Streeter saw the foursome don their colors and mount their bikes. They were pulling out of their spaces straight toward them before turning toward the entrance. Just as Mully, in the lead, turned his bike to head toward the highway, Streeter saw it, high on the left side of the jacket.
“Purple wings. All of them,” Bly said, speaking Streeter’s thought aloud. “What do you want to do, boss? Bring him in for questioning?”
Streeter waited a long moment as Mully eased out onto the highway, placing a growing distance between them. He slipped on his leather jacket with the Serpent emblem and Bly did the same. He knew that all they could do was bring Mully in for questioning and hope he would break under the pressure. He didn’t fool himself for a moment that there was any hope in that. The only hope they had was that one of his gang members might choose to break the silence, also against astronomical odds. The culmination of everything they had worked for over the past ten hours had harvested little in the way of evidence.
Despite the opinions of Shank, Sheriff Leonard, and Eddie Schilling, and despite the fact that Mully was indeed wearing what appeared to be new purple wings, Streeter still didn’t buy the theory that Mully killed Michelle. He would have to make a mighty leap in his mind to believe that Michelle had voluntarily hopped on the back of his bike. And if she had gone by force, she would have sustained more damage—bruises, lacerations, some kind of sign she’d been forced. In that split second of analysis, his intuition told him they were after the wrong guy, but for some instinctual reason, and likely because somehow Liv Bergen was tangled up in all this Mully mess, Streeter desperately wanted to talk with this man.
Streeter nodded. “Let’s follow them for now. Get some backup and we’ll pick him up at the Lazy S. I don’t want you blowing your cover on this. We’ll have only twenty-four hours from when we nab him and I’m going to need every minute.”
They rode at a safe distance behind the six bikes and were surprised when the four, including Mully, merged onto the Interstate headed toward Rapid City, not up Vanocker Canyon toward Nemo as he expected. Streeter glanced at his watch, noting it was nearly eleven thirty, and wondered where Mully was headed. He also wondered if he’d done the right thing by waiting to arrest Mully until they were safely contained at the Lazy S, knowing these four could easily outmaneuver him on bikes.
Within twenty-five minutes, the bikes pulled onto Jackson Boulevard in Rapid City. On this Tuesday night, with most locals fast asleep, the streets were fairly deserted, m
aking it quite difficult for Bly and Streeter to follow the Lucifer’s Lot without being spotted. Bly motioned Streeter off the road into a corner convenience store when Mully led his pack onto a side street up ahead, turning left.
“Shit, that’s where Jens Bergen’s house is,” Bly shouted to Streeter, their Harleys still rumbling. “What’s this about?”
Before Streeter could answer, he saw Jens Bergen’s pickup pull out from the same street and head down Jackson Boulevard toward them. As the two-toned blue pickup drew near, Streeter was surprised to see Liv Bergen behind the wheel, punching in numbers on her cell phone, totally oblivious to the four motorcyclists who had emerged from Teepee Street, hanging back without their headlights on but definitely following her.
“Oh no,” Streeter said under his breath, watching Mully and his posse trailing behind Liv. Calling to Bly after the bikers passed, Streeter said, “Change of plans. Let’s roll.”
AT FIRST, I WAS a little perturbed that my sister Ida left Jens alone in the bar, but once I found out she had left him under Gilbert’s care, I got over it. Gilbert was his best friend since childhood and he wouldn’t let Jens down. Besides, at least Ida would be safe from the tentacles of Mully tonight. Only Jens and Elizabeth to worry about, and Elizabeth was still on the road. I still had time to collect Jens and warn him about the Lucifer’s Lot members who had taken a liking to me.
I hadn’t seen the Firehouse Brewing Company this packed before, especially on a Tuesday night. Normally I was home in bed by this time of night, so who was I to compare? The jovial laughter, loud conversations, and clinking of glasses told me I might be missing out on something in my life and that maybe I’d become a little bit too content to watch the early news in my pajamas and go to bed. I decided to turn a new leaf. But not tonight. I was tired and wanted to find Jens. There was so much to explain.
And I needed to tell him about finding Char and taking her home, and what I had learned from her about Michelle’s childhood predator. When I left Char on the Freeburg couch, bewildered, I prayed Frank and Arlene would have more sympathy and tenderness for this girl than I felt was possible from the two of them. I left a long message with a nice woman named Sue at the FBI whom I’d hung up on earlier, telling her that Charlene Freeburg was back at home and shared some insight on my story about Mully and the other Lucifer Lot’s gang members from Monday. I left off the fact that I’d been followed twice by the motorcycle gang because I didn’t see it working toward the solution, only adding to the problem. I gave explicit instructions to the nice woman named Sue to give all the information to Agent Stewart Blysdorf or Agent Streeter Pierce as soon as possible.
She assured me she would.
I spotted Jens with his best friend since childhood, Gilbert Muth, and waded through the sea of people to get to them. Unfortunately, the happy patrons were not parting the way as if I were Moses, so I had to offer “excuse me” and “sorry” a lot as I bumped and elbowed my way through the crowd.
I can see why Ida left Jens here.
“Fire Jumper,” I heard Jens say as I approached him.
He and Gilbert were sitting at the long U-shaped bar on the end closest to the kitchen and near the back door that led to the alley. Mental note. Easier to make a quick and effortless exit using the alley exit than fighting my way back through this crowd like a defeated salmon.
“Fire Jumper?” Gilbert asked, sitting on the stool beside him.
“A stout beer,” Jens said with a smile. “Try one. You’ll like it. They brew it themselves here.”
“Well, I know that, Jens. We practically live here. What I meant was what’s up with you ordering a Fire Jumper? You never order those unless we’re with Liv.”
