Lot’s return to Sodom

by Sandra Brannan

  Stealing a glance over my shoulder to see if Jens was okay, I saw a man in jeans and a black T-shirt jump onto the bar near the front door, whip himself around the fire pole at the corner of it one handed, and run the length of the bar toward me. He had short white hair, his left eye was swollen, and his neck was an angry red, as though he’d been seriously clotheslined. He looked an awful lot like an NFL quarterback after a bad game by the linemen, only he wasn’t holding a football. He was holding a gun, and pointing it directly at Mully. He also looked eerily similar—a hoodlum version of—Agent Adonis himself, Streeter Pierce.

  “Yikes!” I screeched, ripping free from Mully’s grip and diving beneath the nearest table, knocking my skull against the pedestal. Little yellow birdies circled my head as I tried to claw my way through a sea of legs and away from the depths of unconsciousness.

  As my head spun and my world dimmed, I heard the large plate glass walls that shielded the beer vats shatter, the thunder of people stampeding through the bar, and patrons in varying degrees of intoxication screaming to high heaven. Above the fray I heard someone yell “FBI!” and the distinct words, “Freeze! All of you. Clear this area. Now!”

  I felt the forest of legs around me disappear. Suddenly, it was like I was lying in the middle of a meadow, the birds floating around my head, chirping away. The next thing I knew, someone was cradling the back of my neck, holding a cool hand to my forehead, feeling for a pulse in my neck. I pretended I was Snow White and this was my Prince Charming, finding me in the forest after too many days with those silly midgets, and I laughed.

  “Boots?” I heard Jens’s voice.

  After several tries, I opened my eyes and saw my brother’s welcome face, and looking over his shoulder was Agent Adonis staring down at me.

  My eyes fluttered shut and I heard Streeter Pierce’s familiar voice say, “Bly, stay with her. Carl Muldando, you’re under arrest for the murder of Michelle Freeburg. Anything you say can and will be held against you. Get him out of here.”

  Then, coming nearer to me, he asked Jens, “How is she?”

  “What in the hell are you doing, Agent Adonis? I had the situation under control,” I mumbled, pushing his hand away from me even though I really wanted him to stay. My voice sounded like I was storing a hundred marbles in my mouth.

  I heard Agent Blysdorf say, “Probably a concussion.”

  “Stay with her until the EMTs arrive, then meet me down at headquarters.”

  “Right. Did she just call you Agent Adonis?”

  I tried to protest and managed only to pass out again.

  I woke up in the back of an ambulance parked in the alley behind the Firehouse, the EMTs insisting I take a ride with them to the hospital for further observation, based on the goose egg that had arisen on my forehead. I lied and told them I was married to a doctor and that he would take care of me tonight. They didn’t believe me, but when I stepped out of the ambulance, my head pounding, I clutched Gilbert’s arm and said, “This is my husband, Dr. Gilbert Muth.”

  Dumbfounded, Gilbert stuck out his hand and shook the EMT’s latex-gloved hand as if we were at a Chamber of Commerce “After Hours” party. I was glad Gilbert didn’t protest and even happier he didn’t share that his doctorate was in mechanical engineering, not medicine. Gilbert had been Jens’s friend long enough to know how to roll with the punches. I was so pleased with his performance that if I had had a bag of Scooby snacks, I’d be popping them in his smug mouth right about now.

  I said a polite “thank you” as all of the emergency crew packed up to leave, and I was relieved when their taillights disappeared down the alleyway.

  “Academy Award winner, you are!” I said to Gilbert with a slap on the back.

  “Thanks,” he said acidly.

  Jens stared down at me, the color rising to his cheeks. “What in the hell was that all about? You could have been killed.”

  “They wouldn’t have killed me, just taken me to the hospital and hooked me up to all those noisy machines again,” I bantered.

  “Not the EMTs, Boots. The Lucifer’s Lot,” Jens protested. “And this isn’t funny.”

  “I know,” I said, realizing Jens’s emotional state was probably too fragile to take joking at a time like this. Our family always used humor in times of tragedy to stave off pain, to avoid the seriousness of life. But in this situation, I should have known Jens would have none of it. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  “Was that the guy who killed Michelle?” he said, staring at me. “They said he was under arrest for the murder of Michelle Freeburg. He’s the guy who was asking Michelle to go to the rally with him Sunday night. The guy who enraged Roy, the reason we exchanged words. Is that what you were trying to tell me, Boots?”

  In that single moment between truth and dare, I was faced with a serious dilemma. Jens always knew when I was lying, yet if I told him the truth, I would never be able to make my last stop before confirming who I suspected was Michelle’s killer. I had to think fast.

  And not lie.

  “Bob Shankley, the FBI director, and the Lawrence County Sheriff believe that the man they just arrested killed Michelle,” I said, serious as a heart attack.

  He studied my eyes, my face, every twitching muscle, and determined I was telling the truth. “Why were these guys here tonight, looking for you?”

  Again, I had to tell the truth or my chances of making one more road trip were out the door. “Remember when you and Travis took off to that job site?”

  His brows netted. “In Sturgis? What does that have to do with Lucifer’s Lot?”

  “While I was waiting for you, they showed up. They were messing around with a teenage girl, who ended up dying, and I witnessed the whole thing. It didn’t have anything to do with Michelle. Just wrong place, wrong time as far as I was concerned.”

  “A witness? To a murder?”

  The muscles around Jens’s eyes and jaws slacked. I didn’t want pity. Not now. Not ever. Even Gilbert looked like he was going to grab me and tell me what an unlucky wretch I was. And how much he loved me, glad I was alive to hear his proclamation.

  I headed off the emotional tidal wave by dodging. “Not exactly murder. Look, I told the FBI everything. Even sent pictures. The lead guy, Mully, just happened to see me crouching in your truck, spying on him through the back window, just as the emergency response team arrived. I was the one who called it in.” I averted Jens’s eyes so I wouldn’t have to lie about waiting until earlier tonight to call it in.

  Gilbert hugged me and I went rigid.

  “I didn’t know,” Jens said. “You should have told me.”

  “That’s why I left all those messages for you tonight, and with Ida, pleading with you not to go home, to stay with her and instead head up to Mom’s.”

  “Neither one of us recognized the phone number, so we ignored the calls.”

  “Tommy Jasper lent me his phone,” I said.

  “Who’s Tommy Jasper?”

  I didn’t have time to explain. “I was calling because I was worried about you. And I wanted you to be safe, just in case Mully came back again to your house.”

  “Again?” Jens looked as if he was going to throw up. “Boots, you are such a—”

  I interrupted, “Oh, and did I tell you Elizabeth called? She’s on her way and wants to stay with us tonight. I told her you wouldn’t mind. Reminded her where you hide the key. Should be here in an hour or so.”

  I offered a weak smile.

  I knew he’d be angry, but I also knew he’d understand why I would want to protect him from all of this. Gilbert gave me a squeeze and I broke free of him. It brought Mully’s comforting embrace to mind. Comforting until I realized who it was. Only, on reflection, I got the sense he was being genuine with his concern when we all thought gunshots were being fired. Just like at the quarry, when I would have sworn he was flirting with me, not trying to kill me. I must have really hit my head hard.

  “By the way, I heard glass shatt
er. What happened?”

  Gilbert’s voice became animated. “That was so cool! That FBI agent came flying down off the end of the bar and tackled that Muldando guy while the other guy behind the FBI guy, who looked more like a biker, launched himself over our heads, his arms out like he was doing a swan dive or something, and wrapped up the other three bikers, all flying through the glass and banging their heads against the beer vats. All three bikers out cold in an instant.”

  Worried that the second FBI agent might be Blysdorf, I asked, “Was the guy hurt? The one who launched himself off the bar at those three?”

  “Yeah, his head was bleeding some, but the EMTs bandaged him up and as soon as he knew you were okay, he took off,” Gilbert said. Then he elbowed Jens, adding, “I think he kind of likes you, Liv.”

  “Who?” I wondered if he meant Agent Blysdorf or Mully.