I heard Jens say, “Just drink. A salute to her willingness to help me.”
I weaved my way between the last dozen people wedged in the small space between the bar and the large plate glass wall to my right, behind which stood the brewpub’s huge stainless steel vats and piping leading to the second floor, where more tanks and vats stood in willing servitude to the patrons.
“One for me, too,” I motioned to the bartender, who had seen me coming.
From the ceiling of the bar hung authentic firefighting equipment: wagons and hoses, helmets, and axes. Along the walls were dozens of black-and-white photos of firemen fighting fires, posing near their trucks, working on their equipment, and at ease in the firehouse. I was glad to see that the Firehouse—Rapid City’s first fire station, dedicated in 1915 and closed in 1975—was no longer a ghostly, vacant building, but rather a reminder of the heroes who served the city for six decades. South Dakota’s first brewpub filled the space with life and celebration and had been decorated with authentic firefighting equipment, as it should be.
“To Liv, wherever she is.” Jens swallowed the first cool drink of his stout beer, as did Gilbert. They still didn’t see me coming. And hadn’t noticed the third beer the bartender placed on the bar, giving me a nod as he did.
“Now that is good beer,” Gilbert said, swallowing nearly half of what was in his glass. “Way better than the wheat beer. Why don’t we ever order this?”
“Because we get full before we get drunk.”
“Finally, I made it to you,” I said, wrapping my arms around Jens’s neck from behind. “Gilbert, how are you?”
Gilbert tipped his glass toward me by way of salutation then drained the contents, starting in on the third beer, which the bartender had brought for me. “Oh, so you knew she was coming?”
Jens shook his head, sipping his beer. “Nope.”
I sidled up next to where Jens sat and said, “How long have you been here?”
Jens looked at his watch. “Since about five thirty,” he said. “Since I finished with the agents. Ida and I ate dinner here.”
I didn’t detect the slightest slur or hesitation in his speech—the tone of “drunk” that would inevitably come after seven hours of constant drinking. Instead, I detected something much worse. Vapidity, lifelessness. Jens had surrendered and was merely nursing the beers along with his emotional wounds.
I glanced at Gilbert. “And how long have you been here?”
“About three beers ago,” he said with a grin, which he lost quickly after seeing my reaction to it. I pierced him with my best evil eye. He was supposed to be taking care of Jens, not getting drunk with him. Cowed by my unspoken cross-examination and condemnation, Gilbert set his beer mug back on the bar and restated his answer. “Two hours or so. I showed up just as Jens and Ida were ordering dessert.”
Returning my attention to my brother, I said, “Jens, I found Char. She’s alive and has been staying with a friend here in town.”
He blinked once at me, straightening as he heard the news. Based on his alertness and quick response, I could tell Jens was totally sober, validating my assumption that he’d been sipping, not guzzling, beers all night. He motioned to the bartender and ordered a round of coffee for me, Gilbert, and himself. The roar of the crowd was so deafening, and their demands for drinks so overwhelming, I was surprised how quickly the bartender brought three steaming cups exactly as Jens had ordered.
I shouted over the crowd, “I found out what Char and Michelle were arguing about, Jens. I left her with the Freeburgs and they’re breaking the news to her as we speak. At least I hope so.”
He nodded, a sadness encircling his eyes.
“I think I know who might have killed Michelle.”
“Who?” Jens asked, looking more intense than I’d seen him since yesterday morning, which seemed like eons ago.
“It’s just speculation. I have to make one more trip to be sure, then I’ll know if—”
The bar erupted in a roar, all heads turning toward the waiter who had dropped a tray of dishes in a clattering heap.
“Well, if it isn’t Danica Bergen,” the velvet voice said, so close to my ear I thought hot buttered rum had spilled down the nape of my neck.
Intrigued, I turned to see who owned the voice—h
adn’t I heard it somewhere recently and marveled at its seductive power?—and the gentle hand that cupped my left elbow. I was sure Jens and Gilbert were oblivious to the man who had approached me, considering his stealth and how densely packed the bar was. I myself wasn’t so upset by the interruption until I saw the face of the man who owned that pleasing tone.
Mully.
Startled, I dropped my coffee cup, spilling some hot liquid down Jens’s leg. Burned, Jens jumped to his feet, knocking Gilbert’s coffee from his hand. Both ceramic mugs shattered as they hit the floor. One, two. Screams erupted and pandemonium ensued. I wasn’t sure what was happening, although I did distinctly hear someone yell, “Gun!”
I grabbed for the Browning I had carried earlier, thinking it was still in my waistband, only to find it wasn’t there. I had left the gun in the loader, forgetting to retrieve it when Tommy Jasper dropped me off after dinner. Before I could react, Mully gripped my left wrist and wrapped his other strong arm around my waist, leaning in to whisper something to me over the din.
I’m pretty sure he said, “I’ll get you out of here, Princess. You’ll be safe with me.”
His breath smelled like peppermint.
As Jens and Gilbert fussed over their burns and coffee stains, seemingly unconcerned that I had been swallowed by a riptide, I was swept through the crowd. In seconds, Mully ushered me beyond the bar, past the kitchen, and toward the back door amid the chaos, yet more patrons panicking and scrambling as they heard that someone had a gun.
Mully didn’t appear to have his gun, since I could easily account for both of his hands, so I quickly assessed that the two popping sounds had indeed been the clatter of our coffee cups. I was the cause of the chaos and the reason everyone concluded a gun had been fired. Unless, of course, one of Mully’s goons was wielding a gun, in which case Jens and Gilbert especially were still not safe, considering the men in black leathers were all clustered behind me.
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 27