  “That FBI agent,” Gilbert said.

  “Agent Blysdorf?” I asked, relieved that Mully’s flirtation was all in my imagination.

  “Who?”

  “The Flying Wallenda who tackled those other three guys near you,” I clarified.

  “No, the other guy.”

  My stomach went into free fall.

  “The one who arrested Carl Muldando. He was barking orders to everyone to stand guard over you, made sure you had the best care possible, stayed with you as long as he could. But he kind of had his hands full with three unconscious bikers and that Carl Muldando character. Lucifer’s Lot. Holy crap!”

  “Oh,” was all I managed. Agent Adonis. Streeter Pierce. My hero. He had an interest in me? In your dreams, Liv. Not after the way you treated him.

  My head throbbed, and I wrote this entire conversation off to the rising lump on my forehead. Confusion, that’s all this was. I tried to focus on the task at hand, remembering I had to verify one more lead before I was absolutely sure that Mully was not responsible for Michelle’s murder—and my prime suspect was.

  I pointed at Jens’s cell phone.

  “Your cell phone’s missing its memory stick, by the way. You’ll find it at your house by your laptop. It’s what I used to get photos of Mully and the other Lucifer’s Lot bikers they just arrested.”

  I glanced at my watch. Half past midnight. And I needed to make a quick stop at Jens’s house first.

  “Listen, Gilbert. I need you to give Jens a ride home. No point in making matters worse by adding a DUI to the night,” I said, knowing Jens was sober enough to drive if he wanted to, but I needed the excuse of taking his truck for a little bit longer. “Plus, Elizabeth is going to be there soon. She shouldn’t come home to an empty house. She’s kind of upset.”

  “Elizabeth’s upset? Right now I don’t have enough energy to comfort one more grieving family member. I haven’t even had time to wrestle with my own grief,” Jens said, exasperated.

  I touched his elbow gently. “Ernif Hanson died. Helma called Elizabeth. She’s coming for Helma’s sake, as well as yours.”

  Now it was Jens’s turn to say, “Oh.”

  I offered him a crooked smile. “You can wrestle with your grief together. Only separately.”

  “Just when you think you’re the only one suffering …”

  I finished Jens’s thought, our mother’s motto. “There’s always someone else worse off. I know, Jens. But your hurt is real all the same. And your grief deserves a little mat time, so go home and wrestle with it. Alone.”

  He started to protest.

  I pointed a finger at him and warned, “No arguments. I need a little time alone, too, and I’ll meet you at home later.”

  Surprisingly, both Jens and Gilbert yielded to my orders and left me to my final drive of the night.

  “WE CHECKED THE DATABASES and made lists of every psychiatrist and psychologist in the city. Even some of the smaller surrounding communities. None of them has ever treated Michelle Freeburg,” Shank was saying, keeping pace with Streeter and Bly as they marched toward the interrogation room. Waving a beefy hand toward their battered faces, he added, “By the way, what the hell happened to you two?”

  Bly smirked.

  Streeter could tell Shank’s bravado was disingenuous. His hands shook, his face was pasty white, his upper lip was dotted heavily with perspiration, and an odd odor emanated from beneath his brown suit coat. Streeter recognized the smell. Fear, the adrenaline that arose from a cornered, wounded animal.

  “Are you sure?” Streeter asked.

  “We’ve e-mailed Michelle’s photo and a bio to all the psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors in town,” Shank continued, “asking if any of them had ever worked with her as a patient.”

  “You checked under what name?”

  “Michelle Freeburg, Michelle Arlene Freeburg, Arlene Freeburg, M. A. Freeburg,” Shank recounted.

  Streeter had a lot to do in the next twenty-four hours and needed Shank busy with other tasks rather than being underfoot and complaining about every step he and Bly would take.

  “Even if none of this pans out, Streeter, Michelle Freeburg didn’t have to be a wacko split personality to get herself killed by Mully,” Shank added, sweat now dripping from his hairline.

  “How sensitive of you,” Streeter scowled.

  “Go to hell,” Shank mumbled. “You’re so damned sure of yourself that Mully is an angel. Let me remind you that even if you’re right and Mully didn’t kill Michelle Freeburg, he’s still my lead suspect on the Crooked Man case. We should throw his ass in jail for killing Ernif Hanson.”

  “One step at a time, Shank,” Streeter warned.

  “It’s all been theory and conjecture anyway,” Bly reminded them both. In response to their quizzical looks, he added, “Not about Mully being the Crooked Man. About why Michelle got tangled up with Mully to begin with, if she did. All we have is their chance meeting in a grocery store Sunday night.”

  “And her dead body found Monday morning near his tent,” Shank growled.

  Streeter was glad to be wearing his street clothes again—his white long-sleeved shirt (to cover the temporary ink tattoos he’d gladly scrub off later) and khaki slacks—but the time he had taken to shed his biker threads (after he had made sure Liv Bergen was in the care of the EMTs) had allowed Shank to direct others to interrogate Mully, rather than wait for Streeter.

  “You going in?” Streeter asked Shank as he stopped at the door to the interrogation room.

  Shank cleared his throat and stammered, “Ah no, no, I’ll be in observation. I decided to let Karski and Greenborough cut their teeth on this one.”

  It was almost as if Streeter could hear the beads of sweat popping out of every pore along Shank’s upper lip. Although the reason for this entire Keystone Cop routine eluded Streeter, the one thing he knew for sure was that Shank was truly afraid of Mully and did not want to be associated with him in any way. For a brief instant, Streeter actually felt some sympathy for Shank, realizing how debilitating it would be to allow fear to interfere with his work.

  Shifting gears, Streeter opened the door to the room to the left of the interrogation room and suggested, “Let’s see how they’re doing so far.”

  The three stepped into the small, dark space and sat in the chairs facing the large plate glass window. Through the one-way mirrored glass, they could see Mully’s profile at the far left end of the table, the guard standing on the right end of the small room by the only door, and the two federal agents sitting at the table with Mully, one with his back to them and one facing them.

  Over the speakers, they heard the federal agents asking Mully question after question without getting any answers, only a few nearly imperceptible nods and a hint of a smile from time to time.

  As he studied Mully’s expressions, Streeter believed the biker was enjoying this.

  “So you’re not denying you knew Liv Bergen before tonight?” Davidson asked.

  Mully grinned. “Of course not. We go way back, Barney.”

  Streeter remembered hearing that Karski’s first name was Tyler,
and was momentarily baffled. Then he recognized the significance. Mully’s reference was presumably to Barney Fife, the incapable, bumbling sheriff’s deputy of fictional Mayberry. Streeter was tiring of this cat-and-mouse game, particularly as it was becoming more obvious as time passed that the cat was a bad-luck black one.

  Before retreating from his observation post, Streeter stood and instructed Bly, “Under no circumstances will you allow Mully to see you here. You did a great job staying low during the Firehouse scuffle. We had the presence of mind to shed our leathers and turn our T-shirts inside out just before you tackled three members of Lucifer’s Lot and knocked them out cold. So I don’t want you to blow your cover now.”

  Within seconds, Streeter was on the other side of the glass, establishing uncomfortably direct eye contact with Mully the instant he came through the door. By way of introduction, he spoke into the tape recorder, “Special Agent Streeter Pierce joining the interview in progress at 12:40 am.”

  Karski and Greenborough said nothing, opting to watch the Denver agent as he rounded the table and stood dominantly over Mully.

  “How do you know her?” Streeter asked with no lead-in, no explanation. Mully grinned. Streeter grabbed the front of the biker’s black tee and squeezed it in his fists, closing it around Mully’s neck. “What do you mean you go way back? Way back to when?”

  Mully’s expression went prosaic as he studied Streeter’s face, felt his intensity. “Way back to yesterday. With the dead girl.”

  Streeter released him and walked away. At least he had started him talking.

  “Who is she?” Streeter asked.

  Mully’s eyes flashed, never leaving Streeter’s, his mouth involuntarily opening slightly before he pressed his lips tightly together again.